Re-presenting Antiquity as Distinction: Pre-Arab Pasts in Tunis’ Colonial, Postcolonial and Contemporary Built Environments Daniel E. Coslett A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy University of Washington 2017 Reading Committee: Brian McLaren, Chair Manish Chalana Robert Mugerauer Vikramāditya Prakāsh Program Authorized to Offer Degree: Built Environment ii © 2017 Daniel E. Coslett iii University of Washington Abstract Re-presenting Antiquity as Distinction: Pre-Arab Pasts in Tunis’ Colonial, Postcolonial and Contemporary Built Environments Daniel E. Coslett Chair of the Supervisory Committee: Brian McLaren, Associate Professor and Chair Department of Architecture The rich legacy of Tunisia’s ancient history has played a vital role in the articulation of its identity and its architectural and urban development for centuries. Punctuated with relics of its diverse pasts, Tunisian built environments have long since incorporated and presented their accumulated histories through multiple related media. Designers and managers of these sites and spaces have actively drawn on subjectively repackaged history and remade heritage images to legitimize rule, dominate or educate locals, and solicit foreign visitors and capital. This dissertation project addresses the sustained influence of Tunisia’s salient pre-Arab heritage (including its Punic, Roman, and Early Christian/Vandal/Byzantine eras), as refracted by French colonial and then postcolonial and contemporary socio-political lenses, in the (re)shaping of Tunis’ architectural and urban spaces since the 1860s. It considers the deployment of these antiquities through the exploration of three themes—antiquity as an aesthetic ideal, a political iv tool and a revenue generator—making use of a variety of historical and contemporary source materials, including archival planning and design documents, journalistic media, correspondence and other ephemera. Using these themes, selected sites are situated within the contexts of Tunisia’s colonial and postcolonial history, as well as those of national identity formation, politicized archaeology, historic preservation, globalization and heritage tourism development. Transcending the chronological or typological approaches typically taken when studying material of this sort, this dissertation adopts a novel diachronic and thematic approach while addressing underexplored concepts and sites. In its exploration of Tunis’ integrated, multimedia “pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape,” this dissertation consists of three primary parts, each of which addresses one of the above- mentioned thematic lenses as pursued by a single socio-political constituency. Individual chapters explore the aesthetics of built environments built by the French colonial administration, the architectural representation of the Roman Catholic Church’s politics and the postcolonial state’s interest in generating revenue. Research reveals that the colonial state communicated power through imagery drawing on Roman forms, the Catholic Church participated in colonialism in its pursuit of inter-nationality Christian unity through rhetorical and architectural allusions to the region’s early Christian history, and the independent Tunisian state has raised considerable capital through heritage-based tourism development. In exploring these issues, this project ultimately exposes the consistent use of Tunisia’s pre-Arab past—by those in power—as a tool for distinguishing the country’s identity and for referencing “the Other” through symbolically charged built environments. It furthermore illuminates continuities and nuanced differences in messaging and content, opening compelling questions regarding postcolonial identities and hybridity. v University of Washington Résumé Représentations de l'antiquité pour se distinguer: Les histoires pré-arabes des environnements bâtis coloniaux, postcoloniaux et contemporains à Tunis (Re-presenting Antiquity as Distinction: Pre-Arab Pasts in Tunis’ Colonial, Postcolonial and Contemporary Built Environments) Chair of the Supervisory Committee: Brian McLaren, Associate Professor and Chair Department of Architecture Le riche héritage de l’histoire antique tunisienne joue un grand rôle dans l’articulation de l’identité nationale et du développement des bâtiments et des villes depuis des siècles. Jalonnés par les vestiges de passés divers, les environnements bâtis de Tunisie incorporent et réfléchissent ces histoires accumulées au fil du temps. Les gérants de l’espace urbain utilisaient et recréaient subjectivement l’histoire en remodelant les héritages et leur image pour justifier la puissance politique, pour dominer et instruire les indigènes, et pour attirer l’attention des visiteurs et de la capitale. Cette thèse porte sur l’influence durable de l’histoire pré-arabe de Tunisie (c’est-à-dire les époques punique, romaine, paléochrétienne, vandale et byzantine), réfractée par les expériences socio-politiques coloniales françaises, postcoloniales et contemporaines, dans la création des espaces architecturaux et urbains tunisois depuis les vi années 1860. Ce projet explore ces antiquités à travers trois thèmes – l’antiquité comme un idéal esthétique, l’antiquité comme un outil politique, et l’antiquité comme une source de revenus. Ces thèmes nous conduisent à analyser des matériaux historiques et contemporains comprenant des plans et des projets conservés dans les archives, des articles de la presse écrite, des cartes postales et des lettres. Du fait de ces thèmes, les sites choisis sont situés dans le contexte des histoires coloniales et postcoloniales tunisiennes, mais aussi dans le contexte de la formation des identités nationales, de l’archéologie politisée, de la préservation historique, de la mondialisation, et du tourisme patrimonial. Plutôt que d’avoir recours à l’approche chronologique ou typologique, fréquente dans les travaux consacrés à l’histoire de l’architecture, cette thèse emploie une approche plus originale, diachronique et thématique. Explorant « le culture-scape antique pré-arabe » intégré de Tunis et ses supports variés, cette thèse est composée de trois parties principales. Chaque chapitre se concentre sur un groupe clairement circonscrit – l’administration coloniale française, l’Eglise catholique, et l’état postcolonial tunisien—et un thème. D’un point de vue esthétique, le gouvernement du protectorat faisait démonstration de sa force en ayant recours au style néoclassique et aux références à l’empire romain. Politiquement, l’Eglise participait au colonialisme en voulant l’unité des colons par-delà les nationalités et en faisant appel au paléochristianisme nord-africain pour servir les buts de la France. Au niveau commercial, les régimes français et tunisien ont accumulé de grandes richesses en cultivant l’industrie du tourisme patrimonial et archéologique. En définitive, ce projet démontre l’utilité durable des antiquités pré-arabes comme outil pour distinguer l’identité tunisienne et pour séparer « les autres » des classes dominantes. En problématisant les notions d’hybridité et d’identité postcoloniales, il met en lumière continuités importantes et différences subtiles. vii BIOGRAPHY A native of the Philadelphia region, Daniel E. Coslett earned a bachelor’s degree in the fields of political science and classical studies from Davidson College in 2005. Having been trained at Davidson’s Cyprus-based Athienou Archaeological Project (AAP), he then spent ten months in Tunisia researching ancient Roman (and French colonial) urban planning as a Fulbright scholar. In 2009 he completed a master’s degree at Cornell University in the Department of Architecture’s History of Architecture and Urban Development program with a focus on colonial and postcolonial North Africa. Since enrolling in the University of Washington’s interdisciplinary Built Environments Ph.D. program he has maintained his affiliation with AAP and taught courses in art and architectural history, colonial built environments and historic preservation at the University of Washington and Western Washington University. He has also published several articles and book chapters on architecture, planning, and heritage management in Tunis and elsewhere. viii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Researching and writing a dissertation can at times feel like an overwhelming, isolating and humbling process. It would have been impossible for me without the considerable contributions of countless generous and supportive individuals scattered about the globe. My sincerest thanks go to the following for all that they have done for me and for this project since its inception so many years ago: At the University of Washington, I thank the members of my dissertation committee, including Drs. Brian McLaren, Manish Chalana, Bob Mugerauer, Vikramāditya Prakāsh and Margaret O’Mara, for their inspiration and guidance throughout this entire process. Thanks go as well to Miriam Kahn in recognition of her contributions during the first few years of the Ph.D. process. In Tunis, I thank Dr. Laryssa Chomiak (CEMAT Director) and Riadh Saadaoui (CEMAT Assistant Director) for their kind welcome and their essential facilitation of access to archives and other resources throughout the city. I further thank Father Nicolas Lhernould (Vicaire général, Archevêché de Tunis) for so generously granting me unfettered access to resources held in the archdiocese’ archives. I additionally thank Dr. Mounir Khélifa (University of Tunis), Mustapha Okbi (Acropolium Director), Mongi Bel Hadj (Tunis Municipal Archives), Zouheir Ben Maouia (Musée de la Monnaie, Tunis), Moncef Fourati (École National d’Architecture et d’Urbanisme de Tunis), Chokri Touihri, (INP) and Elizabeth Fentress (Tunisian-British Utica Project) for all of their various contributions. In Seattle, I thank my fellow BE Ph.D. students for their friendship and support over the years, specifically Özge Sade Mete, Cheryl Gilge, Keith Harris, Shannon Tyman, Amber Trout and James Thompson. They consistently inspired and challenged me, and for that I am grateful. ix Thanks as well go to Brian Paquette for his patience during my long spells researching abroad and for his listening to my endless stories of postcards and vintage typography. In Davidson, NC, and Cyprus, I extend my thanks to Dr. Michael Toumazou (AAP Director) for years of motivating moral support and archaeological training, and to Dr. Jody Gordon for his generous feedback on archaeological components of the dissertation. Elsewhere in the US, I thank Dr. Jessica Gerschultz (University of Kansas) for our enlightening conversations on postcolonial art in Tunisia and for her so kindly sharing photographs and other archival materials. I also thank Dr. Peter Schraeder (Loyola University Chicago) for having first introduced me to Tunisia while I was a student in Rome in 2004, and for his subsequently encouraging my engagement with the country. In Paris, I thank Clément Girardi (Université Paris-Sorbonne) for so patiently guiding me through the BNF, for his French language assistance, and for his friendship over the years. Back at home, near Philadelphia, I offer deeply heartfelt thanks to the late Judy “Juju” Coslett, my grandmother, whose infectious curiosity inspired many of my overseas adventures. I thank Edward W. Coslett, my grandfather, whose dedication to history and education inspired me to read and learn, and whose generosity made much of it possible. Lastly, I thank Judy A. Coslett, my mother, whose love, unwavering support, and belief in my passion emboldened me to get out there and do all of this, no matter what. I am now, and shall forever be, indebted to you all. Ai’shek, merci! x Carthaginian Africa has become French Africa: it is we, at present, who are the Romans. But we do not forget that the first foundations of this conquest were laid in the 13th century by King Louis IX who [came]…to conquer North Africa for civilization. Ernest Babelon, 1896 Carthage (Paris: Leroux, 1896), 116 Tunisia’s mission today concurs with Tunisia’s project in Hannibal’s time…. It is an undertaking that will make the Mediterranean play its former part, one in which Tunisia is an active participant, not with warfare and conflict but with free competition, not with an exploitative and hegemonic mentality but with the spirit of fair partnership for mutual development. Sadok Chaabane, 1997 Hannibal Redux (Tunis: Maison Arabe du Livre, 2004), 78–79 xi CONTENTS Abstract/Résumé ……………………………………………………..............................… iii Biography ………………........……………………………..……………………………...... vii Acknowledgments …………………………………………..………………………………. viii Contents ………………………………………………………………………………………. xi List of Figures …..…………………………………………….……………………………… xiv Abbreviations ………………........……………………………..……………………………. xxii Chapter 1: Introduction …………………………………………………………………….... 1 1.1 Tunisia as a crossroads of empire ……………………………………………. 7 1.2 Scholarship on colonialism and North African built environments ………… 18 1.3 Scholarship on tourism and archaeology ……………………………………. 31 1.4 Historiographic methods ………………………………………………………. 37 1.5 Project objectives ………………………………………………………………. 41 Figures ………………………………………………………………………………... 46 Chapter 2: Knowing the pre-Arab past in Tunisia ………………………………......……. 55 2.1 Carthage in pre-colonial literature ……………………………………………. 56 2.2 Colonialist archaeology in Tunisia ……………………………………………. 59 Figures ………………………………………………………………………………... 69 Chapter 3: Antiquity as an Aesthetic Model ……………………………………………….. 76 3.1 Architectures of state: The Résidence générale ……………………………. 92 3.2 Architectures of state: The Hôtel des Postes ……………………………….. 95 3.3 Modifying an extant monument: The Porte de France …………………….. 103 3.4 Monuments and statuary: Jules Ferry, the personified Protectorate, Bourguiba and Ben Ali …………………………………………………...... 107 xii 3.5 Alternatives to antiquity: Arabesque and “Mediterranean” architectures … 119 3.6 Conclusion: Imagery, superficiality and Postmodern Neoclassicism ….…. 128 Figures ……………………………………………………………………………...... 138 Chapter 4: Antiquity as a Political Tool …………………….…………………………….... 207 4.1 Church and state: the Chapel of St. Louis de Carthage …………………… 218 4.2 Carthage restored: The Cathedral of Saint Louis de Carthage ………….... 222 4.3 Further union downtown: The Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and Saint Olivia …………………………………………………………………... 231 4.4 Authenticity by proximity: The 1930 Congrès Eucharistique International de Carthage …………………………………………………………………. 241 4.5 Modern(ist) relevance asserted: Replacing the Chapel of St. Louis de Carthage …………………………………………………………………. 250 4.6 Tunisians and the Church’s built environments …………………………...... 258 4.7 Maintaining history within the postcolonial Archdiocese of Tunis ……….... 261 4.8 Conclusion: Style, materiality and political power …………………………... 265 Figures ………………………………………………………………………………... 273 Chapter 5: Antiquity as a Revenue Generator …………………..…….………………....... 340 5.1 Living monuments in Carthage: the Roman theatre ……………………….... 357 5.2 Heritage repositories: The Lavigerie (Carthage) and Bardo (Tunis) Museums ………………………………………………............................... 368 5.3 A hero reborn: Hannibal in independent Tunisia …………………………..... 384 5.4 Carthage, UNESCO and the “Save Carthage” campaign ….………………. 394 5.5 The Hôtel Saint-Louis et de Carthage and the Villa Didon ......................... 401 5.6 Carthage consumed: the Carthageland theme park (Hammamet) ............. 406 5.7 The globalized Bardo revisited .................................................................... 410 xiii 5.8 Conclusion: Identity, consumption and capital ........................................... 415 Figures ……………………………………………………………………………...... 423 Chapter 6: Conclusion …………………………………………………………………......... 518 6.1 Distinctive antiquity as an opposite or foil ................................................... 523 6.2 On hybridity: Continuities and nuanced differences .................................... 526 6.3 On the future of the (pre-Arab) past in Tunis .............................................. 530 Figures ……………………………………………………………………………...... 539 Appendices ………………………………………………………………………………......... 542 A. Map: Tunisian sites referenced in the dissertation ……………...................... 543 B. Map: Tunis sites explored in the dissertation ................................................ 544 C. Map: Carthage sites explored in the dissertation .......................................... 545 D. Timeline of Tunisian socio-political and built environments events (1830–2016) …………………………………………………………............ 546 E. Short biographies of significant figures …………………………….................. 547 Bibliography ………………………………………………………………………………........ 553 xiv LIST OF FIGURES Chapter 1: Pages 46–54 1.1 Modern and ancient Roman roads in Tunisia. Plan, 1864. 1.2 Ancient Roman sites in Tunisia. Photographs, 2006 and 2016. 1.3 Overlapping Mediterranean empires and nation-states. Infographic, 2017. 1.4 Napoleon Crossing the Alps (Jacques-Louis David, 1802). Photograph of painting. 1.5 Assumed historiographic bracketing concept. Infographic, 2017. 1.6 Hannibal’s march to Italy during the Second Punic War (218–201 BC). Plan, 2015. 1.7 “Manufactured space” in Tunis’ ville nouvelle. Published photograph, c. 1885. 1.8 Arab Spring country statuses. Infographic, 2016. 1.9 Dissertation methods matrix. Infographic, 2017. Chapter 2: Pages 69–75 2.1 Ancient [Punic] Ports of Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1905. 2.2 Carthage & ses ruines (excerpt). Plan, 1933. 2.3 Carthage in Baroque-era artwork. Lithographs, 18th century and 1567. 2.4 Dido and “Carthage” in nineteenth-century paintings. Paintings, 1815 and c. 1872. 2.5 Salammbô. Lithograph, 1896 and painting, 1923. 2.6 Cabiria advertisement. Printed poster, 1914. 2.7 Restoring ruins across Tunisia. Photographs, c. 1908 and 1910. Chapter 3: Pages 138–206 3.1 The Architect’s Dream (Thomas Cole, 1840). Photograph of painting. 3.2 Tabularium (Rome) (Constant Moyaux, 1865). Photograph of drawing and watercolor. 3.3 Revue générale de l’architecture et des travaux publics masthead. Lithograph, 1843. 3.4 European quarter (Tunis medina) (M. Gandolphe, c. 1860). Photograph of plan. 3.5 The new Promenade de la Marine in Tunis (1859). Lithograph, 1865. 3.6 Portion of the plan of the Promenade de la Marine and surrounding streets, Tunis. Plan, c. 1860. 3.7 Plan of Tunis and its new neighbourhoods. Plan, 1893. 3.8 A typical imperial Roman castra. Hypothetical plan, 2017. 3.9 Greater Tunis site illustrating ancient Roman cadastration and its relationship to Carthage. Plan, 1986. 3.10 The Place de la Résidence and the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1950. 3.11 Sources of toponymic inscription in Tunis’ ville nouvelle (1952). Plan, 2017. 3.12 Neoclassicism on Tunis’ Avenue de France. Postcard, c. 1920 and photographs, 2016. 3.13 Headquarters of the Dépêche tunisienne newspaper, Tunis. Photograph, c. 1940. 3.14 The Municipal Theatre (Resplandy, 1902), Tunis. Photographs, 2016. 3.15 Classically inspired colonial-era buildings and details in Tunis’ ville nouvelle. Photographs, 2013. 3.16 La maison qui penche (The Sinking Building), Tunis. Photograph (postcard), 1906. 3.17 The Palais consulaire (architect unknown, c. 1931), Tunis. Architectural rendering, 1931 and photograph, 2016. xv 3.18 The Résidence générale de France (Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920 and photograph, 2013. 3.19 New French Consulate in Tunis. Lithograph, 1862. 3.20 Plans for the Résidence générale de France (originally Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Plan, c. 1892(?). 3.21 Plans for the Résidence générale de France (originally Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Interior elevation, c. 1889(?). 3.22 Plans for the Résidence générale de France (originally Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Plan, 1904. 3.23 Renovation plans for the Résidence générale de France (originally Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Exterior elevation, 1907. 3.24 Résidence générale/Embassy of France (Colin and Caillat, 1860 with extensions), Tunis, from above. Photographs, c. 1902 and 2016. 3.25 Interiors of the French Embassy (ex-Résidence générale), Tunis. Photographs, 1968. 3.26 The Hôtel des Postes (Saladin, 1892), Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1900. 3.27 The Hôtel des Postes et Télégraphes (Gaudet, 1886), Paris. Rendering, c.1886. 3.28 Presenting Tunis’ new Hôtel des Postes (Saladin, 1892). Printed journal page with lithographs, 1892. 3.29 Inauguration banquet for the Hôtel des Postes (Saladin, 1892), Tunis. Photograph, 1892. 3.30 Hall de l’Hôtel des Postes (Tunis) (painter unknown, 1900). Photograph of painting, 2013. 3.31 Classical motifs inside the Hôtel des Postes (Saladin, 1892), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 3.32 Original furnishings from the Tunis Hôtel des Postes. Photographs, 2013. 3.33 Hôtel des Postes et Télégraphes de Tunis: Avant Projet de Sûrelevation (Cès Albert, 1946). Elevation detail and elevation, 1946. 3.34 The enclosed arcade of the Hôtel des Postes, Tunis. Photographs, 2013. 3.35 Interior of the main hall of the Hôtel des Postes, Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 3.36 Postcolonial modifications to the primary exterior of the Hôtel des Postes, Tunis. Photograph, 2008. 3.37 The “Porte de France” or Sea Gate, Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 3.38 The Porte de France. Photograph (postcard), c. 1910. 3.39 Dégagement de la Porte de France. Plan, c. 1920. 3.40 The “Porte de France,” Tunis. Photograph, c. 1930. 3.41 Caserne de la Casbah, Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920. 3.42 The Jules Ferry Monument, Tunis. Published photograph, 1899. 3.43 Model for a monument “to the glory of France and the Protectorate” (Belloc, 1903) for Tunis. Photograph, 1903. 3.44 Monument à la gloire de l'expansion coloniale française (Belloc, 1909), Paris. Published photograph of sculpted model, 1906. 3.45 Monument à la gloire de l'expansion coloniale française (Belloc, 1909), Paris. Photographs, 2016. 3.46 Equestrian statue of Habib Bourguiba (Marzouk, 1978), Tunis. Photograph, 2009. 3.47 Ben Ali’s first Changement clock tower monument (1987), Tunis. Photograph, c. 1990. 3.48 Ben Ali’s second Changement clock tower (architect unknown, 2001), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 3.49 The Punic-Libyan mausoleum, Dougga. Photograph, 2013. 3.50 Bab Souika post office (Guy, 1906), Tunis. Photograph, c. 1920. 3.51 Professional School for Building (Centre de formation professionnelle du bâtiment, or École d’apprentissage) (Zehrfuss and Kyriacopoulos, 1947), Tunis. Photograph, 2013 and plan, 1947. xvi 3.52 Porto Farina School (Herbé and Marmey, 1945), Ghar El Melh (ex-Porto Farina) (Tunisia). Photograph, c. 2004. 3.53 Avenue Habib Thameur (ex-Roustan) apartment building (architect unknown, c. 1930), Tunis. Photograph, 2016. 3.54 Ancient Roman, Modern Italian, and “Barbarian” Ethiopian domestic architectures. Printed photographs/plans, 1936. 3.55 Maison minima (Minimal house) by Zehrfuss and Kyriacopoulos. Architectural renderings, 1943. 3.56 Roman Tunisia. Printed magazine page, 1948. 3.57 French military cemetery (Zehrfuss and Dianoux, 1945–1947), Gammarth. Photographs, c. 1947 and 2016. 3.58 Ministry of Tourism building (Eloy, 1957), Tunis. Published rendering, 1957, published photograph, 1960 and photograph (postcard), c. 1970. 3.59 Hotel Africa (Cacoub and Kyriacopoulos, 1971) and the Avenue Bourguiba, Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1974. 3.60 National Archives of Tunisia (Ateb et al., 1998), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 3.61 City Hall (Ben Mahmoud, 1998), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 3.62 Skin-deep or decorative arabisance cartoon (Salih Memecan, 1981). Published drawing, 1981. 3.63 “Four seasons” mosaics at the National Archives of Tunisia, Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 3.64 Byrsa Preparatory School (Lycée Carthage Byrsa) (Turki and Mouakhar, c. 2000?), Carthage. Photographs, c. 2007. 3.65 Postmodern classicizing architecture on the Avenue Bourguiba, Tunis. Photographs, 2011 and 2009. 3.66 Postmodern classicizing architecture and pre-Arab references in Tunis. Photographs, 2011 and 2013. 3.67 “Le Cesar” at the Hôtel du Lac, Tunis. Photographs, 2016 and printed advertisement, 2000. 3.68 Tunisian postage stamps featuring the country’s pre-Arab past. Postage stamps, 1906– 1996. 3.69 Tunis’ Hôtel des Postes centennial postage stamps. Postage stamps, 1992. Chapter 4: Pages 273–339 4.1 Aqueduct bridge constructed over Oued Meliane [Tunisia] by the Romans in 135 under the reign Emperor Hadrian. Elevation drawings, 1873. 4.2 Aqueduct/bridge over the Meliane River, near Uthina (Colin, 1863). Photographs, 2016. 4.3 The flow of Zaghouan waters in Tunis. Lithograph, 1861. 4.4 Chapel of Saint Louis IX de Carthage (Jourdain, 1840), Carthage. Photograph, 1890 and section drawing, undated. 4.5 Royal Chapel (Cramail, 1816, 1843), Dreux, France. Photograph, 2010. 4.6 Chapel of Saint Louis IX de Carthage interior (Jourdain, 1840), Carthage. Lithograph, 1878. 4.7 Chapel complex of Saint Louis IX de Carthage, Carthage. Painting, 1845 and lithograph, 1852. 4.8 Chapel of Saint Louis IX de Carthage complex (Jourdain, 1840), Carthage. Site plan, 1878 and photograph (postcard), c. 1920. 4.9 Tunis’ first cathedral (1881) on the Place de la Résidence, Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1883. 4.10 Damous el Karita basilica, Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1950 and plan, 2014. xvii 4.11 Reliquary of St. Louis IX from the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. Photograph (postcard), undated and detail photograph, 2013. 4.12 Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Drawings, 1991. 4.13 Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1900. 4.14 Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Interior photograph, c. 1945. 4.15 Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1900. 4.16 Roofline details of the Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Photographs, 2016. 4.17 Notre Dame de Carthage sculpture. Photograph, undated and 1930 International Eucharistic Congress prayer card, c. 1930. 4.18 Notre Dame de Carthage relief. Drawings and photograph, unknown date and photograph 2016. 4.19 Donation plaques inside the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. Photograph, 2013. 4.20 Central Tunis, c. 1930. Plan, 2015. 4.21 Inauguration of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet-Labranche, 1897), Tunis. Published photograph, 1897. 4.22 Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet-Labranche, 1897), Tunis. Architectural drawings, 1945. 4.23 Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet-Labranche, 1897), Tunis. Photographs, c. 1945 and c. 1953. 4.24 Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet-Labranche, 1897), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 4.25 Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia exterior with towers (Queyrel, 1909), Tunis. Photograph, 1909 and photograph (postcard), c. 1925. 4.26 Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia towers (Queyrel, 1909), Tunis. Photographs, 2016. 4.27 Initially proposed façade and towers for the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Elevation drawing (photograph and lithograph), c. 1898. 4.28 Apotheosis of St. Vincent de Paul (Le Mare, 1930) from the apse of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Photographs, 2013 and 1930. 4.29 Unfinished columns within the east triforium of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Photographs, 2016. 4.30 The Eternal Father or Abraham figure from the façade of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Photographs, 2013 and 2011. 4.31 Ecclesia and Synagoga from the façade of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Photographs, 2016. 4.32 Proposed Church of Notre-Dame de Tunis (Queyrel, 1914), Tunis. Elevation drawing, 1914. 4.33 Ticket to 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). Printed ticket, 1930. 4.34 “Children’s Crusade” in the Roman Amphitheatre during the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). Photograph, 1930. 4.35 Triumphal arches of Sbeitla and Carthage, as presented in Congrès Eucharistique International: Carthage 1930: Actes et Documents (1931). Published photographs, 1930. 4.36 Triumphal arch of Sbeitla reproduced in Carthage. Photograph, 1930. 4.37 The “Martyrs’ Chapel” in the Roman Amphitheatre, Carthage. Photographs, c. 1930 and 2013. 4.38 The Roman Amphitheatre during the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930), Carthage. Photographs, 1930. xviii 4.39 The Basilica Maiorum, Carthage. Photograph, 1930 and plan, 2014. 4.40 The Basilica of St. Cyprian during the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930), Carthage. Photographs and plan, 1930. 4.41 Ciborium of the Church of San Prospero, Perugia (Italy). Photograph, 2009. 4.42 Encampment for participants of the 30th International Eucharistic Congress on “St. Monica Hill” near the Byrsa, Carthage (May 1930). Photograph, 1930. 4.43 Ostensorium (monstrance) created for the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). Photographs, 2016. 4.44 Ostensorium (monstrance) motifs. Ostensorium base detail. Photograph, 2016. Bir Ftouha mosaic from Carthage. Photograph, 2014. 4.45 Closing procession during the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). Photographs and plan, 1930. 4.46 Site plan for 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). Plan, 1930. 4.47 Carthage—Byrsa—Punic Tombs with the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920. 4.48 Project for a Monument erected in the memory of King Saint Louis by the descendants of crusaders on the ruins of Carthage (Julien, 1875). Perspective drawing, 1875. 4.49 Project for a Monument erected in the memory of King Saint Louis by the descendants of crusaders on the ruins of Carthage (Julien, 1875). Chapel plan, 1875. 4.50 Exploratory excavations at the St. Louis de Carthage chapel, Carthage. Plan, 1950. 4.51 Monument to the memory of St. Louis in Carthage (Zehrfuss and Auproux, 1950). Axonometric perspective, 1950 and site plan, 1951. 4.52 Monument to the memory of St. Louis in Carthage (Zehrfuss and Auproux, 1950). Axonometric perspective (detail), 1950. 4.53 Effigy of St. Louis IX (Martin, 1951), Carthage. Photograph, 2013. 4.54 The garden and effigy of St. Louis IX, Carthage. Photographs, c. 1975. 4.55 Chapel of St. Louis de Carthage, Carthage, with French flags. Photograph, 1940. 4.56 Ambulatory of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet-Labranche, 1897), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 4.57 Mosaic panels in the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia and neighboring Church office property (the Archbishopric), Tunis. Photographs, 2013. 4.58 Tomb of Archbishop Lavigerie in the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. Photograph (postcard) and photographs, c. 1920. 4.59 The Acropolium (ex-Cathedral of St. Louis), Carthage. Photograph, 2016. 4.60 Interior elements of the Acropolium (ex-Cathedral of St. Louis), Carthage. Photographs, 2011 and 2016. 4.61 Ex-Monument to the memory of St. Louis in Carthage (Zehrfuss and Auproux, 1950). Photographs, 2016. 4.62 St. Louis on the Byrsa today. Photographs, 2013 and 2016. 4.63 Sacré-Cœur Basilica (Abadie, opened 1914), Paris. Photograph, 2011. 4.64 Amphitheatre of Carthage: The cult of Saints Perpetua and Felicity in the place of their martyrdom, highlighting modern commemorative installations. Drawing (postcard), 1917. 4.65 Postwar Catholic churches in Tunisia. Published photographs, 1954. 4.66 Notre-Dame de France (Jean le Couteur et al., 1953), Bizerte. Interior photograph, c. 1953. 4.67 Air France advertisement featuring the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. Printed advertisement, 1954. xix Chapter 5: Pages 423–517 5.1 Tunisian franc banknotes of the Protectorate era. Printed banknotes, 1938, 1946 and 1950. 5.2 Bourguiba-era one dinar banknote (El Mekki, 1965). Printed banknote, 1965. 5.3 Bourguiba-era silver one dinar coins. Minted coins, 1969. 5.4 Ben Ali-era ten dinar banknote. Printed banknote, 2005. 5.5 Musée de la Monnaie (Mint Museum) (Lotfi Rebai and Noureddine Lajnef, 2008), Tunis. Plan and interior photograph, c. 2008. 5.6 “La Tunisie antique” cover from La Dépêche Coloniale Illustrée. Printed cover, 1911. 5.7 Cover from La Tunisie Illustrée featuring Temples de Sufetula (Sbeitla). Printed cover, 1911. 5.8 La Tunisie touristique: Sites et monuments. Printed map, 1954. 5.9 The Colosseum at El Djem. Photograph, c. 1911. 5.10 Tunisie Carthage (Roland Olivier, 1949). Printed poster, 1949. 5.11 Hotel Ribat (Cacoub, 1960), Monastir. Published photograph, 1961. 5.12 Hotel Ulysses, Jerba (architect and date unknown). Published photographs, 1962. 5.13 Roman theatre, Carthage. Photographs, c. 1906 and c. 1910. 5.14 The re-built Roman theatre, Carthage. Photographs, 1996 and 2016. 5.15 Ruines de Carthage tourist map. Plan, 1924. 5.16 1906 Théâtre de Carthage program (Louis Flot, c. 1906). Printed cover, 1906. 5.17 1906 Théâtre de Carthage event performances. Photographs, 1906. 5.18 1906 Théâtre de Carthage event program. Printed pamphlet, 1906. 5.19 1907 Fête au Théâtre antique de Carthage poster (A. de Broca, 1907). Printed poster, 1907. 5.20 La foule carthaginoise approuve le meurtre d'Abdogir (The Carthaginian crowd approves the murder of Abdogir) at the Fête au Théâtre antique de Carthage. Photograph, 1907. 5.21 2016 Festival International de Carthage program cover. Printed image (PDF), 2016. 5.22 Enclosure wall with embedded fragmentary antiquities on the Byrsa hill, Carthage. Photograph, 2016. 5.23 Carthage’s Byrsa looking northwest showing the cathedral, seminary/museum complex and site of the St. Louis memorial. Photograph, c. 1953. 5.24 St. Louis garden and primary Lavigerie Museum façade (southeast), Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1930. 5.25 The “Punic Room” at the Lavigerie Museum, Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1930. 5.26 The “Crusade Room” frescoes (l’Alouette, 1886) at the Lavigerie Museum, Carthage. Photographs (postcards), c. 1920. 5.27 The “Crusade Room” (l’Alouette, 1886) at the Lavigerie Museum, Carthage. Photograph, c. 1902. 5.28 Exteriors of the Carthage Museum, Carthage. Photographs, 2016. 5.29 Southwest esplanade of the Carthage Museum, Carthage. Photographs, 2016. 5.30 The “Punic Quarter” on the Byrsa’s south slope, Carthage. Photographs, 2016. 5.31 The excavated buttress apses on the Byrsa’s southeast slope, Carthage. Photograph, 2016. 5.32 The “St. Louis de Carthage” complex atop the Byrsa Hill, Carthage. Plan, 2016. 5.33 The “Roman Room(?)” at the Carthage National Museum, Carthage. Published photograph, c. 1995. 5.34 The “Byrsa Room” at the Carthage Museum, Carthage. Plan, 1997 and photograph, 2016. xx 5.35 Punic Carthage mural at the Carthage Museum, Carthage (Gassend et al., 1996). Photograph, 2013. 5.36 Ground floor gallery at the Carthage Museum, Carthage. Photograph, 2013. 5.37 Punic sarcophagi and Roman statue at the Carthage Museum, Carthage. Photograph, 2013. 5.38 Christian statues in the ex-Cathedral/Acropolium garden, Carthage. Photographs, 2016 and 1956. 5.39 Amènagement d’un belvédère: Jardin de l’Acropolium de Carthage (Chelli, c. 1994). Architectural drawings, c. 1994. 5.40 Mosaic dedicatory plaque for the 1888 opening of the Bardo (Alaoui) Museum, Tunis. Photograph, c. 2008. 5.41 Main floor (second floor) of the Bardo (Alaoui) Museum, Tunis. Plan, 1890. 5.42 Ex-harem quarters within the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photographs c. 1910 and 2008. 5.43 The “Patio” room at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920 and photograph, 2016. 5.44 The former concert hall (from the mezzanine) at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photograph, 2016. 5.45 The “Salle de Fêtes” at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photographs, 1888, 2008 and 2013. 5.46 The Virgil Mosaic (3rd Century AD) at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photograph, 2013. 5.47 The Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Plans, 1970. 5.48 Exterior of the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photographs, c. 1886, c. 1902, 1914 and c. 2000. 5.49 Interiors of the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photographs, 2016. 5.50 The coat of arms of the Kingdom of Tunisia, 1956. Printed drawing, 1956. 5.51 From Carthage to Bourguiba postage stamp (Tunisia). Postage stamp, 1985. 5.52 Presidential Palace (Cacoub, 1962–1970), Carthage. Plan and interior photograph, c. 1974. 5.53 Excerpts from Tunisia: The Great Journey. Published drawings, c. 1998. 5.54 Planned “Hannibal Park” memorial at the military (Punic) port, Carthage. Published architectural rendering and photograph, 2013. 5.55 Carthage & ses ruines. Plan, 1933. 5.56 Urban growth in Carthage, 1931–1970. Published plans, 1971. 5.57 Known and excavated sites in Carthage. Published plan, 1971. 5.58 Topographic plan of Carthage with select “Save Carthage Campaign” international excavation team sectors indicated. Plan, 1992. 5.59 Isolated excavated pockets in central Carthage. Photographs, 2016. 5.60 A small green space in central Carthage. Photograph, 2016. 5.61 Carthage and Sidi Bou Saïd land classification (1985). Plan, 1985. 5.62 The el Abidine Mosque (Ayad Sriha, 2003) and its surroundings, Carthage. Photographs, 2013 and aerial photograph, 2015. 5.63 The restored Roman roadway leading to the el Abidine Mosque (Ayad Sriha, 2003), Carthage. Photograph, 2006. 5.64 The Grand Hôtel St. Louis & de Carthage, Carthage. Published advertising pamphlet, c. 1920 and photograph (postcard), c. 1931. 5.65 The view from the Grand Hôtel St. Louis & de Carthage terrace, Carthage. Photograph, c. 1926. xxi 5.66 The Byrsa Hill from the circular Punic military port, Carthage. Photograph, 2013. 5.67 The Hôtel Reine Didon, Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1970. 5.68 The Villa Didon hotel (ex-Hôtel Reine Didon), Carthage. Photograph of model, c. 1997 and photograph, c. 2004. 5.69 The Villa Didon logo. Published image, c. 2004. 5.70 Interiors of the Villa Didon, Carthage. Photographs, c. 2004. 5.71 The Spa Didon at the Villa Didon, Carthage. Interior photograph, c. 2004. 5.72 The Médina Mediterranea (Ben Miled, 2004), Hammamet. Exterior photograph, 2006 and photograph, 2008. 5.73 Carthageland at the Médina Mediterranea, Hammamet (architect unknown). Photographs, 2008 and 2014. 5.74 The expanded Bardo National Museum, Bardo (Tunis). Site plan, c. 2012 and plan (ground floor), c. 2011. 5.75 The expanded Bardo National Museum, Bardo (Tunis). Plan, 2012. 5.76 The new primary façade and entrance of the Bardo National Museum (Extension by Codou-Hindley and Nouira, 2011), Bardo (Tunis). Architectural rendering, c. 2005 and photograph, 2013. 5.77 The new entry hall of the Bardo National Museum (Codou-Hindley and Nouira, 2011), Bardo (Tunis). Photographs, 2013. 5.78 Gallery spaces at the Bardo National Museum, Bardo (Tunis). Photographs, 2016. 5.79 2015 attack memorial outside the Bardo Museum, Bardo (Tunis). Photograph, 2016. 5.80 2015 terrorist attack memorial inside the Bardo National Museum’s entry hall, Bardo (Tunis). Photograph, 2016. 5.81 Tourism in Tunisia masthead by El Mekki. Printed image, 1960. 5.82 Marie-Claire fashion photo featuring Tunisian mosaics. Photograph, 1960. 5.83 Tunisia tourism office on the Avenue de l’Opéra, Paris. Photographs, 2013. 5.84 Private villa with mosaic reproduction, Carthage. Photograph, 2016. 5.85 Virgil mosaic at the “Total” brand gas station, Carthage. Photograph, 2016. 5.86 Mosaics reproductions for sale. Photographs, 2016 and 2013. 5.87 A Tunisian built environments mosaic. Published image collage, 2015. 5.88 Mosaics disintegrating in situ, Thuburbo Maius. Photograph, 2005. 5.89 Carthage-themed products sold in Tunis. Photographs, 2013 and 2016. 5.90 ONTT advertisement featuring Dougga’s Roman theatre. Published image, 2011. 5.91 ONTT advertisement featuring El Djem’s Roman amphitheatre. Published image, c. 2013. 5.92 Page spreads from Tunisair’s La Gazelle magazine featuring antiquities. Published pages, 2013. 5.93 Golden Tulip hotel advertisement from Tunisair’s La Gazelle magazine featuring Sbeitla’s triumphal arch. Published pages, 2013. 5.94 Five dinar banknote featuring Hannibal, the Punic Ports and ships. Printed banknote, 2013. 5.95 Five dinar banknote featuring Hannibal, the Punic Ports and Ben Ali’s “7.” Printed banknote, 1993. Chapter 6: Pages 539–41 6.1 Graffiti outside Imed Trabelsi’s sacked villa on Hannibal Street, La Marsa (Tunis). Photograph, 2011. 6.2 “Quirinale” Hannibal on display at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photograph, 2016. 6.3 Dissertation methods matrix reconsidered. Infographic, 2017. xxii ABBREVIATIONS Archives/libraries: AA Archives of the Acropolium (Carthage) ANT Archives nationales de Tunisie (Tunis) APT Archives de la Prélature (Tunis) BDT Bibliothèque Diocésaine (Tunis) BNF Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris) BNT Bibliothèque nationale de Tunisie (Tunis) CADN Centre des Archives diplomatiques de Nantes (Nantes) CAP Cité de l’Architecture et du Patrimoine (Centre d’Archives/Institut français d’architecture) (Paris) CDN Centre de Documentation Nationale (Tunis) FBB Fonds Beit el-Bennani (Tunis) INHA Institut national de l’histoire de l’art (Paris) TMA Tunis Municipal Archives (Tunis) Additional abbreviations used in the text: ASM Association de Sauvegarde de la Medina de Tunis (Tunis) BCT Banque Centrale de Tunisie (Tunis) DT Tunisian Dinar (currency) EU European Union Fr French Francs (currency) INP Institut National du Patrimoine (Tunis) MTI Islamic Tendency Movement party (later Ennahda) PPMV Plan for the Protection and Promotion (mise en valeur) of the Carthage-Sidi Bou Saïd Site (also known as Protection and Enhancement Plan) PTT Post, Telegraph and Telephone (Hôtel des Postes) (Tunis) RCD Democratic Constitutional Rally party TGM Tunis-Goulette-Marsa suburban tramway UNESCO United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization USD United States Dollar (currency) 1 1. Introduction This dissertation is an exploration of Tunisian built environments, from 1860 through today, and the various ways in which they have manifested the country’s pre-Arab past—that is to say its Punic, Roman, and Early Christian/Vandal/Byzantine eras.1 It is not an essay about ancient history, nor does it seek to argue archaeological fact with regard to these periods. Instead, it considers the strategic deployment of these antiquities through the exploration of three specific themes—antiquity as an aesthetic ideal, a political tool and a revenue generator— making use of a variety of historical and contemporary source materials, including historic planning and design documents, journalistic media, and archived correspondence. Situated within the contexts of Tunisia’s colonial and postcolonial history, as well as those of national identity formation, colonialist and politicized archaeology, historic preservation, globalization and heritage tourism development, chosen sites reflect the complexities of their time and place. Indeed, the built environments studied here cannot be taken in isolation from their socio-cultural, political and economic contexts. Rhetorical and literary references, architectural drawings and plans, monuments, museums, banknotes and stamps, business names and souvenirs (re)present antiquity and ideas such as multiculturalism and tolerance have been advanced through built environments. One might label the totality of this integrated built and visual material 1 This is the fifth-century BC period of Punic/Carthaginian Tunisia through the AD 698 Arab conquest of Carthage. 2 culture environment a “pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape.”2 To borrow Habib Saidi’s phrase, the components of this nuanced body of materials—“DNA markers” of national identity3—depended upon and reinforced their counterparts, thus rendering each a meaningful contributor to the larger historicizing narrative being advanced. That is to say that each element of the pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape found within the Tunisois cityscape—whether a building, a street name, a banknote or a bronze statue—has told a part of a strategically crafted story that has generated and sustained the nation’s tangible and intangible genius loci (sense or spirit of place) and national identity. 4 Whereas neoclassical styles, literary and visual references to ancient mythologies, and heritage tourism have been prevalent elsewhere in Europe, the complexity and depth of the antiquity culture-scape in Tunisia has afforded it a particular potency. In its totality, by virtue of essentializing European and Christian narrative choices, the pre-Arab period constituted a cohesive unit that was historiographically isolated from its indigenous Berber prehistory and the subsequent Arabo-Islamic era.5 It is the nature of this pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape—its generation and appearance, meaning and use—that is ultimately the subject of this diachronic and interdisciplinary project. 2 In his critique of homogenization theories, Arjun Appadurai proposed an “elementary framework for exploring such disjunctures [between economics, culture and politics] is to look at the relationship between five dimensions of global cultural flow” consisting of five “scapes” in 1990. His “ethnoscapes” (people), “mediascapes” (imagery), technoscapes” (technology), “finanscapes” (capital) and “ideoscapes” (ideas) employ the common suffix because they are “deeply perspectival constructs, inflected very much by the historical, linguistic and political situatedness of different sorts of actors” notable for their irregularity. In their various arrangements they constitute the “imagined worlds” inhabited by people today, Appadurai contends. See Arjun Appadurai, “Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy,” Theory, Culture & Society 7 (1990): 296–97. The similarity in terminology notwithstanding, the culture- scape concept here proposed is place-based, physical and ideological, thus tapping into elements of Appadurai’s “mediascape” and “ideoscapes,” but attempts to describe a different type of construct. 3 Saidi, within the realm of tourism, refers to iconic heritage landmarks as essential “DNA markers” that constitute Tunisian national identity, and whose presence confirms the uniqueness of Tunisia in today’s globalizing world. The sites are of course major components of the pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape as here conceived. See Habib Saidi, “When the Past Poses Beside the Present: Aestheticizing Politics and Nationalising Modernity in a Postcolonial Time,” Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change 6 no. 2 (2008): 109. 4 See Lawrence Durrell, “Landscape and Character,” in Spirit of Place: Letters and Essays on Travel, ed. Allan G. Thomas (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1971), 156–63. 5 On the significance of the Arab conquest, see Jacob Abadi, Tunisia Since the Arab Conquest (Reading, UK: Ithaca, 2013), 1–37. 3 North Africa’s ancient history was a longstanding preoccupation of French colonialists by the time they became directly involved in the politics and economies of the region during the first half of the nineteenth century. Their views of the contemporary were inseparable from their impressions of the past (Figure 1.1). “France is the legitimate successor of Rome…. The great Roman people of whom we are the heirs conquered this region well before the Arabs,” boasted Jean Colin in 1925 in a remark that well captures the era’s prevailing colonialist sentiments.6 The Roman Catholic Church likened itself similarly to early Christianity and presented itself as the modern continuation of a universal, and politically significant, faith. Both the colonialist Church and state produced architectures that to varying degrees contributed to and reinforced this narrative. President Habib Bourguiba, at independence, idolized his country’s Punic past, and Carthage became less the seat of Catholicism and more the heart of a free Tunisia deeply rooted in the region’s renowned history. Under Ben Ali, Carthage’s Hannibal was recast as a national hero and commodifiable mascot. Impressed into state service as an agent of international cooperation and cultural exchange, he was deployed domestically as an embodiment of the nation and internationally as a tourist-friendly ambassador. Each postcolonial regime pursued the construction of identities, in no small part, through the construction and presentation of architectural and urban spaces. Illustrating these points, in a 2007 edition of Architecture méditerranéenne themed “La Tunisie modèrne” one finds a seemingly out-of-place illustrated section on heritage and antiquities found after a recap essay on modernization projects of the preceding twenty years. Images and brief introductions of ancient Dougga, El Djem, Maktar, Sbeitla, Thuburbo Maius, and Zaghouan’s aqueducts are 6 Jean Colin, “L’Occupation romaine du Maroc, cours préparatoire au service des affaires indigènes (Rabat: Direction Générale des Affaires Indigènes, 1925), 3, quoted in Diana K. Davis, Resurrecting the Granary of Rome (Athens, OH: Ohio, 2007), 5. For an earlier manifestation of this concept, see Saint- Marc Girardin, “De la domination des carthaginois et des romains en afrique comparée avec la domination française” Revue des Deux Mondes (1 May 1841): 408–45. 4 jarring within this context (Figure 1.2).7 Nonetheless, this invocation of antiquity looks much like those of the colonial era wherein the distant past was repeatedly referenced in the presentation of modernity. It indicates that such historicist conceptions of heritage-based national identity—in this case Tunisianité—are not new. Reflecting on the formal dissolution of modern empires, Jane Burbank and Frederick Cooper conclude that Colonial governments did not want to admit that their subjects were capable of cooperating with each other to constitute a large-scale political body. In this way, imperial imaginations kept returning to the patrimonial strategies used by earlier empires and away from notions developing in Europe of a citizenry that would elect its representatives….8 Within the context of Tunisia’s postcolonial experience, wherein autocrats governed with heavy hands that manipulated the past for their own ends, one might say that this statement applies. What were these “patrimonial strategies,” and what were their manifestations in the built environment? Each of these dominant interpretations or “patrimonial strategies”9 required some degree of opportunistic invention. Though the pursuit of knowledge often lay at the core of what was essentially a subjective process, its results have been strategically deployed by those in power to justify rule, to distinguish outsiders, to educate, to attract and to placate. Geographer David Lowenthal has called this practice the “fabrication of heritage,” or the empowering presentation of a strategically mythologized past that embellishes upon a secondary or obscured historical truth.10 His compelling distinction between history and heritage—the former “seeks to convince by truth,” while the latter, like memory, “exaggerates and omits, candidly invents and frankly 7 Anon., “Patrimoine,” Architecture méditerranéenne: La Tunisie modèrne (2007): 46–49. 8 Jane Burbank and Frederick Cooper, Empires in World History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University, 2010), 327. 9 Ibid. 10 David Lowenthal, “Fabricating Heritage,” History and Memory 10 no. 1 (1998): 5–24. 5 forgets” as it unites people—applies here.11 The fabrication of heritage, Lowenthal contends, is neither new nor inherently bad. It remains a valuable means by which the nation creates an identity for itself—an “imagined community” in the words of Benedict Anderson12—in an age of both skepticism and potentially destabilizing diversity. Heritage must be remade, “not stored in a vault or in an attic,” because “to reshape is as vital as to preserve,” Lowenthal concludes.13 It is thus malleable and popular. Archaeology, in its pursuit of chronological priority, material authenticity and its claims of contemporary relevance, has been rendered a particularly powerful tool for myth-making, even today, Lowenthal points out elsewhere.14 This survey of the pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape across the past century and a half—the product of such strategic myth- making—reveals its fabrication and operation as it has been reshaped and (re)presented by those in positions of socio-cultural, political, and economic power. The Mediterranean is of course a region rich in history that provides ample fodder for creative heritage-based cultural identity interpretations. It has been described as a geographical entity, a concept, and as one thousand things at the same time. Not one landscape[,] but innumerable landscapes. Not a sea, but a succession of seas. Not a civilization, but civilizations amassed on top of one another.... To travel within the Mediterranean…is to meet very old things, still alive, that rub elbows with the ultra-modern ones.15 Tunisia sits at the region’s center, a veritable crossroads of people and ideas studded with ruins 11 Ibid., 7. 12 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (New York: Verso, 1991). 13 Lowenthal, “Fabricating,” 19. Abramson offers a counterargument that urges us not to indulge too liberally in the subjective or unverifiable elements of memory. See Daniel Abramson, “Make History, Not Memory: History's Critique of Memory,” Harvard Design Magazine (1999): 78–83. 14 David Lowenthal, “Archaeology’s Perilous Pleasures,” Archaeology 53 no. 2 (March/April 2000): 62–66. Christopher Chippendale, a field archaeologist and museum curator, takes issue with Lowenthal’s assessment of contemporary archaeological practices in a published response. See Christopher Chippendale, “Archaeology’s Proper Place,” Archaeology 52 no. 2 (March/April 2000): 67–68. 15 Fernand Braudel, La Méditerranée, l’espace et l’histoire (1977) quoted in Benedetto Gravagnuolo, “From Schinkel to Le Corbusier: The Myth of the Mediterranean in Modern Architecture,” in Modern Architecture and the Mediterranean: Vernacular Dialogues and Contested Identities, Jean-François Lejeune and Michelangelo Sabatino, eds. (New York: Routledge, 2010), 15–39. 6 that commemorate its participation in so many critical episodes of the Mediterranean’s past (Figure 1.3).16 Though the Arabs and Ottoman rulers of Tunisia were well aware of this history, this crossroads or “axis of cultures and civilizations”17 idea was a particular fascination of the French colonialists. Viewing themselves as legitimate successors to earlier occupiers, they initiated an ongoing process of (re)presentation that has become essential to modern, intentional identity crafting. Postcolonial powers in Tunisia have also participated in the selective interpretation and presentation of extant relics in the perpetuation of persistent imagery. Common among them all have been Tunisia’s great antiquities sites, but Carthage in particular. Ever a “living legend,” the city (now an upscale suburb of Tunis) has long been a point of reference for French colonialists. Jacques-Louis David’s iconic 1801 portrait of Napoleon crossing the Alps, in which the ambitious emperor rides over the names of his transalpine predecessors Charlemagne and Hannibal, poignantly captures Carthage’s significance within French colonialist ambitions (Figure 1.4).18 Drawing on a diverse range of existing scholarship pertaining to colonialism, historic and contemporary built environments, archaeology, heritage management and tourism, this dissertation is necessarily expansive and interdisciplinary in its literary foundation. Little academic work has been done that thoroughly investigates the intersections of these fields, particularly within the context of French colonial North Africa outside of Morocco and Algeria. Indeed, Tunisia has been consistently overlooked by scholars who have, since the colonial era, generally favored these other larger, more publicized countries. The architectural experimentation undertaken in Morocco, and the lengthy duration of Algeria as a colony and its 16 Kenneth J. Perkins, Tunisia: Crossroads of the Islamic and European Worlds (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1986), 18. 17 Phillip C. Naylor, North Africa: A History from Antiquity to the Present (Austin, TX: University of Texas, 2009), 1. 18 Pieter ter Keurs, “Carthage: Fact and Myth,” in Carthage: Fact and Myth, ed. Roald Docter, Ridha Boussoffara, and Pieter ter Keurs (Leiden: Sidestone, 2015), 15. 7 protracted, violent demise, have dominated scholarship. Still, an increased number of specialist studies on various aspects of Tunisia’s history and built environments have been published in recent decades, and they contribute significantly to the present project. Based on this existing literature, as well as research conducted in Tunisia—on site and at archives there and in France—this dissertation attends to several important shortcomings in existing scholarship. The project advances our understanding of colonial and postcolonial built environments in North Africa and Tunisia, as well as of history-based myth-making, archaeology, tourism and the postcolonial condition. 1.1 Tunisia as a crossroads of empire When approaching the periods explored in this project, one identifies an assumed historiographical bracketing that appears to have taken place in an attempt to simplify the complexity of the region as a layered cultural crossroads (Figure 1.5). Indeed, broadly speaking, colonial authorities sought to align themselves with the country’s pre-Arab periods, at independence Tunisian authorities reached back to the country’s post-antiquity Arabo-Islamic era by sidestepping the colonial period. One might expect to find an exclusivity in this strategic bracketing that denied shared cultural influences. Careful consideration of Tunisia’s colonial and postcolonial experience, however, reveals the inadequacy of such conceptions. In reality, all periods have remained relevant to those in power throughout the early modern/modern period. Whereas preferences existed and rhetoric stressed particular affiliations at different times with differing degrees of enthusiasm, no dominant group or ideology has escaped the nation’s accumulated history or its representation. Some groups aimed to define themselves by emphasizing their separation from their predecessors, and others did so by highlighting their mixed or hybrid identities. Tunisia’s long history is complex. A brief recap of its relevant episodes follows to 8 contextualize the project and provide necessary background for reference. It furthermore reveals the degree to which the aforementioned bracketing oversimplifies matters by overlooking essential referential or historiographical hybridity and continuities. The three periods of pre-Arab antiquity that feature prominently in the project are presented first, followed by introductions to the French colonial, independence-era, and most recent revolutionary periods in Tunisian history. These highly selective accounts focus on major events that were significant to those in power and featured largely in the myth-making and built environments of the modern era, and as such they should not be taken as exhaustive. According to legend, Carthage was founded by the Phoenician Queen Dido (also known as Elyssa) of Tyre (in modern Lebanon) during the late ninth century BC.19 Having journeyed from the Levant by way of Cyprus, she and her entourage disembarked in North Africa and established themselves on land they cleverly negotiated from the local rulers.20 Although the details of the city’s origin are almost certainly myth, it is clear that trade ties with Tyre and the eastern Mediterranean were strong and Carthaginian culture came to blend elements taken from elsewhere in Africa, Etruria, Spain and Greece. The continued worship of eastern deities, including Baal Hammon and Tanit, reflect this sustained connection to the city’s west Asian roots.21 Within a few hundred years the multicultural city-state became exceptionally prosperous and—thanks to its mighty navy—capable of successfully pursuing its territorial ambitions. By 218 BC Carthage’s commercial empire extended across the Mediterranean’s southwestern coast and through the southeastern Iberian Peninsula (see Figure 1.3). Longstanding rivalry 19 There are several ancient accounts of Carthage’s establishment. See, for example, accounts in Virgil’s Aeneid and Justinus’ Epitome Historiarum philippicarum Pompei. Represented here are the essential and commonly held portions of the legend. Historians now believe that the Carthage was settled by merchants from Tyre in the mid- to late eighth century. Naylor, North Africa, 26. 20 Serge Lancel, Carthage: A History, trans. Antonia Nevill (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1992), 23–25. 21 The term “Punic,” though originally perhaps a derogatory name intended to identify a degenerate form of Phoenician culture, has come to reflect this hybridity and special nature of Carthage’s culture. See Keurs, “Carthage,” 11. See also Naylor, North Africa, 28. 9 with ascendant Rome resulted in several wars during the third and second centuries BC. The first conflict erupted over Sicily in 264 BC and resulted in the unexpected defeat of Carthage’s erstwhile invincible navy by Rome’s in 241 BC. The Second Punic War occurred from 218–201 BC and was dominated by the exploits of Hannibal. Born in 247 or 246 BC and the son of a respected general called Hamilcar, Hannibal eventually assumed command of Carthage’s army in Spain upon his father’s death. His masterful invasion of northern Italy—accompanied by a number of elephants he had transported over the Alps with the army—shocked Rome (Figure 1.6). Though he failed to take the city itself, Hannibal harassed its outlying posts and sufficiently terrorized stunned Romans. He was then chased to Asia Minor (modern Turkey) where he attempted to rally opposition to Rome before being surrounded and compelled to commit suicide. Fear of Carthage’s resurgence inspired great animosity among Romans, the essence of which Cato the Elder regularly reminded Senators by concluding his speeches with Carthago delenda est (“Carthage must be destroyed”). 22 Publius Cornelius Scipio was eventually dispatched to stop Hannibal and did so at the Battle of Zama just southwest of Carthage in 202 BC, thereby earning himself the honorific agnomen Africanus. Rome did not completely destroy its rival until the end of the Third Punic War (149–146 BC) when it quite famously sieged and burned Carthage, sowing salt into its fields in order to symbolize the city’s eternal destruction.23 Treaties signed with local Berber kingdoms failed to stabilize the region, however. Jugurtha’s rule over nearby Numidia, for example, fueled enmity between Carthage and Rome both during and after the Punic Wars. Though the Numidians had initially allied with Carthage, they sided with Rome against Hannibal, but eventually challenged Roman authority after Carthage’s fall. 22 The exact phrase used by Cato has not been recorded, but Plutarch, Pliny the Elder, Livy and others wrote of Cato’s habit. See Charles E. Little, “The Authenticity and Form of Cato’s Saying ‘Carthago Delenda Est’,” Classical Journal 29 no. 6 (1934): 429–35. 23 ter Keurs, “Carthage,” 11–12. See also Fik Meijer and Roald Docter, “The Punic Wars,” in Carthage: Fact and Myth, 75–83; Naylor, North Africa, 25–28 and 35–40; Perkins, Crossroads, 15–18. More generally on the establishment and growth of Carthage through the Punic Wars, see Lancel, Carthage, 78–192. 10 Roman forces captured Jugurtha and he died in a Roman prison in 105 BC.24 Tunisia’s Punic past made it “an active and permanent participant in the Mediterranean culture complex” because Carthage’s commercial and military networks tied it to “all the other dynamic civilizations of the Mediterranean basin,” thereby rendering it an enduring and unavoidable regional focal point.25 Carthage’s strategic site and potential productivity proved irresistible to the Romans, however, and in 44 BC a colony was established on the site of the ruined city by Octavius (soon to be Emperor Augustus) on orders from Julius Caesar. The colonia Concordia Iulia Carthago quickly thrived. Any extant ruins atop the Byrsa hill were buried as Roman engineers raised the ground level and produced “one of the largest artificial platforms in the Roman world” there at the city’s center.26 From this restored acropolis the Romans established their new city grid. Extending from the elevated forum with its library, basilica, and temples, the Roman road network came to run a total of 60 km.27 Rome’s emperors, particularly the Antonine dynasty, lavished great expense upgrading the city, so much so that by the third century AD it was said to rival Constantinople and Alexandra as city second only to Rome itself.28 New aqueducts, baths, port facilities, a theatre and an amphitheatre contributed to Carthage’s opulence. Along with Egypt, the revived city and its surrounding verdant territories within the province of Africa Proconsularis became known collectively as the “granary of Rome” and an integral component of Rome’s expansive—and insatiable—empire (see Figure 1.3).29 The city prospered through the fourth century but was sacked by soldiers of Maxentius, who opposed Constantine, and 24 Naylor, North Africa, 20–43. 25 Perkins, Crossroads, 18. 26 Carthage’s Byrsa, or acropolis, measured 336 x 223 m., thus three times the size of Augustus’ forum in Rome. See Samir Aounallah, “Roman Carthage: History and Monuments,” in Carthage: Fact and Myth, 96. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid., 99. 29 Susan Raven, Rome in Africa (New York: Routledge, 1993), 79–99, Naylor, North Africa, 47; Perkins, Crossroads, 19. The province exported two-thirds of its cereal production to the rest of the empire. Ibid. 11 eventually succumbed to the Germanic king Gaiseric in AD 439. Carthage served as the capital of the Vandal Kingdom from that time until AD 534 when it was captured by Byzantine forces and was thence incorporated into the Constantinople-based Eastern Roman Empire. 30 It remained under their control until the invasion of the Arab Muslims under the Umayyad Caliphate during the very late seventh century.31 The Arab rulers of what would become Tunisia chose to establish themselves not at the storied site of Carthage but at the far smaller settlement of Tunes set back from the sea, thus setting the course for the city of Tunis’ development and eventual rise to the rank of national capital.32 The earliest known evidence of Christianity in Carthage dates to AD 180, when a dozen Christians were beheaded, thus becoming the first known African martyrs of Christendom. Perpetua and Felicitas are said to have been executed in the city’s amphitheatre in AD 203.33 According to the writings of Tertullian and St. Cyprian, Christianity was a substantial part of the region’s identity during the third century, as many Christians lived there at that time. An official ban on paganism promulgated during the fourth century indicates that the city had theoretically converted to the new religion by that time. The highly influential writings of St. Augustine (354– 430, born in what is now eastern Algeria) attest to the nature and sophistication of Christianity in North Africa, as well as the development of a separatist movement called Donatism that challenged the establishment until the advent of the Germanic Vandals from Spain in 439. The Vandals, who though Christian were Arians and thus opposed (and persecuted) Nicene or Trinitarian Christians (which included Catholics), ruled with less violence and destruction than 30 Ibid., 53–55. The Catholic bishops were restored to their churches, the Byzantine colonial administration exerted great control and fomented resentment. Catholic bishops retained their loyalty to Rome. J. Patout Burns and Robin M. Jensen, Christianity in Roman Africa (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), 78–80. 31 Ibid., 62–66. 32 Paul Sebag, Tunis: Histoire d’une ville (Paris: l’Harmattan, 1998), 53–81. Tunes was settled by Berbers as early as the beginning of the fourth century BC. Ibid., 60. See also Abadi, Tunisia, 1–37 on the socio- cultural, political and urbanistic changes that occurred with the arrival of the Arabs. 33 Fathi Bejaoui, “Christian Carthage,” in Carthage: Fact and Myth, 103. 12 has been previously thought.34 Justinian successfully reclaimed Tunisia for the Eastern Roman or Byzantine Empire in 533 as a part of his larger campaign to recover his predecessors’ imperial holdings (see Figure 1.3). Under the rule of the Byzantine Empire, Carthage again became the seat of North African Christianity’s leader (the Primate), but religious controversies between Catholic residents and the orthodox administration rendered relations uneasy. Despite the fall of Carthage to Islamic invaders in 697–98, it is known that bishops functioned within the city through the tenth century.35 A large number of architectural ruins from the late Roman or early Christian, Vandal and Byzantine periods survive, though remains from the latter are most numerous. The known basilicas of Carthage were constructed from the mid-fourth to the mid- fifth century (primarily late Roman) and from the mid-fifth through the late seventh centuries (Byzantine era).36 The more than ten known structures—including the Damous el Karita (said to be one of the largest basilicas in Africa), the basilica of St. Cyprian, several small chapels, and other buildings—incorporated mosaics with symbols and Biblical motifs representing this history. 37 Extant remains substantiate much of what is known otherwise though ancient literature. Skipping forward, during the nineteenth century Europeans established themselves in Tunis as influential traders and merchants, many of whom existed as “cultural creoles” and infiltrated the existing Tunisian state system.38 They came to reside in what had been since 34 Crossroads, 23–24; Burns and Jensen, Christianity, 1–30 and 61–75. See also Robin Whelan, “Arianism in Africa,” in Arianism: Roman Hersey and Barbarian Creed, eds. Guido M. Berndt and Roland Steinacher (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2014), 239–56; Burns and Jensen, Christianity, 67–84. 35 Burns and Jensen, Christianity, 75–84, 105; Perkins, Crossroads, 24–26. 36 Burns and Jensen, Christianity, xlix–li, 95–98, 134–41. 37 Bejaoui, “Christian Carthage,” 106–07. See also Naylor, North Africa, 49–56. On the transition from paganism to Christianity and its architectural ramifications, see Anna Leone, The End of the Pagan City: Religion, Economy, and Urbanism in Late Antique North Africa (Oxford: Oxford University, 2013). 38 Julia Clancy-Smith, Mediterraneans: North Africa and Europe in an Age of Migration, c. 1800–1900 (Berkeley, CA: University of California, 2011), 48. Clancy-Smith highlights the oft-overlooked importance and influence of these figures in the process of colonization, defining them as “individuals born in Tunisia of parents from somewhere else, mainly although not exclusively Europe, who sank roots in the country over generations of residence and came to see the place as home.” Ibid. They included prominent 13 1574 a vassal state of the Ottoman Empire governed by hereditary monarchs known as beys. After 1705 the Husainid dynasty enjoyed relative autonomy from the distant Sublime Porte in Constantinople. The reign of Ahmed Bey (1837–1855) saw substantial internal reforms that not only reinforced ties to European economic and political affairs but also granted significant concessions to foreign interests and commercial enterprises. Courting relationships with ambitious British and French consuls, as well as those of Italy, this “progressive” ruler sought to bring higher education, military training and international trade more in line with Western standards.39 Influenced by both European systems and Ottoman tanzimat policies, Ahmed and his successors Muhammad and Muhammad al-Sadiq enacted an overwhelming succession of Westernizing reforms. Included were the signing of the Fundamental Pact (1857) granting foreigners the right to trade and manufacture locally and to own property, the establishment of a Municipal Council for the City of Tunis (1858), the promulgation of a relatively liberal constitution (endorsed by Napoleon I in 1861), and the creation of several new government ministries. Efforts by the Tunisian government to maintain sovereignty resulted in crippling debt burdens and domestic instability. A revolt in 1864, inspired by new taxation, further accelerated reliance on European powers.40 The establishment of the International Finance Commission in 1869 tied Tunisia’s government to those of Britain, France and Italy. Though chaired by Kheirredine Pasha, who was made prime minister in 1873, the Commission restricted funds that hampered his reformist agenda. Kheirredine’s attempts to strengthen ties to Constantinople and maintain distance from ambitious Europeans—particularly the French who aimed to keep Ottoman businessmen and at times members of the beylical government. A small number of Europeans had resided in Tunis since the twelfth or thirteenth centuries. Kenneth Perkins, A History of Modern Tunisia (New York: Cambridge University, 2014), 25. 39 On the rivalry between France, Italy and the United Kingdom for power over Tunisia in the pre- Protectorate period, see Jean Ganiage, Les origins du protectorat français en Tunisie (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1959), 403–36 and 521–88. 40 Perkins, A History (2014), 15–35; Naylor, North Africa, 157–60. 14 authority as far as possible from its neighboring colony of Algeria—failed.41 Unable to resist further, the Tunisian government signed the Bardo Treaty in 1881. Though a Tunisian-led raid across the French Algerian-Tunisian border was cited as the cause, the event served as a pretext for far greater systemic instability within Tunisia and European power struggles that pit state against state in a competitive rush for colonial expansion. In signing the treaty, the bey ceded to France its defense and control of its foreign policy. The bey’s maintenance of domestic sovereignty was not long-lived. France’s Tunis-based Resident General Cambon supervised the adoption of the La Marsa Convention in 1883. Paris guaranteed Tunisia’s substantial debt of 140 million francs—eleven times the government’s annual income—thus negating the need for the international commission, in exchange for control of mandated reforms and internal affairs. The bey reigned, but no longer ruled, and Tunisia became a full-fledged French protectorate to be governed by an occupying administration like so many other colonized territories around the globe (see Figure 1.3).42 The French administration of Tunisia endured for seventy-five years, during which French colonialists embedded themselves and their institutions within the country’s socio- cultural and political systems. Though outright colonization and suppression were relatively less substantial here than in neighboring Algeria, Europeans (primarily Italians during the first decades of the Protectorate) exerted considerable influence and created for themselves networks and built environments that reproduced European norms. “Manufactured space” in Tunis and other cities facilitated comfortable, largely segregated, living for growing European 41 Perkins, A History (2014), 37–43. On the French conquest of Algeria, see Naylor, North Africa, 152–57. 42 Perkins, A History (2014), 44–45; Christopher Alexander, Tunisia: From Stability to Revolution in the Maghreb (New York: Routledge, 2016), 10–17; Abadi, Tunisia, 271–303. Tunisia was never made a formal colony or territory of France, like Algeria had been, and thus was technically still a sovereign nation under French “protection.” It was called “The French Protectorate of Tunisia,” as well as “The Regency,” by French authorities who governed in name of the titular bey. Despite the technical difference between colony and protectorate, the term “colonial” will be used throughout the dissertation to describe the de facto circumstances. The French established similar jurisdiction over Morocco in 1912. See Naylor, North Africa, 160–64. 15 populations, and ville nouvelles (new cities) sprung up adjacent to existing settlements around the country (Figure 1.7).43 The Pope’s restoration of the Catholic See of Carthage in 1884, with Cardinal Lavigerie as its head, imposed Christianity in a land that had been majority Muslim for a millennium. The granting of supervisory authority to France rendered it an implicit agent of French colonialism from 1891, a position well understood by Church authorities. Negotiating rights and privileges for both colonialists and indigenous Tunisians (both Muslims and a substantial Jewish contingent) consumed much of the government’s time.44 As with colonialism in general, the overall aim of such efforts was to maintain stability, extract maximum resources, and outmaneuver its European imperialist competitors while advancing its so-called mission civilisatrice (civilizing mission) as much as necessary to placate opposition. Tunisians were not oblivious to the system’s oppressive nature, and a nationalist movement—the “Young Tunisians”—developed as soon as the early 1910s.45 Demographic shifts, changing international politics, and two World Wars challenged the French administration’s maintenance of control. The Destour Party, established in 1919–20, clamored for the restoration of Tunisian self-determination (though not unconditional independence) but failed to elicit significant popular support. The charismatic Habib Bourguiba resigned from the party in 1934 and founded the Neo-Destour Party. Violence in 1938 led to Bourguiba’s exile. Sent to Italy by German occupiers, he maintained support for France and Charles de Gaulle throughout WWII. Nationalism intensified following the war, as Tunisian workers’ unions increasingly roused anti-colonial opposition. Faced with growing resistance in Tunisia and major setbacks in Indochina (war in Vietnam raged from 1945–54) and ongoing war 43 Perkins, A History (2014), 59. In 1904, for example, greater Tunis housed 55,000 foreigners (35,000 from Italy, 10,000 French citizens, 8,000 Maltese (British) citizens, and 2,000 others), 80,000 Tunisian Muslims and 39,000 Tunisian Jews. Ibid., 58. 44 Perkins, A History (2014), 44–78; Abadi, Tunisia, 305–426; Mary Lewis, Divided Rule: Sovereignty and Empire in French Tunisia, 1881–1938 (Berkeley, CA: University of California, 2014). 45 Alexander, Tunisia, (2016), 20–24. 16 in Algeria (ultimately 1954–62), Paris acquiesced to autonomy for Tunis in 1955 and full independence the following year. Bourguiba, as leader of the people, prevailed and was made president in 1957 when the beylical monarchy was abolished and Tunisia declared a democratic republic.46 With the defeat of his super nationalist opponent Salah Ben Youssef in the wake of independence Bourguiba assumed the role of nationalist leader, self-styled “supreme combatant” against colonialism and for Western-style progress, and eventually modern Tunisia’s pater patriae.47 Having been educated in France and open to relations with the West, Bourguiba negotiated the tricky politics of the immediate postcolonial period with dexterity, maintaining stability while modernizing the country’s legal system (along European lines) and society (women’s rights and education were of particular interest to him). 48 His “Mediterranean orientation and gradualism” dominated the socio-cultural and political arenas for decades.49 During the 1960s he pursued a form of socialism, though ultimately without success. In 1963 he compelled the evacuation of Bizerte by its remaining French military forces and in 1964 he nationalized agricultural lands still in the hands of resident French citizens. By the time Bourguiba was anointed “President for life” in 1974 he exercised essentially uncontested control, having neutralized much of his opposition. Blaming the Islamic Tendency Movement (MTI) for unrest in 1984, Bourguiba suppressed the group and further entrenched his position by alienating opposition parties that boycotted elections in 1986. The following year he promoted Zine el Abidine Ben Ali to the rank of prime minister. After less than five weeks on the job Ben Ali had the ailing Bourguiba declared unfit to govern and assumed the presidency on 7 November 1987. Attempting to justify and maintain his ascension, Ben Ali signed the “National 46 Naylor, North Africa, 179–81; Perkins, A History (2014), 79–134; Alexander, Tunisia (2016), 17–20; Abadi, Tunisia, 427–481. 47 Perkins, Crossroads, 149–51. 48 Ibid., 117–130. 49 Ibid., 149. 17 Pact” in 1989, legalizing opposition parties and supporting other democratic reforms. The MTI (then called Ennahda or “Renaissance” party), however, was banned and its leader exiled. Ben Ali’s party, the Democratic Constitutional Rally (RCD), won all seats of parliament in the 1989 election, and the new president went unopposed. Ben Ali was reelected with implausibly high margins of victory in 1994, 1999, 2004, and 2009, reflecting his institutional entrenchment and oppressive authoritarianism.50 Both Bourguiba and Ben Ali sought to nurture ties with the outside world, whether through trade agreements with France, the European Union or the Arab Maghreb Union, or through active promotion of tourism.51 The Ben Ali regime—described by some in the early 2000s as one of the world’s “illiberal democracies” or “liberalized autocracies”—assuaged political opposition through outright suppression and economic coercion with success before the 2008 global economic downturn rendered the latter effectively untenable.52 Some, however, had seen signs of wear in the “façade democracy,” many of which were rendered clear by violent protests in the southern mining town of Gafsa in 2008. Though the immediate cause of the events had been what were felt to be unfair labor practices, it quickly became clear that unemployment, widespread corruption, uneven access to education and internal distribution of resources that favored more prosperous northern and coastal regions were far deeper issues driving dissent. The government’s brutal repression of the Gafsawis only further inspired opposition in what many eventually came to view as a “dress rehearsal” for the forthcoming populist “Jasmine revolution,” or “revolution for dignity,” that culminated in the ouster of Ben Ali on 14 January 2011.53 Mohammed Bouazizi’s self-immolation in December 2010 had represented the frustrations of 50 Naylor, North Africa, 211–14; Perkins, A History (2014), 135–213; Alexander, Tunisia (2016), 24–33; Abadi, Tunisia, 483–544. 51 Alexander, Tunisia (2016), 130–53; Perkins, Crossroads, 142–45. 52 Perkins, A History (2014), 215. 53 Perkins, A History (2014), 222. Abadi, Tunisia, 544–45. Most media outlets referred to the event as the “Jasmine Revolution,” while Tunisians themselves generally refer to it as the “revolution for dignity.” 18 millions of Tunisians and served as a catalyst for nationwide protests with deep roots in December 2010. Thousands organized via social media and gathered on Tunis’ Avenue Bourguiba and in public places elsewhere, demanding change outside the buildings that represented state power, including the Ministry of the Interior and the headquarters of Ben Ali’s RCD party. Unable to contend with the scale of events taking place throughout the country and unwilling to continue killing Tunisian citizens, the country’s army leadership eventually convinced Ben Ali to step down and leave, which he did.54 In the years that have followed, Tunisians elected a constituent assembly and created a new constitution that has enshrined portions of the old system’s democratic and tolerant spirit, if not its autocratic provisions.55 The democratic transition that inspired the wider “Arab Spring” movement remains a success story, albeit an unfinished one that has not come without significant internal conflict and challenging consensus building (Figure 1.8). The country, now engaged in the democratic process, continues the transition towards fully free and functional government.56 The past, however, in all its layered complexity remains relevant in this era of novelty and progress. 1.2 Scholarship on colonialism and North African built environments This project sits amidst a growing body of literature on the architecture and urbanism of territories colonized by France during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and the subsequent maintenance of these colonial-era spaces, structures, approaches and myths during the subsequent postcolonial period. Jean-Louis Cohen, writing in 2006, attributed what he described as an “explosion of research” on colonial architectural histories to several factors: the ongoing post-independence recovery of identities within former colonies, the proliferation of 54 He has been in exile in Saudi Arabia since then. 55 Perkins, A History (2014), 214–59; Peter J. Schraeder and Hamadi Redissi, “Ben Ali’s Fall,” Journal of Democracy 22, no. 3 (2011): 5–19; Alexander, Tunisia (2016), 70–105. 56 For the first time in many decades, if not longer, Tunisia now appears fairly regularly in Western news media. 19 doctoral degree programs; an increased interest in postcolonial critical theories; and the “powerful force of nostalgia for empires” inspired by, among other things, contemporary trends in tourism.57 There exist several types of literature on colonial architecture and urbanism written at various scales, including broad regional and empire-wide surveys, city portrait volumes and more focused thematic investigations. Very broadly speaking, texts written during the colonial period celebrate the so-called civilizing achievements of the empire abroad, typically emphasizing European-style urban development and sanitation, while at the same time fetishizing indigenous architectures.58 Modernization processes dominated post-WWII texts that often addressed reconstruction and housing projects.59 Decolonization cleared a path for what Cohen labeled “denunciations and critical analyses,” facilitated largely by the subsequent opening of government archives.60 François Béguin’s Arabisances: Décor architectural et tracé urbain en Afrique du nord (1983) and Maurice Culot and Jean-Marie Thiveaud’s Architectures françaises outre-mer (1992) signaled major first steps towards the firm establishment of French colonial architecture as a distinct field of study, and Béguin’s identification of a stylistic dichotomy in French colonial architecture remains influential.61 Since these works first appeared, colonialism has become an accepted component of studies of nineteenth- and twentieth-century history as well, acknowledged as integral to the development of politics, capitalism, industry and 57 Jean-Louis Cohen, “Architectural History and the Colonial Question: Casablanca, Algiers and Beyond,” Architectural History 49 (2006): 349–350. Several years prior to that Çelik had presented North African colonial cities as a particularly rich area for analysis by scholars of modernism and the “non-Western” or “Islamic” city. See Zeynep Çelik, “New Approaches to the ‘Non-Western’ City,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 58 no. 3 (1999): 374–81. 58 See, for example, on Tunisia, C.H. Roger Dessort, Histoire de la ville de Tunis (Algiers: Emile Pfister, 1924) and Ganiage, Les origins. 59 See, for example, an entire special edition on Tunisia of the periodical l’Architecture d’Aujourd’hui no. 20 (Oct. 1948). 60 Cohen, “Architectural History,” 353. 61 François Béguin, Arabisances: Décor architectural et tracé urbain en Afrique du nord, 1830-1950 (Paris: Dunod, 1983) and Maurice Culot and Jean-Marie Thiveaud, eds. Architectures françaises outre- mer (Paris: Mardaga, 1992). See Cohen, “Architectural History,” 353. 20 urbanism, both in the metropole and abroad. Mark Crinson makes a strong case for the critical importance and active role of architecture within the colonial context, noting that architecture defines the built spaces in which imperialism and colonialism are lodged and enacted [and] is able to redefine and represent beliefs and values, but it can only do this in relation to communities that recognize its intentional semiotic functions. …Architectural production (financial, material, intellectual) echoes, inflects and is integral to many of the other economic practices and relationships that empire requires for its furtherance; its buildings are both the result of social production and one of the ways in which empire is produced.62 For example, Paul Rabinow’s French Modern: Norms and Forms of the Social Environment (1989) dedicated a chapter to the governance of Morocco through what he labels “techno- cosmopolitanism,” integrating the colonial experience of at least that country into his larger work on space, power and knowledge in modern France.63 His conclusion, that by the end of Governor Hubert Lyautey’s tenure in Morocco (1925) “the modernity of Casablanca and Rabat in terms of équipement [infrastructure], specialization of quarters, and circulation planning surpassed anything in France,” succinctly captures a fundamental imperial integration with its colonies, as well as the so-called colonial urban “laboratory” concept popular among scholars.64 Colonialism was thus beyond a doubt integral to the development of Modern architecture and urban planning. While present purposes do not permit an exhaustive inventory of specific influences investigated by scholars, the global popularity of the Le Corbusier’s brise-soleil is but one example. Derived from his work in Algiers—where he described the shade-giving screen as “a primary and fundamental element of regional North African architecture”—and transferred via the Unité d’habitation in Marseilles to the far-flung sun-drenched corners of the modernizing world, the brise-soleil became a symbol of global “European dominance” instead of Euro-Arab 62 Mark Crinson, Modern Architecture and the End of Empire (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2003), 4. 63 Paul Rabinow, French Modern: Norms and Forms of the Social Environment (Chicago, University of Chicago, 1989), 277–319. 64 Ibid., 332. In addition to Rabinow, Wright has championed this laboratory idea. See Gwendolyn Wright, The Politics of Design in French Colonial Urbanism (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1991), 12. Cohen (“Architectural history,” 355) cautions against overemphasizing this idea and exaggerating the degree of intentional experimentation, or simply conflating it with innovation. 21 integration.65 The dialogic nature of colonial and metropolitan built environments, acknowledged by Anthony King and others, remains an area open for future study by scholars interested in further challenging the prevailing notion that colonialists imposed their architectures and plans upon occupied space and peoples unilaterally.66 Given its proximity to Europe and shared ancient history, North Africa would be a logical context to explore these types of relationships, as indicated by the above Corbusier anecdote. Academic discourses on colonial and postcolonial built environments in North Africa do of course exist, and studies of Morocco and Algeria generally are dominant. Authors such as Çelik and Cohen, Nabila Oulebsir, and Youcf Kanoun (on Algeria), Cohen and Monique Eleb and Gwendolyn Wright (on Morocco) are among the most prominent that explore modern colonial architecture from a critical perspective.67 Such studies recognize the initial importation of architectural styles and the gradual adoption of elements inspired by local traditions—to which colonialist administrations ascribed an inferior status—in an effort to assuage anti-colonial resentment.68 Paternalistic administrators and designers, in advancing such arabesque forms, came to develop an “aesthetic strategy of inclusion, with…[an] emphasis on cultural interplay” that nonetheless failed to reconcile the inherently imbalanced nature of the colonial condition in 65 Le Corbusier and Mary McLeod quoted in Sheila Crane, “Mediterranean Dialogues: Le Corbusier, Fernand Pouillon, and Roland Simounet,” in Modern Architecture and the Mediterranean: Vernacular Dialogues and Contested Identities, eds. Jean-François Lejeune and Michelangelo Sabatino (New York: Routledge, 2010), 99. 66 Anthony King, Urbanism, Colonialism, and the World Economy (New York: Routledge, 1990), 7. 67 See Zeynep Çelik, Urban Forms and Colonial Confrontations: Algiers Under French Rule (Berkeley, CA: University of California, 1997); Jean-Louis Cohen, Nabila Oulebsir, and Youcf Kanoun, eds. Alger: Paysage urbain et architectures, 1800–2000 (Paris: Editions de l’Imprimeur, 2003); Jean-Louis Cohen and Monique Eleb, Casablanca: Colonial Myths and Architectural Ventures (New York: Monacelli, 2002); and Wright, Politics. See also Claudine Piaton, Juliette Hueber, Boussad Aiche and Thierry Lochard, Alger: Ville & Architecture 1830–1940 (Algiers: Barzakh, 2016). 68 Shirine Hamadeh, “Creating the Traditional City: A French Project,” in Forms of Dominance, ed. Nezar AlSayyad (Brookfield, VT: Avebury, 1992), 247–48. 22 Morocco (as well as in Algeria and Tunisia).69 Tom Avermaete et al. have produced a critical volume that explicitly addresses the relationships between colonial structures and postcolonial appropriations. Their Colonial Modern: Aesthetics of the Past, Rebellions for the Future (2010) represents the latest phase in developing scholarship that links major historical periods in colonized territories through their experiences of modern colonialism, while offering critical insight into the contemporary state of earlier experimental projects and urban plans.70 Tunisia does figure in such broad studies of colonial North Africa, though relatively rarely. In addition to the aforementioned volumes by Béguin and Culot and Thiveaud, Çelik’s Empire, Architecture, and the City does include Tunisia. Her volume incorporates the country’s colonial experience in its exploration of cultural exchanges between the cities of the Ottoman and French Empires.71 Tunis is rarely included in larger studies on North African architectural and urban history like this, however, so one is forced to draw on other works on Tunisian subjects that do exist in order to better understand the nature of that city’s past. For example, Joseph Cuoq’s work on the role played by Cardinal Lavigerie and the Roman Catholic Church during the Protectorate period substantially augments short published accounts of the city’s cathedral buildings that tend to rather uncritically focus on stylistic issues.72 The “equivocal situation of Catholic missionaries as agents of the French colonial administration” in Tunisia, and elsewhere in Africa, has been acknowledged, but the architectural ramifications of this 69 Wright, Politics, 126. For more on colonial arabesque architecture in North Africa, see Raphaël Guy, l’Architecture moderne de style arabe (Paris: La Librairie de la Construction Moderne, 1920). In his Arabisances, Béguin labels this second, more conciliatory, stylistic phase the “style of the protector.” 70 Tom Avermaete et al., eds. Colonial Modern: Aesthetics of the Past, Rebellions for the Future (London: Black Dog, 2010). See also Henry S. Grabar, “Reclaiming the City: Changing Urban Meaning in Algiers After 1962,” Cultural Geographies 21 no 3 (2014): 389–409; David Bond, “Tunis between maps and memory,” in Minoranze, pluralismo, stato nell'Africa mediterranea e nel Sahel, ed. Federico Cresti (Ariccia: Aracne, 2015), 105–28. 71 Both Algeria and Tunisia, both Ottoman territories prior to their occupation by France in 1830 and 1881, respectively. See Zeynep Çelik, Empire, Architecture, and the City: French-Ottoman Encounters, 1830– 1914 (Seattle: University of Washington, 2008). 72 Joseph Cuoq, Lavigerie, les Pères blancs et les Musulmans maghrebins (Rome: Société des Missionaires d’Afrique, 1986). See also Alfred Perkins, “From Uncertainty to Opposition: French Catholic Liberals and Imperial Expansion, 1880–1885,” Catholic Historical Review 82 no. 2 (1996): 204–24. 23 relationship still warrant critical study. 73 Tourism during the colonial era is addressed by Mohamed Bergaoui and Myriam Bacha, and in the postcolonial era by Bergaoui, Saidi, Waleed Hazbun and others, indicating its sustained significance as an element of the nation’s identity and shaper of built environments—one that consistently makes use of antiquity.74 Existing literature confirms that ancient history and heritage have been an important part of tourism in Tunisia throughout the modern era, and furthermore that the development of tourism, archaeology, and colonialism in the region are very interrelated. Larger global trends in cultural heritage tourism indicate that this form of tourism will likely remain an important aspect of Tunisia’s tourism portfolio.75 Works coming from postcolonial perspectives substantially enhance our understanding of Tunis’ development. Julia Clancy-Smith, Mark Choate and Mary Dewhurst Lewis have each published work exploring the early phase of colonization by Europeans in Tunisia, thereby challenging prevailing narratives about dominance and the presumed one-way imposition of French culture on Tunisia, disproving the idea of “French Tunisia” by exploring the roles played 73 Aylward Shorter, Cross & Flag in Africa: The “White Fathers” During the Colonial Scramble (1892- 1914), (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2006), 16. 74 Mohamed Bergaoui, Tourisme et voyages en Tunisie: Les années régence (Tunis: Simpact, 1996); Mohamed Bergaoui, Tourisme et voyages en Tunisie: Les temps des pionniers, 1956–1973 (Tunis: Simpact, 2003), Myriam Bacha, “Patrimoine et tourisme en Tunisie au début du protectorat: Interactions et dépendances,” in Le tourisme dans l’Empire Français, eds. Colette Zytnicki and Habib Kazdaghli (Paris: Société française d’histoire d’outre-mer, 2009), 155–63; Waleed Hazbun, Beaches, Ruins, Resorts: The Politics of Tourism in the Arab World (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota, 2008); Habib Saidi, “When the Past Poses Beside the Present: Aestheticizing Politics and Nationalising Modernity in a Postcolonial Time,” Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change 6 no. 2 (2008): 101–19; Carlo Perelli and Giovanni Sistu, “Jasmines for Tourists,” in Contemporary Issues in Cultural Heritage Tourism, eds. David Arnold, Angela M. Benson, and Jamie Kaminski (New York: Routledge, 2014), 71–92. For a broader perspective on postcolonial tourism, see C. Michael Hall and Hazel Tucker, eds. Tourism and Postcolonialism (New York: Routledge, 2004). This offers general perspectives and case studies from around the globe, but not from the Middle East or North Africa, as Sub-Saharan Africa and Asia dominate the volume. 75 On the future of cultural heritage tourism in general terms, see Dallen J. Timothy, “Contemporary Cultural Heritage and Tourism: Development Issues and Emerging Trends,” Public Archaeology 13 nos. 1–3 (2014): 30–47; Jamie Kaminski, David Arnold, and Angela M. Benson, “Cultural Heritage Tourism: Future Drivers and Their Influence,” in Arnold et al., eds. Contemporary Issues, 253–67. 24 by Italian, British, and Maltese citizens there, as well as the division of power among them.76 These works, which do not necessarily directly address the built environment, contribute significantly to the stories told by more catalog-like works on the historic architecture of Tunis, chief among them being those by Leïla Ammar, Juliette Hueber and Claudine Piaton, Justin McGuinness and Zoubeir Mouhli.77 Otherwise, Paul Sebag’s encyclopedic portrait of Tunis devotes considerable attention to issues of architecture and urban development, rendering it an invaluable resource on the city’s history from antiquity through the 1970s.78 More explicitly focused on built environment issues, Geneviève Goussaud-Falgas’ Tunis: La Ville moderne (2005) is well illustrated in comparison to Sebag’s tome.79 The urban development and explicit planning of Tunis’ medina and colonial-era city are the subject of Ammar’s Tunis: d’une ville à l’autre of 2010.80 The volume, that includes informative reproductions of historic maps and plans, clearly demonstrates a growing interest in modern urban history on the part of Tunisia’s own scholars. Her edited volume Cités et architectures de Tunisie, with its many contributions by Tunisian authors, does the same.81 76 Clancy-Smith, Mediterraneans; Julia Clancy-Smith, “A View From the Water’s Edge: Greater Tunisia, France, and the Mediterranean Before Colonialism,” French History 29 no. 1 (2015): 24–30; Mark Choate, “Tunisia, Contested: Italian Nationalism, French Imperial Rule, and Migration in the Mediterranean Basin,” California Italian Studies 1 no. 1 (2010): 1–20; Lewis, Divided Rule; Mary Dewhurst Lewis, “Europeans Before Europe: The Mediterranean Prehistory of European Integration and Exclusion,” in French Mediterraneans: Transnational and Imperial Histories, eds. Patricia M.E. Lorcin and Todd Shepard (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska, 2016), 232–61. The contributions of Italians in the design and construction of buildings in North Africa is increasingly being addressed directly. For example, see Ezio Godoli, et al., eds. Architectures et architectes italiens au maghreb (Florence: Polistampa, 2011). This volume includes a few essays on Italian Libya, but most are on Tunisia. 77 Leïla Ammar, Histoire de l’architecture en Tunisie (Tunis: Agence MIM, 2005); Juliette Hueber and Claudine Piaton, Tunis: Architectures 1860–1960 (Tunis: Elyzad, 2011); Justin McGuinness and Zoubeir Mouhli, Tunis: 1800–1950 (Tunis: Association de Sauvegarde de la Médina de Tunis, 2004). Nouri’s 2015 dissertation addresses Tunis more critically through its investigation of Tunisian architectural discourse since independence. Olfa Bohli Nouri, “La fabrication de l’architecture en Tunisie indépendante: une rhétorique par la reference” (PhD diss., Université Grenoble Alpes, 2015). 78 Sebag, Tunis. 79 Geneviève Goussaud-Falgas, Tunis: La ville moderne (Saint-Cyr-sur-Loire: Alan Sutton, 2005). 80 Leïla Ammar, Tunis: d’une ville à l’autre: Cartographie et histoire urbaine 1860–1935 (Tunis: Nirvana, 2010). 81 Leïla Ammar, ed., Cités et architectures de Tunisie (Tunis: Nirvana, 2015). 25 Catharine Edwards has argued that Roman history’s “seemingly boundless capacity for multiple, indeed conflicting, signification” renders it an “extraordinarily fertile paradigm for making sense of…history, politics, identity, memory and desire.” 82 It has been explored by several prominent scholars in fields such as history, literature and political science.83 The image of ancient Rome is exceedingly flexible; it can be presented as a reference for republican, imperial, expansionist, powerful, tolerant and/or Christian regimes. It is timeless in nature.84 Indeed, Rome is “an idea, a myth at the heart of western culture” that has been transplanted in various ways by European colonizers.85 Whereas repeated reinterpretation of classical antiquity has yielded a variety of built manifestations in the form of architectural styles, archives and museums, archaeological excavations and tourist sites, however, they remain insufficiently examined, particularly in French North Africa. Indeed, research on the deployment of these Mediterranean tropes by modern powers has generally focused on the works of the British in South Asia, Fascist Italians, and Nazi Germans. Britain has a long history of self-imposed affiliation with ancient Greece and Rome, particularly within the realm of colonialism that coincided with sustained domestic interest in the classics.86 Imperial discourse was tightly wed to conceptions of antiquity among Victorian and 82 Catharine Edwards, “Introduction: Shadows and Fragments,” in Roman Presences: Receptions of Rome in European Culture, 1789–1945, ed. Catherine Edwards (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 3. 83 See Gábor Klaniczay, Michael Werner, and Ottó Gecser, eds., Multiple Antiquities—Multiple Modernities: Ancient Histories in Nineteenth Century European Cultures (New York: Campus Verlag, 2011) for a series of chapters on different appropriations of different conceptions of antiquity. Oulebsir’s chapter in the volume addresses images and ruins in pre-1830 Algeria. See Nabila Oulebsir, “From Ruins to Heritage,” in ibid., 335–64. 84 Peter Bondanella, The Eternal City: Roman Images in the Modern World (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina, 1987). 85 Dorigen Caldwell, “Introduction: Continuities of Place,” in Rome: Continuing Encounters Between Past and Present (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011), 1. See also Lorna Hardwick and Carol Gillespie, eds. Classics in Post-Colonial Worlds (New York: Oxford University, 2007). 86 Richard Hingley, Roman Officers and English Gentlemen: The Imperial Origins of Roman Archaeology (New York: Routledge, 2000) and Norman Vance, The Victorians and Ancient Rome (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1997). See also Phiroze Vasunia, The Classics and Colonial India (Oxford: Oxford University, 2013), 140–50. 26 Edwardian politicians, administrators and scholars who “used images of the Roman Empire to help them to define the identity and imperial destiny of Britain.”87 These images inspired socio- political constructions, as well as archaeological and architectural practices at home and abroad. Indeed, eighteenth-century British colonizers in India adopted an ancient persona there, frequently referring to themselves as Romans reborn in order to describe and reinforce their imperialist aims using familiar reference points, particularly within the realms of language, law, and history.88 The architectural ramifications of these views were columned and ostentatious, not entirely unlike their contemporary neoclassical counterparts back in Britain.89 Such buildings within the imperial context, however, conveyed a sense of grandeur that performed what Timothy Mitchell considers the essential “staging of differences” by colonizers seeking to justify their assumed power in foreign territories.90 Calcutta (Kolkata) was the early epicenter of neoclassical architecture in colonial India—albeit not always “pure” in the strict Vitruvian sense, particularly after the end of the eighteenth century—and surviving structures there inspire fascination and critical inquiry even today.91 As Thomas Metcalf has pointed out, “political authority took shape in stone” and architectures of the classical revival style “helped shape the discourse on empire of the later nineteenth century.”92 Such built environments asserted power and were deemed appropriate images for Britain in India by associating rulers with their Greek and Roman ancient predecessors directly.93 Indeed, it was the work of the ancients that was 87 Hingley, Roman Officers, 1. 88 Javed Majeed, “Comparativism and References to Rome in British Imperial Attitudes to India,” in Edwards, ed., Roman Presences, 88–109. 89 Phiroze Vasunia, “Visions of Antiquity,” in Vasunia, Classics, 157–191. 90 Timothy Mitchell, Questions of Modernity (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota, 2000), 24–6. 91 Vasunia, Classics, offers a critical appraisal. Jan Morris’ Stones of Empire: The Buildings of the Raj (New York: Oxford University, 1983) represents a more nostalgic genre of literature that presents colonial- era architecture in South Asia somewhat less critically. For a critique of recent literature on the subject, see Peter Scriver and Vikramaditya Prakash, eds., Colonial Modernities: Building, Dwelling and Discourse in British India and Ceylon (London: Routledge, 2007), 41–45. 92 Thomas Metcalf, An Imperial Vision: Indian Architecture and Britain’s Raj (New Delhi: Oxford University, 2002), xv. 93 Metcalf, Imperial Vision, 176–210. Such references were made in South Africa and elsewhere. 27 seen to establish universal standards for architecture, deemed to be applicable everywhere by architects and historians such as James Fergusson.94 The relevance of the Greco-Roman past, and the need to be at least somewhat sensitive, was articulated well into the 1920s by architect Edwin Lutyens, whose monumental Viceroy’s House in New Delhi (1929) was expected to be imperious, “plain classic with a touch of Orientalism,” to use Viceroy Charles Hardinge’s words.95 Lutyens viewed British neoclassical architecture to be descended of antiquity, coming directly from “the Greeks, who handed the torch to the Romans, they to the great Italians and on to the Frenchmen and to Wren, who made it sane for England,” and his Viceroy’s House represents the epitome of symbolically loaded British revivalist architecture abroad.96 Metcalf’s conclusion, that “to study colonial architecture is…to study the allocation of power, and the relationships of knowledge and power, that made up the colonial order,” is applicable in British India and indeed throughout the empires of the modern era.97 Italians of course had the most direct claim to ancient Rome’s legacy and at various times Italy’s government has exploited that connection through political and architectural means.98 For Mussolini’s government, the apparent universalism of Rome inspired commanding propaganda and neoclassical architectures designed to impress, inspire and control. The development of romanità by Fascists “meant the subjugation of the individual to the collectivity, a hierarchical relationship between government and governed, and a mission of conquest and sacrifice” presented through imperialist and historicist rhetoric. 99 Mussolini, like Hitler, recognized the significant potential of art and architecture in the conveyance of socio-political 94 Ibid., 24–35. 95 Hardinge quoted in ibid., 219. 96 Lutyens (1903) quoted in ibid., 178. 97 Ibid., xv. 98 See, for example, Joshua Arthurs, Excavating Modernity: The Roman Past in Fascist Italy (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 2012); Mia Fuller, Moderns Abroad: Architecture, Cities and Italian Imperialism (New York: Routledge, 2007). 99 Arthurs, Excavating, 128. 28 messages, and colonnaded public spaces, grand monuments and ambitious urban restructuring plans were the result.100 The latter’s bombastic use of Roman imagery in Nazi Germany, also a unique case of architectural appropriation and strategic deployment, has been similarly well documented.101 Alex Scobie sees Hitler’s appreciation for antiquity and its architecture to be “more complex and ambivalent than Mussolini’s political infatuation with Augustan romanità” and his disregard for ancient Greece.102 Rome was to Hitler the “crystallization point of a world empire,” and Nazi state architecture was intended to reference, and surpass, that of its ancient model.103 French leaders deployed images of Rome in different ways throughout its post- Revolution history. Both Napoleons relied heavily on its imagery in the presentation of their power, while during the Third Republic (1870–1940) such affiliations would have seemed inappropriate. French colonial ambitions abroad were often couched in such historicist rhetoric, however, as Patricia Lorcin’s short piece on Algeria’s Latin past and its exploitation by France demonstrates.104 Typical of most scholarship pertaining to France’s appropriation of antiquity, the essay focuses primarily on colonial-era literature in its exploration of “Rome as a [standard] 100 On Fascist-era built environments in Italy and occupied Africa, see Fuller, Moderns; Brian McLaren, Architecture and Tourism in Italian Colonial Libya (Seattle, WA: University of Washington, 2006); David Rifkind, “Gondar: Architecture and Urbanism for Italy’s Fascist Empire,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 70 no. 4 (2011): 492–511; Sean Anderson, Modern Architecture and its Representation in Colonial Eritrea (New York: Routledge, 2015). D. Medina Lasansky, The Renaissance Perfected: Architecture, Spectacle, and Tourism in Fascist Italy (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University, 2004) considers the Fascists’ use of the Renaissance, rather than of Ancient Rome, in Tuscany. 101 On Hitler and Rome see Jan Nellis, “Modernist Neo-classicism and Antiquity in the Political Religion of Nazism: Adolf Hitler as Poietes of the Third Reich,” Totalitarian Movements and Political Religions 9 no. 4 (2008): 475–490; Bondanella, Eternal City, 172–206; and Alex Scobie, Hitler’s State Architecture: The Impact of Classical Antiquity (London: Pennsylvania State University, 1990). 102 Ibid., 13. 103 Hitler quoted in ibid., 20. On the propagandistic use of archaeology during the Hitler regime, see Betina Arnold, “The Past is Propaganda: Totalitarian Archaeology in Nazi Germany” in Histories of Archaeology, eds. Tim Murray and Christopher Evans (New York: Oxford University, 2008), 120–44. 104 Patricia Lorcin, “Rome and France in Africa: Recovering Colonial Algeria’s Latin Past,” French Historical Studies 25, no. 2 (2002): 295–329. 29 cultural idiom for French domination.”105 French neoclassical architecture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries appears to have come without such blatant political messaging. References to North Africa’s Punic, Roman, and Byzantine past, however, were numerous within French colonial projects there. “Here, in North Africa, we find everywhere the traces of Rome beneath our feet, which proves that we belong here, in the front lines of civilization” declared French Morocco’s Governor Lyautey in 1924.106 To be further explored later in this dissertation, such statements indicate a strong awareness and strategic usage of ancient imagery on the part of French imperialists in the region, albeit generally less emphatic—though far from absent—architecturally. Within the realm of French North Africa, however, where Morocco and Algeria continue to dominate academic discourses on colonial and postcolonial architecture and urbanism, the influence of antiquity has been acknowledged, but not yet fully interrogated, within studies of modern spaces within the colonies themselves. Çelik (on Algeria), Cohen and Wright (on Morocco), like most, tend to treat early historicist architectures as relatively minor precursors to more explicitly orientalist, and then modernist, architectures to come.107 Such architecture is typically presented as reflective of metropolitan models and thus emblematic of the mission civilisatrice. 108 Seen as imports from metropoles intended to make colonial spaces seem European, it is said to demonstrate authority through imposing forms in a language meaningful to European residents and visitors.109 Béguin, in his Arabisances, remains the scholar to have most directly addressed the resonance of antiquity-inspired forms in early North African colonial 105 Ibid., 295. 106 Hubert Lyautey in Prosper Ricard, Les merveilles de l'autre France (Paris: Hachette, 1924), 2. 107 See Çelik, Urban Forms, Cohen and Eleb, Casablanca, and Wright, Politics. 108 The idea of an explicit civilizing mission advanced by the ancient Roman Empire remains a debated topic, with relatively little ancient literature making such a case. Modern attitudes regarding modern colonialism may be influencing current agendas, warns Hingley. Richard Hingley, Globalizing Roman Culture: Unity, Diversity and Empire (New York: Routledge, 2005), 64–67. 109 See André Lortie, Paris s’exporte (Paris: Editions du Pavillon de l’Arsenal, 1995). 30 architecture, aligning the neoclassical style prevalent prior to 1900 with European models and labeling it the style du vainqueur or imposing “conqueror’s style.”110 However, this is done primarily to contrast earlier traditional forms with subsequent arabesque ones, which Béguin describes as the “protector’s style” of later paternalistic or culturally “associative” colonial policies.111 Within the realm of French North Africa, this dichotomy—which Béguin calls “the two faces of France” in North Africa—has been little challenged since its publication and remains the standard conceptualization of colonial architecture in the region.112 This dissertation addresses the sustained relevance of antiquity, defined quite liberally, in modern built environments. Architectural echoes of Rome have been, and remain, both loud and heard throughout subsequent history, a fact demonstrated by Frank Salmon’s recent edited volume dedicated to the subject entitled The Persistence of the Classical (2008). 113 The deployment of Punic and Byzantine history and myths, particularly relevant in the case of Tunisia—as the ancient site of Carthage and cultivator of early Christianity—however, have received relatively little attention. As will be demonstrated by this dissertation, the significance of these histories was acknowledged during the colonial period—“Carthage… a prestigious name! What memories! What dreams for the future!”—and has influenced recent heritage policies and projects. 114 Crinson’s study of Victorian architects and their interpretations of Byzantine architecture—which transitioned from dismissive disdain to respect in Britain following the work 110 Béguin, Arabisances, 13. 111 See Raymond Betts, Assimilation and Association in French Colonial Theory, 1890–1914 (New York: Columbia University, 1961). 112 Béguin, Arabisances, 11. Postwar architecture in the region, however, is recognized as something somewhat different that the earlier “protector” style, in its more explicit modernism and regionally inspired abstraction. See, for example, Ammar, Histoire, 227–230, Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 44–48, and Marc Breitman, Rationalisme et tradition: Le cas Marmey (Liège: Mardaga, 1986). A similar trajectory, from more eclectic orientalist forms to Modern and rationalist, has been studied in Italian colonial Libya. See Fuller, Moderns, for example. 113 Frank Salmon, The Persistence of the Classical (London: Philip Wilson, 2008). This volume addresses the Renaissance through Postmodern eras in fifteen chapters, but none examine the modern colonial context explicitly. 114 Alexandre Pons, La nouvelle église d’Afrique, ou le catholicisme en Algerie, en Tunisie et au Maroc depuis 1930 (Tunis: L. Namura, 1930), 245. 31 of John Ruskin—remains prominent today.115 Ruskin’s contemporary Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, in his Entretiens sur l’architecture (1863–72), praised the inspiring nature of Byzantine architecture, describing it as a synthesis of Roman, Greek, and Eastern styles.116 Crinson observed the apparent interest of French architects of the late nineteenth century in cultivating a “Gallo-Byzantine” link between France and an early imperial Christendom, particularly within the realm of ecclesiastical architecture.117 Despite lip service played to Punic history in the past, no major accounting of the modern architectural ramifications of these people (the traditional nemeses of the Romans) has been published. 1.3 Scholarship on tourism and archaeology Scholars of tourism are increasingly exploring the inherently colonialist characteristics of tourism’s early development directly.118 “Empire worked as a sort of vector along which tourism could grow and expand,” says Eric Zuelow, highlighting the importance of global political and infrastructural networks that came to facilitate tourism opportunities.119 Each emerged from the same series of integrated processes, including industrialization, the ascendency of the nation- state and the growth of the increasingly mobile middle class.120 Empire, in fact, says Waleed Hazbun, offers a “versatile and productive organising concept” for understanding tourism because it engages “power relations as well as complex cultural, economic, and social dynamics of tourism development across both time and space.”121 Invoking Edward Saïd’s 115 Mark Crinson, Empire Building: Orientalism and Victorian Architecture (New York: Routledge, 1996), 72–96. 116 Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, Entretiens sur l’architecture (Paris: A. Morel, 1872). 117 Crinson, Empire Building, 92. 118 See, for example, Shelley Baranowski et al., “Discussion: Tourism and Empire.” Journal of Tourism History 7 no. 1–2 (2015): 1–31; Ellen Furlough, “Une leçon des choses: Tourism, Empire, and the Nation in Interwar France,” French Historical Studies 25 no. 3 (2002): 441–73; Stephanie Malia Hom, “Empires of Tourism: Travel and Rhetoric in Italian Colonial Libya and Albania, 1911–1943,” Journal of Tourism History 4 no. 3 (2012): 281–300. 119 Baranowski et al., “Discussion,” 2. 120 Zytnicki and Kazdaghli, eds. Le tourisme, 7–12. 121 Waleed Hazbun in Baranowski et al., “Discussion,” 3. 32 Culture and Imperialism, Hazbun reminds readers that European overseas empires fueled Western cultural production, and vice versa.122 It is therefore not inappropriate to recognize the strong ties between capitalist industrial empires and the generation of culture and capital through touristic activities, despite the fact that the alliance has not received the attention it should.123 Archaeology was an integral part to early tourism in North Africa, thus it is also part of the complex story. The political nature of archaeology, which for Richard Hingley is a field established and cultivated to essentially “justify and support the superiority of England and the West” through its thorough integration within British imperial discourse and Romanization studies, is increasingly the focus of some scholars.124 Elsewhere he and David Mattingly acknowledge with regard to the Maghreb that “The historiography of Roman Africa is indelibly linked to the history of modern colonial occupation of the region and to the post-colonial reactions that have followed” through its use in justifying the European presence.125 Whereas French conceptions of North Africa had been for generations largely informed by popular classical texts on the region’s Roman history and the long-lost supremacy of its agricultural productivity, archaeology and epigraphy inspired considerable scholarship and myth-making in the nineteenth century and beyond.126 French and Italian colonialist historiographic processes championed outsiders in antiquity, as it “disinherited the North African peoples of their cultural history, by ascribing to immigrants all the positive achievements of Roman Africa and by portraying the Africans either as passive recipients of 122 Ibid. 123 Eric G.E. Zuelow, A History of Modern Tourism (New York: Palgrave, 2016), 95–96. Francophone scholars had been particularly neglectful of these links, said Furlough in 2002. Furlough, “Tourism, Empire,” 442–43. See also Zytnicki and Kazdaghli, eds., Le tourisme, 7. 124 Hingley, Roman Officers, 164. 125 David Mattingly and R. Bruce Hitchner, “Roman Africa: An Archaeological Review,” Journal of Roman Studies 85 (1995): 169. 126 Davis, Resurrecting, 16–26. 33 superior culture or as nomadic and lawless people incapable of self-government.”127 This “double process of cultural annexation and alienation” further established the French and Italians as masters of knowledge—hence power—based on their supposed affiliation and scholarly expertise.128 This situation mirrored basic Euro-centric assumptions and assertions by French administrators throughout the colonial period, and even remains regrettably discernable in more recent literature.129 The politicization of archaeology in the case of contemporary Tunisia is addressed by Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, who exposes the ways in which Ben Ali’s regime trained submissive “heritage citizens” through educational and excavation programs intended to stress tolerance and stability for domestic and international audiences.130 This practice runs contrary to the expected opposition to Roman studies by postcolonial Maghrebi historians described by Mattingly and Hitchner, and it further illustrates the unique nature of postcolonial Tunisia within 127 Mattingly and Hitchner, “Roman Africa,” 169. 128 David Mattingly, “From One Colonialism to Another: Imperialism and the Maghreb,” in Roman Imperialism: Post-colonial Perspectives, eds. Jane Webster and Nicholas Cooper (Leicester: School of Archaeological Studies, 1996), 52. 129 By way of demonstrating this, Mattingly and Hitchner, “Roman Africa,” select the following quotation from Paul MacKendrick, The North African Stones Speak (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina, 1980), 330: “It would be pleasant to be able to report, too, that Romanization took place without confrontation, but the fact is that the Berbers, however self-denying and enduring they were, were backward and uninnovative, with no gift for politics or urbanization. They also proved themselves, on occasion, faithless, murderous and (in Jugurtha's case) manic-depressive. To idealize them is to do them a disservice, for to present a falsified picture of a people's past is to betray them.” 130 Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, “Roman Archaeology and the Making of Heritage Citizens in Tunisia,” in Making Roman Places: Past and Present, eds. Darian Marie Totten and Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2012), 159–170; Mattingly and Hitchner, “Roman Africa,” 169. See also Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, “Heritage Rights and the Rhetoric of Reality in Pre- Revolution Tunisia,” in Heritage Keywords: Rhetoric and Redescription in Cultural Heritage, eds. Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels and Trinidad Rico (Boulder, CO: University Press of Colorado, 2015), 243–58. The Ben Ali regime’s deployment of Hannibal and Carthage, in addition to, if not over, Roman Tunisia, however, will be considered in chapter 5. For more on the political aspect of archaeology, see also Michael Given, The Archaeology of the Colonized (New York: Routledge, 2004); Lynn Meskell, ed., Cosmopolitan Archaeologies (Durham, NC: Duke University, 2009); Stephen L. Dyson, In Pursuit of Ancient Pasts: A History of Classical Archaeology in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (New Haven, CT: Yale University, 2006); Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, “Transnational Turns for Archaeological Heritage: From Conservation to Development, Governments to Governance,” Journal of Field Archaeology 41 no. 3 (2016): 355–67. 34 the region.131 Corisande Fenwick presents similar thinking on politicized archaeology and the sustained effects of colonialist Roman mythologies in the case in neighboring Algeria, in a piece that resonates strongly with many of the ideas explored in this dissertation. 132 Whereas “excellent accounts of the relationship between colonialism and the development of Roman archaeology” exist, she contends that little has been done investigating the “construction of the Roman past within Algeria and by North Africans themselves.”133 The contemporary relevance of Roman material in Algeria has also not been substantially considered, she says. The same could be said of Tunisia, for which Clémentine Gutron and Bacha have recently published comprehensive texts on the history and practice of archaeology and heritage management.134 Recent work by Lafrenz Samuels and others demonstrate critical new approaches to the conception and use of heritage. In their 2015 volume, Heritage Keywords, she and Trinidad Rico explore the idea of heritage as a powerful persuasion tool, crafted by words, laws, images, etc. and therefore worthy of study and analysis not unlike rhetoric, because Rhetoric specifically mobilizes and motivates, giving reasons and courses for action. We are interested in the rhetoric of heritage because of the increasingly strategic role that heritage plays in a wide range of social, political, and economic struggles in our contemporary world. The past is mobilized in the present: it becomes a standpoint, a performance, a metaphor, an ironic juxtaposition, an alternative vision, or a competing narrative for making strategic moves in broader struggles.135 Their volume goes on to explore “the mechanisms by which redescriptions of the past into 131 Mattingly and Hitchner, “Roman Africa,” 170. 132 Corisande Fenwick, “Archaeology and the Search for Authenticity: Colonialist, Nationalist, and Berberist Visions of an Algerian Past,” in TRAC 2007: Proceedings of the 17th Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, eds. C. Fenwick, M. Wiggins and D. Wythe, (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2008): 75– 88. 133 Fenwick, “Archaeology,” 76. See also Hingley, Roman Officers. Oulebsir’s Les usages du patrimoine does cover considerable ground in terms of colonialist use of heritage by the French colonial government from 1830–1930. Nabila Oulebsir, Les usages du patrimoine (Paris: Maisons des sciences de l’homme, 2004). This volume addresses many of the issues taken up in this dissertation and in future work may prove to be a helpful complementary study. 134 Clémentine Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie (XIXe–XXe siècles) (Paris/Tunis: Karthala/IRMC, 2010); Myriam Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments en Tunisie (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2013); Bacha, “Patrimoine et tourisme.” 135 Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, “Introduction: Heritage as Persuasion,” in Lafrenz Samuels and Rico, eds., Heritage Keywords, 7. 35 present-day purposes take hold and spread, gaining collective currency.”136 Included case studies address heritage management and “authorized heritage discourse” through legal regulations, scholarly literature, touristic images, educational policies, etc. around the globe, but they do not specifically consider contemporary built environments as instruments for heritage cultivation and presentation. The volume nonetheless demonstrates increased attention to heritage conceptualizations by a diverse array of scholars and demonstrates the value of this dissertation’s work. Thus, the exploration of earlier conceptions of heritage, specifically in material terms, has become popular in recent years, particularly among Francophone scholars whose work on Tunisia has contributed greatly to this dissertation. Faiza Matri addresses the preservation of the Tunis medina during the Protectorate period, in particular, in her comprehensive 2008 volume, picking up in many respects where Jellal Abdelkafi had left off in 1989.137 Mouhli, McGuinness and others, have examined historic monuments and architecture in Tunis, paying noteworthy attention in several publications to colonial-era structures and their preservation by Tunis’ increasingly conservation-minded professional community. The work of the capital’s primary heritage preservation agency, the Association for the Protection of the Medina of Tunis (ASM), both inside the historic core and within the colonial-era ville nouvelle, has been by them well documented by these authors.138 Indeed, colonial-era built environments are increasingly being considered by architects and preservationists who have in recent decades expanded their 136 Ibid., 21. 137 Faiza Matri, Tunis sous le protectorat: Histoire de la conservation du patrimoine architectural et urbain de la médina (Tunis: Centre de Publication Universitaire, 2008); Jellal Abdelkafi, La médina de Tunis: espace historique (Paris: Alif, 1989). Abdelkafi’s volume, which remains authoritative on historic issues related to the once-walled city core, does address colonial urbanization and the ville nouvelle, as well. 138 Zoubeïr Mouhli, Faïka Béjaoui and Abdelkrim Gazzah, Tunis Living Heritage: Conservation and Creativity (Tunis: Simpact, 2013); Mouhli and McGuinness, Tunis. A private group’s work in Algiers is the subject of Diana Wylie, “The Importance of Being at Home: In Defense of Historic Preservation in Algeria,” Change Over Time 2 no. 2 (2012): 172–87. 36 professional purview beyond the pre-colonial urban core.139 In terms of process, a growing body of literature demonstrates the sustained influence of colonial era practices within formerly colonized territories well into the contemporary period, particularly ones that deal with architectural training and heritage management practices, and this dissertation seeks to contribute to that work.140 These phenomena substantiate the postcolonialist view articulated by Jane Jacobs, whose work investigates “colonial constructs [that] not only belong to a past that is being worked against in the present, but also to a past that is being nostalgically reworked and inventively adapted in the present.”141 General histories and a more recent spate of Arab Spring-related texts have lately proliferated, introducing readers to a relatively marginalized or overlooked country that was briefly thrust into the limelight in 2011. Texts such as those by Phillip Naylor and Kenneth Perkins contribute to one’s understanding of the broader history of the country and region, while Chiara Sebastiani, Laryssa Chomiak and others have studied the revolution itself, paying specific attention to the role played by urban space in the anti-Ben Ali protests and follow-up demonstrations.142 “Arab Spring”-inspired texts do not, however, typically delve very deeply into 139 Further demonstrating the contemporary relevance of colonial-era architecture in Tunis today, the author attended a design studio at the national architecture school, the Ecole nationale d'architecture et d'urbanisme, (ENAU) in Carthage during the autumn of 2013 entitled “Architecture, Ville et Patrimoine” under the supervision of Moncef Fourati. Participants studied colonial-era sites and structures in several cities (including churches, villas, train stations, etc.), and designed adaptive reuse projects for each. 140 William B. Bechhoefer, “Architectural Education in Developing Nations: Case Studies in Tunisia and Afghanistan,” Journal of Architectural Education 30 no. 4 (1977): 19–22; Udo Kultermann, “Contemporary Arab Architecture: Architects of Algeria, Tunisia and Libya,” MIMAR 9: Architecture in Development (1983): 59–65; Ali Djerbi, “The Teaching of Architectural Patrimony at the Institut Technologique dʼArt, dʼArchitecture et dʼUrbanisme de Tunis,” in Architectural Education in the Islamic World, ed. Ahmet Evin (Singapore: Concept Media, 1986), 192–93; Ali Djerbi and Abdelwahab Safi, “Teaching the History of Architecture in Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco: Colonialism, Independence, and Globalization,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 62 no. 1 (2003): 110–20; Justin McGuinness, “Political Context and Professional Ideologies: French Urban Conservation Planning Transferred to the Médina of Tunis,” Journal of North African Studies 2 no. 2 (1997): 34–56. 141 Jane Jacobs, Edge of Empire (New York: Routledge, 1996), 14. 142 Naylor, North Africa; Perkins, A History (2014); Chiara Sebastiani, Una città, una rivoluzione: Tunisi et la riconquista dello spazio pubblico (Cosenza: Luigi Pellegrini, 2014), Laryssa Chomiak, “Spectacles of Power: Locating Resistance in Ben Ali’s Tunisia,” Portal 9 (2013): 70–83; Francesca Governa and Matteo 37 Tunisia’s past, instead skimming somewhat lightly over the colonial period as precursor to the country’s subsequent two dictatorships and their downfall. These texts do, however, prove useful in the final speculation about Tunisia’s future that concludes this dissertation. 1.4 Historiographic methods At its core, this dissertation project reasserts and affirms the notion that architecture wields considerable symbolic significance. As Hershberger reminds us, however, The forms, spaces, colors, etc., of buildings do not contain meaning. Architects intend meaning for what they design; laymen attribute meaning to what they experience. In either case the meaning of particular forms and spaces depends upon the interpreter's previous experience with them or similar forms and spaces.143 Past experiences and ideas established through literature about antiquity, civilization, European architecture and urbanism, and imperialism informed the development, deployment and reception of antiquity-inspired symbolism in Tunisia. This dissertation engages three thematic lenses as a method for exploring the symbolic aspects of colonial and postcolonial built environments in Tunis, including major sites and minor ones, built and unbuilt, across the 1860– 2016 chronology. Each lens—political tool, aesthetic ideal and revenue generator—has been framed in order to emphasize a specific functional use for the built environments and the symbolism they reflect or reinforce. The lenses address the major political, aesthetic and economic aspects of modern colonialism individually, while acknowledging their inherent interconnectedness, in an effort to most widely explore the strategic deployment of antiquity- Puttilli, “After a Revolution: Public Space and Urban Practices at the Core of Tunis,” in Rethinking Life at the Margins, ed. Michele Lancione (New York: Ashgate, 2016), 42–59; Nezar AlSayyad and Muna Guvenc, “Virtual Uprisings: On the Interaction of New Social Media, Traditional Media Coverage and Urban Space during the ‘Arab Spring’,” Urban Studies (2013): 1–17. 143 Robert Hershberger, “Architecture and Meaning,” Journal of Aesthetic Education 4 no. 4 (1979): 39. 38 based myths and built environments’ imagery (Figure 1.9).144 With these thematic lenses the project focuses on the (re)presentation of Tunisia’s Punic or Carthaginian era (according to legend the late ninth century BC–146 BC), its Roman period (146 BC–AD 439) and its Early Christian/Vandal/Byzantine phase (c. AD 200–AD 697) during the colonial and postcolonial periods.145 Sites have been chosen throughout greater Tunis (including Carthage and Bardo), and aspects of their design, function and symbolism explored, using these filters (Appendices A, B and C).146 Henri Lefebvre’s theoretical triad, now iconic in the fields of urban spatial studies, is particularly useful in identifying a wide variety of built environments and their conception through spatial practices (in perceived space), representations of space (in conceived space), and spaces of representation (in lived space). 147 The consideration of the buildings and streetscapes, but also plans, drawings, photographs, written text and other related ephemera that constitute the pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape is the project’s objective. Wright, Metcalf and 144 For a concise introduction to “modern” European (as well as Japanese and American) colonialism of the nineteenth century and its major political, economic and cultural, aspects, see Burbank and Cooper, Empires, 287–329. 145 The early Christian period overlaps with the late Roman Empire but was thought of as a distinct phase by Church officials who privileged the Christian aspects over the Roman Imperial here. The Byzantine period followed a short period of rule by the Vandals (439–533). Though Christian, the Vandals were not celebrated by the nineteenth-century Church, which like most at the time, denigrated Vandal culture and achievements in part because they persecuted Nicene or Trinitarian Christians (who included Catholics). The archaeological record from this time period is complex. While some remains pre-date the Vandals, most remains date to the later Byzantine period. Almost nothing survives from the second and third centuries (due to persecutions under Diocletian, Constantinian rebuilding and later expansion). A fair amount of material survives from the fourth and fifth centuries. Little appears to have been built by the Vandals who primarily appropriated existing Nicene structures. Most surviving architecture comes from the Byzantine era. Burns and Jensen, Christianity, xlix–li and 95–98. Nineteenth-century Catholics, at least on a popular (non-academic or theological) level, appear to have glossed over differences in religious belief, practices and loyalties during this time and conceived of the Christian past as a largely united entity. 146 This study focuses on each mode and category exclusively for the sake of convenience and consistency, however such groupings are in reality neither distinct nor independent. Aesthetics are political, and politics are often about money. Civic officials participated and sanctioned religious events and Church officials staffed popular museums. Tourists came as faithful pilgrims and as pleasure travelers. This project in no way seeks to ignore or undermine those significant thematic and spatial relationships. 147 Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (1974), trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1991), 36–46. Rather than a critique of Lefebvre’s ideas, this dissertation uses them to aid in identifying and analyzing various spatial manifestations in conjunction with the individual lenses. 39 many others have presented the correlation between architecture and politics in the colonial context, but this project seeks to extend the story into these inherently related arenas. Writing a decade ago, Cohen surveyed the state of architectural history, and in the then- recent proliferation of studies of colonial material he identified several noteworthy absences and areas for further work.148 Whereas studies on British, French, Italian and Spanish Empires had become increasingly common, work on Russian and Japanese colonialism remained underdeveloped. Some minor cities of the periphery had received attention, but many had not, and truly comparative studies were few. Although this dissertation seeks to deepen understanding of France’s colonization of North Africa (rather than Russian or Japanese activities elsewhere) through addressing somewhat overlooked themes and sites, it brings to the fore a relatively underrepresented city in its focus on Tunis. It also attempts to address another methodological weakness identified by Cohen in the recent historiography of colonial architecture through its expansive chronological approach. “Diachronic lines of continuity,” he said, were needed to help mitigate the effects of “optical illusions caused by narrow [sequential] focus.”149 This precaution, warranted in 2006 when Cohen published it, remains important a decade later. Indeed, in following a series of thematic paths across the greater colonial- postcolonial timeline, the present project transcends regime changes and other arguably restrictive chronological distinctions. That having been said, Nezar AlSayyad’s observation that colonial history can be viewed in three periods—“the colonial period, the era of independence and nation-state building, and the most recent phase of globalization”—remains a relevant temporal paradigm. 150 His association of “hybrid, modern and pseudo-modern, 148 Cohen, “Architectural History.” 149 Ibid., 255. 150 Nezar AlSayyad, “Culture, Identity, and Urbanism: A Historical Perspective From Colonialism to Globalization,” in Colonial Modern: Aesthetics of the Past, Rebellions for the Future, eds. Tom Avermaete et al. (London: Black Dog, 2010), 78. The author acknowledged that this essay is a restatement of major ideas from his earlier edited volume Forms of Dominance (1992), which at the time was a significant 40 and…postmodern” architecture and urban forms with each phase respectively coincides with general thinking about colonial built environments and applies here.151 The present dissertation has been conceived in a manner that intentionally, and explicitly, considers themes and sites that intersect with each of these phases and forms in order to suggest that while distinctions can be meaningful, their separation ought not to be overemphasized. Cohen’s final methodological suggestion, that the voices of the colonized need to be identified and incorporated into studies, remains absolutely valid and is by this project only minimally redressed due to systematic biases in limited and incomplete archives. As this project focuses largely on material designed by and for European audiences and users—whose words, images and records constitute the foundation of the dissertation—the absence of indigenous voices is regrettably inevitable. Where possible, particularly in material dealing with the more recent decades, native voices are presented in order to give a more full account of antiquity’s presentation and reception. More than just an historical narrative, the project exposes and critiques the means by which colonialists in Tunis, and then independent regimes, crafted and presented antiquity quite strategically. In order to accomplish this, however, it has been necessary to piece together the most complete account of this history possible, before proceeding to its analysis. This must be done because there exists no such work that presents the greater history of antiquity as a built environments reference across the colonial and postcolonial eras, let alone its thorough analysis. On a more specific level, the location of clear accounts detailing the establishment and development of key sites and structures themselves remains a challenge, and much effort has been spent attempting to identify architects, design inspirations, programmatic uses, states of preservation, and means of representation for the sites here presented. Extensive archival and on-site research conducted since 2008 in Tunisia and France has uncovered historic contribution to still-nascent critical scholarship on colonial built environments. See AlSayyad, ed., Forms of Dominance. 151 AlSayyad, “Culture,” 78. 41 architectural drawings, planning documents, correspondence, photographs and journalistic accounts useful to these ends.152 Travel writing by French, English and American visitors to Tunisia during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries has also proven useful for assessing the admittedly biased reception of some important sites addressed throughout the project. In its conclusion, this dissertation articulates a postcolonialist critique of hybridity and the alleged universality of culture and modernity professed during the colonial era, contributing to the still-developing discourse that explores their problematic nature. The project’s detailed diachronic study facilitates the revelation of durable continuities and compelling nuances in the representation of Tunisian histories. Evoking the work of Edward Saïd, whose Orientalism (1978)153 initiated the study of Western practices of cultural representation and exploitation, and Homi Bhabha,154 it will explore the processes of mimicry and hybridity in pursuit of their long and complex tradition, as well as their relationship to power in both colonial and postcolonial contexts. In doing so, it also engages more recent postcolonialist thinkers, including Acheraïou and Kraidy.155 The dissertation thus furthers our understanding of the postcolonial condition by demonstrating that colonial-era binaries and master narratives—despite their professed perfection—were incomplete, fallible and unstable. 1.5 Project objectives The ultimate aim of this project is to present and analyze the relationship between idealized, politicized and commercialized conceptions of antiquity as represented in built environments. Towards these ends, the foundational goal of this research has been to generate 152 See Abbreviations list for a full index of archives and libraries consulted. 153 Edward Saïd, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1978). 154 Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (New York: Routledge, 1994). 155 Amar Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, Postcolonialism and Globalization (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011); Marwan M. Kraidy, Hybridity, or the Cultural Logic of Globalization (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University, 2005). 42 an account of Tunis’ past and the development of some of its most iconic built environments that is more comprehensive than the relatively few—often-flawed—studies that exist. Indeed, one finds in some publications details absent and incorrect information reprinted, particularly regarding some of the lesser-known sites addressed here. Considerable effort has thus been dedicated towards improving upon existing publications through extensive archival searches and secondary source verification. Shedding light on the complex history and identity of Tunisia, so critical in its region today, is in itself a valid project aim. It is hoped, however, that the present dissertation surpasses mere historical narrative in its broad assertions and critical analysis. Architecture, as Cohen describes it, may be examined “in a colonial situation,” rather than as a “separate branch within architectural history.”156 It is not only that architecture, but also that colonial situation, that this dissertation aims to more fully interrogate. Further heeding the advice of Cohen (who draws upon the work of Anthony King), sites studied here will be considered, to the extent possible, in relation to local architectural traditions, metropolitan architectural practices and ideas, and the contemporaneous accomplishments of their designers. In this way one can better understand the true meaning of works within the colonial context.157 Lastly, Cohen cautions against overemphasizing the role of colonialists governments, and to avoid the pitfalls of perpetuating the “illusion of an overpowering State whose policies would shape an entire society, at least for French possessions,” since soldiers, missionaries, bureaucrats and others contribute greatly to the administration and shaping of colonial terrains.158 This dissertation acknowledges and explores the significant interactions between these oft-conflicting constituencies as much as is possible. It does not, however, attempt to provide a “bottom-up” report on Tunisia’s pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape; such a project would 156 Cohen, “Architectural History,” 354. 157 Ibid. See also Anthony King, Colonial Urban Development: Culture, Social Power, and Environment (London: Routledge, 1976); King, Urbanism. 158 Cohen, “Architectural History,” 354. 43 be enormously valuable but is rendered extremely difficult to achieve given the inherent limitations and biases of the colonial-era archive. The dissertation thus also seeks to challenge, as aforementioned scholars are increasingly doing, the notion that colonialism is a unidirectional imposition, and that intended audiences for displays of dominance were exclusively the colonized. Speaking of French efforts to maintain dominance over Morocco, Rabinow asserts that “if there was a civilizing mission, its target was the French” in North Africa, who were also subject to state control and manipulation through colonization.159 The processes explored in this dissertation were as much intended to effect and resonate with French colonialists and European competitors, as well as visiting tourists and foreign media, as they were among locals—for whom much of the specific imagery and symbolism would have likely been somewhat unintelligible. The linking of existing scholarship on politicized archaeology and heritage conceptualization—arguably essentially self-serving undertakings—to the study of modern and contemporary built environments is thus another major aim of this interdisciplinary dissertation. Throughout this dissertation’s description of the colonial condition and postcoloniality, heritage preservation and fabrication, identity, globalization and tourism, runs the thread of discourse on modernity and the pursuit of allegedly untainted or pure origins. Indeed, each of these contexts is intimately linked with the process of defining, becoming, living, contesting and revising diverse conceptions of modernity. The dissertation will therefore draw upon and contribute to developing scholarship related to modernity conceived through built environments. Though in many cases the story told by this dissertation will be of a heavy-handed imposition from Europe and then more inconspicuous neocolonial or globalizing influences, it is intended to incorporate the didactic role played by a colonized Tunisia, its colonized peoples and their 159 Rabinow, French Modern, 286. 44 vernacular built environments, to the extent possible. This relates this study to Marshall Berman’s conception of a “broad and open” modernity that: enables us to see all sorts of artistic, intellectual, religious and political activities as part of one dialectical process [that]…creates conditions for dialogue among the past, the present and the future…across physical and social space. 160 Such an approach resists the canonical temptation to view Modernism as an exclusively Northern creation and unilateral imposition, as well as its passive reception by fixed, anachronistic and uncivilized “others.” It takes into account the “subversive social agendas [that] once drove much modern planning and design” and modernities that attempted an “epoch- making double-displacement of tradition” from built environments and social networks, while acknowledging the inherent complexity of such characterizations.161 The present dissertation project further aims to demonstrate the validity of a diachronic and inclusive approach to heritage management, modernizing processes and identity formation. The conclusions reached here could not have been achieved without the project’s ecumenical approach. Additional studies of built environments and associated reinforcements—the full culture-scape—therefore ought to be undertaken in order to facilitate the development of more complete and nuanced accounts of historic processes and their durable and influential manifestations in built environments. Taken in typological or chronological isolation, buildings, plans, or monuments tell only a part of the story. This project also seeks to contribute to developing discourses on colonial and post- colonial hybridity by exploring its significant complexity. It hopes to convincingly demonstrate the longstanding history of hybridity and the insufficiency of analysis that relegates the phenomenon to the postcolonial era. As scholars continue to debate the meaning of hybridity and the value of 160 Marshall Berman, All That is Solid Melts Into Air (New York: Penguin, 1988), 5. 161 Robert Mugerauer, “Openings to Each Other in the Technological Age,” in Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage: Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism, Nezar AlSayyad, ed. (New York: Routledge, 2001), 92. 45 its exploration, this project aims to provide useful material for further comparative study across the region and beyond. Finally, it is hoped that the sum total of this dissertation will ultimately enhance our ability to understand the unique postcolonial, and now post-revolutionary, position of Tunisia within the realm of built environments. Having now completed a review of relevant literature on North African and Tunisian built environments, archaeology, tourism and heritage and the project’s methodology and aims, the dissertation briefly presents the history of Tunisian archaeology and its artistic influence in order to contextualize the interpretation of materials recovered scientifically. It then addresses the role played by Tunisia’s pre-Arab past in the generation and interpretation of spaces in Tunis. It explores that past as an aesthetic model, a political tool and a revenue generator in three chapters. It does so by pairing the architectures and plans of the French colonial administration, the Roman Catholic Church and Tunisia’s postcolonial (and colonial) tourism industry with each respectively. In generating the project’s historiographic matrix, the three sections also prioritize specific pre-Arab cultures, including Roman, Early Christian/Vandal/Byzantine and Punic or Carthaginian (see Figure 1.9). Chorological contexts intersect with thematic lenses, revealing historiographic and myth-making priorities that are explored in the dissertation. These categories are complexly interconnected, and the project acknowledges that by addressing areas outside these primary focal points. In so doing, each chapter begins with an introductory anecdote and then starts somewhere in the nineteenth century before proceeding forward chronologically through the present post-revolutionary period. The dissertation concludes with an analytical chapter intended to not only summarize the preceding chapters, but to reflect upon the meaning of their totality from a postcolonial theoretical perspective. Speculation as to the future of Tunisia’s pre-Arab past completes the final chapter and the document. 46 FIGURES Figure 1.1. Modern and ancient Roman roads in Tunisia. Plan, 1864. Roman roads are represented by dotted lines. The plan comes from an article on the Tunisian rebellion of 1864. (Source: P. Paget, “La Régence de Tunis,” L’Illustration 43 no. 1111 (11 June 1864): 384.) 47 Figure 1.2. Ancient Roman sites in Tunisia. Photographs, 2006 and 2016. A. Dougga (top left). B. El Djem (top right). C. Sbeitla (middle left). D. Zaghouan aqueduct (middle right). E. Thuburbo Maius (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 48 Figure 1.3. Overlapping Mediterranean empires and nation-states. Infographic, 2017. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett based on maps from Wikimedia Commons.) 49 Figure 1.4. Napoleon Crossing the Alps (Jacques-Louis David, 1802). Photograph of painting. Hannibal’s name is inscribed on the stone at the bottom left beside those of Napoleon and Charlemagne. (Source: Wikimedia Commons.) 50 Figure 1.5. Assumed historiographic bracketing concept. Infographic, 2017. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 51 Figure 1.6. Hannibal’s march to Italy during the Second Punic War (218–201 BC). Plan, 2015. Hannibal’s path is the white line. The dotted line is the path of Hasdrubal, his brother who brought reinforcements but was defeated by the Romans. Major battles occurred at cities marked with red dots. (Source: Fik Meijer and Roald Docter, “The Punic Wars,” in Carthage: Fact and Myth, eds. Roald Docter, Ridha Boussoffara and Pieter ter Keurs (Leiden: Sidestone, 2015), 83.) 52 Figure 1.7. “Manufactured space” in Tunis’ ville nouvelle. Published photograph, c. 1885. Pictured is the Avenue de France between the Avenue de la Marine (Jules-Ferry) and the medina. (Source: Douglas Sladen, Carthage and Tunis: The Old and New Gates of the Orient, vol. II (London: Hutchinson, 1906), unnumbered plate after 348.) 53 Figure 1.8. Arab Spring country statuses. Infographic, 2016. Substantial Arab Spring-related revolutions occurred first in Tunisia, and then in Egypt, Libya, Yemen and Syria. (Source: Anon., “The Arab Spring, Five Years On,” The Economist, 11 January 2016, accessed 21 March 2017, http://www.economist.com/blogs/graphicdetail/2016/01/daily-chart-8.) 54 Figure 1.9. Dissertation methods matrix. Infographic, 2017. Chorological contexts intersect with thematic lenses, revealing the historiographic and myth-making priorities explored in the dissertation. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 55 2. Knowing the pre-Arab past in Tunisia In the nineteenth century, as Europeans were establishing themselves as colonizing powers in North Africa, there was not much to see in Carthage. The site had long since ceased to function as a self-sufficient urban center, nearby Tunis having ascended to regional supremacy. Carthage’s terrain was dominated by what was then known as “St. Louis Hill,” the Byrsa or ancient citadel/acropolis, and its ancient ports cut into its coastline, sheltering not might galleys but small fishing boats (Figure 2.1). Given the great place of Carthage in ancient literature, however, many educated Europeans were aware of the city’s history and the potential value of its exploration. Romantic authors wrote of Carthage’s melancholic state and gave it prominence in European conceptions of Tunisia even before the city was substantially excavated. As archaeology became a developed, modern scientific practice, the site was subject to investigation that revealed instructive and inspiring materials, confirming some assumptions while rebuking and stimulating still others. A brief introduction to pre-colonial literature on Carthage circulating in France and to the establishment and development of archaeological activities in Tunisia sets the stage for how scholars and officials came to know Tunisia’s pre-Arab past, and how popular conceptions were fashioned. 56 2.1 Carthage in pre-colonial literature The mythologization of Carthage by early modern European audiences was inspired early on by the romantic writings of François-René Chateaubriand. He had visited Tunisia and then published his Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem in 1807, and his evocative account sparked considerable interest in the region, despite the fact that the ruins of Carthage had been neither re-discovered nor excavated. From the Byrsa hill, he told readers, “the eye embraces the ruins of Carthage, which are more numerous than generally imagined: they resemble those of Sparta, having nothing left in tolerable preservation, but covering an extensive space.”1 He saw birds, trees, the sea, and wistfully pondered Dido, Hannibal, Scipio Africanus and St. Louis from high over the lost city. Gustave Flaubert’s Salammbô, however, was perhaps the most significant piece of French literature regarding Tunisia and Carthage. Presenting a fictional tale of a priestess of Tanit (ancient Carthage’s primary female deity) and her tragic love affair with a doomed mercenary general,2 Flaubert claimed to have drawn heavily on historical fact. Indeed, Polybius’ Histories served as a template for Flaubert’s story.3 The author furthermore claimed to have read two hundred books in preparation.4 He had traveled to Carthage during what he described as a scrupulous research process and was very much inspired by his 1858 visit. Flaubert’s work eventually became very popular in France, influencing not only literature but also fashion in its time. The book was thus immensely successful in creating a lasting image of Carthage. In his travel account published in 1905, Louis Bertrand speaks of the “epic” 1 François-René Chateaubriand, Travels in Greece, Palestine, Egypt, and Barbary: During the years 1806 and 1807 (Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem), trans. F. Shoberl (New York: Van Winkle and Wiley, 1814), 461. Illustrating fairly well the preoccupations of French thinkers, his account covers the ancient history of Carthage extensively and then jumps to the episode of St. Louis during the thirteenth century. 2 In the novel, according to Green, Flaubert “chose to examine, in an unfamiliar context, some of his own feelings and anxieties about contemporary France” including perceived cultural decadence and decline, corruption and illness after 1848. Anne Green, Flaubert and the Historical Novel: Salammbô Reassessed (New York: Cambridge University, 1982), 59. 3 See Polybius’ Histories (book I, chs. 65–88). A.J. Krailsheimer, “Introduction,” in Gustave Flaubert, Salammbo, trans. A.J. Krailsheimer (New York: Penguin, 1977), 11. 4 Krailsheimer, “Introduction,” 8. 57 Salammbô and says, “Flaubert is omnipresent here. How could one not but think of him in this big anonymous cemetery that became Carthage!” He continues, betraying further his laudatory romantic view, “The Carthage of history is annihilated forever: now there is none other than his.”5 Much work had been done in Carthage by the time Bertrand wrote in 1921 and credited Flaubert with having resuscitated the city: “There, where there was nothing, he created something.” 6 So influential was the work of Flaubert that the municipality of Carthage (established formally in 1919) was set within a gardened plot called “Square Flaubert” (Figure 2.2).7 Even today, one still passes through a station called “Salammbô” on the suburban light rail line that links Carthage and Tunis. The area is still called by the same name, and the text has influenced the historiography and archaeological identity of all of Carthage, as well as its popular conception and touristic image.8 The writings by ancient authors like Polybius, Plutarch, Livy and Virgil, as well as Chateaubriand and Flaubert, inspired other artists including other authors, painters, musicians 5 Louis Bertrand, Le Jardin de la mort (Paris: P. Ollendorff, 1905), 284. 6 Louis Bertrand (La Dépêche tunisienne, 14 December 1921) quoted in Clémentine Gutron, “Mise en place d’une archéologie en Tunisie: Le Musée Lavigerie de Saint-Louis de Carthage,” IBLA 67 no. 194 (February 2004): 170. On Flaubert and Salammbô, see Clémentine Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie (XIXe–XXe siècles) (Paris/Tunis: Karthala/IRMC, 2010), 196–209. 7 Cyrino Em., Carthage & ses ruines, plan, 1933, in APT “Archéologie” carton. 8 The iconic “Tophet of Salammbô” cemetery, a sanctuary dedicated to Tanit and Baal Hammon, near the Punic ports, is the epicenter of this mythology. The practice of infanticide had been described by Flaubert, and many archaeologists found what they considered to be proof of the practice there. During the early 2000s the Tunisian government sought to downplay this longstanding interpretation of the site, elevating Carthaginian culture and denigrating Flaubert (and ancient writers). Official Tourism Ministry training materials also denounced the idea, despite the publication of conflicting archaeological evidence. On this postcolonial reappraisal, researcher Mohammad Hassine Fantar said, “We must stop looking at our past through the eyes of foreigners.” He continued: “When the Arabs study and understand their own history, we will be at the dawn of a true revolution. This is what we are trying to do in Tunisia.” Fantar quoted in Andrew Higgins, “Les sacrifices des enfants à Carthage: mythe ou réalité?” Jeune Afrique, 27 June 2005, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.jeuneafrique.com/66869/archives-thematique/les-sacrifices-d- enfants-carthage-mythe-ou-r-alit/. See also Clémentine Gutron, “La mémoire de Carthage en chantier: Les fouilles du tophet Salammbô et la question des sacrifices d’enfants,” L’Année du Maghreb 4 (2008): 45–65. A succinct recap of recent controversies and the most recent research on the subject can be read in Maev Kennedy, “Carthaginians sacrificed own children, archaeologists say,” The Guardian, 21 January 2014, accessed 2 March 2017, https://www.theguardian.com/science/2014/jan/21/carthaginians- sacrificed-own-children-study. For a survey of excavation activity on the site, see Hélène Benichou-Safar “Les fouilles du tophet de Salammbô à Carthage (première partie),” Antiquités africaines 31 (1995): 81– 199. 58 and fashion designers. They in turn have perpetuated the myths and histories of Carthage’s illustrious past, bringing them to wider audiences and making them into a form of shared heritage that transcends actual knowledge of the city’s archaeological history or personal experiences on site. Exotic characters, familiar mythologies, heroic battles and tragic affairs rendered the material quite appealing. Baroque drawings and lithographs that depicted heroic battles of Hannibal and love scenes between Dido and Aeneas (she allegedly detained him on his way from Troy to found what would become Rome) circulated widely (Figure 2.3). Many of these episodes were presented in operas such as Dido and Aeneas by Henry Purcell (1689) and Didon by Piccinni (1783), which captivated still more audiences.9 Flaubert’s Carthage- based Salammbô inspired an opera by Reyer (1890) that was performed on stages in Paris, London, Brussels and eventually in Carthage itself. Nineteenth-century artists continued the longstanding enthusiasm for Carthage and Roman Tunisia. Flaubert’s Salammbô assumed a prominent position in “the steamy ranks of femmes fatales in world literature” and was depicted by Rodin, Turner, Stallert, Schmied and countless other visual artists (Figures 2.4 and 2.5).10 Early cinema also played an important role in disseminating images of ancient Mediterranean cultures among European (and American) audiences. Carthaginian and Roman history—whether intended to be strictly factual or history-based fantasy—featured prominently in some significant films. Cabiria (Giovanni Pastrone, 1914), for example, has been credited with elevating nascent cinema to the realm of high art and brought images of (a version of) Carthage to enthusiastic viewers.11 Based in part on Flaubert’s Salammbô, the silent film’s elaborate sets and dramatic action captivated audiences, thereby reflecting and further 9 Eric M. Moormann, “Dido and Hannibal Through Western Eyes,” in Carthage: Fact and Myth, ed. Roald Docter, Ridha Boussoffara, and Pieter ter Keurs (Leiden: Sidestone, 2015), 109–17. 10 Eric Gubel, “Reflections of Carthage in Nineteenth-century Art,” in Docter et al., eds., Carthage, 128. [127–29] 11 Annette Dorgerloh, “Competing Ancient Worlds in Early Historical Film: The Example of Cabiria (1914), in The Ancient World in Silent Cinema, eds. Pantelis Michelakis and Maria Wyke (New York: Cambridge University, 2013), 229. 59 contributing to the developing fascination with mythical Carthage. A sacrifice scene at the Temple of Moloch (identified with Baal Hammon) proved to be particularly impressive and was lifted directly from chapter thirteen of Flaubert’s novel, rather than from archaeological fact (Figure 2.6). The film, like the novel, in large part created an identity and image for Carthage and its relatively unknown culture and architecture at that time; the overall effect was that of barbarism and hybrid exoticism drawn from Assyrian, Mesopotamian, Indian and other eastern sources.12 Cabiria was not alone in its fanciful depiction of Carthage on screen, nor was Carthage alone among depicted cities. Rome, Troy, Athens, Alexandria and others made countless appearances and fueled the same fetishization of ancient Mediterranean cultures.13 Careful inspection of these artworks and literary depictions often reveal little regard for archaeological fact, in no small part because little was actually known at the time. The process of scientific excavation and study would with time clarify knowledge of Tunisia’s pre-Arab history, although, as the present dissertation demonstrates, the creative interpretation of the past would never cease to occur. The following summary of archaeology’s development in Tunisia should help contextualize the subsequent investigation of the pre-Arab antiquities culture-scape, the essential knowledge core of which was drawn from literary and excavated materials. 2.2 Colonialist archaeology in Tunisia Jean-Émile Humbert (1771–1839), a Dutch military engineer working to modernize Tunis’ fortifications for the bey, is said to have re-discovered Punic Carthage in 1817. His 12 Ibid., 229–46. 13 Pantelis Michelakis and Maria Wyke, “Introduction,” in Michelakis and Wyke, eds., The Ancient World in Silent Cinema, 1–24. 60 ensuing excavations, which substantially enriched the antiquities museum in Leiden,14 were the first in a long series of campaigns undertaken by European officials in Tunisia. His discoveries inspired both historian and history enthusiast, artists and politicians too, much like the work of his successors would do for generations. It is now widely understood that archaeology has always been an inherently political process, and in Tunisia it has always been integral to the colonial project.15 Within the British context, Richard Hingley has identified archaeology as a field established and cultivated to essentially “justify and support the superiority of England and the West” through its thorough integration within British imperial discourse and Romanization studies.16 To these ends, he says, imagery of the Roman Empire was regularly deployed by “late Victorian and Edwardian British administrators, politicians and academics…to help them to define the identity and imperial destiny of Britain.”17 With regard to the Maghreb, he and Mattingly acknowledge that, “The historiography of Roman Africa is indelibly linked to the history of modern colonial occupation of the region and to the post-colonial reactions that have followed” through its use in justifying the 14 R.B. Halbertsma, Scholars, Travelers, and Trade: The Pioneer Years of the National Antiquities Museum in Leyden, 1818–1840 (New York: Routledge, 2003), 71–88; Ruurd Humbertsma, “Foreigners on an Unfamiliar Coast: The Rediscovery of Carthage,” in Docter et al., eds., Carthage, 119–25. 15 For a brief summary of recent thinking regarding colonialist aspects of archaeology, see Stephen L. Dyson, “Political Ideology and Colonial Opportunism During the Interwar Period” in In Pursuit of Ancient Pasts: A History of Classical Archaeology in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (New Haven, CT: Yale University, 2006), 172–213; Peter van Dommelen, “Colonial Constructs: Colonial and Archaeology in the Mediterranean,” World Archaeology 28 no. 3 (1997): 305–23. On the use of archaeology in Nazi Germany, see Bettina Arnold, “The Past as Propaganda: Archeology in Nazi Germany,” in Histories of Archaeology, eds. Tim Murray and Christopher Evans (New York: Oxford University, 2008), 120–44. On the use of archaeology as a “symbolic resource” in Britain, Mexico and China, see Don D. Fowler, “Uses of the Past: Archaeology in the Service of the State,” in Murray and Evans, eds., Histories of Archaeology, 93–119. On archaeology and tourism in contemporary Cyprus, see Jody Michael Gordon, “Making Boundaries in Modern Cyprus: Roman Archaeology as ‘Touristic Archaeology’ in Politically Fractured Landscapes,” in Making Roman Places: Past and Present, eds. Darian Marie Totten and Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2012), 111–29. 16 Richard Hingley, Roman Officers and English Gentlemen: The Imperial Origins of Roman Archaeology (New York: Routledge, 2000), 164. 17 Ibid, 1. Hingley identifies a “circular process” here, through which references to Rome were used to define the modern imperial present, before “the present, at least in part, was used to recreate the past in its own image” (27). This process had ramifications not only in the generation of popular and political images of antiquity, but also within the development of nascent archaeological theory and excavation site interpretation. 61 European presence.18 Whereas French conceptions of North Africa had been for generations largely informed by popular classical texts on the region’s Roman history and the long-lost supremacy of its agricultural productivity, archaeology and epigraphy inspired considerable scholarship and myth-making in the nineteenth century and beyond.19 Initially this process had been the undertaking of Napoleon III’s army in Algeria and Roman Catholic missionaries, but in time systematic excavation became the policy of French colonial administrations across the region. As laws were promulgated to protect and control excavations, savants and grand amateurs such as Louis Adrien Berbrugger and Louis Carton (1861–1924)—some of whom established museums and societies dedicated to the recovery and presentation of antiquities— joined the ranks of scholars, priests and soldiers in the field. 20 Lessons learned in Algeria and Tunisia regarding the deployment of archaeology as an “instrument of colonialist policy” were later applied in French-governed Morocco.21 There, as across North Africa, modern settlements were swept clear, ruins restored and Roman achievements celebrated in an effort to assert physical, economic and ideological dominance (Figure 2.7). The physical presence of ancient ruins, particularly within the interiors of North African colonies where many were heavily “restored,” was particularly important in this regard. Intellectually, French and Italian colonialist historiographic processes championed outsiders in antiquity, “portraying the Africans either as passive recipients of superior culture or as nomadic and lawless people incapable of self- 18 David Mattingly and R. Bruce Hitchner, “Roman Africa: An Archaeological Review,” Journal of Roman Studies 85 (1995): 169. See also Myriam Bacha, “La construction patrimoniale tunisienne à travers la législation et le journal officiel, 1881–2003: de la complexité des rapports entre le politique et le scientifique,” L’Année du Maghreb 4 (2008): 99–122. 19 Diana K. Davis, Resurrecting the Granary of Rome (Athens, OH: Ohio University, 2007), 16–26. On the idealization of ancient ruins in North Africa by Europeans before 1880, see Nabila Oulebsir, “From Ruins to Heritage: The Past Perfect and the Idealized Antiquity in North Africa,” in Multiple Antiquities—Multiple Modernities: Ancient Histories in Nineteenth Century European Cultures, eds. Gábor Klaniczay, Michael Werner, and Ottó Gecser, (New York: Campus Verlag, 2011), 335–64. 20 Dyson, Pursuit of Ancient Pasts, 60–64. 21 Ibid., 174. 62 government.”22 This “double process of cultural annexation and alienation” elevated colonialist French and Italians as masters of knowledge—hence power—based on their supposed affiliation and scholarly expertise.23 French and Italian archaeologists were joined in Tunisia by British and German scholars, for whom archaeology was “a field of confrontation across which different nations were diplomatically advancing their pawns.”24 In the wake of Humbert’s 1817 discovery, modern archaeology in colonial-era Tunisia was at first largely the work of Roman Catholic officials, and in particular of Father Alfred-Louis Delattre (1850–1932), who under the auspices of Cardinal Lavigerie lived “one of the most important archaeological careers in North African history.” 25 Delattre’s discoveries—though somewhat tainted by methodological deficiencies and poorly maintained records26—generated a persuasive picture of the region’s Early Christian past. 27 Scientific missions were also undertaken by private academic groups or clubs, such as the Society for the Exploration of Carthage (founded in Paris, 1837) whose goal was essentially the stocking of European antiquities museums.28 Archaeologists working under the aegis of the Catholic Church were guided by, and reinforced, interests in justifying the Church’s presence as successor to Early Christian establishments in the region. The colonial government became increasingly involved with archaeological activities during the latter portion of the nineteenth century.29 The French government, through its Ministry 22 Mattingly and Hitchner, “Roman Africa,” 169. 23 David Mattingly, “From one colonialism to another: Imperialism and the Maghreb,” in Roman Imperialism: Post-colonial Perspectives, eds. Jane Webster and Nicholas Cooper (Leicester: School of Archaeological Studies, 1996), 52. 24 Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments, 69. 25 Dyson, Pursuit of Ancient Pasts, 63. 26 Stevens describes his methods as “execrable” in Susan T. Stevens, “A Great Basilica and Memoria at Carthage: Damous el Karita Redux,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 17 (2004): 752. 27 Dyson, Pursuit of Ancient Pasts, 63. 28 Myriam Bacha, “Patrimoine et tourisme en Tunisie au début du protectorat: Interactions et dépendances,” in Zytnicki and Kazdaghli, eds., Le Tourisme, 156. 29 A succinct account of colonial- and independence-era archaeology in Tunisia can be found in Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 23–71. 63 of Public Education, dispatched the Mission de Tunisie in 1880 in order to establish a permanent French presence in archaeological work and to inventory Tunisia’s cultural assets, thus putting France securely in the position of educated, “civilizing nation.”30 The government first regulated the protection of antiquities in Tunisia by decree in 1882, a measure that also forbade unauthorized export of artifacts, asserted state permitting authority for excavations and provided for the establishment of a state museum to house recovered artifacts.31 In 1885 members of the French Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres established the Service des antiquités et arts de la Régence (Antiquities Service) in order to more systematically study, protect and promote the country’s material heritage.32 In truth, however, the body—which was initially funded by the Ministry of Public Education—dealt almost exclusively with Tunisia’s ancient ruins in Dougga and Carthage.33 The prestigious École française de Rome was also quite active in Tunisia throughout the colonial period, and its research has contributed substantially to knowledge of the country’s ancient past.34 The official classification of Tunisian monuments for preservation and protection began in 1891 (following five years of inventory-taking) and, perhaps not surprisingly, privileged Roman sites; of the thirteen registered between 1891 and 1905, only one was an explicitly Islamic 30 Myriam Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments en Tunisie (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2013), 71. The colonial government appears to have created another French Archaeological Mission in Tunis in 1947, to be exclusively manned and run by French figures in order to guarantee the role of French archaeologists in Tunisia, no matter what changed with the empowering of Tunisians during the developing independence struggle. Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 35; Pierre Gandolphe, “Origines et débuts du Musée Lavigerie,” Cahiers de Byrsa 2 (1952): 164. The original(?) French mission worked past independence, until the Bizerte crisis of 1961. Abdelmajid Ennabli, “North African Newsletter 3: Part 1. Tunisia 1956–1980,” trans. J.H. Humphrey, American Journal of Archaeology 87 no. 2 (1983): 197. 31 “Décret du 26 Hadjé 1299 (7 novembre 1882),” Journal officiel tunisien (25 January 1883), in CADN 1TU/1/V/1351bis. 32 On early excavation work of the Service, the Church, the military and amateurs, see Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments, 114–19. 33 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 28 and Bacha, “La construction,” paragraph 5. 34 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 86–90. 64 one.35 Such selective valorization contributed to the colonialist (and academic) generation of the legitimizing socio-cultural and political myth described above. The original 1886 legislation remained intact until changes were made in 1920, a busy year for heritage management in Tunisia. In addition to protecting large portions of Carthage and Tunis’ medina markets or souks, and mandating that all newly discovered antiquities were the property of the state, another decree established an Advisory Committee on Historic Monuments. The board’s composition demonstrated the degree to which heritage management had become a thoroughly political affair and the degree to which it was no longer the exclusive preserve of scientists (and priest-scientists). In addition to those for more traditionally included representatives, seats reserved for the French Resident General, the Director of Public Instruction, representatives of the Department of Agriculture, Commerce, and Colonization and the Department of Public Works, among others, ensured broad participation by those with a stake in the increasingly expanding field.36 In 1953 a similarly diverse committee was given the power to designate sites, stripping the Director of the Antiquities Service of that erstwhile exclusive prerogative dating to 1886. Heritage and politics were thus institutionally intertwined until independence (and beyond), often to the detriment of scientific concerns.37 Since the 1964 surrendering of the Carthage Museum to the Tunisian state by the White Fathers who had run it since its 1875 foundation, responsibility for Tunisian archaeology has been entirely within the jurisdiction of Tunisian authorities. 38 In 1966 the Institut national d’archéologie et d’art (INAA) took over following the annulment of the colonial-era Service des 35 Bacha, “La construction,” paragraph 5. Additional Islamic heritage sites were not classified officially until 1912. Ibid. 36 Ibid., paragraphs 14–22. Heritage management legislation after 1920 was dominated by the preservation of Islamic sites. 37 Ibid., paragraphs 28–29. 38 Ennabli, “North African Newsletter,” 197. 65 antiquités et arts.39 The use of “national heritage” in its establishment documentation and its expansion to include popular, or traditional vernacular, arts were novelties at the time and represented a departure from past practice. The restoration of historic monuments was the institute’s primary work during the early years. Substantial funding was granted to the INAA in 1968, and by 1978 its total staff of researchers had increased from ten to more than fifty.40 Considerable damage was done to some existing sites and those unexcavated during the transition phase, but important work was completed at several sites that nonetheless brought to light a fuller picture of Tunisia’s ancient heritage for public and touristic consumption.41 The UNESCO-supported “Save Carthage” campaign—launched in 1972 and concluded in 1986— drew eighteen missions from twelve nations to excavate predominantly Roman and Early Christian sites.42 An impressive scholarly achievement, it remains among the most significant archaeological work done in Tunisia during the post-colonial period. In the year following his accession to the presidency in 1987, Ben Ali created the National Agency for the Promotion and Exploitation of Archaeological Heritage and History (ANMVEP), a body tasked with operationalizing the heritage and knowledge developed by the research-oriented INAA—that is to say, taking heritage out of the exclusive realm of scholarship and commercializing it.43 Establishing gift shops, developing tourist-friendly signage, installing evening lighting, while also developing large archaeological park sites like those at Oudhna and Dougga, the ANMVEP and its work demonstrated the government’s “privileging of the 39 The Institute included four divisions, initially, including a Centre for Archaeological and Historical Research (responsible for organizing excavations and promoting historical studies), a Historical Monuments Service, a Directorate of Museums, and a Centre for Popular Arts and Traditions. Ibid. 40 Ibid. 41 Ibid., 199–201. 42 Liliane Ennabli, “Results of the International Save Carthage Campaign: The Christian Monuments,” World Archaeology 18 no. 3 (1987): 291. For a succinct timeline of research and archaeological work undertaken at Carthage (and a timeline of its ancient history), see Abdelmajid Ennabli, Carthage retrouvée (Tunis: Cérès, 1995), 140–45. 43 Carlo Perelli and Giovanni Sistu, “Jasmines for Tourists,” in Contemporary Issues in Cultural Heritage Tourism, eds. David Arnold, Angela M. Benson, and Jamie Kaminski (New York: Routledge, 2014), 73– 76. 66 commercial and touristic value of cultural heritage.” 44 Renamed as the Agency for the Development of National Heritage and Cultural Promotion (AMVPPC) in 1997, it still aims “to implement Government policy in the various cultural fields, particularly those connected with the presentation and interpretation of archaeological and historical heritage and its management, and to promote intellectual, literary and artistic creativity.”45 Among its areas of work are the development of heritage tourism programs, the management of twenty-four national museums and the commercial management of sixteen heritage sites throughout the country.46 In 1993 the INAA was transformed into the Institut national du Patrimoine (National Heritage Institute, INP) within the Ministry of Culture, which still manages all archaeological work undertaken in Tunisia by both Tunisian and foreign expeditions.47 Archaeologists from Italy, France, Spain, Germany, Switzerland, the United Kingdom, the United States, Canada and elsewhere have worked with Tunisian archaeologists since independence on mixed international teams,48 but there remains a longstanding shortage of working excavators and scholars, particularly given the sprawling nature of urban development in Tunisia.49 Ben Lazreg, of the INP, in 2010 set the number of Tunisian archaeologists at about 44 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 59. 45 Agency for the Development of National Heritage and Cultural Promotion (Tunisian Republic), “Presentation,” accessed 26 March 2017, http://www.patrimoinedetunisie.com.tn/eng/presentation.htm. 46 Ibid. 47 Archaeology is just a fraction of the INP—now a “super machine for fabricating heritage,” according to Gutron—portfolio, however. Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 60. The 1994 Heritage Code broadly defined heritage and universal value in accordance with prevailing international practices represented by UNESCO. Along similar terms, the Ministry of Culture, Youth, and Leisure was renamed the Ministry of Culture and Heritage Protection that year. Ibid., 61. 48 On the INAA’s “open-door” policy that linked bilateral excavation permits with the preservation of unearthed materials in the decades following independence, see Ennabli, “North African Newsletter,” 201–02. 49 For an account of the state of archaeology in Tunisia just prior to the 2011 revolution, see Nejib Ben Lazreg, “A Conversation on the State of Archaeology in Tunisia,” Archaeolog, 19 April 2010, accessed 26 March 2017, https://web.stanford.edu/dept/archaeology/cgi-bin/archaeolog/?p=285. Foreign missions are technically required to be half-Tunisian in their composition—a fairly typical stipulation in many formerly colonized countries with long histories of foreign excavations. 67 forty.50 Reflecting the Ben Ali regime’s interest in Carthage and the relationship between the field and postcolonial context, permits for Punic-era sites were for a time restricted to Tunisian archaeologists exclusively.51 The touristic marketability of sites remains a significant concern for the country’s heritage officials. Interviews conducted with active archaeologists and employees at the INP have confirmed the importance of tourist-friendly excavation and presentations, thus conforming the longstanding alignment of both. For example, Elizabeth Fentress—director of Oxford University’s excavations at Utica—said she was tasked with “making the site pretty for tourists” by the government (and President Ben Ali in particular, who expressed strong personal dissatisfaction with the site’s state).52 Foreign teams, she added, were relocated from the south through the permitting process and dispatched to more tourist-accessible northern sites. Since the 2011 revolution archaeological excavations have continued to the extent possible, given current security concerns in southern and western Tunisia.53 As shall be addressed extensively below, archaeology has remained an identity issue well past the end of the colonial era in Tunisia.54 Indeed, during the 1990s and 2000s Ben Ali’s regime trained what Lafrenz Samuels calls “heritage citizens” through educational and excavation programs intended to stress tolerance and stability for domestic and international audiences. 55 This practice runs contrary to the expected opposition to Roman studies by 50 Ibid. 51 Corisande Fenwick, “North Africa,” in Oxford Companion to Archaeology, ed. Neil Asher Silberman (New York: Oxford University, 2012), 514. 52 On site interview with Elizabeth Fentress, Utique, Tunisia. 17 September 2013. Ben Ali described it as “a dump,” said Fentress. 53 The British government’s embargo on non-essential travel to Tunisia, imposed in the wake of the June 2015 terrorist attack on beachgoers in Sousse, has negatively affected archaeological work and tourism. Looting, according to Fentress, has not been a huge problem, however, as the government has maintained reasonably good security at sites nationwide. Ibid. 54 Studies of archaeology and nationalism—the inescapable politics of archaeology—are increasingly popular and often controversial. For a selection of recent case studies on the subject, see Susan Kane, ed. The Politics of Archaeology and Identity in a Global Context (Boston: Archaeological Institute of America, 2003). 55 Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, “Roman Archaeology and the Making of Heritage Citizens in Tunisia,” in Making Roman Places: Past and Present, eds. Darian Marie Totten and Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels 68 postcolonial Maghrebi historians described by Mattingly and Hitchner, and further illustrates the unique nature of postcolonial Tunisia within the region.56 In many ways reflecting larger trends in heritage-based identity formation during the regimes of Bourguiba and Ben Ali, archaeologists in the postcolonial context have recognized as part of their intellectual role the creation of Tunisian identity. This “fundamental social function,” according to archaeologists themselves, included the “construction of the Tunisian personality” as “privileged architects.”57 (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2012), 159–170; Mattingly and Hitchner, “Roman Africa,” 169. See also Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, “Heritage Rights and the Rhetoric of Reality in Pre- Revolution Tunisia,” in Heritage Keywords: Rhetoric and Redescription in Cultural Heritage, eds. Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels and Trinidad Rico (Boulder, CO: University Press of Colorado, 2015), 243–58. The Ben Ali regime’s deployment of Hannibal and Carthage, in addition to, if not over, Roman Tunisia, however, will be considered in chapter 5 of the present dissertation 56 Mattingly and Hitchner, “Roman Africa,” 170. 57 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 66–7. 69 FIGURES Figure 2.1. Ancient [Punic] Ports of Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1905. Though the area appears mostly devoid of development, note the buildings to the far right. (Source: Author’s collection.) 70 Figure 2.2. Carthage & ses ruines (excerpt). Plan, 1933. The municipality and Square Flaubert are located at the bottom edge of the plan. Note as well streets named for Eschmoun, Tanit, Dido and Lavigerie. The Primatiale is the Cathedral of St. Louis. (Source: Cyrino Em., Carthage & ses ruines, plan, 1933, in APT “Archéologie” carton.) 71 Figure 2.3. Carthage in Baroque-era artwork. Lithographs. A. The Arrival of Aeneas in Carthage by Henri Thomassin. Lithograph detail, 18th century (top). B. The Battle of Zama by Cornelius Cort. Lithograph, 1567 (bottom). (Source: Eric M. Moormann, “Dido and Hannibal Through Western Eyes,” in Carthage: Fact and Myth, eds. Roald Docter, Ridha Boussoffara and Pieter ter Keurs (Leiden: Sidestone, 2015), 116 (A) and 80 (B).) 72 Figure 2.4. Dido and “Carthage” in nineteenth-century paintings. Paintings. A. Dido Building Carthage, William Turner. Painting, 1815 (top). Dido (in blue, at left) addresses a figure that may be Aeneas. The tomb at right was of her deceased husband. The setting is obviously not the Byrsa summit. B. The Death of Dido, Josef Stallaert, c. 1872 (bottom). Dido commits suicide following the departure of Aeneas, cursing his descendants (the Romans). The architecture is Egyptianizing, not Punic. (Source: Wikimedia Commons.) 73 Figure 2.5. Salammbô. A. Lithograph, 1896, by Alfons Mucha (left). B. Painting, 1923, by François-Louis Schmied (right). (Sources: Wikimedia Commons (A) and Gubel, “Reflections,” 129 (B).) 74 Figure 2.6. Cabiria advertisement. Printed poster, 1914. Children are being sacrificed at the Temple of Moloch here, in a scene drawn directly from Flaubert’s iconic Salammbô. (Source: United States Library of Congress/Wikimedia Commons.) 75 Figure 2.7. Restoring ruins across Tunisia. Photographs. A. Photograph, c. 1908. Dougga’s iconic temple (top left). B. Photograph, c. 1908. Dougga’s Punic-Libyan mausoleum (top right). C. Photograph, 1910. Sbeitla’s Arch of Diocletian (bottom). (Source: Taher Ghalia, “La collection de négatifs en plaques de verre du Musée national du Bardo,” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, 151 no. 1 (2007): 108 (A and B) and 109 (C).) 76 3. Antiquity as an Aesthetic Model Antiquity served as a powerful reference and inspiration for European colonizers in North Africa who sought to control and cultivate an identity largely through architectural imagery and urban development. Neoclassicism of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries represents a particularly tangible manifestation of this phenomenon on a large and visible scale. Associations with contemporary European models and earlier, more theoretical, understandings of neoclassicism only partially explain the popularity of such retrospective built environments, however, as the self-aggrandizing nostalgia that influenced French authorities and Tunis’ architects assumed a particular potency when set amidst omnipresent vestiges of the country’s pre-Arab past. Judging from contemporary political rhetoric, literature and art, it is clear that the region’s history, specifically its Roman past, resonated profoundly with French colonialists whose leaders likened their presence to a modern restoration of the Roman Empire. Studying connections between colonial Algeria and ancient Rome, historian Patricia Lorcin identified “Rome as a cultural idiom for French domination,” highlighting its consistent use in “nearly all French accounts of Roman Africa.”1 Roman precedents were deployed as tools for “justification, admiration, and emulation” particularly by architects keen to represent ideas that invested built 1 Patricia Lorcin, “Rome and France in Africa: Recovering Colonial Algeria’s Latin Past,” French Historical Studies 25, no. 2 (2002): 295. 77 environments with great symbolic significance.2 In considering retrospective approaches, Coloquhoun identifies three type of historicism, each of which illuminates the deployment of the past in colonial and postcolonial architectures of Tunis. Historicism, he says, is a “theory of history,” “an attitude,” and “an artistic practice.”3 The first is a perspective that claims that “socio-cultural phenomenon are historically determined” and thus conditioned by the past and its contemporary awareness (and manipulation).4 All truths are therefore relative. The second represents an interest in historic institutions and events, and the third concept involves the explicit (re)use of historical forms and imagery.5 The complex relationships between these three basic distinctions are manifest in the work of designers and the decisions of those in positions of power in early modern Europe and then subsequently colonized territories. In Tunis, the region’s pre-Arab past mattered significantly and lay at the core of longstanding historicist thinking. Although it was not always the only reference point or source of inspiration, the region’s Roman past held a particularly prominent position in the aesthetic identity of colonial Tunis. The aesthetic and theoretical revival of antiquity that inspired the European Renaissance transitioned in the mid-eighteenth century into a phase of Neoclassicism noted for its simplicity, rationalism and hypothetical universality. Whereas architects such as Claude Perrault in France had been exploring rationalist approaches to historically inspired architecture,6 the relationship between archaeology and architectural theory that endured through the end of the nineteenth century had its origin in the 1750s. 7 Antiquity was of course the primary inspiration for Renaissance designers, but in the mid-eighteenth century it attained an unprecedented 2 Ibid. 3 Alan Coloquhoun, “Three Kinds of Historicism,” Oppositions 26 (1984): 29. 4 Ibid. 5 Ibid. 6 Robin Middleton and David Watkin, Neoclassical and 19th Century Architecture (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1980), 9–36. 7 Barry Bergdoll, European Architecture 1750–1890 (New York: Oxford University, 2000), 9. 78 prominence in post-antique architecture.8 French architects in particular, embracing the era’s Enlightenment thinking, engaged in robust debate regarding the origin of architecture and an ideal relationship between history and modernity. By the nineteenth century, however, a diversity of stylistic influences was increasingly accepted, epitomized by Heinrich Hübsch’s 1828 query: “In what style should we build?” (Figure 3.1).9 With increased eclecticism, particularly in the realm of ecclesiastical architecture, came contested architectural connotation and great emphasis on appearance, rather than foundational principles of rationalism.10 A.W. Pugin’s Contrasts, in its juxtaposition of “the noble architecture of the Middle Ages” and mid-nineteenth-century classically inspired buildings, exemplifies the contentious nature of the so-called “style wars.”11 In the Neoclassical edifices of his day Pugin had seen visual connections to a distant, foreign antiquity, and thus he decried them as heathen impositions. Instead, he praised Neo-Gothic buildings for their aesthetic relationship to a romanticized medieval Christian era wherein (Catholic) communal morality manifested itself in major architectural projects, the appearance of which reflected society’s cohesion and piety.12 Such style revivalism, reflecting Hegel’s teleological view of history and the contemporary Zeitgeist, can be seen as attempts at “masking the reality of an increasingly industrialized society and the fragmented cultural condition of advancing modernity” through romantic representations of aesthetic precedents.13 8 Ibid. 9 For the original text of Hübsch’s essay and subsequent responses in translation, see Heinrich Hübsch et al., In What Style Should We Build? The German Debate on Architectural Style, trans. Wolfgang Herrmann (Los Angeles: Getty Center Publication Programs, 1992). 10 Trevor Garnham, Architecture Re-assembled: The Use (and Abuse) of History (New York: Routledge, 2013), 48–53. 11 Augustus Welby Pugin, Contrasts (Edinburgh: Grant, 1898), accessed 13 April 2017, https://archive.org/details/contrastsorparal00pugi. 12 Ibid., 8–20. Viollet-le-Duc was of course another major participant in this lively debate as a champion of a rationalized Neo-Gothic. 13 Garnham, Architecture, 46–47. 79 Paris’ iconic École des Beaux-Arts inspired and perpetuated the historicist/eclectic architectural tradition in nineteenth-century France. Archaeological drawings and reconstructions were integral parts of a student’s education there (Figure 3.2). The institution’s systematic, rational approach to design, revealed most clearly by its prestigious Grand Prix de Rome competition, invited students to draw liberally from historic forms—particularly of the classical eras (viz. Greek and Roman, Renaissance and Neoclassical)—in their work.14 A set of basic design principles from the project proposals of École students can be discerned. Designs, conceived in plan view, were generally symmetrical, rectilinear and massive in scale, demonstrating rational spatial organization and cross-axial circulation. Plans, sections and elevations were carefully coordinated in the composition of fully three-dimensional schemes that typically demonstrated a bold monumentality particularly suited to public buildings. Decried later by Modernist critics of the twentieth century, students’ so-called “vapid ‘paper plans,’” with their “abstract composition, pompous decoration and virtuoso drawing” exhibited a consistent appreciation for antiquity that by the critics were deemed unoriginal.15 Indeed, the suitability of historic forms in a modernizing France was debated by those driven to see architecture move beyond uncritical imitation, and the pages of César Daly’s Revue générale de l’architecture et des travaux publics—the first major architecture periodical in France, which ran from 1840 to 14 Kathleen James-Chakraborty, Architecture Since 1400 (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota, 2014), 274–78. On the pace of Orientalist architecture in the École’s competitions, see Marie-Laure Crosnier Leconte “Oriental ou colonial? Questions de styles dans les concours de l’École des beaux-arts au XIXe siècle,” in L’Orientalisme architectural entre imaginaires et saviors, eds. Nabila Oulebsir and Mercedes Volait (Paris: Picard, 2009), 43–67. 15 Neil Levine, “The Competition for the Grand Prix in 1824: A Case Study in Architectural Education at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts,” in The Beaux-Arts and Nineteenth-century French Architecture, ed. Robin Middleton (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1982), 67. Reassessments of the École’s immensely influential output have revealed more inventive and dynamic approaches than have typically been acknowledged in the past, however, and its use of historical precedent was not entirely uncontested. James-Chakraborty, Architecture, 274–78. 80 1889—published lively debates on the subject.16 The journal’s masthead image reflected its general position, that art and science ought to be mediated by history, the focused study of which might reveal laws useful in the creation of new, modern architectures unrestrained by empty formalistic mimicry (Figure 3.3).17 Debates regarding the vitality of the intentionally influential École’s approach and its products notwithstanding, Beaux-Arts forms were deemed appropriate for the age of modern European empires, as “architectural classicism was regarded as both authoritative and modern…in an age when plutocracy and imperial expansion could be taken as two of the defining conditions of the modern,” according to Crinson. 18 Neoclassical and Beaux-Arts- inspired forms could be adapted to new construction techniques and contexts by the countless École graduates and emulators dispersed the world-over, rendering them ideally suited to the functional and symbolic needs of European symbol-sensitive empires. Such historicist forms suited the alleged superiority of Western culture and its assumed universality. These architectural forms therefore resonated within the British and French imperial contexts. In the eighteenth-century, the nostalgic veneration of the past and a desire to reform society served as the foundation of architectural styles that simultaneously evoked history and acknowledged the passage of time, according to Coloquhoun. He distinguishes this type of classicism from Renaissance-era historicism, to which he ascribes a significant pride in modernity and a faith in the contemporary world’s ability to restore itself.19 Thus, in his opinion, there is a significant difference in the more positive revival that occurred during the Renaissance and the more theoretical, nostalgic and reformist or idea-based attitudes of later Enlightenment- 16 Paul Rabinow, French Modern: Norms and Forms of the Social Environment (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1989), 47. 17 Ibid., 80. 18 Mark Crinson, Modern Architecture and the End of Empire (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2003), 8. 19 Coloquhoun, “Historicism,” 31. Renaissance architects, he maintains, believed that they were reviving old forms that were more modern than those inherited from the late medieval period. 81 era thinkers. Nineteenth-century architects, who inherited the perspectives of the latter quite literally, continued to ascribe to their retrospective works ideas they associated with modernity. That is to say that in reaching back to antiquity these designers sought to represent power and civilization, through intentionally historicist forms, in a manner that can be seen as more positive and aspirational than the romantic reformist approaches of their predecessors. Beaux-Arts columned buildings, for example, thus came to demonstrate wealth and intellect rather than cultural decline and loss.20 It was within this context of stylistic debates and socio-cultural modernization that French and European diplomats and businessmen oversaw the establishment of Tunis’ modern Municipal Council (1858) and development of the city’s extramural ville nouvelle.21 Resident Maltese, Italian, French and British expatriates and “cultural creoles” had outgrown the so-called Frankish or European quarter by the 1850s22 (Figure 3.4). Negotiating rights and privileges with Tunisia’s compromised hereditary ruler, or bey, influential (and competitive) European consuls secured permission to make themselves a new city of their own. Savvy French consul Léon 20 All of this, as Coloquhoun points out, depended on audiences’ literacy in history, architectural styles, and the interpretation of symbolism. Ibid., 38. 21 The council’s first president, General Abu Abdullah Husayn, a Mamluk from the north Caucasus region who came to Tunisia during the 1830s, set the tone for this new Tunisian administration. Trained in Tunis’ progressive European-style Bardo military school (founded in 1840), fluent in French and Italian, and a one-time resident of Paris, he defended Islamic culture while simultaneously and selectively advancing a reformist pro-Western agenda. Though respected by Tunis’ European consuls during his distinguished career, Husayn and his successors were sidestepped by Europeans who secured for themselves special privileges and power. See William L. Cleveland, “The Municipal Council of Tunis,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 9, no. 1 (1978): 33–61; Julia Clancy-Smith, Mediterraneans: North Africa and Europe in an Age of Migration, c. 1800–1900 (Berkeley, CA: University of California, 2011). On the specifics of individual reforms and agencies, see Leïla Ammar, “La naissance de la ‘voie publique’ à Tunis,” Maghreb et sciences sociales (2008): 175–97. 22 Clancy-Smith, Mediterraneans, 48. Clancy-Smith highlights the oft-overlooked importance and influence of ‘cultural creoles’ in the process of colonization, defining them as “individuals born in Tunisia of parents from somewhere else, mainly although not exclusively Europe, who sank roots in the country over generations of residence and came to see the place as home.” They included prominent businessmen and at times members of the beylical government. On the life of European expatriates (particularly from France and in the fondouk des Français) within the medina’s Quartier franc before 1881 see Geneviève Goussaud-Falgas, Tunis: La ville moderne (Saint-Cyr-sur-Loire: Alan Sutton, 2005), 15–28. 82 Roches led the way with the construction of a new French consulate outside the city’s thirteenth- century walls in 1860. During the early 1870s Europeans oversaw the dismantling of the medina’s inner and eastern-facing ramparts, and an adjacent gridded city crept over swampy terrain where little more than a Catholic cemetery and a few commercial buildings had recently stood23 (Figure 3.5). Engineers promptly traced a wide, tree-lined boulevard modeled on popular French prototypes across the plain, thereby linking the city’s seaward gateway to its French-built lakeside port along what had before been merely a rustic footpath.24 The forthcoming Avenue de la Marine (later Avenue Jules-Ferry and Avenue Habib Bourguiba) would become the capital’s primary axis and premier streetscape, the so-called “Champs-Elysées of Tunis,” and from it would extend the strategically modern city (Figure 3.6).25 Rather than attempting to ”improve” the existing pre-colonial city, as had been attempted in Algiers where officials performed invasive “Haussmannian operation[s] before Haussmann,” 26 officials in Tunis pursued the planning of an ideal modern city adjacent to the medina. No major incisions were made into the existing urban fabric of Tunis’ pre-colonial core.27 23 Lallemand, “Le nouveau port de Tunis,” L’Illustration no. 2621 (20 May 1893): 409; Paul Sebag, Tunis: Histoire d’une ville (Paris: Harmattan, 1998), 284. Architects and planners effectively re-enclosed the old city right away, however, by erecting tall, European-style buildings and a wide ring road along the medina’s eastern edge. Algiers and Casablanca also lost most of their walls, and other sections in Tunis would come down in subsequent decades. Long before the Protectorate, however, Spanish fortifications (the Nova Arx) from the sixteenth-century had been located on the ville nouvelle plain. For brief descriptions of the pre-Protectorate city, see A. Crapelet, “Voyage à Tunis, 1859,” Le Tour du Monde (1865): 1–32; Anon., “Les agrandissements de Tunis, ville européenne,” L’Afrique du nord illustrée 29 no. 688 (1934): 10–11. 24 Lallemand, “Port,” 406–09. 25 Daniel E. Coslett, “(Re)branding a (Post)colonial Streetscape: Tunis’ Avenue Bourguiba & the Road Ahead,” International Journal of Islamic Architecture 6 no. 1 (2017): 59–96. See also Goussaud-Falgas, Tunis, 40–43. 26 Zeynep Çelik, Empire, Architecture, and the City: French-Ottoman Encounters (Seattle: University of Washington, 2008), 73. 27 This is not to deny that colonial authorities did intervene within the medina. The ANT includes numerous records of structural demolitions, street realignments and aesthetic legislation that affected the ”museumified” core’s appearance and function. See also Myriam Bacha, “La production architecturale dans la médina de Tunis de 1920 à 1956 réglementée par le décret du 3 mars 1920: l’invention d’une architecture médinale ordinaire” in Architectures au maghreb (XIXe –XXe siècles): Réinvention du patrimoine, ed. Myriam Bacha (Tours: Presses Universitaires François-Rabelais, 2011), 133–60. 83 The early use of an orthogonal plan by military engineers on the open land between the old city and its port thus set Tunis’ colonial zone apart from that of Algiers. Documentary evidence for the explicit planning motives of Pierre Colin—usually credited with the original tracing of the city plan—remains elusive, though the system’s rational nature and martial efficiency seem like plausible motivators (Figure 3.7).28 Historical descriptions of the city, such as Lallemand’s (1893), typically reference the expanding lattice of parallel streets, describing them as straight, wide and shaded by trees, thereby starkly contrasting them with the medina, which Crapelet (1859) had characterized as a “thousand small torturous streets, which upon first view had not the slightest charm.”29 Such common accounts fail to mention the ville nouvelle plan’s foundational rationale or acknowledge its precise origin. Based on its formal characteristics alone, however, one might discern from the city plan traces of the ancient Roman castra, or gridded military encampment; such a reference would certainly not have been inappropriate in this context (Figure 3.8). Indeed, some have maintained that when Tunis was established following the destruction of Carthage by conquerors from the east in AD 698, the more defensible inland site of a minor ancient Roman settlement was selected; the new city’s chief mosque (Zitouna) and thus the medina’s original street orientation were based, to some 28 Jean-Luc Arnaud, “Tunis, le plan de Colin de 1860, un document sans auteur ni date!” MEFRIM 118 no. 2 (2006): 391–402. The plan attributed to Colin does not show the street grid that appears on plans published after 1870, though he is generally given credit for establishing the gridiron arrangement on the ground. Though his plan is usually said to be the earliest modern plan of the city, Baïr has studied one from 1831/1832. See Houda Baïr, “Le première carte modèrne de Tunis (1831–1832): Le travail de Falbe en contexte,” Cybergeo: European Journal of Geography (2009), accessed 13 April 2017, http://cybergeo.revues.org/22716. Note that most diagonals visible in the city plan today are generally products of former rail lines rather than intentionally non-conformist rights-of-way. 29 Crapelet, “Voyage,” 3; Lallemand, “Port,” 406–09. This characterization of the medina is typical of the era. Colonialists and their immediate successors regularly denigrated (or misunderstood) the old city’s form, typically characterizing it as disorganized and unsanitary. For example, Xavier de Planhol, using long-established terms, described a “tangle of blocks badly ventilated by a labyrinth of twisted alleys and dark courts” constituting the Islamic city wherein “…irregularity and anarchy seem to be the most striking qualities….” Xavier de Planhol, The World of Islam (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 1959), 1 and 22. On the pre-colonial city’s form/development, see Besim Selim Hakim, Arab Islamic Cities: Building and Planning Principles (New York: KPI, 1986), which primarily concerns Tunis’ medina. 84 degree, on pre-existing Roman cadastration30 (Figure 3.9). Assuming that Hakim’s plans and analysis are correct, however, the ville nouvelle’s grid does not align with the Roman arrangement extending from Carthage, its street pattern conforming more obviously to the immediate lakeside geography. Were the Roman castra to have served as a basic, rather than strictly literal, model, the new city’s central Place de la Résidence would be its version of the iconic Roman forum. Hosting the French colonial headquarters and the city’s Roman Catholic cathedral—the seats of civic and (European) religious authority within the Protectorate—while at the same time facilitating the hygienic flow of air through the developing district, it was an idealized space (Figure 3.10).31 More generally, however, the rational grid can be seen to represent modernity and order in the conquering of urban terrain, which in this case was created as the city grew (see Figure 3.7). Throughout its history the pattern has been deemed reflective of a “highly regulated, tightly administered culture;” again, this description seems relevant here.32 When one considers the urban cultural landscape based on street names given to the city’s new thoroughfares, however, the presence of antiquity is apparent, alongside France and 30 Hakim, Cities, 102–05. Aside from identifying this possibility, the author makes little of the concept. Note that the author spells the term “catastration,” while “cadastration” is the accepted spelling. The study of ancient land divisions (cadastration and centuriation) by airplane and aerial photography was pioneered and developed in Tunisia by 1931. Extensive survey work done in the area of El Djem demonstrated the method’s value, making the technique one of the most significant methodological contributions made by the French. See Stephen L. Dyson, In Pursuit of Ancient Pasts: A History of Classical Archaeology in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (New Haven, CT: Yale University, 2006), 174. It has generally been the case that historians pass over any pre-Arab settlement of Tunis’ site. See, for example, Henri Saladin’s account from 1894. Although there were Punic and Roman-era settlements there, modern Tunis presents little of note to archaeologists who instead direct their attention (appropriately, he says) to Carthage. René Cagnat and Henri Saladin, Voyage en Tunisie (Paris: Hachette, 1894), 402. 31 The square has always been landscaped in some fashion, appearing as a small oasis in the ville nouvelle. Early images depict a water feature in its center that was in time replaced by trees, the tomb of an unknown soldier (in 1943) and a statue of Ibn Khaldoun (in 1978). On the importance of urban squares in French urbanism, see Richard A. Etlin, Symbolic Space: French Enlightenment Architecture and Its Legacy (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1994), 11. 32 Hannah Higgins, “Gridiron,” in The Grid Book (Cambridge, MIT, 2009), 52. 85 Europe, in toponymic homage.33 Indeed, the projection of power and difference through street naming practices was common within the colonized world, and a Eurocentric lexicon was generally employed.34 Those in power “inscribe ideological messages about the past into the many practices and texts of everyday life” by assigning, changing and codifying place names.35 An 1893 plan of Tunis includes streets named for France, Portugal, England, Russia, Austria and Greece, as well as those dedicated to Paris, Marseilles, Algiers and Carthage.36 By 1952 the greatly enlarged city included streets and square honoring various ancient personages and cities, including Hasdrubal, Cato and Scipio, Rome, Athens, Sparta and Utica, as well as a lakeside park known as the Champ de Mars (or Campus Martius, Field of Mars) (Figure 3.11).37 Whereas Eurocentric lexicons dominated in colonial cities elsewhere beyond the ancient Roman world, the commemorative urban toponymy of Tunis deployed a mixed place- and hero-based nomenclature that reinforced ties between France and (ancient) Tunisia and linked the histories 33 Existing streets within the pre-colonial city were systematically named by the French, as well (pursuant to municipal decrees promulgated in 1883 and 1885), though there they generally used local landmarks, agricultural and commercial products and historic people as naming sources (save for in the quartier franc where European influences were more apparent. See Municipality of Tunis, “Vieux Tunis: Les rues,” accessed 29 June 2016, http://www.commune-tunis.gov.tn/publish/content/article.asp?id=193#cl02. See also Arthur Pellegrin, “Le vieux Tunis: les noms de rues de la ville arabe,” Bulletin economique et social de la Tunisie, 59–64 (6 articles in 6 volumes), nos. 59–64, Dec. 1951–May 1952. 34 On colonial and postcolonial street toponymy in Morocco, see Samira Hassa, “From ‘Avenue de France’ to ‘Boulevard Hassan II’: Toponymic Inscription and the Construction of Nationhood in Fes, Morocco,” in Place Names in Africa, ed. Liora Bigon (New York: Springer, 2016), 79–91. See also Ambe J. Njoh, “Toponymic Inscription as an Instrument of Power in Africa: The Case of Colonial and Post- colonial Dakar and Nairobi,” Journal of Asian and African Studies (2016): 1–19. 35 Derek H. Alderman, “Place, Naming, and the Interpretation of Cultural Landscapes,” in The Ashgate Research Companion to Heritage and Identity, eds. Brian Graham and Peter Howard (Abingdon: Routledge, 2016), 196. See also David Bond, “Tunis Between Maps and Memory,” in Minoranze, pluralismo, stato nell'Africa mediterranea e nel Sahel, ed. Federico Cresti (Ariccia: Aracne, 2015), 106– 08. 36 Lallemand, “Port,” 409. 37 Paris, of course, would have had many identically named streets and its own Champ de Mars at the base of the Eiffel Tower. See J. Vanney, “Tunis,” plan (Tunis: Ch. Weber, 1952). The names of French historical figures (politicians, military figures, scientists and writers) and French cities/provinces dominated Tunisois toponymy by far. Note that the streets surrounding the medina’s outer walls were named for French military officials (of WWI, colonial contexts and elsewhere), arguably reinforcing the notion of invasion and occupation. 86 of both the region’s lauded past and the distant metropole.38 Through referencing antiquity the colonizer further demonstrated power and the mastery of history and knowledge, thereby furthering the imperialist mission. The resulting city came to represent these present pasts quite clearly, both organizationally and toponymically, as well as aesthetically. Early colonial-era architecture of the Avenue Jules-Ferry conformed to metropolitan standards, employing a simple Neoclassical aesthetic typical of the era and of contemporary European cities in general. To some extent, these early buildings were constructed from stones taken from Carthage’s ancient ruins—conveniently proximate and plentiful—perhaps bestowing upon them some temporal and material legitimacy.39 Though by 1900 no longer the uncontested aesthetic standard in Europe, Neoclassicism remained a popular choice. In a colonial context through the end of the century it almost certainly took on special meaning. Given the region’s richness in ancient history and ruins, the choice of Neoclassical architecture was more than just a default one. The style came with a symbolic potency that rendered it a tool within the larger colonial project for not only accommodating colonialists and impressing competing European powers but by establishing a clear European identity in, and for, Tunis. While archival material related to the city’s civic projects and their adoption of the Neoclassical style explicitly appears limited, with regard to major monuments of the Catholic Church it is quite clear that officials manipulated material and stylistic links to late antiquity/early Christianity very intentionally and 38 See Njoh, “Toponymic,” 4. Though many street names were changed in Tunis after independence, there remain streets dedicated to France, Marseilles, Paris, Lyon, Charles de Gaulle, Hannibal, Athens and Sparta (alongside others named for people and dates from Tunisian history), as well as Lenin, Martin Luther King, Ataturk and others. Njoh’s study indicates that Dakar’s streetscape (which was also gridded) remains dominated by European names, over fifty-five years of independence notwithstanding. Ibid., 11– 16. D. Light and C. Young, “Habit, Memory, and the Persistence of Socialist-era Street Names in Postsocialist Bucharest, Romania,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 104(3): 668–85 refers to such legacies as “leftover or residual toponymy.” 39 Cagnat and Saladin, Voyage en Tunisie, 402. The authors stress the idea that these recycled stones are the only surviving physical vestiges of the Tunis’ Roman and Punic past. 87 with strategic calculation.40 Contemporary literary and rhetorical commentary and statements made by officials suggest that a correlation between built environments, history and colonial achievements was apparent, at least to those versed in history, art and the politics of visual rhetoric. Used during the 1880s and 1890s, colonial Neoclassicism in Tunis thus fell within a late stage of the style’s long-term popularity, well beyond the period of its intense intellectual or academic theorization and dominance in Europe. 41 In Tunis, it signified several things. It indicated hierarchical difference within a colonial system fundamentally dependent on the constant delineation of “us” and “them,” and it reinforced the idea of political continuity and legitimacy for those in power more so than a generic accumulation of columns, pediments and allegorical figures would have elsewhere, if removed from the very present material reminders of Tunisia’s pre-Arab past. The imagery made sense in light of the larger colonial mission in the region, helping to make the French presence appear both logical and appropriate, both traditional and modern. As Neoclassicism was of course also used in Europe at the time, its deployment in the colonial context bound peripheral cities to the established metropole. The general Neoclassical aesthetic employed by architects in the early decades of the Protectorate had been relatively standard in earlier Western-built structures there. Column-clad, balconied buildings framed the Place de la Bourse just inside the medina, the critical point of elision with the growing Avenue Jules-Ferry between antithetical cities, old and new. The style was popular in early buildings erected on the Avenue, as well. Indeed, visitors to Tunis commented often on the similarity of the built environments of “new” Tunis with that of Paris and other European cities. For example, an American tourist visiting in 1911 noted that she felt as 40 See chapter 3. 41 Irwin identifies 1750–1790 and 1790–1830 as the two historical phases of the Neoclassical movement, the latter phase being more austere than its more picturesque predecessor. David Irwin, Neoclassicism (London: Phaidon, 2011), 10. 88 though she were “on a street of real French shops [where] there was no evidence that they were in an Oriental city.”42 In the presence of buildings such as the Raffo Hotel (1842), the Rue de Rivoli-like arcaded Magasin Général department store (1883), and the ornate headquarters of the Dépêche tunisienne newspaper, a visitor might feel as though they were “in the middle of France,” said Génieux in 1911 (Figures 3.12 and 3.13).43 Later styles, such as Art Nouveau and Art Deco, supplanted pilastered and pedimented forms in time, but as in Europe they were not immune to classical influences. Tunis’ prominent art nouveau Municipal Theatre (1902) by Jean- Émile Resplandy, for example, participated in the process of re-presenting antiquity; its façade, done by the French sculptor Jean-Baptiste Belloc, was wrapped in sculpted marshmallow-like reliefs of Apollo and two muses crowning its shaded loggia (Figure 3.14).44 Still later, the architecture of the growing city “cause[d] one no surprise,” said a visitor in 1924, as “one knows it [because] one has already seen it on the other side of the Mediterranean.”45 Throughout the last years of the nineteenth century and early decades of the twentieth, however, one found an eclectic mix of classical references in decorative elements throughout the city, on landmark buildings and more quotidian structures, as well. Apartment buildings from this early period of the Protectorate, particularly those designed and decorated by Italian architects and craftsmen, were clad in acanthus motifs, pilasters and other decorative features typical of the time (Figure 42 Emma Ayer, A Motor Flight Through Algeria and Tunisia (Chicago: A.C. McClurg, 1911), 325. In 1906 Sladen labored little in describing the street’s shops, noting succinctly that “they are, in a word, good French shops.” Sladen in Douglas Sladen, Carthage and Tunis: The Old and New Gates of the Orient, vol. II (London: Hutchinson, 1906), 342. 43 Charles Géniaux, “L’Oeuvre artistique du gouvernement tunisien,” Revue Bleu 49 no. 1 (1911): 534. Sladen described Tunis as “one little bit of Paris” in 1906, adding that “it is the Rue Royale, with a few Rue S. Honoré and Rue de Rivoli shops introduced…. The cafés are large and fine, worthy of the boulevards of Paris.” Sladen, Carthage and Tunis, vol. II, 335. 44 Juliette Hueber and Claudine Piaton, eds. Tunis: Architectures 1860–1960 (Tunis: Elyzad, 2011), 97– 99. 45 Prosper Ricard, Les merveilles de l’autre France (Paris: Hachette, 1924), 6. 89 3.15).46 Such decorative elements even found their way onto seemingly incongruous structures, such as the infamous “sinking building” (“la maison qui penche” or “maison penchée”) of 1906 (Figure 3.16).47 The factory building, as well as the adjacent grain silos(?), are dressed in decorative pilasters, arches and entablatures evocative of ancient trabeated structures. 48 Despite having waned in popularity, the general Neoclassical style was deployed as late as 1931 in central Tunis. The façade of the new Palais consulaire was dressed in Ionic pilasters and praised for its “soberly majestic lines, nobility without severity, and the grand clarity of its composition” representative of the city’s modernity and growing “European spirit” (Figure 3.17).49 Within the context of a colonized North Africa, however, architecture with columns, pilasters and pediments took on special meaning. More than just superficial Neoclassicism or some stylistic variant thereof, this was an authoritative style du vainqueur or “conqueror’s style.”50 Speaking of this early colonial-era architecture, Géniaux in 1911 articulated the concept through the performance of an illustrative rhetorical conversation between himself and a hypothetical Parisian visitor to Tunis impressed by the main post office’s appearance and cognizant of its consistency with similar structures in France: Ah! Ah! We will show that we are colonizers like the Romans. Rome imposed upon you its architecture. We will build the same buildings as are found in Lille or Carpentras.51 The “conqueror’s style” term was later popularized by historian François Béguin in his influential 46 See, for example, the buildings addressed and depicted in Eliana Mauro, “Codes de l’architecture dans la construction italienne en Tunisie entre éclectisme et Art déco,” in Architectures et architects italiens au maghreb, eds. Ezio Godoli et al. (Florence: Polistampa, 2011), 54–63. 47 On the sinking building, which leaned ten degrees (compared to the 4.5 of the iconic Pisa tower at the time), see Anon., “Une maison penchée,” L’Illustration 127 no. 3316 (15 September 1906): 175. 48 The connection between agriculture, and grain in particular, ancient Tunisia and French colonialism might explain the visual reference, which of course may also have been coincidental. 49 Anon., “Le futur Palais consulaire de Tunis,” Les Chantiers nord-afriains (May 1931), 507. The façade reminds one of those from the Avenue de France buildings from approximately thirty years earlier. 50 Géniaux, “L’Oeuvre,” 534 51 Ibid. 90 1983 study of French colonial architecture in North Africa.52 His highly illustrated work presents a series of grand, European-style buildings that boldly presided over urban spaces in Tunisia, Morocco and Algeria. Béguin also explored the subsequent development of theoretically sympathetic arabisant or Arabesque architecture, which he called the “style of the protector” because of its strategic use of locally inspired decorative elements reflective of an explicitly associative colonialist approach.53 While he did acknowledge the postwar emergence of more abstracted modernist forms of the Arabesque, Béguin nonetheless established a durable (albeit simplified) dichotomy in what he labeled “the two faces of France”: Neoclassical conqueror versus Arabesque protector.54 The former, popular until about 1900, has received relatively little critical scholarly attention. The Arabesque style was popular in the decades after 1900, though the Neoclassical never vanished entirely, both because it survived on Tunis’ streets and because it never shed all its devotees. Arabesque architectures however, evolved with changing technologies and interpretations of modernity. From initially copying existing models, to standardizing modules, to contextualizing interpretations, to eventually abstracting historic forms into forms allegedly “universal” in appearance and function, the Arabesque came to embrace historicist Mediterranean aspects in the years after WWII.55 Independence from France in 1956 did not put an end to this trend, and in many ways it perpetuated it in the name of tourist-friendly contextual modernity. As will be recounted further below, however, Western modernism was the mode of choice for the country’s first president, Habib Bourguiba, whose relationship with Tunisia’s past was at times ambiguous, if not hostile. With the development of later postmodern approaches, 52 François Béguin, Arabisances: Décor Architectural et Trace Urbain en Afrique du Nord 1830–1950 (Paris: Dunod, 1983). 53 Ibid. See also Raymond F. Betts, Assimilation and Association in French Colonial Theory, 1890–1914 (New York: Columbia University, 1961). 54 Béguin, Arabisances, 11. 55 Bechir Kenzari, “The Architecture of the ‘Perchoir’ and the Modernism of Postwar Reconstruction in Tunisia,” Journal of Architectural Education 59 no. 3 (2006): 77–87. 91 however, classically inspired forms would appear again in Tunis alongside similarly decorated Arabesque structures; both have retained relevance as indicators of Tunisia’s heritage-aware and multicultural identity. This chapter considers the aesthetic influence of Tunisia’s pre-Arab past—specifically its Roman period (146 BC–AD 435)—through the investigation of several built environments and monumental installations in Tunis. Detailed descriptions of significant large-scale works of early colonial-era architecture, including the French consulate (later the Résidence générale or colonial headquarters) and the seat of the Tunisian post and telegraph administration, include archival information typically overlooked in scholarly accounts of the early colonial era that tend to gloss over the period as a precursor to subsequent, more explicitly “modern,” phases. The chapter then considers smaller-scale interventions related to the preservation of existing historic structures and the installation of highly symbolic, colonialist statuary monuments. In all of these cases, not only do structures themselves include columns, pediments and other physical attributes reflective if the country’s ancient past, but much of the rhetoric surrounding their design and presentation reinforced notions of permanence, strength and continuity fundamental to the maintenance of the Protectorate system. Whereas this chapter focuses primarily on the colonial period, it concludes with examination of alternatives to classically-inspired aesthetics (the “Arabesque” and later abstract hybrids of the postwar period) that are typically presented as theoretically opposed to preceding Neoclassical approaches, as well as popular Postmodern and contemporary works today found throughout the capital region. 92 3.1 Architectures of state: The Résidence générale Development of the modern, new, city of Tunis began in 1860 when French authorities received permission to build a new consulate outside the city’s walls.56 This pivotal project propelled Tunis’ development extramurally toward its lagoon-like lake, as would the bey’s decision to leave the Sea Gate open all day and night at that time (it had previously been closed during the evening). Employing a restrained Neoclassicism that conveyed a sense of modern grandeur and power, the building’s presence substantially increased the prestige afforded to France during the period of intense consular rivalry among competitive European nations (Figure 3.18).57 Géniaux called it a “diplomatic monument, discreet, almost mute,” in 1911. “It lacks beauty and originality” and would have been suitable in other colonial settings, such as Dakar, Hanoi or Tananarive (Madagascar), he concluded, emphasizing its stylistic universality.58 Others attributed to the structure’s significant communicative power, including one who praised the its columns’ “finesse,” “elegance,” and “boldness.”59 Applied to its almost Renaissance palazzo-like central core were pedimented window frames, slim pilasters and a columned entryway built by architect-engineer Pierre Colin (according to plans by Philippe Caillat).60 No information regarding the architect’s original design intent has come to light. Its subtle exotic crenellation—which does not appear in the earliest images of the building—notwithstanding, these elements made clear the fact that the building was not of the local architectural tradition, thus decidedly European, and a seat of significant power. Expanded over the years with the addition of compatible lateral pavilions, it became the headquarters of the French colonial 56 1860 is the date typically given in secondary sources. Arnaud says that the job was given to Colin in 1856, however. Arnaud, “Tunis,” 393. 57 Goussaud-Falgas, Tunis, 24–25. 58 Géniaux, “L’Oeuvre,” 534. 59 Anon., “L’Embellissement de Tunis,” La Tunisie illustrée, 20 September 1911, 5. 60 Leïla Ammar, “Tunis 1860–1880,” in Tunis: Architectures 1860–1960, eds. Juliette Hueber and Claudine Piaton (Tunis: Elyzad, 2011), 18. See also Justin McGuiness and Zoubeir Justin McGuiness and Zoubeir Mouhli, Tunis: 1800–1950 (Tunis: Association de Sauvegarde de la Médina de Tunis, 2004), Tunis: 1800–1950 (Tunis: Association de Sauvegarde de la Médina de Tunis, 2004), 25. 93 government (the Résidence générale) with the establishment of the Protectorate in 1881.61 Whereas officials at various times contemplated razing the building and replacing it—either on the same spot or elsewhere in the growing city—with a larger structure befitting the city’s changed status, the historic core survived several major renovations and expansions that gradually reduced the size of the gardens to its rear.62 The earliest known image of the building illustrates its central block, without crenellation, framed by lower-profile lateral wings extending directly from its corners (Figure 3.19). Shorter walls enclose the remaining space to either side of the pavilions.63 A written description of the structure, dated 1889, describes it as consisting of “a garden, a court of honor, a central pavilion, two annex pavilions, and outbuildings,” the totality of which was at the time “defective and insufficient.”64 The note characterizes the pavilions, said to be recent constructions erected without foundations, as “literally threaten[ing to fall into] ruins.”65 Having inspired calls for their demolition for several years, they ought to be replaced by more substantial additions, suggested Vernaz. The original core, if retained, would constitute only a quarter of the needed square footage, and its massing and siting would limit the lines and scale of any new construction, 61 Hueber and Piaton, Tunis: Architectures, 117. 62 For example, see M. Thomas, “Projet d’une nouvelle Gare, d’une nouvelle Résidence générale,” 13 May 1904, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157. 63 1859 watercolor, signed by Colin, reproduced in Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 117. 64 L.(?) Vernaz, “Note,” 2 March 1889, 1–2, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157. A budget document, dated 30 June 1893, lists among new works “reconstruction of wings (aules)” by the Cartier firm. Are these reconstructions of the originals that appear in the Colin watercolor? The cost (28,943 Fr), however, is considerably lower that that of installing electric lighting (85,872 Fr for all lighting in the entire building?), and little more than that of painting salons and galleries (21,320 Fr, for how many rooms?), leading one to question whether or not these “wings” could be the pavilions already in such disrepair. The use of the word “reconstruction” indicates that there had been something there before, presumably the pavilions depicted in early drawings. It is also not entirely clear that this listing refers to the Tunis building, as elsewhere on the document expenses for the residence in La Marsa are listed without clear indication. See Anon., “Résidence générale de France: Situation des dépenses 30 juin 1893,” in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157. 65 Vernaz, “Note,” 1. 94 warned the author sensitive to both physical practicalities and symbolic gestures.66 Offices were small and cramped, and formal reception spaces “no longer proportionate to the importance of the colony.”67 A drawing (from the same year?) depicts the distribution of offices, salons and small bedrooms within the building’s core, which was then described as stable though needing decorative improvements (Figure 3.20).68 It appears that Vernaz’s complaints and suggestions proved persuasive, as the pavilions were in fact replaced from 1890–1892.69 An undated set of interior elevations, labeled “nouveau salon,” shows walls decorated with typical vegetal and trim motifs, with roundels identified for inset painted scenes of unspecified subjects (picturesque ruins or classicizing allegorical scenes, perhaps), and may be from this time (Figure 3.21).70 Several drawings done by architect Raphael Guy in the early 1900s show preparations for the building’s first comprehensive refurbishment and extension project. The archived drawings illustrate an obvious interest in continuing with the exterior’s established reserved, Neoclassical style. A plan of the ground floor from 1904 indicates the intended function of each room and shows fully articulated lateral pavilions placed at the extremes of the city block, linked by corridors to the central unit, and pushed all the way up to the lot’s frontage on the Place de la Résidence (Figure 3.22). 71 The drawing also depicts ornate 66 Ibid., 3–4. The existing structure was 1400 square meters, and the core 490. Estimates said a full 2000 was needed for the expanded building. 67 Ibid., 2–3. 68 Anon., “Résidence française à Tunis,” in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157. 69 Goussaud-Falgas, Tunis, 24–25. Though the located archival materials are not entirely clear, Goussaud-Falgas concludes that the wings were in fact rebuilt then. Images from c. 1902 do show new pavilions at the lot’s corners but not extending back behind the central block. See Anon., “Tunisie: Tunis et ses environs,” France-Album: Revue mensuelle, no. 75/76 (January 1902): n.p. (BNF). See Figure 3.24. 70 Anon., “Résidence générale de France: Nouveau salon,” in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157. These drawings are undated and are archived without accompanying description or explanation. Hueber and Piaton appear to have concluded that these drawings indicate that the central pavilion was renovated in 1889 and this salon was added then. See Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 118. 71 Raphaël Guy, “Résidence générale de France: Plan du rez-de-chaussée,” 21 March 1904, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157. Alternative floorplans illustrate several layouts for the ground and first (viz. second) levels. It is assumed that the wings here date to 1890–1892. 95 geometric wooden(?) floors in each room and the presence of a large colonnaded sale des fêtes added to the back of the original block on the ground level. While it appears that authorities were contemplating a more substantial two-story extension off the back-left side of the building at this time, they ultimately settled on a single-story option, as suggested by exterior elevations (dated 1907) that show this lower-profile rear massing (Figure 3.23).72 In all cases, however, a consistent Neoclassical or Renaissance style was maintained. In recent decades the building complex has been expanded in order to provide additional space for diplomatic and consular services. Additions to the rear of the main building have been designed using a simple, contemporary style with whitewashed masses, glass and steel, though its public front appears largely unchanged (Figure 3.24). It appears that the historic core’s interior has been largely refurbished and is today without its early nineteenth- and early twentieth-century interiors. According to the embassy’s website—which includes images of current interiors—today’s “juxtaposition of styles” includes “revisited classic” spaces, “modernity adapted to administrative activities” and a “sobriety of lines and materials.”73 Several archival photos from 1968, however, show that at that time there remained a mix of styles inside the building that may have included some original spaces (Figure 3.25). 3.2 Architectures of state: The Hôtel des Postes The monumental Beaux-Arts inspired classicism of Tunis’ Hôtel des Postes, or post and telegraph (and, eventually telephone) headquarters (PTT), remains the city’s most pronounced 72 Raphaël Guy, “Résidence générale de France: Façade sur la Rue de Hollande, agrandissements,” 14 May 1907, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157 and Raphaël Guy, “Résidence générale de France: Nouveaux agrandissements, plan du rez-de-chaussée,” 14 May 1907, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157. A pair of archived plans for the second floor show two alternatives, including a fully extended floor, and another that stops short of extending all the way over the ground level back wing. Hueber and Piaton conclude that the lateral wing was extended both in 1904 and in 1907 by Guy. The text does not include footnotes, but its clear they are relying on the same CADN documents. See Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 118. 73 Ambassade de France à Tunis, “Le campus diplomatique de France à Tunis,” accessed 18 August 2016, http://www.ambassadefrance-tn.org/Le-campus-diplomatique-francais-a. 96 example of the so-called “conqueror’s style” (Figure 3.26).74 Built on land appropriated by the government in 1889 and occupied in April 1892, Henri Saladin’s (1851–1923) imposing complex covered most of a block not far from what was, and remains, the city’s chief train station.75 The structure’s siting on a relatively small street made its full grandeur difficult to appreciate from any distance. This point was the most frequently cited complaint regarding the structure’s architecture and has never been rectified.76 In its horizontality and scale it remains the city’s most commanding (historic) demonstration of what Jacques-François Blondel termed “une grande architecture”, which later Beaux-Arts designers would deem definitive of their approach to monumentality.77 The central feature of its tripartite façade is its double-height, triple-arched windows framed by Doric columns, the glazing of which allows for the illumination of the building’s voluminous main hall. Flanked by shorter wings with shaded arcades and capped with an attic above, the dominant triumphal arch-like feature included laurel wreaths in its spandrels and represented a victory for European technological and socio-political systems. A “colossal” structure, it was said in 1911 to represent a “sublime intention affirmed in this mountain of stone: 74 Algiers, by contrast, had many more examples owing to its earlier colonization (1830) and differing circumstances of development. See Béguin, Arabisances. The ground-floor arcade is a much more common typology there as well. 75 According to elevations drawn in 1946, the building’s principal façade is 72.4 m. wide. Cès Albert, Hôtel des Postes et Télégraphes de Tunis: Avant Projet de Sûrelevation, elevation drawing,1 February 1946, in TMA. Bey of Tunis, “Décret,” 26 February 1889, in ANT FPC/E/0308/0003 is the land appropriation decree. Çelik, Empire, 175 misidentifies the architect as R. Guy. It appears that construction of the building was begun in February 1889 (the same month land was appropriated), according to Régence de Tunis, Réception du premier janvier 1890 à la résidence générale, 1890 (Tunis: R. Borrel, 1890), 22–23. (BNF). At the time it was said the building would be partially functional by the year’s end. In 1905 the building was said to cover 3,500 sq. m. and to have cost more than 1.5 million Fr. Adolphe Joanne, Tunis et ses environs (Paris: Hachette, 1905), 18. 76 Anon., “L’Embellissement de Tunis,” 5; C.H. Roger Dessort, Histoire de la ville de Tunis (Algiers: Emile Pfister, 1924),187; L. Girardet, Tunis station hivernale (Paris: F. Chatelus, 1891), 17. Victor Valensi’s 1920 Tunis master plan (the city’s first) included provisions for demolishing adjacent structures and the creation of a park (as, allegedly, originally intended). See Victor Valensi, Notice sur le projet d’aménagements, d’embellissements, et d’extension de la ville de Tunis (Tunis: Municipality of Tunis, 1920), 13. (BNT). 77 Blondel quoted in Etlin, Symbolic Space, 8. 97 Tunisia has been occupied” by a France demonstrating its power in the mode of ancient Ifrikia.78 Indeed, it contributed to modern “empire imagery” in a manner similar to that of ancient Roman buildings in distant provinces.79 Commenting on its bold appearance, Roger Dessort praised the “superb” structure for its abstention from “pretention to an Arab style.”80 It was generally described as impressively “magnificent” and “monumental.”81 The building was thus sufficiently grand and familiar in effect, but imbued with a socio-cultural and political message that reinforced the era’s colonialist intentions. Though Arabesque patterns and “RT” ciphers (for “Regency of Tunis,” the formal name used to identify the nominally sovereign Tunisian state within the Protectorate system) appear secondarily as architectural decoration, the supremacy of the French administration is unmistakable. Indeed, the building’s scale and appearance— described as “severe, [but] of good taste” by one—was a point of pride for many, and its services touted as first-rate.82 The structure, like the opera houses, town halls, train stations and port facilities that were typically landmark structures in colonial cities the world-over, functioned symbolically as a “French cultural emblem” demonstrating bureaucratic efficiency and control while facilitating important connections to the distant metropole.83 One article describing the building boasted that grander cities in France, such as Marseilles, Nantes and Lyon, ought to be envious of the monument, thereby emphasizing links to the metropole.84 The choice of the PTT building’s triumphal arch-like form seems particularly appropriate in this case, given nineteenth- 78 Géniaux, “L’Oeuvre,” 534. Ifrikia was the Roman name for the province that became today’s Tunisia. 79 Richard Hingley, Globalizing Roman Culture: Unity, Diversity and Empire (New York: Routledge, 2005), 81. 80 Dessort, Histoire, 187. 81 Joanne, Tunis, 18 and Girardet, Tunis, 17 are just a few typical descriptions. 82 Anon., “L’Embellissement de Tunis,” 5. 83 Gwendolyn Wright, The Politics of Design in French Colonial Urbanism (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1991), 78. 84 Le Passant, “L’Embellissement de Tunis,” La Tunisie illustrée 30 (20 September 1911): 5. Indeed, the contemporary post offices of Marseilles (Huot, 1889–91), Nantes (Crucy, 1884) and Lyon were generally neoclassical in appearance, but in relative scale and appearance their facades were arguably less imposing or impressive. 98 century impressions of the form’s significance stemming from the era’s nationalistic archaeological perspectives.85 As elsewhere then, in this case it referenced the victorious passage of people, that is to say messengers, and information throughout a connected empire.86 In light of Louis Bertrand’s romantic admiration of triumphal arches as “indestructible trophies” and metaphors for a victorious North Africa—“the beautiful Latin idea of Triumph,” he called it—one is tempted to endow the building with similar symbolic significance that exalts the individual and the city. 87 As designers were obliged to select an architectural caractère appropriately suited to a building’s purpose and symbolic intent—just as they had been during the Neoclassicizing French Enlightenment and Beaux-Arts eras—such an affiliation seems reasonably ascribed.88 It should be noted that Paris’ roughly contemporary Hôtel des Postes was of course huge, and though it employed a general Beaux-Arts aesthetic with pilasters and 85 Arches were typically erected as votive offerings, funerary monuments and most frequently as honorific monuments acknowledging imperial concessions within the context of the Roman Empire and less frequently than is generally assumed today. Ancient arches were not nearly as militaristic or as frequently state-sponsored as erstwhile limited scholarship leads one to believe, according to Cassibry. See Kimberly B. Cassibry, “The Allure of Monuments in the Roman Empire: Provincial Perspectives on the Triumphal Arch” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 2009), 185–91. For a review of several studies on the ancient arch form, see Fred S. Kleiner, “The Study of Roman Triumphal and Honorary Arches 50 Years After Kähler,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 2 (1989): 195–206. 86 Along similar lines, the arch form was popular for the era’s train stations in the West and in colonized territories. Tunis’ main train station, however, was relatively humble and far less monumental in appearance. Train stations did occasionally employ overly historicist decoration drawing on ancient heritage. The station at Haïdra (1934) near the border with Algeria, for example, made use of Roman- style window grills and was clad in columns and pilasters in reference to the well-preserved Roman ruins nearby. Its apsidal plan was likely inspired directly by the Roman basilicas found there. Safa Achouri, “Renaissance et extension de la gare de Haïdra,” (M.Arch. thesis, Université de Carthage, École National d’Architecture et d’Urbanisme de Tunis, 2014), 69–80. Achouri’s thesis proposes the adaptive reuse of the abandoned station through its conversion to an expanded station and cultural center. 87 Louis Bertrand, Le jardin de la mort (Paris: Société d’Editions Littéraires et Artistiques, 1905), 245. See also Nabila Oulebsir, “From Ruins to Heritage: The Past Perfect and the Idealized Antiquity in North Africa,” in Multiple Antiquities—Multiple Modernities: Ancient Histories in Nineteenth Century European Cultures, eds. Gábor Klaniczay, Michael Werner, and Ottó Gecser (New York: Campus Verlag, 2011), 363. 88 Etlin, Symbolic Space, 13–14. 99 arcades, its references to ancient forms were far less direct than that of Tunis (Figure 3.27).89 This perhaps further demonstrates the archaeological significance of the Tunisian structure within its own colonial context. The completed PTT building was celebrated in an 1892 edition of Le Monde illustré, for which a full-page spread of engraved images was prepared (Figure 3.28).90 Dominant among the images are those of the structure’s exterior, as well as some of its technological equipment. The short text accompanying the images offer little regarding the architecture (failing to even specify the architect’s name) but highlight the history of the postal service in Tunisia and the grandeur of its 11 August 1892 inauguration event. Photographs bound and archived at the BNT from the inaugural banquet depict the interior as it initially appeared (Figure 3.29).91 The vast service hall was divided into bays by full-height arcade moldings and the ceiling coffered. Behind the counter and screen, and within the central bay, was a massive mural map of Tunisia (Figure 3.30). The map is no longer extant but appears in a painting from 1900 currently on display at the Musée de la Poste. 92 The cartographic image underscored geographic relationships and communication networks spread across the country, reinforcing the idea of modernization and organization as products of beneficent, modern imperialism. In representing the mastery of Tunisia’s rugged terrain, the map, like the entire structure housing it, implicitly facilitated and reinforced the distribution of knowledge and authority critical for the maintenance 89 On Paris’ Hôtel des Postes by Julien Gaudet, see Anon., “Inauguration du nouvel Hôtel des Postes,” La Construction moderne 1 no. 30 (24 July 1886): 493–94 and plates. One might say the same of the Marseilles building. 90 Anon., “Le nouvel hôtel des postes et des télégraphes à Tunis,” Le Monde illustré 36 no. 1845 (6 August 1892): 83 and 89. 91 Undated folio Anon., “Hôtel des Postes et des télégraphes de la Tunisie,” in BNT E-fol-342. 92 The painting, labeled “Hall de l’Hôtel des Postes, Tunis” and dated 1900 is without artist’s attribution. See Anon., “Hall de l’Hôtel des Postes, Tunis” (painting), 1900, Musée de la Poste (Tunis). The map is not visible in 1892 photos, but its painted frame and left edge are barely visible and match the painting. The postal museum (housed within the expanded PTT building) also includes displays of historic stamps, employee uniforms and images of the building when it opened. Details regarding the map’s precise content are not discernable from the painting and archived photos. 100 of control,93 much as communication networks within the ancient Roman Empire similarly united provinces and facilitated cultural transmission, thereby extending and maintaining control.94 Mosaic cornucopias and caduceus motifs complemented the message allegorically, referencing prosperity and information through attributes associated with Roman deities related to peace and abundance (Figure 3.31). Ceres, Fortuna et al. would have been appropriate for the former “breadbasket” of the Roman Empire and, Mercury, the Roman messenger god, was clearly relevant. Breaking from the dominant aesthetic exemplified by the building’s architecture, original furnishings preserved in the postal museum include tables, stools, shelving and mirrors, all of which incorporated colorful Arabesque patterns featuring elaborate vegetal motifs and were presumably manufactured locally (Figure 3.32). The museum also includes a framed photograph of an ancient statue of Mercury found off the coast of Mahdia, beneath which is a label describing the figure as the god of ancient postal services.95 The image substantiates the pedigree of modern communications otherwise demonstrated through the building’s architecture. Saladin, the PTT’s architect, about whom relatively little is known, attended the Paris École des Beaux-Arts from 1871–1881 and there received a historicist education standard for 93 Indeed, roadways in colonial Tunisia were first designed to facilitate the movement of military forces. Designed and eventually constructed with advanced technologies and materials, they furthermore represented security, the potential to develop territory and the mastery of nature. See Serge La Barbera, “La route dans la Tunisie coloniale: Outil de colonisation et vecteur de tourisme,” in Le Tourisme dans l’empire français: Politiques, pratiques et imaginaires (XIXe–XXe siècles), eds. Colette Zytnicki and Habib Kazdaghli (Paris: Publications de la Société française d’histoire d’outre-mer, 2009), 195–98. On the concept of imperial networks and communication webs, see Simon Potter, “Webs, Networks, and Systems: Globalization and the Mass Media of the Nineteenth- and Twentieth-century British Empire,” Journal of British Studies 46 (2007): 621–46. Cleere relates the British post office to the Panopticon of Foucault, exploring its participation in processes of social control. See Eileen Cleere, Avuncularism: Capitalism, Patriarchy, and Nineteenth-Century English Culture (Stanford, CA: Stanford, 2004), 181–85. 94 Ika Willis, “The Empire Never Ended,” in Classics in Post-Colonial Worlds, eds. Lorna Hardwick and Carol Gillespie (New York: Oxford University, 2007), 329–48. 95 It is not clear if this image was once displayed in the post office itself or has been prepared specifically for display within the museum context. 101 the time and institution.96 As an archaeologist and an architect who appreciated both ancient forms and the local vernacular, he was dispatched by the French Ministry of Public Education to Tunisia and charged with the survey of the Protectorate’s antiquities. His many published reports on the territory’s ancient sites make clear his enthusiasm for antiquities and in part explain the academic precision with which he executed his grandest architectural achievement in the Protectorate. 97 Despite having excavated, studied and restored ancient ruins extensively—triumphal arches featured prominently in his work—his various publications on antiquities reveal no direct connection between his design of the PTT building and excavated ruins, however, and no writings in the architect’s own words regarding his inspiration or process have been found.98 While Saladin is known to have designed Tunis’ PTT headquarters and part of its central market, the Universal Exposition pavilions for Tunisia in 1889 and 1900 and several buildings in Paris, relatively little is known of their circumstances, however, owing to scant surviving records. Bacha’s characterization of him as a “Beaux-arts architect [and] promoter of Tunisian Islamic art” seems completely appropriate.99 Double fascination with antiquity and Islamic culture made him an Orientalist figure par excellence. The grand PTT building remains the primary post office for the capital, and thus the country, and it remains largely intact. Modifications have been made, but they have generally 96 Myriam Bacha, “Henri Saladin (1851–1923): Un architecte «Beaux-Arts» promoteur de l’art islamique tunisien,” in Oulebsir and Volait, eds., L’Orientalisme, 215. 97 Many of his published reports are listed in the Bacha’s bibliography. See Bacha, “Henri Saladin.” According to Ouerghemmi, Saladin had at some point participated in the competition for the downtown cathedral (which was, according to the competition brief, to be based on an ancient basilica), though the circumstances of his participation are not known. See Salona Ouerghemmi, La cathédrale de Tunis (MA thesis, University of Manouba, 2004), 21. See also Daniel E. Coslett, “(Re)creating a Christian Image Abroad: The Catholic Cathedrals of Protectorate-era Tunis” in Sacred Precincts: The Religious Architecture of Non-Muslim Communities across the Islamic World, ed. Mohammad Gharipour (Boston: Brill, 2015), 353–75. 98 Saladin’s aforementioned 1908 guide says only that he “built” the PTT building in 1893, within its very brief introduction to the modern city. Henri Saladin, Tunis et Kairouan (Paris: Renouard, 1908), 22. 99 Bacha, “Henri Saladin.” Saladin participated in the publication of the first manual on Islamic architecture and documented historic arts of the country from multiple traditions. His 1908 guide to Tunis and the holy city of Kairouan focuses on “traditional” Islamic architecture. Ibid, 7. 102 respected the historic form and fabric of the building. Most of the changes that have been executed have been done in the interest of increasing interior space and improving efficiency. For example, central heating was installed in 1911.100 Most substantially, however, a third story was added to the building in the late 1940s, plans for which were drawn up in 1946 (Figure 3.33). The short story raised the level of the lateral wings of the primary façade to the height of the central arch-like mass. Corner quoins were extended upwards onto the new level, new fenestration was designed to complement existing forms, and the building’s crowning cornice was essentially reproduced, all rendering the sympathetic addition relatively unobtrusive.101 In March of 1957 the building’s lateral arcades were enclosed in order to provide additional space for service provision and postboxes in an increasingly cramped building (Figure 3.34).102 Other changes have been relatively minor and primarily decorative. The interior of the main hall has been whitewashed and the large map covered/removed, and its ceiling has been replaced with simpler coffering (Figure 3.35). Service counters have also been replaced with modern fixtures. Decorative details have been adjusted to reflect the changing state of Tunisian governance. While original wrought iron PTT and RT (Regency of Tunis, now République tunisienne or Tunisian Republic) ciphers survive in places, the large attic inscription on the building’s primary façade (“Postes et Télégraphs”) has been covered with an Arabic-language plaque identifying the building (Figure 3.36). The large, inscribed dates—1891 and the equivalent 1309 in the Hijri calendar—remain, as do small plaques reading “France” and “Tunisie.” Larger rectangular tablets that once bore the arms of Tunisia’s bey no longer survive, their space having been left 100 Résidence générale de la République française à Tunis, Rapport au Président de la République sur la situation de la Tunisie (Tunis: A. Guenard, 1911), 135–36. (BNF). 101 Cès Albert, Hôtel des Postes et Télégraphes de Tunis: Avant Projet de Sûrelevation and Cès Albert, Hôtel des Postes et Télégraphes de Tunis: Façade de l’aile gauche sur la rue Charles de Gaulle, elevation drawing, 8 December 1946, in TMA. 102 Anon., “La deuxième tranche de la modernisation de la recette principale est amorcée,” La Presse de Tunisie, 2 March 1957, 2. The building’s central postbox, still located beneath its iconic clock but sealed shut, was relocated at this time in the interest of efficiency; the move was said at the time to save workers four hours per day. Bilingual signage was also installed as a part of this renovation. Ibid. 103 empty.103 Bronze plaques on either side of the closed mailbox, likely war memorials, have been covered but remain in place (see Figure 3.36). Despite the moderate modifications to the structure, it remains one of Tunis’ iconic works of colonial-era architecture and was added to the nation’s register of protected historic landmarks in its centennial year of 1992.104 3.3 Modifying an extant monument: The Porte de France Explicitly classicizing architectures, such as the Hôtel des Postes, are relatively few in Tunis, particularly when compared to cities colonized earlier, such as Algiers and Calcutta. More quotidian references, such as those made by the apartment blocks and shops along Tunis’ principal avenues, contributed to a general Neoclassical and Parisian ambiance in Tunis, however. The reimagining of an existing landmark as a classical-type monument furthered this image. Decades of negotiations, expropriations and demolitions resulted in the “liberation” of the city’s seaward gateway from adjacent structures and in its isolation as a freestanding, arched monument (Figure 3.37). The frequent depiction of the structure—on postcards, in illustrated journals, newspapers, and elsewhere—emblazoned with the “RF” cipher (for République française, the French Republic) during the early 1900s rendered it an arc de triomphe of sorts (Figure 3.38). It thus became a repurposed monument, once Tunisian and thence imperialist French, commemorating the mastering of the “traditional” city beyond. The process is reminiscent of some of Haussmann’s invasive “preservation” tactics in Paris and further linked 103 Early photographs and Albert’s 1946 drawings confirm the presence of the motif, which consisted of crossed cannon and flags framed by a horseshoe-arched portal or window. The same motif appeared on Tunisia’s first postage stamps (1888–1908). See Mohamed Inoubli, Catalogue Inoubli (Tunis: Tuniphil, 2012), 1–2. 104 The 1902 Municipal Theatre was listed by the same decree (Décret N° 92-1815 du 19 octobre 1992). 104 the periphery to the Beaux-Arts metropole. The “Sea Gate,” thus appropriated, became the “Porte de France,” a name which is still used often by locals and in published materials.105 Scholars have inconclusively debated the precise history of the Sea Gate’s placement. Sources, however, do not concur with regard to the gate’s current location. Some indicate that the Bab Bahr was dismantled and shifted slightly southward c. 1860 to better anchor the future Avenue Jules-Ferry, while others attribute its current form and location to the ruling bey’s supposed desire to see in his capital a monumental arc like he had encountered during his hallmark 1846 trip to Paris.106 All that said, it seems most likely that the gateway predates the nineteenth century, and though it has been reworked at times, it is essentially original.107 Notwithstanding ambiguity regarding its precise origin, the construction of shops along the course of the medina’s old walls addressing both the square’s interior and the expanding new 105 The official National Patrimony Institute (INP) plaque mounted on the structure reads “Bab Bahr,” Arabic for Sea Gate, but “Porte de France” in French below (as it was designated in 1912 by Décret du 13 mars 1912 (24 rabia-el-aoual 1330)). A second plaque in Arabic identifies it as the “Sea Gate,” acknowledging restoration in 1985 with funding from the International Union of Banks. 106 Were the anecdote regarding the bey true, the episode would be a compelling demonstration of pre- colonial European influences in Tunis and not inconsistent with the ruler’s apparent affection for French culture following his eye-opening trip. For more on the bey’s 1846 trip to Paris, see Fayçal Bey, “Ahmed Ier, bey de Tunis chez Louis-Philippe Ier, roi des Français,” in De Tunis à Paris: mélanges à la mémoire de Paul Sebag, ed. Claude Nataf (Paris: l’Eclat, 2008), 31–36; Anon., “Nouvelles et faits divers,” La Presse (Paris), 23 November–16 December 1846, n.p. Based on contemporary accounts of his movements through Paris, one can assume that the bey encountered the Arc (inaugurated in 1836), but his precise impressions of it have not been located. Kheireddine Pacha, minister to the bey and ardent Westernizing reformer, visited Paris with the bey in 1846 and again in 1853, and thus may also have been a part of the story. The hypothetical correlation with Paris’ Arc de Triomphe is presented, without reference, in Taoufik Bachrouch, La médina de Tunis avant le protectorat (Tunis: CERES, 2008), 84–86. Like Bachrouch, who includes a translation of the structure’s attic unclear inscription stating that it was constructed in 1848, Ammar says the arch was built at that time, but she explores the issue no further. See Leïla Ammar, Histoire de l’architecture en Tunisie (Tunis: Agence MIM, 2005), 206. The gateway’s official INP plaque cites the twelfth century as the date of construction without mention of subsequent relocation. 107 French historian Arthur Pellegrin, citing the gate’s slight misalignment with the new avenue and mortar used at its base, maintained in 1945 that it had not been moved at all during the nineteenth century. See Arthur Pellegrin, “Old Tunis: The Street Names of the Arab City,” (1945) in A Tunisian Journey, ed. Hafedh Boujmil (Tunis: Nirvana, 2008), 37. In a discussion on the subject, Zoubeïr Mouhli (ASM) said he did not believe that the gateway was built in the 1840s. Zoubeïr Mouhli (ASM), interviewed in Tunis, 3 December 2013. 105 city beyond,108 reinforced the gate’s presence as the primary point of access to the medina from the east. The gate remained hemmed in by European businesses—the effect of which was likened to an obtrusive “Great Wall of China” separating the medina and “French city” by one commentator109—through the 1930s until the French-administered municipality successfully expropriated and razed the adjacent properties (see Figure 3.38). Decades of negotiations dating back as early as 1910 thus came to an end in 1939 when the “glorious relic” was fully disengaged from its surroundings in a manner recalling Haussmann’s approach (Figure 3.39).110 Longstanding interest in rationalizing the thence irregular space can be seen in archived plans at the National Archives of Tunisia bearing traces of crossed-out buildings and extended streets. An idealized view of the square—a postcard or souvenir photograph from approximately 1930— further demonstrates the desire for an improved place and the exportation of its pristine image (Figure 3.40). The edited photo places the liberated gateway, its isolation achieved by the erasure of adjacent structures and retouching of nearby façades, in a sanitized and spacious setting.111 No specific reference to the gateway as triumphal arch—in the classical Roman sense— has been located, although Pellegrin did attribute some of the structure’s ashlar blocks to an 108 Most of the medina’s walls were dismantled during the years after 1872. See the useful timeline, which includes specifics regarding the razing of the city’s walls, in Leïla Ammar, Tunis, d’une ville à l’autre: Cartographie et histoire urbaine 1860–1935 (Tunis: Editions Nirvana, 2010), 162–87. It is not clear exactly when the walls along the eastern edge of the medina were actually dismantled, however. 109 Anon., Le dégagement de la Porte de France, 28 April 1936, n.p. In ANT FPC/M5/0011/0422. The same short letter to the editor references the “Haussmannization of the Hara” district. Ibid. 110 Anon., “Pour la Porte de France,” La Dépêche tunisienne, 9 September 1910, 2(?) in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0422. When rumours spread in 1910 that plans were afoot to raise two, three-storey buildings on the square (which were denied in Municipality of Tunis, “Porte de France,” 1910, in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0422) merchants and residents from the area protested, publishing an oppositional petition in the daily newspaper calling for the complete liberation of the gateway, in the name of beauty and hygiene, and the opening up of space for air and light. Ibid. 1939 is cited alone by Pellegrin, “Old Tunis,” 37, in 1945 as the date of the liberation, and nothing identified thus far at the ANT appears to mention disengaging the gate after 1939. 111 The enlarged square, in addition to appearing grander, would also have facilitated airflow within the adjacent medina quarters, thus improving hygienic conditions in the area. 106 unspecified Roman source. 112 Recalling Bertrand’s adoration of the triumphal arch motif, however, it is plausible to assume that some interpreted the monument in such a fashion.113 Still, the notion that the Tunisian bey may have likened it to the Arc de Triomphe on his visit to Paris suggests that a symbolic correlation between it and the triumphal arch, and Paris, was perceptible. Certainly its management and preservation by French officials during the early 1900s indicates that it was considered a significant landmark worthy of protection and physical isolation, not unlike ancient ruins excavated elsewhere. Its anchoring of the western end of the so-called Champs-Elysées of Tunis reinforces the notion. The expansion of its surrounding square since the 1920s, well into the postcolonial period, has continued the process of isolation and visual celebration of its increasingly decontextualized form. 114 Further indicating the importance of the monument, it is worth noting that when French officials constructed a military barracks on the site of the old fortified Casbah in 1884, officials designed its entrance to be a near-copy of the Sea Gate, framed by lower lateral pavilions, like a rationalized version of the model’s pre-1939 form (Figure 3.41).115 On this site, the center of pre-colonial governance, authorities deemed an arabisant effect to be appropriate. 112 Pellegrin, “Old Tunis,” 36. 113 Bertrand, Jardin, 245. 114 See Daniel E. Coslett, “Broadening the Study of North Africa’s Planning History: Urban Development and Heritage Preservation in Protectorate-era and Postcolonial Tunis” in Urban Planning in North Africa, ed. Carlos Nunes Silva (New York: Ashgate, 2016), 115–32. Italian colonialists in occupied Libya would perform similar interventions surrounding the ancient Roman Arch of Marcus Aurelius in Tripoli. See Mia Fuller, Moderns Abroad: Architecture, Cities and Italian Imperialism (New York: Routledge, 2007), 77. 115 M.G. Dolot, “Installation des bureaux des services militaires à Tunis,” Revue tunisienne 4, January 1897, 87. The entire Casbah casern complex was razed by the Tunisian government after independence. City hall now sits on the site. 107 3.4 Monuments and statuary: Jules Ferry, the personified Protectorate, Bourguiba and Ben Ali The honoring of illustrious individuals through the creation and public display of monumental art (statues, busts, plaques, etc.) was of course widespread in antiquity, and as a cultural practice it survives into the present era. Within the French context, before the Revolution (1789–99), such commemorative installations were generally dedicated to influential members of the aristocracy and to religious figures. The field widened as society underwent democratization after the revolution and came to more openly celebrate military and political personalities, but also artists, authors and other types of people through figural representation. The nineteenth century witnessed a major proliferation in the use of statues as public monuments, so much so that critics labeled the phenomenon statuomanie (statuemania).116 The erection of sculpted monuments was so prolific in Paris that by 1911 the city’s Municipal Council endorsed a 10-year moratorium on what members deemed to be excessive public commemoration.117 Through the commemoration of particular individuals and events one not only decorated or embellished public space in the modernizing city (a popular concept in France known as décor urbain), but dominant factions of society claimed territory, incorporating physical space into shared communal memories and cultural identities. Statuemania is thus not only an artistic and political phenomenon, it is an implicitly ideological process wherein those empowered to erect monuments express ideas that both represent and, to some extent, shape popular opinion. 118 The creation of lieux de mémoire (memory spaces) using intentional 116 Maurice Agulhon, “La ‘statuomanie’ et l’histoire,” Ethnologie française 8 no. 2/3 (1978): 145–72. Augulhon attributed the major increase in monumental statuary in France to that country’s defeat during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–1871. Despite the claims by some that statuemania’s origin lay in France, Read contends that it began in Britain twenty years earlier, following the death of Robert Peel and several other notable public figures. See Benedict Read, “The British contribution to statuemania in the 19th century,” in La sculpture au XIXe siècle, ed. Aurore de Neuville (Paris: Chaudun, 2008), 370–77. 117 Anon., “To Stop Statue Mania,” New York Times, 23 July 1911, 1. 118 Agulhon, “La ‘statuomanie,’” 146. 108 monuments, to which citizens associate meaning and on which they can partially base their identities, has become a popular practice of modern civil societies whose concern for factual or objective history has been supplanted by an interest in subjective communal memory.119 Within the context of colonialism, such marking of space took on particular significance and authorities frequently paid tribute to celebrities of the metropole, as well as to colonialist individuals (politicians, military heroes, et al.) of more local significance.120 Where Roman remains were abundant, such as in Algeria, officials were known to re-erect ancient statues, an act which not only revalorized them as relics but complemented figures of modern Frenchmen through their visual association. 121 In places such as Tunis, where historic assets of antiquity were insufficient, authorities engaged the past through symbolic allusions and rhetorical references. Tunisia was not immune to French-style statuemania, although it was less prevalent there than in Algeria where the martial nature of its initial conquest (1830) and occupation inspired a more widespread statuary deployment.122 Central Tunis appears to have hosted only three major monuments erected between the years 1899 and 1925, though certainly more could have been erected elsewhere in the city and in other cities throughout the Protectorate.123 The 119 On lieux de mémoires, see Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,” Representations 26 (1998): 7–24. 120 On French statuemania within the context of colonial Algeria, where soldiers and generals associated with the conquest of Algeria were most repeatedly celebrated, see Jan Jansen, “1880–1914: Une ‘statuomanie’ à l'algérienne,” in Histoire de l'Algérie à la période coloniale (1830–1962), eds. Abderrahmane Bouchène et al. (Paris: Découverte, 2012), 261–65. 121 Çelik, Empire, 132. 122 Jansen identified at least thirty-four monument dedications in Algeria from 1884–1914 alone. Jansen, “Statuomanie,” 263. No such total has yet been calculated for Tunisia, but based on the relatively few known monuments in central Tunis itself, it seems fair to assume a far smaller nationwide total. 123 No complete inventory has been compiled. Statues known to have appeared in Tunis during this period include ones of Jules Ferry (1899), Philippe Thomas (1913) and Archbishop Charles Lavigerie (1925, not 1892 as stated in Çelik, Empire, 132). At the dedication of Tunis’ Thomas monument, he was praised as the reviver of the country’s phosphates industry, which was described as dormant since the “disappearance of Roman civilization.” See Çelik, Empire, 134. The city of Sfax had monuments to Philippe Thomas (1913) and Paul Bourde. Bizerte had prominent monuments to Justin Massicault (1908, by Belloc), Roland Garros and Georges Madon, as well as one in honor of dead soldiers and the “Contrôle Civil.” A monument in memory of those killed in the sensational Farfadet (submarine) accident near Ferryville was installed there in 1909. This is likely an incomplete listing. The ANT contains 109 first public monument raised by the French administration drew significant attention and was dedicated in April 1899 during a large public ceremony staged before over 1,200 assembled guests and the visiting French Minister of Public Works, the Minister of Colonies, the Undersecretary of State for the Interior and the Undersecretary of State for Posts and Telegraphs.124 Celebrated in conjunction with the inauguration of Tunis’ agriculture school, Sousse’s new modern port, and an extension of the railroad between Sfax and Gafsa (industrial centers in the south) over the course of five days, the dedication was a spectacle for which balls, fireworks and special tours were given.125 Confidently gazing westwards towards the ville nouvelle and medina, a bronze statue of the ardent colonialist French Prime Minister Jules Ferry (1832–1893) was set amid a landscaped square (the Place Jules-Ferry) at the eastern terminus of the growing Avenue de la Marine (Figure 3.42).126 Antonin Mercié’s work depicted a “living translation” of the imperial mission civilisatrice through a tableau of submissive Tunisians.127 A female Tunisian gleaner offering wheat to Tunisia’s “regenerator” (Ferry) above, a resting colonist farmer and, on the back of the pedestal, a French child teaching a Tunisian to read from an open book represented agricultural prosperity and Western education.128 René Millet, the French Resident General, hailed the piece at its festive dedication as the “first statue erected [in Tunisia] since the fall of the Roman Empire” fourteen centuries before.129 He went on, likening correspondence on erecting monuments in Tunis to Paul Cambon, Jean-Baptiste Curtelin, Massicault, Maréchal Pétain and WWI dead, as well. 124 Detailed notes from the planning of the ceremony, including guest lists and seating arrangements, are found in CADN 1TU/1/V/14235. 125 A special commemorative song was composed and performed by 400 musicians. See Lafitte and Laffage, “A Jules Ferry: Cantate,” in CADN 1TU/1/V/14235. 126 Ferry’s name would in the next year be given to the entire avenue. Resplandy designed the monument’s pedestal. 127 Georges Perrot, “7 mai (I),” in A Jules Ferry, Tunis, 24 avril 1899, ed. Gaston Deschamps (Paris: Chaix, 1899), 38. Also on the reverse was a portrait medallion of Jules Barthélemy-Saint Hilaire (1805– 1895), philosopher and statesman. He was France’s foreign minister under Ferry and an ardent supporter of Tunisia’s annexation. The author likened him here to a “Roman ideal,” a Cato. Ibid. 128 Ibid. See also Çelik, Empire, 134. 129 René Millet, “Discours,” in Deschamps, ed., A Jules Ferry, 15. 110 Ferry to a Roman consul and describing him as a founder of French North Africa who here gazed over the subjugated Arab town. Despite the differences in attire (Ferry is depicted wearing contemporary clothing, rather than a toga) and the passing of time, he said, the statue is a descendant of monuments to his Roman predecessors that would have dotted ancient fora.130 Praising the Republic as master of a renewing empire far grander than was achievable by kings and by Rome, Millet again invokes antiquity by (hyperbolically) characterizing the day’s laudatory event as nothing short of an apotheosis (deification).131 Several years later, a controversial 1903 proposal for the installation of a bronze monument “to the glory of France and the Protectorate” on the Place de la Résidence between Colin’s Résidence générale and the cathedral sparked debate among Tunis’ residents and within its city hall. Though openly supported by the editorial staff at the Dépêche tunisienne,132 many were skeptical and deemed the expenditure of the allocated 140,000 Fr to be wasteful. Such a commemoration seemed inappropriate after only twenty-two years of rule, particularly when far more important sanitation and quality of life issues (e.g. paving streets, reducing odors emanating from the polluted lake, etc.) warranted the administration’s attention and resources, protested at least one Municipal Council member.133 According to a short article in the Algiers- based Revue nord africaine, two different monuments were being deliberated in early 1903 in 130 Ibid. 131 Ibid., 21. 132 The short piece mentions the existence of two different monuments being considered but attributes to this one a “special character of originality and artistic cachet.” Ibid. 133 Anon., La Dépêche tunisienne, January 25, 1903, n.p., in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0004. Some maintained that waiting until the 25th anniversary of the Protectorate (1906) made more sense. Ultimately, a Mr. Proust did not support the proposal. While his name was not released to the public, the Municipal Council’s archived meeting minutes betray his objection. See Conseil Municipal, Tunis, “Extrait du registre des délibérations: Exercice 1903, session ordinaire (1er trimestre), séance du 23 janvier 1903,” 7, in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0004. 111 advance of a planned visit by French President Émile Loubet.134 The preferred iteration was to depict “the arrival of France in Tunisia” through an image of a “pretty and robust peasant girl” (paysanne) riding an “ancient chariot” pulled by four Percheron horses. With the reins in her left hand, she controlled the rearing beasts, thereby demonstrating “strength and moderation.”135 Reaching down with her right hand, she beckoned towards another female figure, this one dressed in tattered clothes and representing a destitute Tunisia, it was said. Through this gesture, “France” or “the Protectorate” symbolically invited Tunisia to accompany her on a journey towards civilization and prosperity.136 Models for a simpler version—likely the second of the two monuments said to be under consideration—survive in Tunisia’s national archives.137 This one, which incorporated a water fountain feature at its base, included an enthroned allegorical female in Roman armor, reaching down from high above a pedestal of verdant landscape and swirling waves, an ox, a horse and natives. Here, the personified Protectorate/France again appeared in an attitude of beneficence and generosity, reaching down towards another female figure cowering below (Figure 3.43). Though photographs of the models prepared by its sculptor, 138 Jean-Baptiste Belloc,139 are a bit unclear, a report submitted to the Municipal Council describes the monument’s appearance in 134 Anon., “Nos échos: les gloires africaines,” La Revue nord africaine, 5 February 1903, n.p., in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0004. To the monument being described here, the article attributes a “special character of originality and artistic cachet.” No mention of the second type’s form is made. Ibid. 135 Ibid. 136 Ibid. 137 The second proposed monument was said in ibid. to depict a woman in antique attire reaching down from a tall pedestal to a take the hand of a female representing Tunisia. As there is no mention of a chariot or horses, it is likely that the monument being discussed here is the one for which photographs of the models survive. 138 Photographs without attribution found in “Correspondances, notes…relatifs de l’érection d’un monument commémoratif à la gloire de la France et de la colonisation.…,” in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0004. 139 Belloc (1863–1919), from Pamiers in southern France, received the École’s Grand Prix in 1890 and completed several different sculpture projects in North Africa, including the allegorical façade of Resplandy’s Municipal Theatre. He was the official sculptor for the Ministry of Colonies for a time. See Anon., “Le Prix de Rome,” La Justice, 24 April 1890, 3. 112 detail and assess its representation of the French Protectorate and colonization. References to antiquity were numerous: On a high pedestal, in which one sees fragments of Roman monuments recalling the glory of the past, is seated France dressed in Roman attire. She offers a helping hand to Tunisia. The latter stands at the foot of the pedestal, rising like a woman invoking assistance. In the left foreground is a reposing cow, symbolizing agriculture, and to the right is a seated woman representing viticulture. Behind France, a little to the right, is a Tunisia cavalryman on a spirited horse…. The female characters are dressed in the Roman style. None of them will wear the indigenous costume. Nothing in the attitudes, or in the expressions of the figures, nor in the clothing will displease any part of the Tunisian population. The impression given by the monumental ensemble is one of homage to France and to the establishment of the Protectorate. The proud posture of the Tunisian cavalier indicates that France has not come to enslave the indigenous people, but that she intends, on the contrary, to maintain in them the sentiments of personal dignity that suit free people.140 Hinting at the perceived universality of Rome and references to it, the report’s authors suggested that members of the “non-French part of the [European] population” (primarily Italian nationals) would draw from the apparently non-controversial and modestly rendered Roman costumes memories of their own past in Tunisia (i.e. ancient Roman) and identify with their shared civilization.141 It was hoped that the monument would “satisfy the moral needs” of the city’s residents, act as an homage to France, and represent concord among all its inhabitants.142 The personification of France, often called by the name Marianne, as a classically clad female in this fashion was not unusual during this era, though armor was less common than draped robes or a tunic that might suggest maternal rather than martial qualities. It would have been familiar to residents of Tunis who would have encountered it printed on official government 140 Conseil Municipal, “Extrait…23 janvier 1903,” 4. Note that there is no mention of a second proposed monument including a chariot, as discussed in anon., “Nos échos,” leading one to question the validity of their assertion that there were two types. 141 Conseil Municipal, “Extrait…23 janvier 1903,” 4. References to the clothing may also be addressing the issue of modesty considered appropriate for Tunisian viewers. That is to say that the statue did not accentuate maternal aspects of the personified France figure through the depiction of the woman bare- breasted, as was often the case in post-revolution France (but less so by the end of the nineteenth century). See Joan Landes, Visualizing the Nation: Gender, Representation, and Revolution in Eighteenth-Century France (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 2001). 142 Conseil Municipal, “Extrait…23 janvier 1903,” 6. 113 documents and posters or in busts placed within municipal buildings (as was standard in France after the 1880s). 143 Indeed, the allegorical representation of the Republic following the Revolution drew heavily on ancient iconographic precedent in its depiction of the State as an abstract embodiment of the concept of liberty.144 In her antique costume she represented, at least initially, a desire “to institute an ideal non-despotic Republic wherein personal liberty and communal togetherness would be reconciled” through an impersonal image, a metaphor for a universal post-revolutionary French society.145 Her armor, representing at the most simple level strength, may also be viewed as a connection to Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom, arts and trade—thus an appropriate allusion for the protector(ate). Despite being a fairly typical mode of representation, this particular monument was thus explicitly contextualized by the salience of Tunisia’s ancient history and colonial-era demographics and politics, rendering it particularly potent. Indeed, attempts by revolution-era artists to “resacralize the present by way of a primitive model of Greek and Roman antiquity” via such imagery seems somewhat compatible with the hubristic claims made by nostalgic French colonialists in Tunisia who sought 143 See Maurice Agulhon, Marianne au pouvoir (Paris: Flammarion, 1989). A Marianne bust is visible in a photo of the arabisant municipal council chamber designed by Resplandy for Sfax in Rafaël Guy, L’Architecture moderne de style arabe (Paris: Librarie de la Construction Moderne, c. 1920) pl. 40. That anti-colonial contingents in Tunisia adopted similar historicizing allegorical imagery in their propagandistic representations of the Destour Party and Tunisia is noteworthy. See, for example, the former represented by a faces- and liberty flame-wielding figure in a chariot being crowned by a winged Tunisia (1924) and the latter in the “Apotheosis of Tunisia” figure depicted as a classically draped and loosely veiled figure resting on a fasces (representing union) radiating light (c. 1925). Images represented in Anon. “L’Afrique française,” Chronique de Tunisie: Août 1922–Août 1928 (Tunis: n.p., 1928), 256 and 286. (BNF). 144 Such civic imagery replaced that of the abolished monarchy and Church. Whereas the State had previously been represented metonymically by the sovereign (in his person and image), it was thence to be represented by a woman with spear and Phrygian cap (ancient symbol of freedom), thus the traditional image of Liberty repurposed as the Republic or Marianne. See Maurice Agulhon, Marianne Into Battle (New York: Cambridge University, 1981), 11–37. It is not known, because the archived photos are not clear, if the Tunis monument’s France allegory wears a Phrygian cap. No mention is made in the detailed description excerpted above. The particular attribute fluctuated in popularity and was not always used because of its popular revolutionary connotations (which, for example, discomforted bourgeois liberals in 1848 who thus excluded the cap from their imagery). See Agulhon, Marianne Into Battle, 88. 145 Landes, Visualizing, 76. 114 to establish a modern corollary to Rome’s civilizing empire. 146 Belloc had experience in representing France in such a manner. His monument to the French Empire for Paris, originally proposed in 1909 and then scaled down and done in 1913, represented the empire through allegorical groupings and referential accouterments (Figures 3.44 and 3.45).147 Close inspection of this extant sculpture reveals some details that may have been similar to his proposed work for Tunis and gives a sense of the unexecuted work’s appearance, scale and dynamism. Ultimately, all but one member of the Municipal Council voted to approve the monument’s installation, the group having confirmed that its cost was not prohibitive and would not jeopardize planned city improvement projects. The Municipal Council’s president, “in his name and in the name of all indigenous council members,” approved of Belloc’s proposal and assured the body that “all the indigenous population” of Tunis shared in the desire to see a monument raised “to the glory of France and in honor of the Protectorate.”148 Despite the Public Works Department’s professed willingness to see the project advance (with appropriate consultation of competent architects, engineers and artists and mindful that it could neither detract from nor delay planned projects),149 it was ultimately abandoned. Whereas the exact circumstances of its demise remain unknown, the monument’s imperious nature may have been partially to blame for its failure. Its use of conservative, Neoclassical imagery was perhaps no longer appropriate or useful at a time when the “protector” had trumped the “conqueror.” One may furthermore wonder to what extent the outright glorification of a female, regardless of her 146 Ibid. 147 Robert Aldrich, Vestiges of the Colonial Empire in France (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2005), 19– 20; Robert Aldrich, “Colonies et commémoration,” Outre-mers 93 no. 350 (2006): 5–9. 148 Conseil Municipal, “Extrait…23 janvier 1903,” 6. 149 Directeur général des travaux publics, “Note pour Monsieur le Secrétaire générale du gouvernement tunisien,” 23 March 1903, in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0004. Projects of superior utility specified included road expansions and “piercings” through the city center, roadways to serve as promenades (for pedestrians and those on horseback) outside the city, as well as the extension of electric street lighting. Ibid., 1. 115 abstract generality and relatively modest appearance, may have been deemed objectionable for the Tunisian context, despite the Council president’s expressed satisfaction.150 The culmination of a relatively peaceful liberation struggle, particularly when compared to neighbouring Algeria, independence in Tunisia came on 20 March 1956. It was not accompanied by the wholesale renunciation of European influences seen elsewhere, such as in Algiers. Indeed, during the initial period of his long presidency, Habib Bourguiba negotiated the complexities of sovereignty and ties to France with considerable dexterity.151 Pursuant to article five of the post-independence constitution (promulgated in 1959), for example, the Tunisian State guaranteed the protection of Christianity (and all religious sects), provided its henceforth discreet practices not disrupt public order, and foreign nationals were not required to leave the country. The conditional welcome notwithstanding, most Europeans did leave Tunisia in the decade following independence. 152 In light of Tunisian sovereignty, officials reappropriated spaces in Tunis through the renaming of landmarks and the removal of the most prominent 150 Far less modest was the allegorical representation of the City of Tunis on a commemorative medal designed by Louis Bottée to honor the dedication of the city’s new port in 1893. Bare-breasted, the figure appeared with a star/crescent necklace, mural crown and long hair, and sat resting on an “RF” shield and rudder emblazoned with a star and crescent. Direction générale des travaux publics, Les travaux publics du protectorat français en Tunisie (Tunis: Picard, 1900), 124. 151 The Tunisian monarchy was abolished the year after independence. Bourguiba became the president of the Tunisian Republic in 1957 and remained the country’s first president until he was replaced in a palace coup led by Ben Ali in 1987. Kenneth J. Perkins, A History of Modern Tunisia (New York: Cambridge University, 2004), 130–57 and 185–212. 152 For example, French residents in Tunisia dropped from 182,300 in 1956 to 16,700 a decade later. In the same period, the number of resident Italian nationals decreased from 67,600 to 10,500. Sebag, Tunis, 609–14. In accordance with the 1964 Modus Vivendi agreement between Tunis and the Vatican, forfeited Church properties were repurposed as public institutions in a manner “compatible with their former usage,” such as community art center, theatre or police station. See Article 6, “Conventio (Modus vivendi) inter apostolicam sedem et Tunetanam rempublicam (juin 1964)” reprinted in Pierre Soumille, “l’Église Catholique et l’État Tunisien Après l’Indépendance,” in Les relations églises-état en situation postcoloniale, eds. Philippe Delisle and Marc Spindler (Paris: Karthala, 2002), 197–99. 116 colonialist monuments.153 Statues of Cardinal Lavigerie, the placement of which inside the medina had been controversial since its installation in 1925 (see Figure 3.40),154 and Jules Ferry were stricken from the capital’s cityscape right away. Toponyms were adjusted accordingly; most notably, the Avenue Jules-Ferry became the Avenue Habib Bourguiba in honor of the nation’s pater patriæ. New monuments and place names were deployed throughout the capital to represent post-Protectorate Tunisia in the years immediately following independence. Figures of Bourguiba were popular, and he appeared in statuary form, as well as on banknotes and postage stamps, throughout the country. The most prominent monument was located at the base of the immediately renamed Avenue Bourguiba. Employing a typical European public art form synonymous with power, prestige and permanence—dating at least to ancient Greece and rarely found in Islamic contexts—authorities in 1978 erected a bronze equestrian statue of the Bourguiba (who had been declared “President for life” in 1974) just east of the former Place Jules-Ferry. Dressed in Western attire and wearing a traditional chechia stambouli (a tall, felt hat similar to the Turkish fez), the self-styled Combattant suprême (Supreme Combatant) rode heroically towards the city, his hand raised in paternal benediction (Figure 3.46). The five-meter statue by Hachemi Marzouk, set atop a slender pedestal, depicted Bourguiba’s celebrated 153 On the similar, but more dramatic, exodus and appropriation of the colonial city in Algiers after independence in 1962, see Henry S. Grabar, “Reclaiming the City: Changing Urban Meaning in Algiers After 1962,” Cultural Geographies 21 no. 3 (2014): 389–409. 154 Curiously, it had been determined by the city council that placing the statue in the Place de la Résidence (as proposed by Archbishop Lemaître) was aesthetically unappealing and politically inappropriate due to issues of official state secularism, the religious diversity of the city’s population, and the need to respect sightlines to the Jules Ferry monument at the avenue’s opposite end. Little similar consideration appears to have been initially afforded to the chosen, contentious location. See Conseil Municipal, Tunis, “Extrait,” in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0002. See also Coslett, “(Re)creating,” 369–71. Pursuant to an agreement made with the archbishop, the statue was removed by French laborers late at night on May 7/8, 1956. See Haut-commissaire de France à Tunis, Correspondance to M. le Secrétaire d’Etat aux Affaires étrangères à Paris, May 24, 1956 (#701) in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. See also Pierre Soumille, “La représentation de l’Islam chez les chrétiens de Tunisie pendant le protectorat français (1881–1956) et après l’indépendance,” in L’Altérité religieuse: Un défi pour la mission chrétienne, eds. Françoise Jacquin and Jean-François Zorn (Paris: Karthala, 2001), 104–5. 117 return from exile in France on 1 June 1955, during which he navigated “majestically” through crowds on horseback. 155 Given Bourguiba’s opposition to what he considered Tunisia’s “outmoded traditions,”156 and his endorsement of major socio-cultural “modernization” plans using European models, his adoption of this form of commemoration comes as little surprise. Lording over the so-called Champs-Elysées of Tunis like a Roman emperor or European monarch, his image was captured in perpetual triumph but remained in place for less than a decade. Following a palace coup lead by then-Prime Minister Zine el Abidine Ben Ali in 1987, the new president (who would govern until the recent Arab Spring revolution of 2011) exiled the equestrian Bourguiba statue to suburban La Goulette.157 In its place he installed a large clock intended to represent his ascendency—which he characterized and called a democratic Changement (the Change)—on four round arches and piers in an arguably abstracted classicizing image (Figure 3.47). A far grander thirty-seven-meter clock tower, with a musical fountain at its base, was installed during a comprehensive renovation of the entire Avenue Bourguiba in 2001, however, in place of the original clock monument. Authorized by Ben Ali in honor of the third millennium and Tunis’ renewal since the start of his tenure, its dedicatory plaque made clear his self-aggrandizing intentions but said nothing of its form (Figure 3.48). 155 Tahar Belkhodja, Les trois décennies Bourguiba (Paris: Arcantères/Publisud, 1998),13. Marzouk was a member of the artists’ École de Tunis and completed several major presidential commissions during the 1970s. While exiled in France, Bourguiba is said to have practiced riding for the occasion. Ibid. June 1 remains a national holiday in Tunisia, celebrated as Victory Day. On the earlier use of equestrian statues by French colonialists, in Algiers for example, see Çelik, Empire, 119. Bourguiba was frequently depicted in the media during his presidency on horseback. See, for example, Anon., “J’espère que l’on pourra édifier bientôt le grand maghreb arabe,” La Presse de Tunisie, 12–13 August 1957, 1. 156 Perkins, History (2004), 140. 157 The statue was restored to the Avenue and placed just west of its original location in 2016 by order of President Essebsi (a self-proclaimed supporter of Bourguiba’s legacy) who viewed the monument as a representation of the unity among Tunisia’s people. See Samy Ghorbal, “La statue du Commandeur,” Jeune Afrique, 29 May–4 June 2016, 36–39. On Bourguiba’s continued significance as a nationalist representation of modernity in Tunisia, see Mathilde Zederman, “The Hegemonic Bourguibist Discourse on Modernity in Post-revolutionary Tunisia,” Middle East Law and Governance 8 (2016): 179–200. 118 Capped in gold, the tower’s dark bronze skin was laser cut with a traditional mashrabiya (latticework) pattern, the ornate filigree rendered particularly visible when illuminated from within after dark. The presence of water below and the astrolabe-like shape of the clock’s face were said to be further representative of Arab culture, while the highly technical nature of its manufacture and function—executed in conjunction with French and Spanish firms—was cited as an important sign of modernity in (state-supervised) press reports.158 The President’s office published little information regarding its design or intended symbolism, and major architectural publications offer no account for its apparently Egyptian obelisk-like profile. To a somewhat lesser extent, however, formal similarity with Tunisia’s iconic Punic-Libyan mausoleum at ancient Dougga may also be observed (see Figures 2.7 and 3.49).159 Such a correspondence would not be surprising, given the regime’s preoccupation with Carthage. In the clock monument one ultimately witnesses not only contemporary urban spectacle at its colorful best, but also another apparent re-presentation of an abiding ancient monument type by a president with a strong affinity for Tunisia’s ancient past.160 158 Anon., “Aménagement de la Place du 7 novembre de Tunis,” Architecture méditerranéenne: La Tunisie modèrne (2007): 98–99. 159 On the monument and its restoration see Louis Poinsott, “La restauration du mausolée de Dougga,” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 54 no. 9 (1910): 780–87. 160 The similarity between the new tower and the Champs-Elysée’s Luxor obelisk is hard to overlook (particularly in its color and shape), as is the shared use of obelisk and arch anchors, carefully manicured trees, Morris columns, intricate French-made lamps and historical façades. Indeed, the entire 2000–2003 renovation of the Avenue, of which this monument’s installation was part, can be seen as a city-branding exercise that emphasized the streetscape’s formal connections to the former metropole. See Coslett, “(Re)branding.” It should also be noted that public clock towers were important urban installations used by Ottoman rulers during and after the reformist Tanzimat era (1839–1876), when modernity, organization and efficiency were stressed as official policy. See Çelik, Empire, 146–53. Postcolonial authorities in Tunisia have, to some degree, turned to Ottoman/Turkish models (Bourguiba was a devotee of Atatürk), so some theoretical relationship may in theory exist. The formal similarity to ancient structures, however, is clearly apparent. 119 3.5 Alternatives to antiquity: Arabesque and “Mediterranean” architectures French colonial policies throughout North Africa entered a relatively liberal stage at the end of the nineteenth century, the heavy-handed militaristic phase of initial conquest having given way to the more nuanced techniques of an entrenched occupation. Assimilation goals became those of association, the former having been deemed “rigid, unscientific, and harmful” and thus a policy position unfit for an increasingly diverse empire.161 Considered to be simpler, more flexible and politically practical, official association was endorsed by a new generation of colonialists that sought sustained control through increased cooperation between indigenous and imperial authorities. To this policy shift, Béguin linked the transition from the architectural “style of the conqueror” to the arabisant or “style of the protector.”162 The aesthetic of the latter made explicit references to the regional vernacular through designs that claimed conscientious sensitivity to both site and context in an approach that Gwendolyn Wright has identified as an “aesthetic strategy of inclusion, with…[an] emphasis on cultural interplay” that nonetheless reinforced the position of power held by the colonizers.163 French architect Joseph Marrast, active in Morocco during the 1910s, revealed the intent of such architectural tactics, boasting that by his time the French had “little by little…conquere[d] the hearts of the natives and [won] their affection, as…[was their] duty as colonizers.”164 Thus, far from repudiating Orientalist paternalism or the mission civilisatrice, the so-called “style of the protector” functioned as an expression of France’s subjective interpretation and exploitation of local identities, to which it persisted in ascribing an inferior status while working to assuage anti-colonial resentment.165 161 Betts, Assimilation, 8. 162 Béguin, Arabisances, 11. 163 Ibid. and Wright, Politics, 126. 164 Joseph Marrast quoted in Wright, Politics, 1. 165 Shirine Hamadeh, “Creating the Traditional City: A French Project,” in Forms of Dominance, ed. Nezar AlSayyad (Brookfield, VT: Avebury, 1992), 247–48. 120 The patronizing and Orientalizing arabisant style was the specialty of several French architects who established careers in Tunisia. Merging typical European architectural programs with whitewashed planar facades, horseshoe arches, crenelated rooflines and minaret-shaped clock towers, they attempted to symbolically represent a softer side of colonialism. Raphaël Guy’s L’Architecture moderne166 and Victor Valensi’s L’Habitation tunisienne (1923)167 illustrate well the degree to which arabisant architects appropriated indigenous forms and subtly molded them to suit the needs of European residents who came to prefer more contextual built environments. In the case of the latter, the architect positioned himself as a revivalist and an expert in Tunisian “architecture and plastic arts,” which locals had long since neglected in favor of “styles from Europe,” he said.168 The power of the neoclassical image, evocative of both Paris and Rome, had thus become seen as too much, too imperial. The juxtaposition between Saladin’s PTT headquarters and the smaller post office by Guy (1906) for Tunis’ Bab Souika neighborhood—with its whitewashed façade, clock-tower minaret and jagged crenellation— clearly illustrates the changed perspectives (Figure 3.50).169 The repudiation of such references demonstrated an acknowledgment of architecture’s authority and symbolic potential. Indeed, when bold, Beaux-Arts classicism staged a resurgence in the West during the 1910s and 1920s, it failed to secure a prominent place in North Africa, further confirming the perceived impropriety of columns, pediments and associated imperialist allusions. The 1931 International Congress on Urbanism in the Colonies, held in conjunction with the Paris Colonial Exposition, debated 166 Raphael Guy (1869–1918) was particularly prolific in Tunisia, though the particulars of his life and career remain largely elusive. He was made chief architect of Tunisia’s Central Directorate of Public Works in 1905. See his L’Architecture moderne for a catalogue of his eclectic works (with several by a few other arabisant designers). See also Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 227–28. 167 Victor Valensi, L’Habitation tunisienne (Paris: Ch. Massin, 1923). 168 Ibid., 6. 169 Plans for the post office (demolished in 1986) are found in CAP as Raphaël Guy, “Bureau des postes et télégraphes, Bab Souika, Tunis (Tunisie). 1906,” in CAP objet BAH-2-1906-08447 and a photo of its primary façade is in Guy, L’Architecture moderne, pl. 28. 121 standards for urban development and architecture throughout the French Empire. 170 Its conclusions reflected the rejection of historicist architectural styles and the deployment of increasingly popular modernist European approaches to colonized territories. Whereas the majority of the statements agreed upon by participants related to master planning and hygienic concerns, architectural style was acknowledged—explicitly and implicitly—in several published Congress tenets. In order to “contribute to the organization of cities, to elevate the morale of their inhabitants and to improve their welfare,” the Congress asserted that urban plans ought to respect the beliefs and traditions of all residents, and that “all pastiche of historic architecture should be avoided” in favor of simple, efficient, modern forms.171 Within the context of developing Modernisms in Europe and the West, and in the wake of WWII—which wrought considerable destruction throughout occupied North Africa 172 —the architecture of reconstruction took a decidedly theoretical approach. Under the direction of French architect Bernard Zehrfuss (winner of the prestigious Prix de Rome) the postwar colonial Department of Architecture and Urbanism experimented with regional construction methods and abstract modernist forms in what has been called “an arena of architectural experimentation without precedent.” 173 Administrators employed architects trained in colonial Morocco from France, Algeria and Libya—all of whom had graduated from École des Beaux-Arts in Paris— worked together with considerable freedom in the immediate postwar period towards the 170 Patricia A. Morton, Hybrid Modernities: Architecture and Representation at the 1931 Colonial Exposition, Paris (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 2000). 171 Henri Prost, “Rapport général,” in L’Urbanisme aux colonies et dans les pays tropicaux, (vol.1), ed. Jean Royer (La Charité-sur-Loire: Delayance, 1932), 22. Additional recommendations included that cities should be decorated with indigenous arts (but “metropolitan arts” may be used when modern necessities warrant them), housing should respond to climate effectively and ancient ruins must be protected and conserved by appropriately trained professionals. Ibid., 22–23. 172 775,000 sq. m. of buildings were completely destroyed nationwide, 500,000 sq. m. of buildings were partially destroyed, 1,200,000 sq. m. of buildings were damaged and approximately 75,000 people were affected. Jean Drieu La Rochelle and Jason Kyriacopoulos, “Anciennes techniques renouvlées,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 118. 173 Kenzari, “Perchoir,” 77–87. 122 amelioration of housing shortages and the improvement of locals’ quality of life and work.174 Towards these ends, the team freely appropriated local construction techniques to expedite efficient and inexpensive reconstruction projects.175 An architecture of synthesis emerged from 1943–1950 that sought to bridge the gap between the previous styles of the “conqueror” and “protector” by means of modernist abstraction deeply rooted in local tradition.176 According to Zehrfuss, the limited availability of raw materials (particularly iron) and the abundance of trained local labor necessitated a return to traditional construction techniques that could be approached rationally. 177 This positive abstraction of the vernacular challenged prevailing sentiments regarding the universality of Modernism, and the resulting “Arabizing modernism” approached tradition from a rational perspective.178 Zehrfuss and Kyriacopoulos’ Professional School for Building (Centre de formation professionnelle du bâtiment, also called École d’apprentissage in some documents) in Tunis (1943–1947) exemplified the group’s historicist/vernacular approach (Figure 3.51). Established to facilitate the training of much-needed local craftsmen in the architectural and construction arts, the facility was housed in a whitewashed structure centered on an open courtyard and surrounded by vaulted chambers below rooms with concrete piers. 174 The postwar Department of Architecture and Urbanism was informally known as the Perchoir (roost) because of the office’s location within a historic palace’s kitchen. Its projects included housing complexes as well as schools, sports facilities, and hospitals. Bernard Zehrfuss, “Reconstruction en Tunisie,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, September/October 1945, 43. The accomplishments of the reconstruction team were celebrated in an exposition launched in Paris in 1945 in order to demonstrate successes and foster support within the France. Its architecture and contents would be an interesting contribution to existing literature on expo/fair pavilions. See Jean Thuillier, “Tunisie 45,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, September/October 1945, 56–57. 175 La Rochelle and Kyriacopoulos, “Anciennes techniques.” 176 Kenzari, “Perchoir,” 79–80. 177 B.-H. Zehrfuss, “Études et réalisations d’architecture et d’urbanisme faites en Tunisie depuis 1943,” l’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 16. 178 Kenzari, “Perchoir,” 81. See also Marc Breitman, Rationalisme et tradition: Le cas Marmey (Brussels: Mardaga, 1995), 101–11. 123 Reminiscent of a traditional fondouk, the building served as a model for schools to be constructed throughout Tunisia.179 Whereas the group emphasized elements of the regional vernacular deemed “Arab,” Zehrfuss, its leader, recognized the foundational significance of the country’s Roman past. “One cannot speak of Tunisia without evoking its past,” he said when asked to address construction in postwar Tunisia. 180 Both the Roman and Muslim eras greatly influenced the history of Tunis’ built environments, but “Roman order” existed still, he maintained, and remained “present everywhere.”181 The ancient lurked in works sometimes described ambiguously and atemporally as “Mediterranean” in nature. The Porto Farina School by Paul Herbé and Jacques Marmey (1945), for example, interpreted local forms in its use of barrel-vaulted classrooms, which the architects arranged so that the seaward façade evokes the image of Roman aqueducts (Figure 3.52).182 Marmey’s Lycée de Carthage (1949–1954), also set overlooking the sea, was intended to respect the integrity of the nearby ancient site. The complex’s “being integrated into the landscape and, by extension, into the history of the place” shaped its formal development.183 Whitewashed volumes, arches, domes and simple arcades linked Modernity to Mediterranean past via contemporary Arabo-Islamic traditions, thus freeing architects from associating with politicized history outright or uncritically. It is worth acknowledging that architects in Tunisia did not present their works as “Mediterranean” nearly as vociferously as did their Italian counterparts in Libya, where stressing the supposed mediterraneità of indigenous architectures aided in justifying the colonialist appropriation of North African forms as a part of larger 179 Maxime Rolland, “Centre de formation professionnelle du bâtiment à Tunis,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 90–91. See also Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 196–97. 180 Bernard Zehrfuss, “Exposé de M. Bernard Zehrfuss,” Annales de l’Institut technique du bâtiment et des travaux publics no. 135 (June 1950), 3. 181 Ibid. 182 Kenzari, “Perchoir,” 85. See also Breitman, Rationalisme, 184–87. 183 Breitman, Rationalisme, 159. See also ibid., 194–99, and Anon., “Le nouveau Lycée de Carthage,” l’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, June 1955, 98–99. 124 colonialist processes underway there.184 The explicit (politicized) theorization seen in the Italian colonial context did not occur in Tunisia, and some French writers publically opposed the racism latent in such claims.185 While the appearance of some buildings erected in Tunis during the 1930s did show some formal similarity to contemporary buildings raised in occupied Libya (Figure 3.53), and indeed Italian architects were active in Tunis during the Fascist period, most buildings designed for Tunis during this time were more blatantly eclectic in appearance.186 The traditional courtyard home or villa, for example, received considerable attention from Italian architects during the Fascist era, many of whom explicitly equated archaeology with civilization and architecture.187 Italian writers thus often stressed the Roman origin of such domestic architecture to demonstrate perceived cultural superiority and justify their presence in Africa.188 Despite claims that “Arabs have effectively created nothing, but simply adapted” existing forms from past civilizations with which they have had contact,189 French scholars and architects appear to have been less concerned with articulating direct links to ancient models (Figure 184 See Fuller, Moderns, 96–106, Federico Cresti, “Orientalisme, folklore, romanité, méditerranéité, modernité: débat sur la construction de la ville coloniale en Libye au cours des années 1930,” in Architectures au Maghreb (XIXe –XXe siècles): Réinvention du patrimoine, ed. Myriam Bacha (Tours: Presses Universitaires François-Rabelais, 2011), 87–112, and Brian McLaren, Architecture and Tourism in Italian Colonial Libya: An Ambivalent Modernism (Seattle: University of Washington, 2006), 183–217. 185 See, for example, an essay by a French writer/poet critical of the Mediterranean concept. Gabriel Audisio, “Vers une synthèse méditerranéenne,” Tunisie (Revue illustrée), April 1936, 9–12. Note the venue—a journal specifically dedicated to Tunisia. Les Chantiers nord-africains, a journal with a distinct modernist perspective, appears to have run a series of articles on the history of “Mediterranean” architecture in 1929 and 1930. The general premise appears to be that the Mediterranean basin had experienced a certain unity that generated shared art and architectural forms. See for example M.J. Coteraux, “Vers un architecture méditerranéenne,” Les Chantiers nord-africains (January 1930): 19–21; M.J. Coteraux, “Vers un architecture méditerranéenne,” Les Chantiers nord-africains (February 1930): 117–120. 186 On “Italian” architecture in Tunisia during the Protectorate, see Ettore Sessa, “Archiecture et communauté italienne en Tunisie pendant les vingt ans du fascisme,” in Godoli, Architectures, 42–53. 187 Fuller, Moderns, 1–4. See, also, Flavia Marcello, “Fascism, Middle-class Ideals, and Holiday Villas at the 5th Milan Trienale,” Open Arts Journal 2 (2014), accessed 14 April 2017, http://dx.doi.org/10.5456/issn.2050-3679/2013w08fm. 188 Fuller, Moderns, 1–4. See also Joshua Arthurs, Excavating Modernity: The Roman Past in Fascist Italy (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 2012). 189 A. Soubreville, “La maison indigène du Centenaire,” Les Chantiers nord-africains (January 1931), 39. 125 3.54).190 The portico and domestic courtyard, or colonnaded central patio, were frequently presented as elements of transhistorical significance and signs of Mediterranean continuity; they originated with the Greeks, were transmitted to the Romans, and thence to the Arabs, according to the typical account. 191 Architect/authors such as Guy and Valensi focused on the picturesqueness and efficiency of what they considered to be Arabo-Islamic forms in the years before WWII.192 In the years after, it seems reasonable to assume that many French designers and officials would have wanted to abstain from language that seemed to align them with their antagonistic Italian counterparts; Audisio’s words testify to such a political aversion.193 The “Maison minima” (1943) of Zehrfuss and Kyriacopoulos—an inexpensive and easily reproduced housing typology—was presented as a descendant from traditional rural homes in south and central Tunisia, rather than a new Greek or Roman house (Figure 3.55). Its architects claimed that the barrel-vaulted rectangular spaces, to be arranged as modules around an open 190 On the diversity of historic influences (Roman, Greek, and Eastern) in the development of the traditional North African (Tunisian and Algerian) home, see Georges Marçais, “Les origines de la maison nord-africaine,” Cahiers des arts et techniques d’Afrique du Nord 7 (1974): 43–62. Hakim, writing about the houses in Tunis’ medina, attributes them primarily to Mesopotamian models. Hakim, Cities, 137. See also Friedrich Ragette, Traditional Domestic Architecture of the Arab Region (Fellbach: Axel Menges, 2003). 191 Jean Coterau, “Vers une architecture méditerranéenne,” Les Chantiers nord-africains (April 1931), 382. Coterau describes the patio as the inverse of the portico. De Planhol, in 1959, maintained that the traditional urban house of the Maghreb and Egypt can be seen as a descendent of the Greek patio and peristyle house type, as well as their later North African Byzantine-era evolutions, rather than the Roman atrium house. He recognized a significant difference in the pierced roof of the Roman house and the fully articulated courtyard of the Greek. De Planhol, World, 25–26. On the universality of the courtyard house and its interpretation and global deployment throughout history, see Nasser O. Rabbat, ed. The Courtyard House (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010). 192 For example, Guy, L’Architecture moderne includes almost no text describing or critically contextualizing the dozens of arabisant works it includes from the first two decades of the twentieth- century. The volume’s editors, in their short preface, describe the buildings as “adaptations of the traditional Arab style to modern edifices” at the hands of “Franco-Arab” architects like Guy, Valensi, et al. They go on to praise said architects for their reawakening of Arab architecture—long dormant, they say— with their creativity and technical skill, thereby rendering it hygienic and perfectly suited to modern needs. Ibid., 1–2. Valensi’s L’Habitation tunisienne (1923) is similarly short in text, including just two pages by the author/architect as introduction to his forty plates and plans. Though he credits the Romans for introducing the proportion and use (la tenue) of the horseshoe arch, he makes no claims as to the origin of the traditional courtyard house’ plan. 193 Audisio, “Synthèse.” 126 courtyard, “conformed to local habits and traditions.”194 Any potential links to ancient precedents were not vigorously advanced. Outside the old city, preoccupations with sympathetic or conciliatory arabisant forms and the importation of metropolitan styles (Art Deco, for example) during the interwar period had prevailed. Carlo Rava’s hybrid architecture, which blended indigenous and Rationalist forms in Italian-occupied Libya, and his paradoxical disdain for the local vernacular, thus had no widespread equal in Tunisia.195 Florestano Di Fausto’s “Mediterranean vision” for Libya, though similar in effect to the work of Prost and Lyautey in Morocco,196 was subject to far greater antiquity-based theorization than was the work of his contemporary architects in Tunisia who operated with less overtly politicized purposes. The revival of efficient, locally mastered construction techniques in the postwar context dominated Tunisia’s architectural discourse in the late 1940s and into 1950s and, although many of the emulated vernacular types could be said to have Roman precedents in part, architects appear to have made relatively little claim to direct ancient inspiration.197 The Perchoir’s experimentation after WWII, however, was successful and celebrated internationally.198 A special issue of the French periodical L’Architecture d’Aujourd’hui focused exclusively on Tunisia in 1948 and lauded its postwar reconstruction, specifically addressing 194 Maxime Rolland, “La maison minima tunisienne,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 70. See Glorieux and Glorieux-Monfred’s El Omrane Housing complex in Tunis, where similarly conceived modular housing units were deployed for Tunisians following WWII. See Anon., “Cité musulmane El Omrane à Tunis,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 24. 195 McLaren, Architecture, 171–81. 196 Ibid., 188–89. Di Fausto designed the Italian Consulate in Tunis (1931–1932), which today functions as the country’s embassy. See also Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 146–47 197 Large-scale housing projects, typically built of concrete, were seen to be apace with international Modernist trends. Diverse cultural specificity existed, but was less emphasized than had been the case in Morocco, where the ABAT-Afrique complex of Candilis, Woods, et al. had been exemplary. See Monique Eleb, “The concept of habitat: Écochard in Morocco,” in Colonial Modern: Aesthetics of the Past, Rebellions for the Future, ed. Tom Avermaete (London: Black Dog, 2010), 153–61. Still, some projects were noteworthy because of their supposed emulation of vernacular elements and construction techniques. See George E. Kidder Smith, ‘‘Report from Tunisia,’’ Architectural Forum, July 1950, 30. 198 For details regarding the group’s specific accomplishments, see Zehrfuss, “Études,” 16–18. 127 housing, schools, religion and hygienic institutions. The issue, which in its entirety functioned essentially as a testimony to France’s “civilization” and continued regeneration of Tunisia, also included accounts of the country’s Roman and “Muslim” architectural histories for the sake of foundational background (Figure 3.56). Written by G. Picard, the Director of Antiquities at the time, the essay on Roman Tunisia includes a lengthy account of the province’s administrative history and highlights a handful of the country’s most celebrated ancient sites. Not only does the text describe noteworthy extant ruins and stress their impressive state of preservation, it also foregrounds aspects of their form and function that might be considered relevant from the Modernist perspective. For example, a caption beside a pair of photos depicting the subterranean Roman houses at Bulla-Regia indicates that they are an example of architectural adaptation to North Africa’s climatic conditions. 199 Otherwise, the text stresses continuity between Punic and Roman architectural history, even extending its evolutionary argument into the contemporary indigenous context by pointing out that Tunisian homes of the twentieth century remained centrally planned about open-air patios—typically featuring fountains—just like Roman homes did.200 “Tunisia—past, present and future—is the land of the arch, the vault, and the dome,” praised a similarly celebratory edition of Architectural Forum in 1950, this time addressed to English-speaking audiences.201 Steeped in history, Tunisia had become “the workshop of the most advanced modern architecture and urbanism in North Africa and the home of the most extraordinary native construction this side of the moon,” continued its author.202 Kidder Smith singled out several public buildings (offices, schools, mosques, etc.) but chose the coastal French military Cemetery by Zehrfuss and Dianoux as “unquestionably the 199 G. Ch. Picard, “La Tunisie romaine,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 7. 200 Ibid., 8. Elsewhere in the issue Georges Marçais likens the Tunisian diwan (justice hall) to Roman basilicas in form. See Georges Marçais, “L’Architecture musulmane en Tunisie,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 14. 201 Kidder Smith, ‘‘Report,” 18. 202 Ibid. 128 finest—and saddest—of all new work” and “possibly the most inspired architectural realization of World War II.”203 Its proximity to Carthage and ancient ruins and views over the Mediterranean are among its noteworthy attributes (Figure 3.57). The general emphasis of such laudatory descriptions, however, confirms that the local vernacular (planning, materials and construction techniques) had become some of the most significant forms of inspiration for architects and planners after the War, without overtly drawing on Roman precedents. The native architecture from which much of the new work sprang—the arch, the vault and the dome—is in many respects one of great unselfconsciousness, greater directness than most of that being done today. The vernacular buildings in Tunisia are of enormous stimulation, and as lessons of what can be done in brick and stone they are supreme.204 Unabashed admiration for Rome or classical architectures had clearly diminished, and the association of the arch and dome with Roman architecture that might have been highlighted was by-and-large absent. 205 Still, the deployment of basic ancient references in published architectural discourse in order to situate contemporary works—either geographically and/or historically—continued unabated. 3.6 Conclusion: Imagery, superficiality and Postmodern Neoclassicism Classical antiquity, particularly Roman, thus played a substantial role in conveying power, order and civilization during the modern colonial era through visual references as a revived “empire imagery.”206 As has been demonstrated above, large-scale public structures, such as the Résidence générale and the Hôtel des Postes, statuary installations, street names and other ephemera contributed to this portion of Tunis’ pre-Arab antiquities culture-scape that 203 Ibid., 22. The cemetery is north of Carthage, technically within the town of Gammarth. 204 Ibid., 30. 205 Valensi, L’Habitation, 5 does attribute the arrival of the horseshoe arch in Tunisia to the era of the Romans, in passing. 206 Hingley, Globalizing Roman Culture, 81. 129 clearly marked the territory as occupied by those aware of their alleged predecessors. Designers were well versed in Neoclassical forms and through their reproduction and reference aided in building spaces that, though they resembled contemporary European models and the general perspective of the Paris École, communicated continuity and civilization with particular potency in their Tunisois context. With major changes in the political situation at independence came shifts in aesthetic interests, but it is clear that classicizing forms did not cede the entirety of their relevance after 1956. They were not rejected outright by postcolonial authorities, as their image remained a vital component of the presentation of a diverse, tolerant and modern Tunisia. Classicizing forms did, however, assume a more applied or decorative form consistent with general, historicist Postmodern practices. As will be explored later, such works contribute significantly to the tourist-friendly genius loci perpetuated by successive regimes. In the decades after independence, the administration of first-president Bourguiba supervised the deployment of Modern architectures that reflected the outward, optimistic and so-called “modern” image it hoped to project. The capital’s image was augmented with the construction of “international” or contemporary style buildings, such as the Tourism Ministry headquarters and the Hotel Africa tower, intended to serve cosmopolitan clientele and represent the independent country positively.207 Designed in 1957 and located on the Avenue Bourguiba, the former was said at the time to represent both traditional Tunisian architecture (by means of its central garden patio) and contemporary “ultra-modern” trends in its unmistakable horizontal, Corbusian massing, fenestration and pilotis (Figure 3.58).208 Sheathed in a shimmering curtain wall of sky-blue glass and in architect Cacoub’s words “an expression of modern architecture 207 Ammar, Histoire, 236; Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 191–97. 208 Anon., “Voici la maison du tourisme,” La Presse de Tunisie, 18 July 1957, 3. The building, designed by Robert Eloy, was opened in 1959 and has since then been enlarged. See also Mohamed Bergaoui, Tourisme et voyages en Tunisie: Les temps des pionniers, 1956–1973 (Tunis: Simpact, 2003), 79–81. 130 based on research of pure, simple, and useful forms,” 209 the 1971 Hotel Africa’s twenty-three storeys catered to wealthy clientele and included restaurants, bars, shops, a pool, a cinema and a penthouse-level nightclub (Figure 3.59).210 The hotel was initially operated by the Le Méridien firm (which had been founded by Air France), whose portfolio of high-end properties aimed to attract customers from abroad and reinforced and facilitated postcolonial ties between France and Tunisia. It remains an elite establishment and a landmark on the Avenue Bourguiba, having appeared on countless postcards, tourism guides and the country’s 1972 half-dinar banknote. Reactive Arabization policies of the 1980s and 1990s advanced by Bourguiba’s successor, Ben Ali, supported Postmodern approaches to North African vernacular and monumental forms. Locally inspired architectures intended to reflect the country’s primary Arab identity were deployed in major institutional projects, such as the National Archives and Tunis City Hall, as part of larger effort to appease and/or counter opposition coming from internal, Islamicist factions.211 Such projects thus employed references that emphasized continuity and innovation, participating in what Kenneth Frampton calls a “Populist-Pluralist art of immediate communication.”212 These complex’s grand façades and decorative pastiches, which in many ways recall the arabisant approaches of colonialist architects, present “le cachet tunisien” in bold, decorated images with official government sanction.213 The National Archives, for example, 209Olivier Clément Cacoub, Architecture de Soleil (Tunis: Cérès, 1974), 93. 210 Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 192; Bergaoui, Tourisme, 115–18. See also S. Elhouar and M. Mhiri, “Rehabilitation of the Hotel Africa Building,” WIT Transactions on the Built Environment 83 (2005): 621– 30. Cacoub, who earned the Grand Prix de Rome in 1953 and was prolific in Tunisia, characterized his work as “architecture of the sun,” designed the hotel with Jason Kyriacopoulos. See Cacoub, Architecture. 211 Stefan Altekamp and Mona Khechen, “Third Carthage: Struggles and Contestations over Archaeological Space,” Archaeologies 9 no. 3 (2013): 482; Christopher Alexander, Tunisia: Stability and Reform in the Modern Maghreb (New York: Routledge, 2010): 52–60. 212 Frampton, in his reflections on Charles Jencks’ The Language of Postmodern Architecture (1977), characterizes Postmodernism this way. Kenneth Frampton, Modern Architecture: A Critical History (New York: Thames and Hudson, 2007), 292. 213 Olfa Bohli Nouri, “Modernité et postmodernité de l’architecture tunisienne contemporaine, éclectisme et nouveaux enjeux, 1990–2010,” in Cités et architectures de Tunisie, ed. Leïla Ammar (Tunis: Nirvana, 2015), 384. 131 draw heavily on traditional forms. Designed by a team of Tunisian architects and built from 1995 to 1998, its cluster of cube-like masses is crowned by abstracted crenellation and dressed in shallow, geometric window frames and horseshoe arches (Figure 3.60). Traditional wrought-iron screens fill the windows, over which project slanted, latticework shades. The primary portal is framed by a pair of Corinthian columns, perhaps a reference to the ancient spolia frequently incorporated into historic Tunisian structures such as public buildings and mosques. Its interior makes extensive use of traditional decorative painting, carved wood and tile work.214 The exterior ornamentation seen at the Archives is typical of public buildings from this time and can be seen nearby in Tunis’ City Hall by Wassim Ben Mahmoud (Figure 3.61). Erected in 1998 on the site of the city’s medieval fortress and colonial-era military barracks overlooking the medina, the massive complex is wrapped in horseshoe arcades and mashrabiya screens representing what the architect describes as a “reconciliation of heritage with modernity” and “a contemporary architecture respectful of the past.” 215 These two examples of Tunis’ contemporary state architectures are symptomatic of larger trends in eclectic Postmodern reference-making that engage sources from the Middle East, Andalusia and Morocco, in additional to traditional Tunisian forms.216 Architecture critic William Curtis’ references to “skin-deep instant history in which ersatz images of the vernacular are combined with pastiches of national cultural stereotypes,” and the “instant Islamic identity kit” popular today, could be applied to the contemporary context as well as the historical (Figure 3.62). Indeed, these structures are reminiscent of the arabisant works of colonial-era architects such as Guy and Valensi, whose 214 The complex’s architects were Samy Ateb, Fethi Bahri, Ezzeddine Fakhfakh, and Mohamed Trimeche. Anon., “Les Archives nationales, Tunis,” Architecture méditerranéenne (2007): 140–41. The building’s construction was funded in part by an investment by the Chinese government. See Houda Ben Hamouda, “L’Accès aux fonds contemporains des archives nationales de Tunisie: un état des lieux,” L’Année du Maghreb 10 (2014): 45. 215 Anon., “Tunis: Hôtel de ville de Tunis à la Kasbah,” Architecture méditerranéenne (1997): 182 and 181–83. The architect explicitly aimed to avoid overtly “folkloric” imagery, pastiche and “Disney architecture.” Ibid., 182. 216 Ammar, Histoire, 248–53. 132 decorated historicizing façades enclosed thoroughly modern (and, at the time, imposed) programs.217 Such design approaches are often said to be attempts at sustaining and nourishing Arab/Islamic cultural identities viewed to be vulnerable to the perceived homogenizing effects of globalization.218 While Arab/Islamic-themed aesthetics have dominated in public projects for the past few decades, more classicizing imagery has also been deployed in public projects. Despite the overwhelming dominance of finishes from the Arab decorative tradition, the reception desk in the National Archive building sits before a large mosaic panel reproducing Roman-era images of the four seasons in framed roundels, for example (Figure 3.63). 219 The Carthage Byrsa Preparatory School addresses the street through a curved colonnade screening its ashlar-stone façade, the edges of which are rustically “broken” in the fashion of ancient ruined walls. Its entrance further references historic architecture with its temple portico-like appearance (Figure 3.64). Glazed barrel vaults and a matrix of coffer-like screens cover open-air spaces. Through its colors, textures and architectonic forms the project evokes the site’s primary identity and historic significance, and more abstractly the idea of liberal arts education. 220 Indeed, its designers at Fakher Turki and Partners admit to having been “extremely inspired” by 217 William J.R. Curtis, “Towards an Authentic Regionalism,” Mimar: Architecture in Development 19 (1986): 24 and 27. It has been argued that lacking literacy in historic forms and cultural history, today’s audiences are unable to interpret indented symbolism embodied in most postmodern references. “Pastness” alone is evident, resulting in superficial gestures and awareness. See Coloquhoun, “Historicism,” 38. 218 Latifa Wafa, “Post-modern architecture and the respect of the past in contemporary Arab architecture: A mean for survival and revival in the era of globalization,” in Regional Architecture and Identity in the Age of Globalization vol. I, eds. Jamal Al-Quwasmi, Abdesselem Mahmoud and Ali Djerbi (Tunis: Center for the Study of Architecture in the Arab Region, 2008), 1385–1397. On homogenization and globalism see Anthony D. King, “Globalisaton and Homogenization: The State of Play” (2012), in Writing the Global City: Globalisation, Postcolonialism and the Urban (New York: Routledge, 2016), 164–80. 219 The ancient models for these fairly typical images are now found in the Bardo Museum. Reproductions of ancient Roman mosaic panels as decoration in contemporary buildings are common in Tunisia and will be addressed in chapter four. 220 Anon., “Ecole préparatoire, Carthage Byrsa,” Architecture méditerranéenne (Marseille: Editions RK, 2007), 158–59. 133 Carthaginian antiquities when working on this project, which was the winning design in a national competition chosen by President Ben Ali.221 Contemporary Postmodern practices are thus amenable to a diversity of references and messages in Tunisia. Scholars continue to debate the degree to which such contemporary architectural references and heritage deployments, in addition to the official designation of colonial-era works as protected landmarks in what Ammar labels the ongoing process of “heritagization” (patrimonialisation), are effective representations of Tunisia’s developing sense of communal memory and national identity today. 222 Nouri acknowledges that the inspirations are many and attributes this new Neoclassicism to “passion for archaeology, interest in the heritage of the French Protectorate, or a search for a renewal” or just visual novelty within the urban streetscape.223 Within the realm of commercial and private projects, one finds that many have participated in a Postmodern revival of pseudo-Neoclassical architectures, as well. On the central Avenue Bourguiba, for example, several projects inspired by colonial-era architecture geared towards compatibility along the iconic boulevard have been erected. During the most recent major reconfiguration of the streetscape (2000–2003), several buildings that were deemed “without a doubt decayed or unrepresentative” were razed and replaced with structures that, based on their “interesting and significant architectural elements,” were intended to contribute to the desired “coherent urban landscape.”224 Several of the more Postmodern among them make use of classically inspired motifs, such as the popular Café Panorama and nearby 221 Fakher Turki and Partners, “Carthage Byrsa School,” accessed 14 November 2016, http://www.fakherturkiandpartners.com/index.php/ecole-de-carthage. 222 Leïla Ammar, “Discours, pratiques et références de l’architecture savant à Tunis: l’immeuble contemporain en question,” in Architectures au Maghreb (XIXe–XXe siècles): Réinvention du patrimoine, ed. Myriam Bacha (Tours: Presses Universitaires François-Rabelais, 2011), 283–300. Ammar acknowledges that architects tend to recognize a pedagogical value in the built environments inherited from the colonial era but questions the degree to which citizens outside the architectural profession and social elites perceive such significance. 223 Nouri, “Modernité,” 391 and 392. 224 Leïla Ammar, “Le projet d’embellissement de l’hypercentre: de l’Avenue Bourguiba ,” Archibat 5 (2002), 53. See also Coslett, “(Re)branding.” 134 Monoprix department store (Figure 3.65). Here again, such works seek to blend in through referencing or complementing historic architectures within the revived and strictly regulated streetscape. Elsewhere in Tunis’ historic core, one finds examples of larger Postmodern projects that, through their decorative elements and fenestration, reference historicist architecture of the colonial era (Figure 3.66). The Hôtel du Lac, arguably the capital’s most abstract modern structure, featured the Cesar restaurant and bar at its base. Though closed today (along with the imposing hotel), traces of what may have been a pedimented entry are still visible (Figure 3.67).225 The overall effect of such works is one of compatibility with extant European-inspired and -built precedents throughout the ville nouvelle. Cafés, restaurants and other businesses have made frequent use of ancient imagery in their architectures, signage and naming, casting the country’s pre-Arab past widely across the built and consumer environments of contemporary Tunis. The “extreme simplicity and reduction” of Jenks’ “radical eclecticism,” with its historic precedents from 1870–1910, may be discerned from some contemporary Tunisian works that abstain from the popular simplistic decorative kitsch.226 “Heritagization,” on different levels, thus incorporated Tunisia’s pre-Arab past. Given the nature of architectural education and practice in Tunisia today, which remain largely reliant upon French precedents dating to the colonial era and beyond, the reemergence of more decorated, eclectic and historicizing constructions in Tunis that demonstrate connections to historic Western or colonialist patterns are not entirely unexpected.227 The 225 The Hôtel du Lac was designed by Raffaele Contigiani (1920–2008) and built from 1970–1974. See Hueber and Piaton, Tunis: Architectures, 193. The hotel closed some time ago and sits unused today, rapidly deteriorating. Demolition and redevelopment threats have been heard for the site. 226 Charles Jencks, The Language of Post-Modern Architecture (6th edition) (London: Academy Editions, 1991), 104–05. “Eclecticism is,” Jencks reminds readers, “the natural evolution of a culture with choice.” Ibid., 105. He characterizes nineteenth-century historicist eclecticism as “weak” because it lacked conviction and was motivated by opportunism, “mood and comfort,” ultimately devoid of theorization short beyond “choosing the right style for the job.” Postmodernism offered opportunities for more considered experimentation and meaning-making, he concludes. Ibid. 227 Ali Djerbi and Abdelwahab Safi, “Teaching the History of Architecture in Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco: 135 double, or even triple, abstraction seen in these Postmodern projects—representing antiquity through references to colonial-era architectures, which had been representing antiquity largely though styles of the early modern era in Europe—reflects the complex process of postcolonial heritage appropriation and identity-forging. The intricacies of postcolonial identities are thus borne by developments in built environment design and preservation, and, taken in light of the pre-Arab past’s significance in Tunisia, such references remain telling. While the blatant collateral references to Roman antiquity and colonialist power are absent from contemporary architectural discourse, projects making such references continue to contribute to the larger process of cultural history curation and presentation wherein pre-Arab heritage matters greatly. Historicism, in Coloquhoun’s terms, thus remains relevant, albeit to differing degrees and in different guises.228 The belief that historic circumstances condition the contemporary holds value, historic institutions maintain relevance, and history-based forms and decorative elements are readily deployed today as vital components of the country’s cosmopolitan identity. Inherently tied to the architectural imagery considered above are significant political and economic aspects to be addressed separately in forthcoming chapters. In conclusion, a meaningful way to capture the complexity of antiquities-based imagery and its deployment in the colonial and postcolonial periods might be the consideration of Tunisian visual culture at a simpler, more finite scale. Though small objects fundamentally defined by their appearance, Tunisia’s postage stamps function not unlike architecture as representations of not only the items and places depicted thereupon, but also larger cultural Colonialism, Independence, and Globalization,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 62, no. 1 (2003): 110–20. See also Ammar, “Discours,” 287–88. See also William B. Bechhoefer, “Architectural Education in Developing Nations: Case Studies in Tunisia and Afghanistan,” Journal of Architectural Education 30 no. 4 (1977): 19–22. 228 Coloquhoun, “Historicism.” 136 trends and socio-politics. In their “mundane [domestic] omnipresence” and officially sanctioned imagery, stamps contribute to what Billig calls “banal nationalism” through graphically signifying the state and participating in the generation of evolving “imagined communities.” 229 They function as “miniature advertisements” for internal consumption—reminding citizen-users of preferred national identities—but also for foreign audiences—representing a country’s authorized identity.230 Looking at early stamps produced for Tunisia one finds antiquities and archaeological themes prominently displayed after the first decades of the twentieth century and remaining common thereafter.231 Within the development of the “iconogeography” (privileged geographies selected for representation) and “iconohistoriography” (privileged histories, people, objects selected for representation) of Tunisian postage stamps are found many conscientious attempts to illustrate the country’s long history, with noteworthy attention afforded to its pre-Arab past.232 From 1888 through 2004, thirty-four percent of Tunisian stamps issued referenced the country’s Roman past through images of El Djem’s amphitheatre, the Zaghouan aqueduct, excavated mosaics, etc. Sixteen percent referenced the Carthaginian era through depictions of ships, Hannibal, Carthage’s ancient ports, etc. (Figure 3.68).233 One finds images of later arts 229 Pauliina Raento and Stanley D. Brunn, “Visualizing Finland: Postage Stamps as Political Messengers,” Geografiska Annaler 87B (2005): 145. M. Billig, from his Banal Nationalism (London: Sage, 1995) is quoted in ibid. See also Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (London: Verso, 1983). 230 A.J. Dietz and D.W.J. Foeken, “The Iconography of Tunisian Postage Stamps,” in Dutch Windows on the Mediterranean, eds. V. Mamadouh et al. (Utrecht: KNAG/IGU-Netherlands, 2009), 25. 231 The arms of the bey appeared on Tunisia’s first stamps (produced in 1888) and remained the sole image used until 1906, at which point a diversity of images was employed (including the mosque at Kairouan, agricultural laborer scenes, Zaghouan aqueducts and a Carthaginian galley). See Inoubli, Catalogue, 1–2. Archaeology was a common theme among early postage stamps in Europe and the colonized world. Italian authorities produced a particularly striking example in its depiction of a Roman road under excavation in Libya (arguably the only image of an actual excavation on a postage stamp). See Clive Foss, “Postal Propaganda,” Archaeology 52 no. 2 (1999): 70–71. 232 Dietz and Foeken, “Iconography,” 25. 233 Ibid., 27. Only one stamp has referenced the country’s Christian heritage (a 1973 issue related to the excavation of Carthage’s early Christian ruins). That puts pre-Arab themes on fifty percent of Tunisia’s stamps from 1888–2004. Forty-seven percent of stamps produced featured Arabo-Islamic themed images. Ibid. A review of Inoubli, Catalogue, 68–77, indicates that from 2004 to 2012 even more stamps representing Tunisia’s pre-Arab past have been issued, including a 2005 series (of four stamps) depicting 137 and crafts, flora and fauna and Islamic sites joining the erstwhile popular imagery, particularly as tourism becomes an increasingly significant economic factor in Tunisia’s economy. The patrimonialisation of Protectorate-era architectural heritage was demonstrated by the 1992 depiction of the bold, Beaux-Arts PTT headquarters building in honor of its centennial year (Figure 3.69).234 Explicitly colonial-era architectures are very unusual in Tunisian stamps, and the PTT building remains an example notable for its relative rarity.235 Thus, one might suggest that the presentation of the building as a relic of sorts renders it particularly meaningful for its imagery, its acknowledgement of colonialism and its positive commemoration of colonial-era built environments. Even newer still, the Avenue Bourguiba was represented on a 2006 issue and through a subsequent image of Ben Ali’s clock tower looming over the so-called 2011 “Jasmine Revolution” protests that resulted in the dictator’s ouster. Clearly, images found on postage stamps are imbued with political significance. So empowered, they function—not unlike the architectures presented in this chapter—as complex lieux de mémoire and national identity indicators or visual reference points that quite frequently foreground the country’s pre-Arab past for strategic socio-cultural, political and economic purposes. Punic and Roman sculptures, a 2007 series (of four stamps) featuring archaeological sites/monuments and a 2008 stamp depicting a Roman-era terracotta lamp. 234 Inoubli, Catalogue, 49. The building was granted official landmark status the same year. 235 The presence of the tower since the revolution has been debated and some of these debates have been satirical in nature, suggesting comical replacements for it in a series of commentaries on post- revolutionary politics. See, for example, Anon., “De la symbologie,” DEBATunisie, April 22, 2015, accessed May 24, 2016, http://www.debatunisie.com/archives/2015/04/22/31930480.html; Coslett, “(Re)branding.” 138 FIGURES Figure 3.1. The Architect’s Dream (Thomas Cole, 1840). Photograph of painting. (Source: Wikimedia Commons.) 139 Figure 3.2. Tabularium (Rome) (Constant Moyaux, 1865). Photograph of drawing and watercolor. (Source: Ecole nationale supérieure des beaux-arts, “Tabularium,” accessed 19 April 2017, http://www.ensba.fr/ow2/catzarts/voir.xsp?id=00101-65399.) 140 Figure 3.3. Revue générale de l’architecture et des travaux publics masthead. Lithograph, 1843. Classical caryatids modeled on those from the Erechtheion in Athens hold aloft the city, the foundation of which is labeled “Art,” “History” and “Science.” (Source: Wikimedia Commons.) 141 Figure 3.4. European quarter (Tunis medina) (M. Gandolphe, c. 1860). Photograph of plan. (Source: C.H. Roger Dessort, “Protectorat français,” in Histoire de la ville de Tunis, ed. C.H. Roger Dessort (Algiers: Emile Pfister, 1924), 184.) 142 Figure 3.5. The new Promenade de la Marine in Tunis (1859). Lithograph, 1865. This rustic path linking the walled city and port became the Avenue de la Marine/Jules-Ferry/Habib Bourguiba. (Source: Amable Crapelet, “Voyage à Tunis, 1859,” Le Tour du Monde (1865): 21.) 143 Figure 3.6. Portion of the plan of the Promenade de la Marine and surrounding streets, Tunis. Plan, c. 1860. The plan for what would become the Avenue Jules-Ferry, which was not executed exactly as illustrated, is superimposed over existing extramural structures and strongly resembles Paris’s Champs-Elysées. (Source: Redrawn by Daniel E. Coslett from anon., Portion du plan de la Promenade de la Marine et des rues avoisinantes, plan, c. 1860, in ANT FA1881/H/0056/0619.) 144 Figure 3.7. Plan of Tunis and its new neighbourhoods. Plan, 1893. Labels are original. The modern port was inaugurated in 1893. A’s mark the former course of inner medina fortifications (razed in the years after 1872 and replaced by a roadway). (Source: Redrawn by Daniel E. Coslett from Lallemand, “Le nouveau port de Tunis,” L’Illustration no. 2621 (20 May 1893): 409.) 145 Figure 3.8. A typical imperial Roman castra. Hypothetical plan, 2017. Primary streets are labelled and intersect at the forum. Smaller streets complete the urban grid. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 146 Figure 3.9. Greater Tunis site illustrating ancient Roman cadastration and its relationship to Carthage. Plan, 1986. (Source: Hakim Besim Selim, Arab Islamic Cities: Building and Planning Principles (New York: KPI, 1986), 104–05. Annotations by author.) 147 Figure 3.10. The Place de la Résidence and the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1950. The WWII unknown soldier’s tomb is barely visible at the centre of the landscaped square. (Source: Author’s collection.) 148 Figure 3.11. Sources of toponymic inscription in Tunis’ ville nouvelle (1952). Plan, 2017. Note that some names had been changed from their original names by this time, and many were changed after independence. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett based on J. Vanney, “Tunis,” plan (Tunis: Ch. Weber, 1952).) 149 Figure 3.12. Neoclassicism on Tunis’ Avenue de France. A. The Avenue de France. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920 (top). B. The Magasin Général (1883). Photograph, 2016 (middle). The building originally to the west of the central block has been replaced. C. Arcades on the Avenue de France. Photograph, 2016 (bottom). The building east of the central block has been razed, but its iconic arcade preserved in order to maintain the integrity of the street’s southern edge. (Sources: Author’s collection (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B and C).) 150 Figure 3.13. Headquarters of the Dépêche tunisienne newspaper, Tunis. Photograph, c. 1940. (Source: Wikimedia Commons.) 151 Figure 3.14. The Municipal Theatre (Resplandy, 1902), Tunis. Photographs, 2016. A. The primary façade (top). B. The sculpted façade, featuring Apollo and muses, is by Jean-Baptiste Belloc (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 152 Figure 3.15. Classically inspired colonial-era buildings and details in Tunis’ ville nouvelle. Photographs, 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 153 Figure 3.16. La maison qui penche (The Sinking Building), Tunis. Photograph (postcard), 1906. The building is settling into the soft infill of the Petite Sicile district. (Source: Wikimedia Commons.) 154 Figure 3.17. The Palais consulaire (architect unknown, c. 1931), Tunis. A. Architectural rendering, 1931 (top). B. Photograph, 2016 (bottom). (Sources: Anon., “Le futur Palais consulaire de Tunis,” Les Chantiers nord-afriains (May 1931), 507 (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 155 Figure 3.18. The Résidence générale de France (Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Set on the central square of the ville nouvelle, the building is now the French Embassy. A. Front “court of honor.” Photograph (postcard), c. 1920. B. Detail of pavilion exterior. Photograph, 2013. (Sources: Author’s collection (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 156 Figure 3.19. New French consulate in Tunis. Lithograph, 1862. (Source: Anon., “Nouveau consulat français à Tunis,” L’Illustration 40 no. 1026 (1862): 284.) 157 Figure 3.20. Plans for the Résidence générale de France (originally Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Plan, c. 1892(?). This is the ground floor. (Source: Anon., “Résidence française à Tunis,” in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157.) 158 Figure 3.21. Plans for the Résidence générale de France (originally Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Interior elevation, c. 1889(?). (Source: Anon., “Résidence générale de France: nouveau salon,” in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157.) 159 Figure 3.22. Plans for the Résidence générale de France (originally Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Plan, 1904. The drawing is of the ground floor and signed by R. Guy. (Source: Raphaël Guy, “Résidence générale de France: Plan du rez-de-chaussée,” 21 March 1904, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157.) 160 Figure 3.23. Renovation plans for the Résidence générale de France (originally Colin and Caillat, 1860), Tunis. Exterior elevation, 1907. The drawing is of the ground floor and signed by R. Guy. (Source: Raphaël Guy, “Résidence Générale de France: Façade sur la Rue de Hollande, agrandissements,” 14 May 1907, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1157.) 161 Figure 3.24. Résidence générale/Embassy of France (Colin and Caillat, 1860 with extensions), Tunis, from above. A. Photograph, c. 1902 (top). B. Photograph, 2016 (bottom). (Sources: Anon., “Tunisie: Tunis et ses environs,” France-Album: Revue mensuelle, no. 75/76 (January 1902): n.p. in BNF (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 162 Figure 3.25. Interiors of the French Embassy (ex-Résidence générale), Tunis. Photographs, 1968. A. Historic interior (dating to 1889?) of an unknown room (top). B. Interior of an unknown room, perhaps the patio (bottom). (Source: Gilbert Van Raepenbusch; Courtesy of FBB.) 163 Figure 3.26. The Hôtel des Postes (Saladin, 1892), Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1900. (Source: Author’s collection.) 164 Figure 3.27. The Hôtel des Postes et Télégraphes (Gaudet, 1886), Paris. Rendering, c.1886. (Source: La Construction moderne 1 no. 30, 24 July 1886, pl. 87.) 165 Figure 3.28. Presenting Tunis’ new Hôtel des Postes (Saladin, 1892). Printed journal page with lithographs, 1892. (Source: Anon., “Le nouvel hôtel des postes et des télégraphes à Tunis,” Le Monde illustré 36 no. 1845 (6 August 1892): 89.) 166 Figure 3.29. Inauguration banquet for the Hôtel des Postes (Saladin, 1892), Tunis. Photograph, 1892. (Source: Musée de la Poste, Tunis.) 167 Figure 3.30. Hall de l’Hôtel des Postes (Tunis) (painter unknown, 1900). Photograph of painting, 2013. The painting appears to be unsigned. Note the mural map of Tunisia at right. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett at Musée de la Poste, Tunis.) 168 Figure 3.31. Classical motifs inside the Hôtel des Postes (Saladin, 1892), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. The entry into the main hall from the exterior arcade includes caduceus and cornucopia motifs rendered in mosaics. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 169 Figure 3.32. Original furnishings from the Tunis Hôtel des Postes. Photographs, 2013. A. Ensemble (top). B. Detail of table top with arabesque and PTT cipher (bottom). These pieces came from the office of the first director and are on display at the Musée de la Poste. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 170 Figure 3.33. Hôtel des Postes et Télégraphes de Tunis: Avant Projet de Sûrelevation (Cès Albert, 1946). A. Elevation detail, 1946 (“7”) (left). B. Elevation, 1946 (“5 bis”) (right). (Source: TMA.) 171 Figure 3.34. The enclosed arcade of the Hôtel des Postes, Tunis. Photographs, 2013. A. Exterior (top). B. Interior (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 172 Figure 3.35. Interior of the main hall of the Hôtel des Postes, Tunis. Photograph, 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 173 Figure 3.36. Postcolonial modifications to the primary exterior of the Hôtel des Postes, Tunis. Photograph, 2008. The entablature bears a plaque in Arabic now, covering the original French inscription. Beylical arms were once displayed in the rectangular spaces at the end of the entablature (far left). Note the covered war memorial plaques(?) at the bottom edge of the image. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 174 Figure 3.37. The “Porte de France” or Sea Gate, Tunis. Photograph, 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 175 Figure 3.38. The Porte de France. Photograph (postcard), c. 1910. Note the “RF” for République française. The kiosks attached to the gateway would be removed in 1922. (Source: Author’s collection.) 176 Figure 3.39. Dégagement de la Porte de France. Plan, c. 1920. The highlighted property was expropriated by 1939. (Source: “Porte de France,” plan, c. 1920, in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0422.) 177 Figure 3.40. The “Porte de France,” Tunis. Photograph, c. 1930. The statue in the distance is of Cardinal Lavigerie and was erected in 1925. The image shows signs of editing—perhaps adjacent buildings were “removed” here before they were actually razed. (Source: Author’s collection.) 178 Figure 3.41. Caserne de la Casbah, Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920. Note the typical arcaded façade (horseshoe arches) of the casern (barracks) behind the gate. (Source: Author’s collection.) 179 Figure 3.42. The Jules Ferry Monument, Tunis. Published photograph, 1899. (Source: A. de L., “Les fêtes de Tunisie,” L’Illustration, 113 no. 2932 (6 May 1899): 292.) 180 Figure 3.43. Model for a monument “to the glory of France and the Protectorate” (Belloc, 1903) for Tunis. Photograph, 1903. (Source: Photo packet, “Correspondances, notes…relatifs de l’érection d’un monument commémoratif à la gloire de la France et de la colonisation.…,” in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0004.) 181 Figure 3.44. Monument à la gloire de l'expansion coloniale française (Belloc, 1909), Paris. Published photograph of sculpted model, 1906. The monument failed to raised the necessary funds and was replaced by a much smaller work that was eventually dismantled and is currently on display in Paris’ Jardin Tropical. (Source: “Monument à la gloire de l’expansion coloniale française,” in ANT FPC/E/0544/0009.) 182 Figure 3.45. Monument à la gloire de l'expansion coloniale française (Belloc, 1913), Paris. Photographs, 2016. The monument has been dismantled and is currently on display in the Jardin Tropical in Paris. A. An enthroned allegory of France topped the monument (top). B. France (represented by a rooster) astride a globe from its base (bottom left). C. Representations of Africa and Asia providing wealth adorned its base (bottom right). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 183 Figure 3.46. Equestrian statue of Habib Bourguiba (Marzouk, 1978), Tunis. Photograph, 2009. The statue commemorates the return of Bourguiba from exile in France 1 June 1955. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 184 Figure 3.47. Ben Ali’s first Changement clock tower monument (1987), Tunis. Photograph, c. 1990. This monument was in place on the Avenue Bourguiba from 1987 until 2001. (Source: Wikimedia Commons.) 185 Figure 3.48. Ben Ali’s second Changement clock tower (architect unknown, 2001), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 186 Figure 3.49. The Punic-Libyan mausoleum, Dougga. A. Photograph, 2013. (Source: Gabriel Kuris.) 187 Figure 3.50. Bab Souika post office (Guy, 1906), Tunis. Photograph, c. 1920. (Source: François Béguin, Arabisances: Décor architectural et tracé urbain en Afrique du nord, 1830-1950 (Paris: Dunod, 1983), 57.) 188 Figure 3.51. Professional School for Building (Centre de formation professionnelle du bâtiment, or École d’apprentissage) (Zehrfuss and Kyriacopoulos, 1947), Tunis. A. Photograph, 2013 (top). B. Ground floor plan and interior section. Plan, 1947 (bottom). (Sources: Daniel E. Coslett (A) and Rolland, “Centre de formation professionnelle du bâtiment à Tunis,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 91 (B).) 189 Figure 3.52. Porto Farina School (Herbé and Marmey, 1945), Ghar El Melh (ex-Porto Farina) (Tunisia). Photograph, c. 2004. (Source: Bechir Kenzari, “The Architecture of the ‘Perchoir’ and the Modernism of Postwar Reconstruction in Tunisia,” Journal of Architectural Education 59 no. 3 (2006): 85.) 190 Figure 3.53. Avenue Habib Thameur (ex-Roustan) apartment building (architect unknown, c. 1930), Tunis. Photograph, 2016. The building is located at the intersection of Athens/Sparta Streets. Its rooftop arcade evokes a Roman aqueduct. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 191 Figure 3.54. Ancient Roman, Modern Italian, and “Barbarian” Ethiopian domestic architectures. Printed photographs/plans, 1936. (Source: “Civilità,” Domus 98, January- February 1936, in Mia Fuller, Moderns Abroad: Architecture, Cities and Italian Imperialism (New York: Routledge, 2007), 2.) 192 Figure 3.55. Maison minima (Minimal house) by Zehrfuss and Kyriacopoulos. Architectural renderings, 1943. A. Perspective (top). B. Plans. (bottom). (Source: Maxime Rolland, “La maison minima tunisienne,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 70.) 193 Figure 3.56. Roman Tunisia. Printed magazine page, 1948. (Source: G. Ch. Picard, “La Tunisie romaine,” L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, October 1948, 5. 194 Figure 3.57. French military cemetery (Zehrfuss and Dianoux, 1945–1947), Gammarth. A. Photograph, c. 1947 (top). B. Photograph, 2016 (middle). C. Photograph, 2016 (bottom). The columns appear to be ancient. (Sources: Kidder Smith, ‘‘Report from Tunisia,’’ Architectural Forum, July 1950, 18 (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B and C).) 195 Figure 3.58. Ministry of Tourism building, Tunis (Eloy, 1957). A. Published rendering, 1957 (top). B. Published photograph, 1960. Interior with mural by A. Gorgi (middle). C. Photograph (postcard), c. 1970 (bottom). The Ministry building’s 1962 addition is visible at right. (Sources: Anon., “Voici la maison du tourisme,” La Presse de Tunisie, 18 July 1957, 3 (A), Anon., “An addition,” Tourism in Tunisia 4 (May 1960): 3 (B), and author’s collection (C).) 196 Figure 3.59. Hotel Africa (Cacoub and Kyriacopoulos, 1971) and the Avenue Bourguiba, Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1974. (Source: Author’s collection.) 197 Figure 3.60. National Archives of Tunisia (Ateb et al., 1998), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 198 Figure 3.61. City Hall (Ben Mahmoud, 1998), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 199 Figure 3.62. Skin-deep or decorative arabisance cartoon (Salih Memecan, 1981). Published drawing, 1981. (Source: Mimar 1, July-September, 1981, 6.) 200 Figure 3.63. “Four seasons” mosaics at the National Archives of Tunisia, Tunis. Photograph, 2013. This is the primary check-in desk. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 201 Figure 3.64. Byrsa Preparatory School (Lycée Carthage Byrsa) (Turki and Mouakhar, c. 2000?), Carthage. Photographs, c. 2007. A. Primary façade (top). B. Beneath the entry porch (bottom). (Source: Fakher Turki and Partners, “Ecole de Carthage,” accessed 25 July 2016, http://www.fakherturkiandpartners.com/ecole-de-carthage.html.) 202 Figure 3.65. Postmodern classicizing architecture on the Avenue Bourguiba, Tunis. A. Café Panorama. Photograph, 2011 (left). B. Monoprix department store. Photograph, 2009 (right). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 203 Figure 3.66. Postmodern classicizing architecture and pre-Arab references in Tunis. Photographs, 2011 and 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 204 Figure 3.67. “Le Cesar” at the Hôtel du Lac, Tunis. A and B. Photographs, 2016 (top and middle). C. Printed advertisement, 2000 (bottom). Pictured is the iconic Prima Porta Augustus. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett (A and B) and “Cesar Restaurant-Piano Bar,” advertisement, La Presse de Tunisie, 13 January 2000.) 205 Figure 3.68. Tunisian postage stamps featuring the country’s pre-Arab past. Postage stamps (top, left to right). Zaghouan aqueduct, 1906–1918 (A), Dougga Capitol, 1922 (B), Carthaginian galley, 1925 (C). (bottom, left to right), Hannibal, 1995 (D), Arch of Trajan, 1996 (E), Dougga mausoleum, 1996 (F). (Source: Author’s collection.) 206 Figure 3.69. Tunis’ Hôtel des Postes centennial postage stamps. Postage stamps, 1992. (Source: Author’s collection.) 207 4. Antiquity as a Political Tool Colonialist powers in Tunisia deployed antiquity strategically as a means of demonstrating, and thus wielding, political power. Through various built environment interventions French colonialists made this apparent, even before the formal establishment of the Protectorate in 1881 and well into the early twentieth century. Evoking power through references to the most successful empire the West had known, through the apparent mastery of knowledge and impressive acts of engineering, French authorities attempted to justify their evolving position as masters of Tunisia. For example, celebrations in honor of the opening of Tunis’ modern port facilities in 1893 included a special song that incorporated self-aggrandizing language further demonstrating a supposed link between France and ancient Rome. Praising “the sons of Gaul (ancient France)” who, “raising Carthage once again…follow in its path…[to] rebuilt the Roman Empire,” the verse effectively captured the imperialist attitude perceptible in early colonial policies and built environments.1 Indeed, the revival of the region’s prosperity, specifically its considerable agricultural productivity and infrastructural capacity during the Roman period, was a major objective in the years leading up to, and following, the regime change of 1881.2 Ancient hydraulic technology in North Africa was highly valued by French 1 F. Huard and E. Bourget, “A la France—à l’occasion de l’inauguration du port de Tunis,” quoted in Zeynep Çelik, Empire, Architecture, and the City (Seattle, WA: University of Washington, 2008), 243. 2 Diana K. Davis, Resurrecting the Granary of Rome (Athens, OH: Ohio University, 2007), 16–26. 208 archaeologists and historians, as it exemplified the sophistication of Roman achievement and remained relevant.3 A popular “granary of Rome” narrative drew heavily on ancient literature that rightly praised North Africa’s ancient fecundity, and on selectively chosen medieval texts by Arab writers (chiefly Tunisia-born Ibn Khaldoun) that emphasized the negative consequences of the Arab conquests, including desertification and deforestation. This typical declensionist narrative claimed that following the prosperous days of the Roman era, Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco… vegetated, barely surviving…. All fell into ruin, [and] of the splendid golden age of Roman Mauretania only a charred rocky desert remained…. Suddenly, a new breeze, and France…arrived to conquer so that Latin civilization could be rescued.4 Such sensationalist language validated Rome and France at the expense of the Berber people and Arabs quite intentionally. The region’s impressive ancient ruins were seen to indicate the presence of a large and sophisticated population, and their subsequent abandonment an indication of environmental degradation at the hands of barbarian, pastoral indigènes.5 This oft- repeated narrative rhetorically paved the way for French interventions in North Africa that suited a self-fulfilling prophecy and demonstrated the supposed beneficence of capable Europeans. Done in conjunction with other activities that elevated France and destabilized the pre-colonial Tunisian state, such as infrastructural improvement, military modernization and financial restructuring, these achievements contributed significantly to the overall mission civilisatrice concept and image.6 3 Andrew Wilson, “Water Management and Usage in Roman North Africa: A Social and Technological Study” (Ph.D. Diss., Oxford University, 1997), 4–10. 4 José Germain and Stéphne Faye, Le Nouveau monde français: Maroc-Algérie-Tunisie (Paris: Plon, 1924), ii–iii., quoted in ibid., 4. 5 Davis, Granary, 4–5. 6 Kenneth Perkins, A History of Modern Tunisia (New York: Cambridge University, 2004), 10–39. 209 Perhaps the most celebrated, if not notorious, of early accomplishments by the pre- Protectorate French presence was the renovation of the defunct Carthage aqueduct by Pierre Colin (who had built the Résidence générale) from 1860 to 1863. The French engineer—well known in Paris and Marseilles—supervised the work, during which waters from the ancient springs at Zaghouan and Zucchara were once again transported to Tunis and its adjacent Bardo, La Marsa and La Goulette suburbs. 1,200 European workers (from France, Algeria, Sardinia, Corsica and Malta) joined 2,000 Tunisians in the three-year process.7 While the project is often described as a “restoration” of the aqueduct, it was in fact a reenactment of function rather than actual material, as new concrete conduit and masonry structures were built along the nearly 131 km course. The massive project included forty bridges, seventy-nine culverts, 162 aboveground sections and a series of pump stations. 8 Though many portions of the aqueduct’s extant arcades—which were not rebuilt due to cost and obsolescence—were consolidated near Uthina and elsewhere, an impressive section traversing the Méliane River was demolished in order to make available its foundations and recyclable masonry.9 A drawing included in Caillat’s 1873 pamphlet on the project juxtaposes the pre-“restoration” ruins of the Méliane span (in 1859) with a hypothetical restoration of the ancient structure, and others included plans for the rebuilt structure (Figures 4.1 and 4.2). The images reinforced the colonial narrative of Roman apogee and lamentable decline. Whereas the project was originally expected to cost 7 million Fr, it cost nearly 12 million and contributed significantly to the indebtedness of the Tunisian state and the rebellion of 1864.10 While at first Tunisians appear to have welcomed the substantial flow of needed water—its 1861 opening caused quite the 7 Ph. Caillat, Notice sur l’ancien aqueduc de Carthage et sa restauration (Paris: Imprimerie Polyglotte de L. Hugonis, 1873), 23, in BNT E-4-356 (rés). 8 Ibid., 29. 9 Ibid., 26–27. 10 Jean Ganiage. Les origines du Protectorat français en Tunisie (1861-1881) (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1959), 168. Controversy regarding payment for the work done carried on from 1864 until 1875. 210 excitement11—it was said that they soon resented having to pay for it (Figure 4.3). In the countryside some evidently harassed officials charged with maintenance and the discouraging of illegal siphoning. In time, said one historian in 1859, “everyone was regretting that the major project would ruin the Regency.”12 The aforementioned pamphlet’s text stresses the modernity of the French-led project, its technological sophistication and its utility, attempting to justify the expenditure, but also substantiating the general claim that France could successfully implement necessary development in Tunisia.13 This was not just about bringing water to the capital but about doing so in the explicit fashion of the ancients in an effort to demonstrate mastery of historic knowledge and modern technology—a form of cultural and technological, if not yet formally political, imperialism.14 Architecture and infrastructure, as they did in the ancient world, represented the cultivation and extension of civilization.15 That The provision, and the control, of water supply and irrigation systems, and of water-using amenities such as fountains, bath-houses and ornamental pools, became a powerful political tool for [ancient Roman] rulers and elites, courting favour with the populace for whom these structures were provided, asserting control over the resources necessary to construct them, and sometimes over nature itself[…]16 was certainly not lost on ambitious French businessmen and politicians. Aqueducts, as massive, 11 On inaugural events in Tunis, see Moynier, “Jaillaissement des eaux du Zaghouan à Tunis,” L’Illustration 38 no. 966 (31 August 1861): 141. 12 Ganiage. Les origines, 188. 13 The entire complex, its subsequent “restorations” notwithstanding, was proposed by Tunisia’s government to the UNESCO World Heritage list in 2012 (under cultural criteria I and IV). See “Le complexe hydaulique romain de Zaghouan-Carthage,” UNESCO, accessed 26 January 2016, http://whc.unesco.org/fr/listesindicatives/5685/. 14 Tunisia’s French colonial government would again order the study of ancient Roman hydraulic technologies—with an eye towards their strategic restoration—during the late 1880s and early 1890s. See Myriam Bacha, “La construction patrimoniale tunisienne à travers la législation et le journal officiel, 1881– 2003: de la complexité des rapports entre le politique et le scientifique,” L’Année du Maghreb 4 (2008): paragraph 7. Louis Carton’s early archaeological studies addressed the importance of hydraulic infrastructure in ancient Tunisia and its potential restoration by French colonizers. See Myriam Bacha, “Un archéologue amateur: Louis Carton (1861–1924) et le projet du parc archéologique de Carthage (Tunisie)” in Initiateurs et entrepreneurs culturels du tourisme (1850–1950), eds. Jean-Yves Andrieux and Patrick Harismendy (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2011), 22. 15 See Richard Hingley, Globalizing Roman Culture: Unity, Diversity and Empire (New York: Routledge, 2005). 16 Andrew Wilson, “Water, Power and Culture in Ancient Roman and Byzantine Worlds: An Introduction,” Water History 4 (2012): 1. 211 costly monuments that contributed to “empire imagery,”17 “advertised the resources and power of the funder” and more broadly “the achievements of Roman culture and power in dominating and controlling nature for human benefit.”18 This resource manipulation so deftly employed by Roman officials provided a meaningful model for their Gallic descendants. Most of the restored Zaghouan aqueduct did not appear ancient stylistically, as the flow of water was largely confined to subterranean conduits installed along the course of the extant arcades. Arguably, its Méliane River bridge section was an exception to this; in the larger context, however, it was dwarfed by the much larger surviving portions of the ancient structure that loomed above on both sides, thus rendering apparent the juxtaposition of old and new (see Figure 4.2).19 The significance here was technological and rhetorical—the French were reviving (and perhaps even surpassing) their Roman predecessors by restoring the flow of water to Tunis. The actual appearance of the aqueduct mattered less than its function and description, and the political ramifications of its achievement. Politics and aesthetics, however, were closely intertwined in urban settings. Unlike in the distant countryside, within the city center it was important that political claims be supported by appropriately referential images that constituted the Pre-Arab antiquities culture-scape. As addressed in the previous chapter, architectures of the early colonialist state, such as the Résidence générale and Hôtel des Postes, were designed to recall Roman forms as propagandistic indicators of continuity and civilization. These stylistic references advanced intensely political claims that cannot be overlooked (the preceding discussion did not focus on them, but did not deny them, either). The aesthetics of those buildings communicated clearly to those literate in their historicist allusions or at least sufficiently impressed by their presence. 17 Hingley, Globalizing Roman Culture, 81. 18 Wilson, “Water, Power,” 3. 19 The fountain within the city (see Figure 4.3) is not particularly “Roman” in appearance, although one might see in its arch a reference to the aqueduct’s form. 212 Indeed, it seems unlikely that the aesthetic choices that produced such works were without political intent (the political effect is clear), despite colonial professionals oft-repeated assertions of apolitical expertise.20 Tunis’ colonial headquarters, post offices, commemorative monuments and stamps asserted the rebirth of centralized power and dominance by outsiders equipped with tools necessary for imposing order and extracting resources. These projects—powerful in their forms and connotations—were valuable implements in the multifaceted colonialist arsenal. The resurrection theme works in both secular and spiritual contexts in Protectorate-era Tunisia, where the Roman Catholic Church acted as a defacto agent of colonization, much as it did throughout Africa and Asia.21 In North Africa, the institution explicitly presented itself as the legitimate successor the region’s Early Christian community in order to justify its position within the imperial establishment and enhance its religious authority. Tunis’ Roman Catholic monuments, in their nuanced blend of historic, local and metropolitan stylistic influences, sat ambiguously between imported and indigenous aesthetics, thus apart from the grand civic architectures explored in the previous chapter. Whereas they also reflected metropolitan tendencies, in this context they were imbued with special meaning. Much as the thirteenth- century church structure “reveal[ed] medieval symbolism, technology, theology, and knowledge, and reflect[ed] changing political, social, and economic forces and conflicts surrounding its construction,” nineteenth-century colonial cathedrals functioned both physically and figuratively within their own political contexts. 22 Unlike their medieval precursors, however, which represented the cutting edge of artistic and technological progress, these buildings were unapologetically historicist in nature and were deliberately intended to reinforce various colonial claims to political and socio-cultural validity for those also presenting themselves as heirs to 20 Gwendolyn Wright, The Politics of Design in French Colonial Urbanism (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1991), 7. 21 Aylward Shorter, Cross & Flag in Africa (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2006), 16. 22 Robert J. Calkins, “The Cathedral as Text,” Humanities 16 no. 6 (1995): 35. 213 Rome’s privileged regional legacy.23 The production of these colonialist spaces thus relied upon, and contributed to, what geographer David Lowenthal has termed the “fabrication of heritage,” or the empowering presentation of a strategically mythologized past that embellishes upon a secondary or obscured historical truth.24 The Church’s political authority in occupied Tunisia was not coincidental. Despite increasing anticlericalism during the Third French Republic (1870–1940), a trend culminating in the disestablishment of Roman Catholicism as the quasi-state religion in 1905, Charles Lavigerie (1825–92) cultivated considerable authority in French-controlled Africa and was appointed Archbishop of Algiers in 1867.25 From there he was an influential figure with clear political ambitions, and he professed a profound enthusiasm for the past. Ever sentimental about North Africa’s renowned ancient and Early Christian history, “the Church and France have joined forces to reclaim these glories of the past, and they send me to you, as the messenger of truth, charity, and peace,” he had declared to his congregants upon launching his North African career.26 “What is the past, the history, of North Africa?” he asked further, before bidding readers to interrogate the ruins that cover your soil…[in which] you will discover the tombs, monuments, and the memory of our most illustrious men, the scattered remnants of our 23 Patricia M.E. Lorcin, “Rome and France in Africa: Recovering Colonial Algeria’s Latin Past,” French Historical Studies 25 no. 2 (2002): 295–329. 24 David Lowenthal, “Fabricating Heritage,” History and Memory 10 no. 1 (1998): 5–24. 25 The Napoleonic Concordat between the Vatican and Paris had been in effect since 1801. Its terms established Roman Catholicism not as the official state church, but that of the majority, and afforded it considerable rights and privileges. For more on the Church in Third Republic France, see Ernst Helmreich, ed. A Free Church in a Free State? The Catholic Church, Italy, Germany, France: 1864–1914 (Boston: D.C. Heath, 1964), 83–109. See also Joseph Byrnes, Catholic and French Forever (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University, 2005), 147–154. Lavigerie’s work in French West Africa consisted most prominently of anti-slavery campaigns. 26 Charles Lavigerie, Lettre pastorale et mandement de Monseigneur l'Archevêque d'Alger (pour la prise de possession de son diocèse), (Paris: Adrien le Clere, 1867): 1–2, in Msr. Lavigerie: Lettres pastorales et circulaires I, (collected works, unpublished as a volume, in APT). 214 most famous cities….the sacred memories of our faith’s heroes….innumerable temples….and the blood of martyrs….27 As archbishop, Lavigerie supported the excavation of ancient sites and ardently advocated aligning France’s political objectives with the Church’s spiritual mission.28 As one biographer put it, Lavigerie’s “drive sprang from apostolic zeal, deep patriotism, and personal ambition” and his many contributions to imperial expansion were appreciated by both secular and expansionist politicians alike. 29 For example, republican Jules Ferry—a devoted imperialist and sponsor of major secularizing education reforms in the 1880s—actively supported Lavigerie’s work in North Africa and endorsed his particular vision of a cooperative church and state abroad.30 Indeed, the French missionary tradition had become well established, and even republicans in Paris recognized the role played by Catholics abroad in the opening of territories to French businesses and political interests. The apparently hypocritical reluctance of figures like Léon Gambetta and Ferry, both of whom ardently opposed the Church at home, to condemn it abroad when it served French imperial ends, was not unusual. Whereas support from the French foreign ministry was intended to fund Church-sponsored humanitarian activities, rather than evangelical ones, the Church was deemed valuable for its (theoretically) peaceful dissemination of French influence.31 Outsiders saw this as well; the covetous Italian Prime Minister Francesco Crispi, head of a government resentful of French ambitions in what had been ancient Rome’s stomping ground, had sensationally concluded by 1891 that Lavigerie’s “presence in Africa was as precious to France as [that of] an occupying army corps.” 32 The archbishop and his 27 Ibid., 4. 28 This was demonstrated clearly in his contentious 1890 “Toast of Algiers,” through which he boldly advocated for détente (or reconciliation) between the hostile Church and increasingly secular French republicans, as he did throughout his career. Byrnes, Catholic, 147–49. 29 J. Dean O’Donnell, Jr., Lavigerie in Tunisia (Athens, GA: University of Georgia, 1979), 15. 30 Ibid., 21–22. 31 J.P. Daughton, An Empire Divided: Religion, Republicanism, and the Making of French Colonialism, 1880–1914 (New York: Oxford University, 2008), 13–15. 32 Anon., “Centenaire du Cardinal Lavigerie,” La Dépêche tunisienne, 23 November 1925, 3. 215 successors were present at official functions and active participants in the socio-political life of the Protectorate throughout its existence. French Catholics had of course been to Tunis since long before the arrival of Lavigerie and his missionary order, the Société des Missionaires d’Afrique (also know as les Pères blancs or White Fathers).33 King Louis IX had come to Tunis during the Eighth Crusade and died there in AD 1270.34 The presence of the sainted king represented for many a critical moment in French colonialist—political and religious—mythology. “Carthaginian Africa has become French Africa: it is we, at present, who are the Romans. But we do not forget that the first foundations of this conquest were laid in the 13th century by the king…” who died while attempting to halt piracy and bring civilization to the region, Ernest Babelon reminded his readers in 1896.35 Given the particularly influential status of Tunis’ diligent Archbishop Charles Lavigerie within the colonial establishment, the quasi-official role of Catholicism in Protectorate-era Tunisia was asserted through public pronouncements, visual references and a strong architectural presence. To these ends, the Church’s primary landmarks reflected its claims to spiritual and political legitimacy by means of advantageous associations with historic Christendom, adjacent French colonies and metropolitan France. French architects in Tunisia 33 The group’s name was derived from the white tunics, based on the traditional attire for men in parts of North Africa, initially worn by members. 34 A curious legend oft-repeated among European sources (exclusively) held that Tunisians believed St. Louis IX had converted to Islam on his deathbed, thence becoming the patron saint of the nearby village of Sidi Bou Saïd (name for the Muslim saint conflated with Louis IX). This has been described as a form of “reverse colonization” through which “a Christian was shown the superiority of Islam,” but also an idea used at the time to perhaps justify the lifting of an unpopular ban on non-Muslims from entering Sidi Bou Saïd because of Louis’ shared veneration. See Afrodesia E. McCannon, “The King’s Two Lives: The Tunisian Legend of St. Louis,” Journal of Folklore Research 43 no. 1 (2006): 63. McCannon states that the chapel was intended, according to the colonizer’s perspective, to “tame the local population through a symbol of Christian superiority” (64). The Chapel of St. Louis was described as the “St. Louis Mosque” and a “horrible commemorative chapel that all the tourists to visit” and at which “the White Fathers still celebrate masses for the glorification of his very Christian soul” by travel writer Myriam Harry’s local interlocutor in her 1906 account of a visit. M. Harry (Tunis la Blanche 1906) quoted in ibid., 65. Paul Fagault wrote in 1889 of Tunisians coming to the chapel and venerating the saint with candles, indicating that the Christian identity of the building was not an absolute deterrent for those wishing to honor Sidi Bou Saïd. Fagault, Tunis et Kairouan (1889) referenced in McCannon, “King’s Two Lives,” 64. 35 Ernest Babelon, Carthage (Paris: Leroux, 1896), 116. 216 used elements of neo-Byzantine, Romanesque and Gothic design to convey such affiliations, while at the same to time celebrating what had come to be cast as the end of a lamentable interregnum initiated by the Arab conquest of the late seventh century. Latin-cross plans, pointed arches and domes, as well as recycled ancient building materials and decorative programs, made references that were most legible to resident European and Christian communities—the structure’s primary audiences—for whom the Church was an important institutional link to home and an indicator of socio-cultural and political stability. Frequent religious festivals and choreographed processions through the capital’s principal streets tethered these buildings to public spaces and activated the spiritual realm, reminding residents (faithful and otherwise) of the Church’s presence and prestige, as well as its de facto sanction by the colonial state. In its corroboration with the government and dedication to the same ends—ultimately the occupation, exploitation and pacification of Tunisia by a Christian France— the Church functioned as a political entity.36 As such, its built works should be considered as political instruments on par with state-sponsored projects, such as city halls and post offices. Discussion of the Church as a political factor in modern Tunisian history is by virtue of larger administrative changes essentially relegated to the colonial period. That is not to say that the political aspects of religion are irrelevant in postcolonial Tunisia. Indeed, debates regarding the proper place of Islam in public life continue with great dynamism, particularly since the 2011 revolution. The negotiation of the 1964 Modus Vivendi agreement between the Vatican and Tunisian government, as well as the postcolonial state’s theoretical tolerance of all religions, 36 On the more contemporary relationship between religion and politics in general terms, see Ted G. Jelen and Sabrina P. Ramet, “Introducing Politics and Religion,” Politics and Religion 1 no. 1 (2008): 1–2. “Religion meets fundamental human needs for group solidarity, identification with a broader community, ritual, and moral doctrines. But religious bodies inexorably want to see the moral values embodied in these doctrines protected in society, and therefore become engaged in efforts to shape the laws of the land to fit their moral doctrines. Competition for conversions and more general interconfessional mistrust add to the politicization of religion,” say the authors (1). 217 were and are certainly political acts. The precise nature of the Church’s relationship with the colonial and postcolonial states is not the focus of the present work, however one can appreciate architectural changes that reflect an eventual movement towards modernism that perhaps suggests a sustained focus on European colonists and a withdrawal from Tunisian people and from engagement with indigenous forms.37 Whereas these issues are not addressed directly by this project, as the focus is on Church and colonialist state relations, as manifested in Tunisia’s pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape, through the early 1950s. In the following pages this chapter addresses the Catholic Church’s major built interventions in and near Tunis and situates the capital region’s two cathedral structures—St. Louis de Carthage and St. Vincent de Paul—within the larger socio-political context of Tunisia’s colonial and postcolonial experience.38 The pre-Protectorate extraterritorial Chapel of St. Louis is also considered. Specifics related to the design and construction of each are presented. What follows is consideration of the important power of physical proximity to historical material and sites, using these structures and the 1930 Carthage International Eucharistic Congress as examples. Before concluding, a brief reflection on the state of the structures in Tunisia since independence will illustrate some significant continuities linking the colonial to the contemporary period. 37 This statement is intended to address relationships between aesthetics and politics. The Church continued providing education and medical care to Tunisians throughout the colonial era, and through its libraries in some ways it still does. See the special edition “Les grands réalisations catholiques dans la régence,” Tunisie touristique 8 (October 1954), in APT, for a fuller account of the Church’s substantial architectural accomplishments throughout Tunisia by 1954 and stylistic shifts during the Protectorate period. 38 The precise titular status of each structure has varied with changing Church policies since their respective completions (pro-cathedral, co-cathedral, metropolitan cathedral, primatial, etc.). For the sake of consistency and clarity, the term “cathedral” will be used throughout this chapter for both buildings, unless some other distinction is warranted and therefore made. Less prominent churches and non- Catholic Christian structures in Tunisia, many of which conformed to more traditional European aesthetics associated with particular sects (e.g. Greek and Russian Orthodox, Anglican, etc.), remain a potentially rich topic for future study that extends beyond the official identity of Protectorate-era Catholic Tunisia. See, for examples, Juliette Hueber and Claudine Piaton, eds. Tunis: Architectures 1860–1960 (Tunis: Elyzad, 2011), 202–17. 218 4.1 Church and state: the Chapel of St. Louis de Carthage Canonized following his death at Carthage, Louis IX became a national symbol of France and to him was dedicated in August 1841 a small Gothic chapel, allegedly erected on the spot of his death atop Carthage’s ancient acropolis sixteen kilometers northeast of central Tunis (Figure 4.4).39 The small parcel of land had been given to Louis-Philippe in 1830 for the explicit purpose of commemorating the crusader king, and the structure’s first stone was solemnly set in place by the Chevalier de Lagau (Franc’s consul) and Admiral Rosamel on 25 August 1840 (the anniversary of Louis IX’s death). That cornerstone, “vestige of an [unspecified] ancient monument,” had been brought to the site with full military honors, escorted by sailors in combat dress, drums and bugles.40 A Father Emanuele da Malta (presumably Maltese) blessed the stone and land and presided over a mass at a make-shift altar (dressed in fabrics donated by the Tunisian bey), after which the French tricolor was hoisted up a temporary flagpole to the acclaim of assembled personnel and a booming salute of twenty-one cannons. Construction proceeded immediately and the Tunisian bey saw to it that water was provided as necessary for both workers and the actual construction process. Stone was excavated from quarries nearby at the town of Soliman, and bricks for the vaulting and dome were brought from Genoa.41 Tufa blocks taken “from the soil of Carthage,” thus presumably ancient architectonic fragments, were used as fill in the chapel’s walls.42 A series of inscriptions, in both French and Arabic, were 39 E. de Sainte-Marie, La Tunisie chrétienne (Lyon: Bureaux des Missions Catholiques, 1878), 130. France’s consul had been tasked with locating the site of Louis’ encampment and death, which was assumed to be atop Carthage’s acropolis or the nearby hill of Sidi Bou Saïd. See also Henry Bordeaux, Un précurseur: Vie, mort et survie de Saint Louis, roi de France (Paris: Plon, 1949), 454–6. 40 Pierre Gandolphe, “St. Louis de Carthage (1830–1950),” Cahiers de Byrsa (1951): 272. 41 Ibid., 272–73. 42 Anon., “Fête de Saint Louis, à Tunis,” L’Illustration 2 no. 30 (1843): 55. 219 eventually installed on three sides of the building’s façade to render clear its purpose for any visitors.43 Charles-Joseph Jourdain’s domed octagonal structure was inspired by the domed neo- Gothic royal Chapel of St. Louis in Dreux (completed 1845), though finished in a far simpler form (Figure 4.5).44 Set atop a round platform resting on marble slabs belonging to known ancient ruins, the Carthage chapel’s open interior housed within its western apse a small altar and statue of Louis IX, the latter sculpted by French sculptor Charles Seurre, who allegedly modeled his work on a statue of the king from a church in St. Denis (Figure 4.6). 45 The sculpture, of white marble from the Pyrenees, was completed in Paris and shipped to Tunis, where upon its arrival it was accorded great respect by both French and Tunisian contingents.46 A twelve-member team of horses and mules refusing the task, a group of French sailors were joined by members of the bey’s guard and hauled the heavy statue to the chapel by hand, where it was eventually placed atop the altar during lavish inauguration ceremonies held on 25 August 1841.47 In 1843 Jourdain, the chapel’s architect, was hired to build an octagonal wall around the entire site (with an entry in a matching neo-Gothic style), as well as ancillary structures in three groupings (comprising a sacristy, waiting rooms and quarters for a site guardian). The overall effect was 43 Above the main entrance was written “Louis-Philippe I, King of the French / erected this monument / in the year 1841 / on the place where died the King Saint Louis, his ancestor.” Inside the chapel above the door was inscribed “Here died / the magnificent and just sultan / Louis, son of Louis, King of France / Lord have mercy upon him. / This land was given, for all time, / by the illustrious emir Ahmed Bey / to the sultan of France. / Whoever respects this monument, God will bless him / There is no God but God.” The later was repeated three times on the exterior of the chapel near its entry. See Gandolphe, “St. Louis,” 273. 44 An 1878 account of the chapel’s foundation identifies the architect as a Mr. Germain, rather than the Jourdain listed elsewhere. See de Sainte-Marie, Tunisie chrétienne, 130. 45 Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 220–21. Having inspected the statue in 1948, H. Bordeaux concluded that it resembled Charles V, rather than Louis IX, and ought to be replaced with an appropriate representation, perhaps using the statue at the church in Mainneville as an authentic model. See Bordeaux, Vie, 491. Earlier, in 1896, Vellard had said the statue was one of Charles V that had been sent to Carthage in error. See P.A. Vellard, Carthage autrefois, Carthage aujourd’hui (Lille: Victor Ducoulombier, 1896), 38. 46 Anon., “Fête,” 55. 47 The ceremony was attended by Tunisian, French and Catholic officials, as well as local residents. The French nature of the display was again reinforced by the prominent display of the tricolor and presence of military personnel. See Gandolphe, “St. Louis,” 274–75; Bordeaux, Vie, 490–92. 220 that of a walled fortress from afar (Figure 4.7). Its ancillary structures were linked by “porticoes in the style of the Gothic cloister.”48 By 1878 the complex included not only the chapel, but also a large garden and cemetery, as well as covered spaces dedicated to the display of fragmentary antiquities unearthed on site during the construction of the chapel (Figure 4.8).49 French citizens who had died in the area were buried here for decades.50 The gardens were described as littered with ancient debris and it was well known that antiquities lay just beneath the surface.51 The completed chapel hosted annual ceremonies dedicated to St. Louis each 25 August.52 The choice of Gothic for the structure made sense, given its nationalist association with French architecture and culture. According to prevailing sentiments among many architects of the mid- and late-nineteenth century, “Gothic architecture was Catholic and it was French.”53 With respect to the site’s specific purpose, however, the significance of the chapel’s historicist style was immediately apparent as patron of Paris’ iconic Saint-Chapelle and the so-called “Court Style” of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries; Louis IX personally exemplified the Gothic. Jourdain was sent by the French king, it was said in the inaugural 1840 volume of the French Revue générale de l'architecture et des travaux publics, to raise a structure designed explicitly “to recall, by its architectural style, the era to which belongs the name of St. Louis.”54 48 Anon., “Fête,” 55. The precinct enclosure’s diameter was 100 m. The cloister-like space appears to have been demolished with the construction of the adjacent school complex, to its northwest, in 1879. 49 de Sainte-Marie, Tunisie chrétienne, 132–33. It is not clear if these are additional structures or those designed by Jourdain in 1843. 50 Résidence générale de France à Tunis, “Note a.s [au sujet] du terrain appartenant à la France à St- Louis de Carthage,” 26 April 1954, 2, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 51 de Sainte-Marie, Tunisie chrétienne, 133. See Gandolphe, “St. Louis,” plate IX, which illustrates the placement of known and unearthed ruins on the Byrsa hill. 52 For an account of the 1843 celebration, see Anon., “Fête,” 55. 53 Raymond Jonas, France and the Cult of the Sacred Heart (Los Angeles: University of California, 2000), 192. 54 Anon., “Nouvelles et faits divers: Chapelle élevée à saint Louis,” Revue générale de l'architecture et des travaux publics 1 (1840): 569. “It is hoped he will live up to the task,” the author added. This popular architecture/engineering/archaeology journal was quite influential in its day. 221 Lavigerie’s success in wresting control of a dilapidated structure from Italian Catholic control—neglectful, it was said—in 1875 effectively facilitated French expansion from neighboring Algeria by securing a French Catholic base on site. Thus, both Catholic involvement and its architecture played a central role in the establishment of the formal French Republic’s Protectorate of Tunisia, as well as the Church’s de facto “religious protectorate” there.55 An 1891 agreement between France and the Vatican granted control of the apostolic See of Carthage to French Catholic administrators, effectively nullifying competing Italian claims, while bestowing upon Paris important veto rights in the appointment of clergy in North Africa. Tunis’ changing cityscape quickly came to reflect the new socio-political situation. With the declaration of the Protectorate in 1881, the Church upgraded its presence at the shared seat of spiritual and temporal authority in the growing colonial capital—the Place de la Résidence— by hastily constructing a small pro-cathedral opposite the Résidence générale (Figure 4.9). A provisional work intended to last only a decade, its most notable characteristic, according to Lavigerie, was the speed with which it was erected during a mere eighty-two days.56 Further described by the Archbishop as a “simple hangar,” it accommodated up to 1,500 worshippers in the shadow of its single, stout bell tower.57 The immediate needs of the city center satisfied, attention was again directed to coastal Carthage. On the site of Dido’s ancient city and Hannibal’s defeated capital, razed by Rome in 146 BC and centuries later reborn as the 55 O’Donnell, Lavigerie, 99 and Perkins, History (2004), 45. Tunisia’s Catholic population is estimated to have tripled in the five years following the 1881 establishment of the Protectorate, and by 1896 resident Catholics were said to number 75,000 nationwide. See O’Donnell, Lavigerie, 49–76 and 149. 56 Charles Lavigerie, Lettre circulaire (sur la construction d’une église cathédrale dans la Ville de Tunis), no. 49 (Tunis: Diocèse de Carthage, 1890): 3, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1427. 57 Lavigerie quoted in O’Donnell, Lavigerie, 150. See also Victor Guérin, La France catholique en Tunisie, à Malte et en Tripolitaine (Tours: Alfred Mame, 1886), 52–53. 222 diocesan seat of the fledgling African Church, the rallying cry became Carthago instauranda est (Carthage must be restored!).58 4.2 Carthage restored: The Cathedral of Saint Louis de Carthage In anticipation of Pope Leo XIII’s reinstitution of the archiepiscopal see of Carthage, Lavigerie broke ruin-rich ground59 in 1884 for what he envisioned to become a grand cathedral beside the St. Louis chapel atop the ancient city’s acropolis, with its impressive views of the Gulf of Tunis and Carthage’s ancient ports.60 Citing the bey’s gift of land for the commemoration of the French king-saint in 1830, as well as the 1054 declaration of Carthage’s primacy within the greater Church establishment in Africa by Pope Leo IX (a Frenchman), Lavigerie devoted considerable attention to the structure’s design, decoration and financing. The site and its place in the communal identity of the ambitious Church mattered greatly—“Carthage… a prestigious name! What memories! What dreams for the future!” 61 The city’s Punic history was thus superseded by its mythic Christian past; at the cathedral site, as elsewhere, tangible links to the lives of saints were routinely emphasized as foundation for a present drawn from a selectively considered and partially extant archaeological past. Not only churchmen, Lavigerie’s White Fathers were avid archaeologists, for whom the reactivation of Tunisia’s dormant Christianity 58 O’Donnell, Lavigerie, 153. This is a reference to Carthago delenda est, an oft-repeated declaration that conveyed the well-known antipathy of Roman statesman Cato the Elder (234–139 BC) towards rival Carthage and Hannibal during the Punic Wars. 59 The cahier des charges (contractual stipulations for project completion) for the cathedral explicitly cautioned the construction team to take care in excavating for the building’s foundations. Any and all artifacts recovered were to be announced and surrendered to officials at the St. Louis de Carthage antiquities museum who would document their precise provenance. Vicariat apostolique de Tunisie, “Travaux diocésains: Clauses et conditions générales” (cahier des charges) (31 January 1884), 10–11 and 23, in AA (a copy has now been placed in the APT). 60 For a time the hill was called “Mont Louis-Philippe” by the French. See Gandolphe, “St. Louis,” 272. 61 Alexandre Pons, La nouvelle église d’Afrique, ou le catholicisme en Algérie, en Tunisie et au Maroc depuis 1930 (Tunis: L. Namura, 1930), 245. 223 was a spiritual, scientific and spatial imperative. 62 Indeed, the Algiers-based Church had established in 1877 a Diocesan Committee for Archaeology to “direct, centralize, and to publish all archaeological research by members of the clergy” that may attend to regrettable lacunae in the historical record existing because “African historians are few, and their writings, where they existed, were damaged or lost due to barbarian invasions.”63 Members of the Church were thus providing spiritual services in North Africa, as well as contributing to scholarship on its history (that happened to reinforce their presence). Following what had become a typical pronouncement of the many improvements French officials believed their occupation had facilitated, in what was categorized as an erstwhile, weak, inefficient, ignorant and fallow Tunisia, Lavigerie solemnly laid the cathedral’s cornerstone on 11 May 1884.64 The ceremonial block had been taken from the renowned fourth-century Damous el Karita basilica (the largest known Carthaginian Christian church at that time), scant ruins of which lay just northeast of the Byrsa amidst the area’s rolling green hills (Figure 4.10).65 Like the circulation of invaluable relics throughout Christendom, this act legitimized the structure by asserting its foundation upon Early Christian and material precedent because it drew from what had likely been the seat of Carthage’s earliest bishops. To support the massive building, 89 pits were dug, of which 32 were 2.7 m. in diameter and reached ancient stratigraphy at depths 62 On the White Fathers’ many archaeological investigations, see Clémentine Gutron, “Mise en place d’une archéologie en Tunisie: Le Musée Lavigerie de Saint-Louis de Carthage (1975–1932),” IBLA 67 no. 194 (2004): 169–180. 63 Charles Lavigerie, Lettre circulaire (de Monseigneur l’Archevêque d’Alger au clergé de son diocèse relativement aux recherches archéologiques….), no. 107 (Algiers: Archdiocèse of Algiers, 19 March 1877): 798 and 794, in Msr. Lavigerie: Lettres pastorales et circulaires II, (collected works, unpublished as a volume, in APT). 64 The characterization of pre-colonial Tunisia as an unstable, poorly governed, insalubrious, illiterate and unproductive nation at this event was consistent with most colonialists’ assessments throughout the Protectorate era. See, for example, Pons, Église, ix. 65 Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 218. For a 1924 touristic account of the ruin, see Louis Carton, Pour visiter Carthage (Tunis: J. Barlier, 1924), 107–15. See also Susan T. Stevens, “A Great Basilica and Memoria at Carthage: Damous el Karita Redux,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 17 (2004): 750–754; J. Patout Burns and Robin M. Jensen, Christianity in Roman Africa (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), 138. 224 between four and seven meters. In all, 3,600 square meters of earth were removed.66 Many of the materials for construction were to have been imported from Europe: pouzzolane (volcanic stone used in concrete) from Civita-Vecchia and Naples; cement from Grenoble; bricks from Marseilles; lumber from France (though sources in Norway, Russia or Canada were also acceptable).67 Six years of unexpectedly slow and expensive construction were to follow, but before 15,000 guests that included a dozen bishops, the Résident général (Resident General or chief colonial officer), beylical princes, foreign consuls and military officials, Lavigerie consecrated the Metropolitan Cathedral of St. Louis IX de Carthage on 15 May 1890. Yet again uniting France and early Christendom, this solemn and symbolic act was done under the auspices of both St. Louis and St. Cyprian, Bishop of Carthage, c. AD 248.68 The structure’s reliquary, by the celebrated Lyonnais goldsmith T.J. Armand-Calliat, depicted angelic allegories of “Religion” and “France” holding aloft a miniature of Louis IX’s Sainte-Chapelle (Figure 4.11). 69 Housing fragments of the crusader king’s remains recalled from the Monreale cathedral in Sicily and placed atop an elaborate altar-like base of yellow giallo antico marble (likely from its ancient— and Tunisian—source at Chemtou), it bestowed upon the site yet another valuable material source of spiritual legitimacy (while also incorporating Italy within the process).70 The usual military honors and the prominent display of the tricolor ensured that the event took on “a character as much national (i.e. French) as religious,” in the words of France’s Foreign Affairs 66 Babelon, Carthage, 139. 67 Vicariat apostolique de Tunisie, “Travaux diocésains,” 24–26 and 34. 68 O’Donnell, Lavigerie, 162. See also Pons, Église, 256. 69 Reliquaries shaped like churches were particularly popular in France during the 12th century. They suggested that the contents were elevated to heaven and reunited with the deceased saint, just as the faithful were said to be reunited with Christ through the church. See Caroline W. Bynum, Christian Materiality (New York: Zone, 2011), 73. For more on the Carthage example see Claude-Odon Reure, Le reliquaire de Saint-Louis de Carthage (Lyon: Mougin-Rusand, 1887). (BNF). 70 J. de Beauregard, Au Pays de St. Augustin (Lyon: Vitte, 1898), 51. 225 Ministry.71 Funding for the building, which pamphlets described to potential contributors as a “national monument of St. Louis of Carthage, in honor of St. Louis, King of France, and in memory of crusaders…on the ruins of Carthage,” was collected from France’s most distinguished citizens.72 Ultimately 173 families contributed, of which at least 80% are known to have been French aristocracy, thus making the building “essentially a foundation of the nobility.”73 That the vast majority is known to have played active and public roles in the legitimist movement at the time clearly reflects the unavoidable political aspect of the cathedral’s establishment and its indirect participation in politics of the metropole. 74 Re-styled the Archbishop of Carthage and of Algiers, Primate of Africa (from the Latin, primus, ‘first’), the imperious prelate was effectively made the highest-ranking Catholic cleric on the continent, and St. Louis de Carthage became its chief church. Designed by a priest with “a distinguished and original talent as an architect,” who had made a name for himself through several church commissions in southern France,75 Abbot Joseph Pougnet’s boxy Latin-cross plan consisted of high nave, lateral aisles, a shallow gallery that encircled the entire interior and ancillary transept chapels. (Figure 4.12)76 Multicolored, Islamic geometric and vegetal motifs suffused the space with an exotic air, while its timber- coffered ceiling recalled earlier Roman structural precedent (Figure 4.13). A relatively modest 71 Ministère des Affaires étrangères à Paris, correspondence to Justin Massicault, Résident générale à Tunis, 10 May 1890, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1427. 72 Charles Lavigerie, Monument National de Saint Louis de Carthage, 21 November 1883, in Recueil d'Oeuvres de Msr. Lavigerie. Tome III (in APT). Donors of 1,000 Fr or more were granted these armorial plaques (most of which remain on display). 73 Bruno de Saint Victor, “Le Cathédrale de Carthage,” Bulletin de l’Association d’Entraide de la Noblesse Française 72, no. 262 (2005): 61. The article includes a listing of all individuals named on plaques in the building. It is thought that in actuality more than 80% were nobles, but precision remains illusive due to incomplete records and other ambiguities. 74 Ibid., 62. 75 Pougnet had assisted in the design of the neo-Gothic church of St. Vincent de Paul in Marseille and the basilica of St. Augustine in Bône (Annaba, Algeria), according to Vellard, Carthage autrefois, 26. The latter bears a strong resemblance to the forthcoming Tunis cathedral (see below). 76 Beauregard, Pays, 48. At this time it is not clear how or why he and his design was chosen, though Lavigerie would have certainly approved of it. 226 crossing dome alluded to heaven and was (at some point) painted blue, while four adjacent crossing domes were clad in geometrically arranged blue and white tiles and pierced with several small oculi. Stained glass and tiered chandeliers contributed light and added to the interior’s colorful ambiance. Lest the architecture fail to convey the Church’s transhistorical intent here, it was inscribed beneath the rose window that “the Bishops of Carthage had, since the earliest antiquity, the honor of presiding over the whole of Africa by their primatial powers.” A similar statement ran the length of the nave and apse inside the sanctuary just below the clerestory level and above its deeply recessed galleries.77 Three mosaic roundels in the choir, depicting Sts. Cyprian and Louis and a nature scene, in a rustic fashion reinforced the air of Christian antiquity (Figure 4.14). Together the sixty-five meter-long cathedral’s domes, slender pinnacles and two square bell towers at its northwestern end (capped in royal crowns) created an almost mosque-like silhouette (Figures 4.15 and 4.16). Its relatively simple, flat and tripartite façade of lightly colored Maltese stone, like its far more ornately decorated interior arcades, employed extensive use of slightly-pointed horseshoe arches and composite capitals atop columns of imported Carrara marble. Worth mentioning specifically is the dedication of one interior chapel (on the left side) to Notre Dame de Carthage. While the entire complex celebrated Sts. Cyprian and Louis most prominently, archaeology granted an even more historic pedigree, as was demonstrated by this chapel. Prominently displayed there, a 1914 sculpture (by Tunis-based sculptor Salvatore Figlia and of fine Carrara marble) featuring the Virgin Mary and an infant Jesus had been based on fragments of a marble relief excavated at the Damous el Karita basilica and proudly displayed in 77 Sladen, Carthage I, 68. Both inscriptions were excerpted from Pope Leo IX’s 1054 bull asserting the preeminence of the Bishop of Carthage in Christian Africa. The complexities of Christianity under the rule of the Romans, Vandals and Byzantines are not engaged. On archaeological and literary evidence of Early Christian culture in North Africa, see Burns and Jensen, Christianity, xlix–lii. 227 Carthage’s Lavigerie Museum vestibule (Figure 4.17).78 Probably dating to the end of the third or early fourth century AD, the reproduction served as the space’s focal point and was the model for all subsequent depictions of Notre Dame de Carthage.79 Having been excavated in 1881 by Alfred Delattre, who would later become the building’s chief priest, the original was noted for the quality of its composition and proportions and the rendering of its fabric folds (Figure 4.18).80 Some at the time though it was the oldest of such sculptures to have been found in Africa, if not all of Christendom, and it was presented as one of many recovered relics that testified to the worship of Mary in pre-Arab Carthage.81 Small scenes depicted on the altar, which was donated by the local “White Sisters” to Lavigerie in 1888, included Arabesque patterns and iconic episodes from the life of Mary, including what was purported to be a copy of an Adoration scene also recovered at the Damous el Karita.82 Inscriptions, including Sancta Maria, Adjuva Nos! (“Holy Mary, succor us!”) were drawn from excavated relics, and added a sense of place-based rhetorical drama to the space.83 Delattre wanted to see the chapel opulently ornamented, calling for a “rich decoration, a speaking decoration that would help intensify the devotion of the faithful towards the Mother of God,” and sumptuous draperies were installed after 1913. 84 Pilgrimage to the so-outfitted chapel was rewarded with indulgences in 1953 when Archbishop Perrin 78 Musée Lavigerie: Catalogue sommaire (Algiers: Missionaires d’Afrique Maison-Carrée, c. 1935), 21–4. For more on the archaeological history of the Christian cult of Mary in North Africa, see Silvio Moreno, Notre Dame de Carthage: Archéologie, histoire et dévotion (Tunis: Cathédrale de Tunis, 2016). 79 L. Chales, “Notre-Dame de Carthage,” 1954, 15, in APT “Paroisse Carthage” carton. Since the decommissioning of the Carthage cathedral in 1964 the sculpture now has pride of place in the downtown St. Vincent de Paul cathedral. It is 1.33 m. high and 0.80 m. wide at its base. 80 Ibid., 5. As of May 2017 a copy of the reproduced relief was also displayed in the vestibule at the church of Notre Dame d’Afrique (built in 1872) in Algiers, along with several other reproduced antiquities related to the cult of Mary during early Christian period in North Africa. It is not clear when these pieces were installed, though it appears they have been there for quite some time. 81 Ibid., 6. A partial copy of the original model relief was displayed in the cathedral’s Notre Dame chapel, as well, to certify the authenticity of the completed reproduction. Ibid., 16. The original was kept in the nearby Lavigerie Museum (where it still is housed, though not on view). It is currently on display in the Lavigerie chapel next to the former summer palace of the archbishop in La Marsa. 82 Ibid., 17. 83 This popular expression or “African invocation,” in the words of Delattre, was found on a clay tile in a Christian basilica at El Kasserine. See ibid., 18. 84 Delattre quoted in ibid., 17. 228 designated the site as special sanctuary during the Catholic Church’s “Year of Mary,” ensuring that even at that relatively late stage of the colonial occupation the cathedral received faithful visitors.85 While actual archaeological remains referencing St. Louis on site were non-existent, the place of Mary here—who was probably worshipped by Byzantine Christians on site as Theotokos (Mother of God)—was far more substantive. This common Greek epithet was painted on the Notre Dame chapel wall above the altar, emphasizing this point. Writing in 1898, French visitor J. de Beauregard attributed the entire cathedral’s aesthetic pastiche to the designer’s desire to unite the so-called Arab style of Algeria, the Romanesque of Sicily and the Early Christian style of Byzantium in “an admirable ensemble” that contemporary French architects operating with similarly mixed aesthetic vocabularies might have appreciated.86 Using a descriptor of considerable popularity, though fraught with both scholarly and lay ambiguity at the time, Beauregard labeled the interior “mostly Byzantine” in appearance.87 Contemporary connotations associated with the term included Eastern Orthodox Christian, Greek, Venetian, late Roman and theocratic, thereby rendering the label a rather flexible tool for aesthetic coding.88 Abstract architectural paraphrasing, rather than explicit quotation of Tunisian or Eastern sources, thus allowed the Church to ambiguously emphasize its preferred late Rome/Early Christian identity and to stress longevity while sidestepping the complexities of the Byzantine Empire’s temporal ebb and flow and the subsequent Great Schism. The incorporation of ancient construction material into the new cathedral further corroborated this imprecise mythologizing and compensated for potential deficiencies in stylistic 85 Ibid., 1. Explicit efforts to tie the building to Mary can be traced back to 1904 when Delattre wrote, in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of the dogmatic codification of the Immaculate Conception, specifically of this archaeological basis for the cult of the Virgin in Africa. See ibid. 86 Beauregard, Pays, 48. 87 Ibid. 88 Mark Crinson, Empire Building: Orientalism and Victorian Architecture (New York: Routledge, 1996), 72–92. 229 architectural authenticity. “The Stones are cemented with sentiment,” remarked one visitor to whom the structure’s material allusions were legible.89 The building was more than just pseudo-Byzantine, however. Its hybridity accommodated a diversity of identities. Abbot Léon Gauthey, visiting from France just after Lavigerie’s death in 1892, noted above all the “very striking Arab effect” of the cathedral that had by then come to house the late archbishop’s elaborate tomb.90 Still, fleur-de-lis motifs (in exterior crenellation, painting above the altar and in the arcades’ spandrels), in addition to the 234 heraldic blazons of noble families that had accompanied Louis IX and centuries later funded the church’s construction, dotted the colorful interior and drew attention (Figure 4.19). 91 The presence of traditional symbols of France and Louis IX made the institution’s Gallic association explicit. The extended Latin-cross plan, consistent pointing of the structure’s arches and bifore stained-glass fenestration contributed an early Gothic air to the building that, despite having apparently gone generally unnoticed, subtly tapped into the language of what had become by the nineteenth century France’s most cherished architectural heritage. De Beauregard, as Lavigerie had been, was both impressed and proud of what he declared a “tangible symbol of the glorious resurrection of the ancient Church of Carthage” following what French historian and novelist Louis Bertrand (1866–1941)—in typically triumphalist language—labeled “the Arab parenthesis.”92 That had been, after all, the Church’s intent. Still, others were less impressed: “I have never forgiven [Lavigerie and the White 89 Douglas Sladen, Carthage and Tunis: The Old and New Gates of the Orient, vol. I (London: Hutchinson, 1906), 66. 90 Léon Gauthey, Petit Journal d’Afrique (Autun: Imprimerie Dejussieu Père & Fils, 1893), 4. 91 Charles Lavigerie, Lettre circulaire (sur la construction de la nouvelle église pro-cathédrale de Tunis), no. 51. (Tunis: Diocèse de Carthage, 18 May 1890): 13–14, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1427. 92 Beauregard, Pays, 48 and Lavigerie, Lettre 51, 12–13. Bertrand quoted in Pierre Soumille, “La Représentation de l’Islam chez les chrétiens de Tunisie pendant le protectorat français (1881–1956) et après l’Indépendance,” in L’Altérité religieuse: Un défi pour la mission chrétienne, eds. Françoise Jacquin and Jean-François Zorn (Paris: Karthala, 2001), 105. For more on Bertrand’s views on archeology in Carthage, see Hédi Dridi and Antonella Mezzolani Andreose, “’Ranimer les ruines:’ L’Archéologie dans l’Afrique latine de Louis Bertrand,” Les nouvelles de l'archéologie, 128 (2012): 10–16. 230 Fathers]… for smothering the outlines of the citadel of great Carthage with their cathedral and monastery,” lamented British tourist Douglas Sladen in 1906. “I express no opinion on the revived Byzantine architecture of the cathedral; but I object to seeing it at all,” he continued, before accusing the archbishop of having sacrilegiously “behaved like a vandal” there.93 Indeed, the presence of the Christian complex was both physically and semiotically dominant on the site, as well as extremely archaeologically invasive—a fact for which Lavigerie’s establishment of an archaeological museum on the premises in 1875 offered little recompense.94 An American visitor in 1911, Emma Ayer, was also uninspired; she identified the “Byzantine-Mauresque” cathedral as one of several “garish and conspicuous white buildings of the church and seminary” campus atop the historic Byrsa, before proceeding to rave about nearby antiquities.95 Individual tastes and archaeological concerns notwithstanding, Lavigerie had successfully established a commanding presence high above Tunis, one that not only expressed his personal prestige, but also a grandeur he aimed to root in the site’s particular Christian history. The decorative fusion he endorsed drew parallels with local idiom but appeared to temper such connections with aesthetic references to France, epitomized by the omnipresence of the fleur-de-lis in what was essentially a neo-Gothic cathedral in both massing and plan. Though Lavigerie’s personal and particular thoughts on the cathedral’s stylistic synthesis are at present unknown, Pougnet’s union of Arab, Italian, “Byzantine” and French elements probably had a certain conciliatory effect, by both design and result. Indeed, the conflictual nature of such an imposition, or even of colonialism itself, might have been assuaged by this cryptic architectural homage. Thus, while perhaps an act of indirect architectural proseletyzing to some degree, St. Louis de Carthage poignantly assumed a mythic status of 93 Sladen, Carthage I, 18–19. 94 For more on the Lavigerie Museum at Carthage see Gutron, “Musée Lavigerie.” 95 Emma Burbank Ayer, A Motor Flight Through Algeria and Tunisia (Chicago: A.C. McClurg, 1911), 374. 231 sorts, appearing to be the natural product of centuries’ worth of shared history and a potentially depoliticized mother Church of a re-Christianizing Africa.96 Much as Lavigerie’s endorsement of Arabic language studies and the traditional North African robes worn by his clerics in the region failed to obscure the Catholic mission of their presence, the dressing of the cathedrals in minor Arabesque flourishes failed to overshadow their ultimately Christian form and function. 4.3 Further union downtown: The Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and Saint Olivia Following years of negotiation between Church officials, the Municipality and Italian and Maltese residents, Lavigerie initiated the replacement of the provisional cathedral downtown after having had the remaining graves relocated from the decrepit Cemetery of St. Antoine (Figure 4.20).97 Named for both St. Vincent de Paul (a sixteenth-century Frenchman enslaved in Tunisia) and St. Olivia (a Sicilian virgin martyred nearby during the fifth century), it presented a more conservative character than did the fancifully eclectic cathedral at Carthage that bridged history and cultures through stylistic amalgam rather than rhetorical attribution. Lavigerie explicitly sought to foster inter-communal unity through which chronically antagonistic Italian and French nationals could come to “understand that it is necessary that all live in mutual accord” as colonizers united by a shared Catholicism.98 He presided over the laying of the cornerstone— allegedly also taken from the Damous el Karita basilica—in 1890, the day after he had consecrated St. Louis de Carthage, and the new Tunis cathedral was first used for Christmas 96 Crinson, in his analysis of St. Mark’s Church in Alexandria (built by British architect James Wild from 1846–55) cites Wild’s explicit desire to appeal to an Egyptian public. No such direct claim has yet been found with regard to greater Tunis’ cathedrals. See Crinson, Building, 114–23. 97 Burials had ceased by 1885, as the cemetery was closed that year in accordance with city public health regulations banning burials within the city. See Charles Lavigerie, correspondence to Chargé d’affaires de la République française à Tunis, 19 October 1890, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1427. 98 Lavigerie, Lettre 51, 11. See also Charles Lavigerie, correspondence to Ministère des affaires étrangères à Paris, 18 April 1898, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1427. 232 services in 1897.99 Festooned in the French tricolor, it was also inaugurated in the presence of the Resident General and his retinue amidst great civic and religious pomp and circumstance (Figure 4.21). 100 Historic photographs testify to the presence of the French flag atop its harmonious façade at various times, 101 as well as within its nave, thereby reflecting the continued official state sanction of the institution’s presence, first made clear at its ostentatious debut. “Freedom is left to the architects for the choice of style,” the 1891 design competition announcement read, but it was “preferred that the raised monument be a reproduction of one of the ancient Christian basilicas or…temples of Tunisia,” it rather heavy-handedly advised further.102 A Mr. L. Bonnet-Labranche (diocesan architect and archaeologist) obliged, and from among many proposals by architects in Tunis and Paris his design was chosen by Lavigerie who noted its strategic reference to ruins of an ancient basilica near Béjà—despite the fact that in actuality, comparison with the plan of Béja’s Enchir Rhiria basilica reveals that the cathedral 99 Mention of the Tunis cornerstone’s provenance remains somewhat unclear, as specific mention has only been found once. Delattre says that “if my memory serves me correctly, Lavigerie did the same for the Cathedral of Tunis and for the sanctuary of Saint Monica” as he had done with the use of ancient material for the cornerstone. See Alfred L. Delattre and G. Lapeyre, L’Archéologie et la Congrès eucharistique de Carthage (Tunis: J. Aloccio, 1932), 3. A reprint of “La bénédiction de la première pierre de la pro-cathédrale définitive de Tunis (La Dépêche tunisienne, 20 May 1890) in Anon., Consécration de la cathédrale de Tunis (Tunis: La Tunisie catholique, 23 May 1953), 26–28, in APT “Cathédrale: Documents, Photos” carton, describes the ceremony in detail but made no mention of the stone’s origin. The cathedral was not formally consecrated until 1953. 100 Ponce Martel, “La nouvelle cathédrale de Tunis,” La France illustrée no. 1209 (29 January 1898): 103. The Resident General and other officials were, generally speaking, regular church event attendees throughout the colonial period and appeared often in their official capacity. 101 Large brackets for installing the flagpole are still present on the roof of the cathedral. (Site visit by author, 17 September 2016.) 102 Anon., “Concours publics: Construction de la cathédrale de Tunis,” L’Architecture 4 no. 52 (26 December 1891): 627. Open design competitions for church projects were relatively rare in 19th century in France, particularly for smaller projects. See Claude Laroche, “Les enjeux multiples de l’architecture religieuse du second XIXe siècle en France: Un essai de litanies,” in L’Architecture religieuse au XIXe siècle: Entre éclectisme et rationalisme, eds. Bruno Foucart and Fançoise Hamon (Paris: Presses de l’Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2006), 303. 233 was very loosely inspired by this monument, rather than faithfully copied.103 Following a lengthy bidding process, the Paris-based firm of a Georges Cartier was first selected to manage the construction of the seventy-five-meter-long cruciform-planned structure atop soft terrain stabilized with 2,133 eucalyptus pilings (Figure 4.22).104 Its shallow transept extended a mere five meters past its twenty-one-meter-wide nave and single lateral aisles, giving it a generally box-like interior. The space’s longitudinal feel, reinforced by the presence of its contrasting blind triforium, was interrupted only by a series of alternating columns and piers and its simple crossing dome (Figures 4.23 and 4.24). Engineers used marble from local sources including Djebel-Oust, an ancient Roman quarry there having been restored to supply the project, to again facilitate a material connection to local antiquity. Not unlike had been the case in Carthage, financial difficulties resulted in the delayed completion of the structure; its fifty-two- meter-high papal crown-capped bell towers were not finished until 1910 (Figures 4.25 and 4.26). Using a design by Louis Queyrel, they had been skillfully raised over the busy city in seven months using the relatively new, state-of-the-art Hennebique method for reinforced-concrete construction. Components of the concrete included water drawn from the ancient source at Zaghouan and crushed stone from Djebel-Oust intended to match the color of the building’s existing masonry.105 The towers’ initially planned clocks—presumably casualties of consistently 103 See Paul Gaukler, Basiliques chrétiennes de Tunisie 1892–1904 (Paris: Picard, 1913), plate XV. Diocesan architects were generally tasked with supervising architectural projects within a diocese. Design contracts for new projects were not automatically granted to them. See Laroche, “Les enjeux,” 302–303. Plans were standard design tools at the time and were generally afforded great importance in assessing designs and in their dissemination through publication. See ibid., 305. According to Ouerghemmi, documents at the diplomatic archives in Paris contain references to Henri Saladin having, at least at some point, participated in the design completion. See Salona Ouerghemmi, La cathédrale de Tunis (MA thesis, University of Manouba, 2004), 21. Saladin himself offers no mention of any involvement when he mentions the cathedral in his 1908 city guide. See Henri Saladin, Tunis et Kairouan (Paris: Renouard, 1908), 22. 104 Roger Jamin, La cathédrale de Tunis historique (Tunis: n.p., 1975), 9, in BDT 264.031.161 JAM CAT I. 105 Allar, Clamens et Fourneron-Bey, correspondence to Director of Béton Armé journal, 10 September 1910, in CAP, BAH-25-1909-08525 dossier 076 Ifa 1348/9; Louis Queyrel, Devis descriptif: Surélévation des deux clochers de la Cathédrale de Tunis, 1 April 1909, in CAP, BAH-25-1909-08525 dossier 076 Ifa 234 insufficient budgets—were ultimately omitted when the towers were complete, pursuant to a Queyrel’s different design (Figure 4.27). 106 The installation of iconographic sculpture, mosaics and stained glass (it is not clear if the façade’s rose window was intended to be, or always was, blind) continued for several decades, and the result was far more simply decorated than had been suggested. In 1930 its Art Deco apse frescos by Georges Le Mare were consecrated.107 Featuring the radiant apotheosis of St. Vincent de Paul at its center, the 130-square-meterwork also illustrated other scenes from the saint’s life, the Tunisian bey, members of the clergy, a statue of Lavigerie (footnote 165) and early African martyrs, framed by opposing façades of the cathedral and Casbah mosque (Figure 4.28).108 Standing out in an otherwise whitewashed and dark stone-trimmed interior, the synchronistic composition furthered—if somewhat awkwardly— the idea of historical unity advanced by a clerical elite ever promoting the image of precedent and revival. It is known that the building’s construction was delayed by financial issues, and it should be noted that much of the interior’s sculpted trim appears to be incomplete. Close inspection of triforium capitals reveals that only a small number were ever finished, many remaining still in their block-like form (Figure 4.29). Those that were carved, just three in the bay nearest to the crossing in the nave, appear rather roughly cut, indicating that perhaps they were not completely 1348/9. While the archives include detailed drawings and plans for the towers’ construction, as well as correspondence by the architect and engineers, no explanation is given for their shape. 106 Correspondence at the CADN from the Archdiocese of Carthage addressed to Resident General details the unfinished nature of the cathedral’s façade and contains several suggestions (such as the inclusion of relief statuary depicting Lavigerie and St. Vincent de Paul) for its completion. See Archdiocèse de Carthage, correspondence to Réné Millet, 12 June 1898, in CADN 1TU/1/V/1427. 107 Georges Le Mare was born in Normandy in 1866, but spent most of his life in Tunis (having first arrived in 1890), where he established himself as a prolific Orientalist painter (and resident of the Medina quarter). The apse vault commission came in 1927, and work was completed with the assistance of his son-in-law, another painter, Arsène Dumas. Le Mare died in Tunis in 1942. See Patrick Abéasis, “Georges Le Mare (1866–1942),” La Lettre de France Tunisie (1988?): 48–50, in APT “Cathédrale: Documents, Photos” carton. 108 Anon., “Les peintures de la cathédrale (de Tunis),” La Tunisie catholique 11 (4 May 1930): 343–344 and 13 (1 June 1930): 403–404. 235 finished. None of the triforium arcade column bases were trimmed down from their large blocks either. Brackets in the crossing, just below the triforium are also still unfinished blocks. On the ground level, the capitals on the inner ambulatory are also still blocks (though columns bases are fully carved). The finished capitals and brackets visible in the apse and the portion of the triforium between the apse and crossing give an indication of what the original plan may have been. Given the simplicity of the block-like capitals elsewhere in the nave, one wonders if perhaps they were intended to be further sculpted into Corinthian capitals featuring the cherub faces, Chi-Rho motifs and lush foliage seen elsewhere. Tunis’ cathedral assertively lorded over the ville nouvelle’s most significant public space, the hands of “the Eternal Father” (or Abraham?) outstretched in benediction high above a Place de la Résidence crowded with his Christian, Muslim and Jewish descendants (Figure 4.30).109 Beneath the projecting figure are two other prominent individuals framing the façade’s primary arch, recognizable by their symbolic attributes as “Ecclesia” and “Synagoga” (Figure 4.31). Popular allegorical figures found commonly within decorative programs found in medieval churches of Northern Europe, they represent the triumph of the New Testament and Christianity and the supposed ignorance of Judaism, respectively. “Ecclesia” wears a crown and carries cross or standard and chalice, while “Synagoga” stands blindfolded, bearing a broken staff, nearly dropping the Law tablets. Speaking of their iconic depiction at Reims Cathedral, art historian Nina Rowe concludes that the image “advanced a message of the righteousness of Jewish submission in an ideally ordered realm under the guidance of the kings of France.”110 The argument could be extended here in the colonial Tunis context, wherein the relationship between state authorities, dominant Christians and an indigenous Jewish minority remained 109 The sculpture was done in 1910 following the completion of the towers. For more on the creation of the Place de la Résidence, see Jamin, Cathédrale, 10–13. 110 Nina Rowe, The Jew, the Cathedral and the Medieval City (New York: Cambridge, 2011), 10. 236 arguably as complex as it had been in the Middle Ages. The apparent absence of Muslims from the symbolic Judeo-Christian dialogue suggests that they were viewed as irrelevant outsiders, although the potential presence of Abraham above could be seen as an indirect reference, since he is regarded in Islam as a prophet and progenitor of many ancient peoples (including Muhammad’s ancestors). While allegory was a typical form of art in antiquity, these references became standardized during the ninth century and appeared on European cathedrals starting in 1225, making their appearance here in Tunis one of very few medieval or Gothic architectural elements.111 The cathedral’s landmark twin towers, praised by the archbishop at their dedication as “tree branches possessing two essential qualities—solidarity and lightness,” would command the skyline of downtown Tunis well into the mid-twentieth century. 112 Their height was not surpassed along its central boulevard until the completion of the twenty-three-story glass-clad Hotel Africa in 1971. Of a much smaller scale and set back from the shaded Place, the sober Résidence générale’s presence was overshadowed by its spiritual counterpart across the landscaped square. Even so, the complementary authorities of church and state, just as had been the case for Romans and then Early Christians centuries before, remained tangible at the heart of the city. Any decorative traces of the Gothic or Arabesque discernible at Carthage are absent here, and a gold-ground mosaic panel, depicting Christ and a pair of trumpeting angels, adds a Byzantine air to the cathedral’s façade. The modest sculptural aspects of its relatively simple stone exterior, reminiscent of Baltard’s 1871 Church of St. Augustine in Paris, detract little from the otherwise discernible neo-Romanesque geometries most apparent in its recessed porch, 111 Ibid., 1. 112 Barthélemy Combes, Allocution de Monseigneur l’Archevèque de Carthage et d’Alger, Primate d’Afrique (relative à l’achèvement de la cathédrale de Tunis à la bénédiction des Cloches) (Tunis: R. Borrel, 1910), 5, in APT “Cathédrale: Documents, Photos.” 237 groin-vaulted nave, hemispherical arches, pendentives, lateral aisles and blind gallery arcades. Basic block capitals and unadorned interior arcades, windows and vaulting contributed to a refined austerity reminiscent of ruined structures whose ancient details have been lost in the passing of centuries. In this way, the building may have seemed to be more like an inherited Early Christian legacy than a modern creation. Some in the press expressed enthusiasm for the building’s appearance: on the occasion if its Christmas 1897 inauguration one reporter declared it to be “the most beautiful and largest basilica of the African coast,” built exclusively using Tunisian materials in “the Romanesque style with superb effect.” Not all, however, were impressed.113 The same critical Emma Ayer who cared little for the primatial cathedral at Carthage dismissed “the rather ugly [St. Vincent de Paul] Cathedral with no especial style of architecture” on the “avenue of which even Paris might be proud” during her 1911 visit.114 The cathedral’s style did, however, provoke a degree of explicit objection elsewhere. Whereas few specific responses to the building’s design and construction have been located, occasional mention in travel literature as seen above notwithstanding, one piece in the Revue Tunisienne dated October 1897 directly addressed the building’s appearance. “Some hastily made critiques declare that the Romanesque style chosen for the new cathedral of Tunis is nonsense, because the style is essentially monastic” and thus blatantly inappropriate, given the “new spirit” of the Church at the time, said author Delécraz.115 Gothic—ethereal, dramatic, French and by many considered to be “the perfection and consummation of Romanesque architecture” and the “highest representation of Christian exaltation”—would have perhaps been a natural choice, he admitted.116 Delécraz was participating here in a larger discussion going on 113 Martel, “Nouvelle cathédrale,” 103. 114 Ayer, Motor, 326. 115 F.-V. Delécraz, “L’Architecture religieuse et la Cathédrale de Tunis,” Revue tunisienne 4 (October 1897): 449–50. 116 Ibid., 450. 238 at the time regarding the propriety specific of styles during a particularly eclectic period, responding to the polemical question of the era posed in 1828 by Heinrich Hübsch: “In what style should we build?”117 As previously addressed, virulent in Germany, France, Britain and beyond, the resulting “style wars” of the nineteenth century pit faithful classicists against partisans of the “pointed” neo-Gothic and others. Ecclesiastical architecture was highly debated, and figures such as Viollet-le-Duc inspired major debates concerning the symbolic potency of styles while rejecting uninspired imitation. Echoing Viollet-le-Duc’s argument that France’s medieval monuments were “the embodiment of the national spirit,” Auguste Rodin stressed the symbolic potency of the church, remarking in 1914 that “the cathedral is the synthesis of the country, [its]…rocks, forest, gardens, the northern sun. All of our France is in our cathedrals, just as all of Greece is in the Parthenon.”118 For him, like Victor Hugo and others, the Gothic was a material expression of France’s history, its identity and its indigenous creative capacity; it was the highest achievement of French masters who derived their inspiration from the territory, and the idea, that was France. The Romanesque was, to Rodin, “the father of French styles” and the special “chrysalis” of the subsequent Gothic.119 Though often seen as heavy and simple, it was recognized as the source of architectural energy—a rational style “humble and somber, like the birth of the religion” that it originally served.120 Indeed, the Romanesque, because it incorporated the entirety of Christian history from antiquity through the modern era, and because its formal system remained “open,” 117 For the original text of Hübsch’s essay and subsequent responses in translation, see Heinrich Hübsch et al. In What Style Should We Build? The German Debate on Architectural Style, trans. Wolfgang Herrmann (Los Angeles: Getty Center Publication Programs, 1992). 118 Barry Bergdoll, European Architecture: 1750–1890 (New York: Oxford, 2000), 226 and Auguste Rodin, Les cathédrales de France (Paris: Armand Colin, 1914), 8. 119 Rodin, Cathédrales, 55. 120 Ibid. 239 came to be viewed in nineteenth-century France as definitively Catholic and universal, despite the popularity of pro-Gothic figures such as Viollet-le-Duc and Baudot.121 Before launching into a passionate defense of the Romanesque style, which Delécraz considered to be a noble, inventive evolution of ancient Roman architecture too often and unfairly criticized, he did weigh in on the design and appearance of Tunis’ new cathedral. More than just religious or spiritual ideas, the pragmatic needs of a building’s patrons and the stipulations contained in project briefs greatly determined a structure’s form, he reminded readers. To describe the Tunis cathedral as an honest reproduction of an ancient basilica was unfair, he said, and ignoring the needs of users would produce a highly flawed anachronism. Although commissioners were “guided by the desire to reproduce in Tunis an image that would have perhaps inspired the admiration of the faithful from another era,” the necessary adjustment to the ancient model’s plan and scale did not accurately correspond to its fenestration and decoration, which could not be proportionately altered.122 Though speaking abstractly, rather than just of the Tunis cathedral itself, he described awkwardly scaled buildings generated by such a process as “gauche and deformed constructions.”123 With regard to Tunis’ St. Vincent de Paul cathedral, he scathingly critiqued the proportions of the façade. Its two “meager columns” and lack of harmony indicated immediately that the design process here was “no less perilous or more practical” than other similarly misguided processes.124 Overall, the church’s architecture had been rendered “limp, starry, and crude,” he charged, its details appearing as if they were “objects that one viewed too closely with binoculars.”125 Its design did not represent religious ideas like those that inspired architects of the Middle Ages, but the (by him unspecified) needs 121 Bruno Foucart, “Préface: Gothique, roman, elliptique,” in L’architecture religieuse au XIXe siècle: Entre éclectisme et rationalisme, eds. Bruno Foucart and Fançoise Hamon (Paris: Presses de l’Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2006), 9. 122 Delécraz, “L’Architecture,” 452 and 453–54. 123 Ibid., 454. 124 Ibid. 125 Ibid. 240 of officials and its final form was but “a solid work of masonry showing walls largely supported by the ground and painfully raising its (as-of-yet incomplete) heavy square towers into the void” above.126 Were the goal of ecclesiastical architecture to, as he said, “raise the earthbound faithful’s soul and guide it towards heaven, where it attends a glorious divinity,” the Tunis cathedral remained for Delécraz an aesthetic failure, the place-based stylistic specificity of which was unpersuasive.127 The Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul seems to have had an explicit effect on a project initiated elsewhere in the city. Records indicate that Louis Queyrel, designer of that building’s concrete towers and diocesan architect at the time, drafted a Basilica of Notre-Dame de Tunis, the silhouette and façade of which bore striking resemblance to the downtown cathedral (Figure 4.32). For the site high atop a hill in the Belvedere neighborhood, he intended to see raised near-copies of his original towers over a domed building which would have included a very similar tri-partite columned entryway.128 While designs were done, and on 8 December 1914 the 800 kg cornerstone was laid in place by Archbishop Barthélemy Clément Combes in the presence of between 7,000 and 8,000 assembled citizens, military personnel, musicians and clergy, the building was never completed.129 The image of the downtown cathedral was deemed meaningful and appropriate for repetition and affiliation with the Virgin Mary, who was described in an article on the event as “Patroness and Queen of the fatherland [i.e. France].”130 Combes’ goal to see Mary worshipped in Tunis as she had been in Algiers at its hilltop basilica of Notre- 126 Ibid. 127 Ibid., 460. 128 This area is still called “Notre Dame” today. 129 L.D.(?), “Pose de la première pierre de Notre-Dame de Tunis,” La Tunisie illustrée 99 (1914): 14–16. 130 Ibid., 16. The article makes no comment regarding the design’s similarity to the Tunis cathedral’s. 241 Dame d’Afrique (also of the “Romano-Byzantine” style) ultimately failed due to the Tunis site’s unstable terrain.131 4.4 Authenticity by proximity: The 1930 Congrès Eucharistique International de Carthage The symbolic significance of these major cathedral structures, and the political power they leveraged, were drawn from their styles, their scales and the rhetoric associated with their unavoidable presence in the cityscape. St. Vincent de Paul sat opposite the colonial administration’s headquarters, while St. Louis de Carthage sat perched atop the city’s most historic hill. These prominent positions mattered. Their authenticity was partially buttressed by their propinquity to other institutions, but of course also to ancient relics and sites. Much like faithful Christians adored items and mementos attributed to sainted individuals, Church buildings and celebrations garnered significance by their closeness to, and use of, historic materials. The history of the modern Church in Tunisia is replete with descriptions of religious festivals and special events designed to reemphasize history as the foundation for the thus legitimized organization. Where buildings could not be invested with materials-based authority, as was described in the two cathedrals above, ceremonies and activities were taken out of buildings into archaeological zones. The most significant event demonstrating the importance of proximity to Christian antiquity in colonial-era Tunisia remains the May 1930 International Eucharistic Conference (Figure 4.33). Hosted at Carthage, which was described in its official song as “blessed” and “immortal,” the conference was planned as a “reunion of men wanting to study together the dogma of the Eucharist, promote the cult (i.e. Catholicism)…and honor our Lord in the holy 131 Pons, Église, 266. 242 sacrament.” 132 It coincided with the centenary of France’s invasion of Algeria and the “restoration” of Christianity to North Africa, and it proved quite controversial. A religious spectacle, it had blatant colonialist objectives, as well. The French foreign affairs ministry, mindful of the inevitably strong Italian presence at the event, insisted that the colonial administration in Tunis participate fully in order to ensure the event maintained a “French character” and was a “French success,” ultimately amplifying France’s “prestige and interests” in the territory.133 To the Archbishop of Carthage, Alexis Lemaître, the ministry expressed its desire that pilgrims experience “a durable impression of the liberalism of France and its civilizing aptitudes."134 Full military honors (featuring both French and Tunisian soldiers, bands and officials) were afforded the Pope’s representative (legate) at the event, the French Cardinal Lepicier.135 An official subvention of two million Fr, granted by the colonial administration, reflected the perceived international importance of the event.136 Indeed, foreign audiences were expected; organizers anticipated 40,000 participants (arriving in part on specially chartered 132 Anon., “Cantique du congrès,” Pèlerinages 29 (1930): 4, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2122; A. Lemaître, quoted in Anon., XXXème Congrès eucharistique international Carthage 1930: Actes et Documents (Tunis: La Tunisie catholique, 1931), 8. Frequent events held around the globe (this was the first in Africa), such Eucharistic conferences had been recently hosted by Rome (1922), Amsterdam (1924), Chicago (1926) and Sydney (1928). They continue today; the 2016 congress was held in Cebu City and the 2020 event is scheduled for Budapest. 133 Ministère des affaires étrangères à Paris, correspondence (telegram) to Résident général Tunis (nos. 192 and 193), 5 July 1929, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2122. The Resident General was officially welcomed by clergy at events and incorporated as a faithful participant into religious ceremonies, during which he was prominently seated. This was described by Paris as acceptable and “no attack on the lay character of the Republic,” an assertion that implies that there was some concern regarding the propriety of the event’s State sanction. See Ministère des affaires étrangères à Paris, correspondence to Mr. Manceron Résident général de France à Tunis (no. 924), 26 April 1930, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2122. 134 Ministère des affaires étrangères à Paris, correspondence to Sa Grandeur Monseigneur Lemaître, Archevêque de Carthage, 6 June 1929, in APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton no. 1. 135 For a full account, in English, of the Congress, see Anon., “The Eucharistic Congress at Carthage,” The Tablet, 17 May 1930, 665–66. 136 Est. equivalent value is 1.1135 million USD in 2016. The Public Works office, City Hall, and security services also contributed major funds to the event’s execution. It should be noted, as well, that the colonial state gave the Catholic Church considerably larger annual subventions annually than it did to Tunisia’s Muslim and Jewish administrations (e.g. the Catholic Church received almost 3.4 times the funding allocated to Muslims in 1925). Statistics quoted in Ali Mahjoubi, Les origines du movement national en Tunisie (1904–1934) (Tunis: Publication de l’Université de Tunis, 1982), 474–5. 243 cruise ships) representing twenty-five nations and made specific liturgical and social arrangements for French, Italian, Maltese, Belgian, Dutch and Flemish, German, “Anglo- American,” “Spanish and South American,” Polish, Czechoslovakian and “Oriental,” contingents.137 Events, which included parades, lectures, speeches and large masses, spanned several days and were carefully choreographed to maximize the use of Carthage’s built environments and historic sites. Rather than a Congress held “beneath Romanesque and Gothic vaults,” “this will be a Congress in open air, on the site of ancient Christian monuments of which little is left but ruins” in a city that, for Christians, was said to be perhaps second in spiritual significance only to Rome.138 Built environments, specially designed, excavated and curated, thus played an important role in the validation of the Church’s mission. So significant was the deployment of antiquity here that Alfred Delattre, who had served as chaplain of the St. Louis de Carthage chapel, archaeologist and founding director of the Lavigerie Museum, published a short book—l’Archéologie et la Congrès Eucharistique de Carthage—specifically on the subject.139 Noteworthy Congress events included a solemn Mass at the downtown Tunis cathedral (the exterior of which was specially illuminated for the event), a papal Mass conducted by the pope’s representative, the Cardinal Legate, at the Carthage cathedral and several evening services. Many were set within Carthage’s ruins, which were said by the capital’s main newspaper to be contributing “ruins that talk.”140 A very controversial children’s parade, during which thousands of participants (aged 7 to 20 years)—dressed in white robes as “Eucharistic 137 Anon., “Priorité Press Associated Paris” (telegram no. 4020), 4 May 1930 (erroneously dated 1935), in CADN 1TU/1/V/2124; Secrétariat du Congrès, XXXème Congrès eucharistique international de Carthage Livret-Guide à l’usage des congrèssists (Tunis: Ch. Weber, 1930), 65–68, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2122. 138 Joseph Boubée, “Le eucharistique de Carthage,” Pèlerinages 29 (1930): 7 and 8, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2122. 139 Alfred L. Delattre and G. Lapeyre, L’Archéologie et la Congrès eucharistique de Carthage (Tunis: J. Aloccio, 1932). The text was actually published posthumously following his death in 1932. A short biography of Delattre is included. See ibid., i–xiv. 140 André Nicolai, “Les lieux saints de Carthage,” La Dépêche tunisienne, 5 May 1930, 3. 244 crusaders”—waved palms in “pious homage to Christian martyrs” while chanting “love to Jesus” converged on the ancient Roman amphitheatre of Carthage (Figure 4.34).141 This particular event took place on 10 May 1930, which was that year Eid-al-Fitr, one of the holiest days on the Islamic calendar. 142 Papal masses were conducted at the Basilica Maiorum, the Roman amphitheatre, and then at the Basilica of St. Cyprian. Closing ceremonies included a massive procession of participants from the ancient amphitheatre to the Carthage cathedral, from which the Cardinal Legate administered the final benediction. Published guidebooks not only included the Congress schedule, but also recounted the Christian history of the Carthage area and offered descriptions of the many ancient ruins nearby, which were indicated on included maps to facilitate their independent exploration. Temporary monuments were erected for the event, as well, and augmented the effect of the sites’ antiquities. A Mr. Le Monnier, a Tunis-based designer known for his scenographic work at the Municipal Theatre, created a 12-meter reproduction of the Roman triumphal arch of Diocletian (r. AD 244–311) at Sbeïtla at the summit of Carthage’s Lavigerie Avenue (Figures 4.35 and 4.36). 143 “Baptized” with the addition of Christian iconography (“XP” [Chi-Rho] monogram, palms, the Good Shepherd from the Hadrumète catacombs, etc.), it bore inscriptions reading “The Blood of Martyrs, the Seed of Christians” (attributed to Tertullian) and “O, our blessed Carthage, gleaming white by the purity of her children’s works; she is now red- stained by the blood of martyrs; she has also, among her flowers, lilies and roses” (attributed to 141 A. Darvil, “Le eucharistique international de Carthage,” Depêche coloniale, 29 April 1930, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2123. On the children’s processional route and planning see Anon., “Procession des palmes à l’amphithéatre de Carthage” in APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton no. 3. It seems that a similar youth parade through central Tunis was deemed quite provocative towards local Muslims and described as an insensitive “carnivalesque” occurrence, and a “superb gaffe.” See Bug-Jargal, “La croissade eucharistique,” La Tunis socialiste, 6 April 1930, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2122. For a touristic account of the amphitheatre site from 1924, see Carton, Pour visiter, 120–23. 142 This particularly awkward coincidence was noted in La Dépêche tunisienne in Anon., “Une grande journée de fêtes chrétienne et musulmane,” La Dépêche tunisienne, 9 May 1930, 2. 143 Delattre and Lapeyre, L’archéologie, 5. 245 St. Cyprian).144 Tellingly, documents mentioning the special Carthage triumphal arch generally describe it as a faithfully executed copy, sometimes failing to acknowledge the fact that it was recast as an explicitly Christian monument in its reproduction (see Figure 4.35).145 Images of the various other venues further illustrate the degree to which ruins were consolidated and enhanced with structures designed to render them somewhat more substantial than they in fact were, and also suitable for Congress use. Carthage’s Roman amphitheatre was subject to considerable work as it was transformed into a “splendid open-air cathedral.”146 Excavations carried out during the final years of the nineteenth century had revealed the existence of a subterranean chamber along its long axis. Enlarged in 1903 and converted to a “Martyrs’ Chapel” dedicated to Sts. Perpetua and Felicity, who had supposedly been martyred there in AD 203, it housed a small altar and several rows of seating (Figure 4.37). Photographs and Delattre’s text on the archaeological aspects of the congress confirm the significant work done on the site for the Congress, however, including the construction of an arched entrance portal, a special altar, seating platforms for clergy and dignitaries, Christian-themed relief panels and dramatic flagpoles bearing the Papal standard (see Figures 4.34 and 4.38).147 To access this grand focal point, presented “like an authentic relic of ancient Christian Carthage,” it was said, one crossed a purpose-built ramp.148 The sculpted altar backdrop (which sat on fairly rough ground) was executed by Le Monnier in the Art Deco style, but clearly drew on traditional 144 Secrétariat du Congrès, Livret-Guide, 94; Anon., Anon., XXXème Congrès: Actes, 64. The latter text’s specified attribution to Cyprian’s Ep. X appears to be incorrect. See also Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 4–5 (which describes it as 13 m. high, 12 m. wide and 3 m. deep). Anon., XXXème Congrès: Actes, 64, says it was 12 m. high, 9 m. wide, and 3 m. deep). See also ibid., plate between 320 and 321; Sebag et al., Memorial du XXXe eucharistique international (Tunis: Saliba 1930) for images. 145 For example, see Anon., “Congrès eucharistique international de Carthage: Les travaux préparatoires (Note no. 27),” 1, in APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton no. 3; Anon., XXXème Congrès: Actes, 64. However, Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 4–5, a text specifically about the archaeological aspects of the event, does explain the origin of its Christian decorative elements. 146 Parra quoted in Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 17. 147 See Secrétariat du Congrès, XXXème Congrès, plates; APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” cartons nos. 1 and 6; Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 6–19. 148 Anon., “Congrès eucharistique…travaux préparatoires,” 1. 246 ancient processional relief types. At the Basilica Maiorum (a site traditionally associated with the cult of Perpetua and her followers, as well as venue for several of St. Augustine’s sermons)149, builders erected an enclosure around the specially excavated martyrs’ crypt or confessional that existed beneath the ancient altar (Figure 4.39). Great care was taken to reconstruct the structure exactly according to its original plan, and atop it was raised a domed aedicule said to be reproducing the typical ancient basilica’s altar canopy or ciborium.150 Its columns’ bases and capitals were said to be copies of those unearthed at the Damous el Karita.151 Flag masts were erected along the structure’s exterior wall foundations to provide visitors with an idea of the structure’s original plan and scale.152 Finally, the Basilica of St. Cyprian was also used for Congress events and thus substantially “renovated” for the occasion. Here, Le Monnier designed another ciborium, in this case arched in the so-called Byzantine style, and capped in a hexagonal, pyramidal roof that was installed within the remains of the ancient structure where early bishops once officiated (Figure 4.40). It was said to be a reproduction of an eighth-century ciborium from inside the Church of San Prospero in Perugia, and indeed it appears to be a fairly faithful copy (Figure 4.41).153 Space was designated on its raised platform for the Cardinal Legate’s throne, the honorific seat of the Resident General and chairs for various cardinals, bishops, et al., and movements through the space, like all the others, was carefully choreographed and mapped in 149 Burns and Jensen, Christianity, 144–45. 150 Anon., “Congrès eucharistique…travaux préparatoires,” 1; Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 25– 44; Anon., XXXème Congrès: Actes, 65. It is not quite clear if the entire structure was built over the old crypt, or if it was built over the crypt and is somehow a copy of the subterranean space in dimensions and stairs. 151 Ibid. 152 Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 42. 153 Anon., XXXème Congrès: Actes, 64–65. 247 advance.154 Indeed, a considerable amount of work was put into preparing Carthage for the conference. As one document put it, “not since the Romans” had Carthage known such an industrious “army of workers,” including archaeologists, terrain levelers, as well as both road and structure builders.155 While streets were expanded and repaved, tented campgrounds prepared (using 800 tents rented from the army), dining and sanitary facilities erected, most celebrated by authorities were the built environments staged for keynote events (Figure 4.42).156 One archived budget for the Congress details anticipated expenditure and attests to the allocation of a considerable 1.2 million Fr, or 21.8% of the event’s total budget, for “decorations and upgrades to ceremony sites,” including fences, platforms, loudspeakers, music, etc.157 Officials described the overall decorative program, conceived by the Vicar General Monseigneur Gourlot and executed by Le Monnier, not as a “fairground medley,” but instead one admirably “inspired by archaeological reminiscences and ancient liturgical motifs.”158Indeed, the entire event had been very much inspired by archaeology, which organizers claimed had been “guided for a half-century by Providence…rendering possible the celebration” of the Congress.159 The design and production of a commemorative ostensorium (or monstrance) for the occasion even further illustrates the centrality of archaeology at the conference (Figure 4.43). Funded by a public subscription initiated by the widow of prolific archaeologist Louis Carton, the vessel—which is intended to reverently display the consecrated Eucharist wafer—became one 154Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 49–52. Curiously, a hand drawn plan of seating arrangements does not include a spot designated for the Resident General. See APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton 1. 155 Anon., “Congrès eucharistique…travaux préparatoires,” 1. 156 On order, hygiene, and safety at the Congress, see Anon., XXXème Congrès, 62–3. 157 Société civile du Congrès eucharistique international de Carthage (Président), correspondence to Sa Grandeur Monseigneur Lemaître, Archevêque de Carthage, 10 May 1890, in APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton no. 1. 158 Anon., “Congrès eucharistique…Travaux préparatoires,” 2. 159 Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 3. 248 of the event’s primary icons and was intended to have an “African, but above all Carthaginian” effect.160 Initially designed by one of the Catholic nuns at the Maison Lavigerie, it was produced in Paris by the Brunet firm. Its basic form referenced the Christian crosses typically found on ceramic lamps throughout the region. Decorative motifs employed throughout (grapes, doves, palms, etc.) were drawn from a variety of specific archaeological sources, including elaborate floor mosaics from the ancient Bir Ftouha basilica in Carthage’s outskirts and an ancient host wafer mold excavated in Tunisia near Ruspe (Figure 4.44).161 The piece also bears a small reproduction of the iconic Notre Dame de Carthage figure from the Damous el Karita basilica introduced above. Amidst the gold and other precious stones were included garnets taken from among Carthage’s many ruins. The gems’ color was intended to represent the piece’s most important symbolic reference: the sacred blood of Christ (and by extension, Christian martyrs).162 Even at this quite intimate scale one witnesses the strategic union of past and present through symbolic and material means. The entire Eucharistic Congress was thus staged to emphasize and exploit the apparent omnipresence of Christian antiquity and the active role the faithful might play in resurrecting the martyred Church—here symbolically, by physically moving between and within heavily curated sacred sites during and between religious services, ceremonial events and thematic lectures. Planners choreographed the event with attention to space, symbol and movement. Opening ceremonies were held on day one at the Place de la Résidence between the downtown cathedral and colonial seat, and subsequent sessions had participants variously occupy and activate Carthage’s ancient sites. On the last day a procession to the crest of the Byrsa hill, 160 Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 54. Additional complementary liturgical instruments were also paid for by subscription under the initial direction of Mrs. Carton. See ibid., 62–66. This document includes complete descriptions of the vessels, as well as several detail photographs of each. 161 On the early excavations of Bir Ftouha (and excavations completed n the 1990s), see Susan Stevens et al., Bir Ftouha: A Pilgrimage Church Complex at Carthage (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2005), 15–26 and 303–07. 162 Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 53–61. 249 culminated in the Legate’s blessing a reported 70,000–80,000 people gathered outside and down across the valley (Figures 4.45 and 4.46).163 Ascending beneath the faux triumphal arch via the palm-lined Cardinal Lavigerie Avenue, pilgrims gathered at the victorious church atop the ancient summit as if they had victoriously entered an ancient Roman city. The cathedral at its apex both physically and allegorically was set upon foundations made of ancient materials (Figure 4.47). As the Eucharist represented the sacrifice of Christ and his theoretical rebirth on a small scale, so too did the Congress and the church on the larger. Addressing the assembled masses, presumably including both visiting participants and resident colonists, the nostalgic Louis Bertrand triumphantly declared that, “The resurrection is accomplished: your presence bears witness. The Christian past still lives and will live on more than ever on African soil.”164 The Congress thus demonstrated the Church’s powerful role as socio-cultural force but also political mediator of colonization in North Africa. Although technically permitted by the nominally sovereign bey, who with his retinue attended the Congress’ opening ceremonies, the event exhibited considerable insensitivity on the part of the colonial administration towards the Tunisia’s Muslim majority.165 Whereas one pro-Congress report on the event acknowledged the presence of some curious locals 163 Anon., XXXème Congrès: Actes, 496. 164 Louis Bertrand, “Troisième assemblée générale,” in Anon., XXXème Congrès: Actes, 188. [186–197] 165 O’Donnell, Lavigerie, 199. Similar hubris may be seen in the 1925 dedication of a statue of Lavigerie on the centennial of his birth just behind the Porte de France, or Sea Gate, within the Tunis medina (see Figure 4.20). Brandishing both cross and Bible and wrapped in billowing cloak, Lavigerie was depicted in an arguably antagonistic pose—his back defiantly turned towards the city’s main mosque. Officials at the statue’s unveiling (the culmination of an eight-day centennial celebration) stressed its intended symbolic alliance of Tunisia’s diverse racial and religious contingents in a spirit of “eternal peace, friendship and mutual trust” at the junction of Tunis’s “European and indigenous cities,” while praising Lavigerie’s unparalleled loyalty to both Church and State. The monument inspired considerable resentment and protest throughout the remainder of the colonial period prior to its hurried removal in 1956. An identical statue was erected in Algiers at the time. See Anon., “Centenaire,” 3, Joseph Cuoq, Lavigerie, les Pères blancs et les musulmans maghrebins (Rome: Société des Missionaires d’Afrique, 1986), 162; Daniel Coslett, “Broadening the Study of North Africa’s Planning History: Urban Development and Heritage Preservation in Protectorate-era and Postcolonial Tunis” in Urban Planning in North Africa, ed. Carlos Nunes Silva (New York: Routledge), 122. The various controversies are recounted in documents found in CADN 1TU/1/V/2124bis. On its removal, see Anon., “Le transfert de la statue du Cardinal Lavigerie,” La Tunisie catholique 11 (20 May 1956): 245. 250 (identifiable by “the red spots” of the traditional chechia (hat) and the white of the women’s gandoura tunic) in the crowd, the general abstention of the Tunisian population was noted, if locals were even mentioned at all. 166 Published Catholic sources, which in one case patronizingly referred to “the gentleness” of the hospitable indigenous temperament, ignored the disruptive nature of the event.167 Indeed, numerous reports found in the Diplomatic Archives Center in Nantes detail protests and open opposition to the Congress on the part of local Tunisians, predominantly students, who were suppressed and dispersed by French authorities in the weeks preceding (and during) the event.168 At least one published new story blamed anti- clerical colonialists for inciting violence (rock throwing and harassment) along religious lines between visiting Christians and indigenous Muslims.169 This is not surprising, given that the conference essentially glorified a religion inevitably (and arguably intentionally) associated with crusaders and colonial occupation. Despite optimistic, and then self-congratulatory, pronouncements by officials, the long-term effects of the congress were arguably more political than spiritual; the event inspired nationalist leaders—including a young Habib Bourguiba—to further agitate for independence from France.170 As it had been for some time, the Church would remain embroiled in anti-colonialist controversy in the Protectorate’s final decades. 4.5 Modern(ist) relevance asserted: Replacing the Chapel of St. Louis de Carthage Not long after its 1841 completion, the St. Louis chapel in Carthage was said to be insufficient. Indeed, as early as 1863 French Consul Léon Roches, who managed much of 166 Anon., XXXème Congrès: Actes, 512–13. 167 Ibid., 62. 168 See CADN 1TU/1/V/2122. French Socialists and Freemasons were also vociferous in their opposition to the Congress. See Anon., “Nouvelle Carthage & Salammbô réunies,” 1 December 1929, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2122. 169 Anon., “Mauvaise besogne,” La Tribune, 18 May 1930, 1, in APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton no. 8. 170 Perkins, History (2004), 89–90. 251 France’s ascension in pre-colonial Tunisia, suggested to unobliging Paris officials that the structure might be replaced with a larger complex (to cost 1.5 million Fr).171 Though the chapel was characterized in 1886 as of a “mediocre” quality that reflected “neither the grandeur of the monarch to whom it was dedicated nor to that of the country that raised it,” it stood until 1950 and was used fairly regularly for annual services to St. Louis and special events well into the 1940s.172 Its structural integrity had declined, however, so much so by that time that in his laudatory biography of St. Louis, Henry Bordeaux described the “quasi-deserted” chapel to be “of mediocre architecture, [and] modest dimensions” and having deplorably “begun to crumble in a [state of] culpable indifference.”173 While the erection of the grander St. Louis cathedral next door after 1884 had clearly drawn most attention from the chapel, it remained a significant site in the historical memory of the French in Tunisia; the “sacred land is part of our heritage…outside the Protectorate. It is ours…[and] carries the purest imprint of our past” in Tunisia, waxed Bordeaux.174 A monument more fitting the memory of the sainted king who had bequeathed to France its most honored architectural legacy (the Sainte-Chapelle, a restored church at St. Denis and Chartres cathedral) ought to be raised, he concluded.175 Among the persistent voices of those dissatisfied with the design, scale and state of the chapel were occasional proposals for its replacement in real terms. The Archives de la Prélature de Tunis include a considerably more Byzantine-looking design by Parisian architect Félix 171 Gandolphe, “St Louis,” 286. The aforementioned proposal by Julien at the APT is dated 1875, so not likely a product of this exchange. 172 Guérin, La France, 21. Services were held in the adjacent cathedral during the late 1940s. 173 Bordeaux, Vie, 492, 491, and 456. Bordeaux, a prominent member of the Académie française, ambiguously labeled the chapel “byzantine,” presumably because of its domed central plan. He became a vocal advocate for the building’s restoration after he visited Carthage in 1948 while researching for the book. 174 Ibid., 492–93. 175 Ibid., 493. 252 Julien, dated 1875 when the structure was just thirty-five years old (Figure 4.48).176 The expertly drawn plans are now without accompanying explanation. Labeled “a monument elevated to the memory of the King Saint Louis by the descendants of his crusaders on the ruins of Carthage,” the planned 100 m. x 150 m. complex incorporates a new chapel, pilgrims’ quarters, a hospice and cloister. Its centerpiece chapel, surmounted by domes and an equestrian statue of Louis, would have replaced the existing 1841 structure without obliterating its scale. Though arranged axially, with three apses at its rear (the lateral pair labeled “SD” and “SG” on its plan, perhaps for Ste. Geneviève and St. Denis, with the high altar designated “SL” for St. Louis), its core would have been a large, domed cube with pendentives, giving it a rather Byzantine profile with its triple-arched fenestration (Figure 4.49). Its crenelated façade and recessed muquarnas portal, as well as the use of striped horseshoe arches throughout, are reminiscent of Moorish, Maghrebi and Levantine mosque architecture. The expansive, arcaded courtyard and crenellated walls again recall the typical mosque interior, both in North Africa and elsewhere in the Muslim world, further reinforcing this compelling religious amalgam that may be interpreted variously as harmonious union and/or triumphalist appropriation. Absent are Gothic references—save perhaps for small windows in the upper stories of the pilgrim’s houses—like the ones seen in the far grander St. Louis Cathedral that was to eventually be built. Many of the ancillary features proposed here were eventually incorporated into the actual 1890 cathedral complex, indicating that a change of scale was deemed necessary after the establishment of the 176 Félix Julien, Projet d’un monument à élever à la mémoire du roi Saint Louis par les descendants des croisés sur les ruines de Carthage, 1875, in APT “Paroisse St. Louis” carton. It appears, however, to be the product of a competition, which would be appropriate given the time, though no competition brief has been located. The precise location is not clear from the drawings, however a penciled-in roadway and label (“Chemin de la Chapelle"), presumably in the architect’s hand (his signature and the date are there in pencil, as well) allows one to place it at the existing chapel site. Note that the seminary and museum complex built between the chapel and cathedral was done in 1875, so perhaps this was a product of that effort. Julien was born in Paris in 1840 and earned his architecture degree from the École des Beaux-Arts in 1869. Julien went on to serve as a professor of architecture at the Paris École. See Edmond Augustin Delaire, Les architectes élèves de l’École des beaux-arts (1819–1893) (Paris: Librarie de la Construction Moderne, 1907), 304. 253 French Protectorate in 1881. The mixed symbolism of the proposal’s eclectic nature does shed light on the similar blending discernable from the completed cathedral, its more obvious Gothic elements notwithstanding. That they remain somewhat complementary in appearance perhaps encourages the notion that this proposal may have inspired Pougnet, or at the very least it indicates that his arguably more “French” design was not necessarily groundbreaking. The construction of the cathedral rendered this proposal unnecessary, leaving the 1840 chapel to itself become an aging relic into the future. The chapel’s decline long-lamented, and its instability posing danger to visitors, authorities finally recognized the need to intervene. In the wake of WWII, the colonial administration contracted with a French modernist architect Bernard Zehrfuss to execute a renovation. Zehrfuss was chief architect of the Tunisian government from 1943–7 and led a particularly creative period of architectural experimentation during the colony’s rebuilding.177 There, in a “veritable laboratory of reconstruction,” the architect had come to terms with the insufficiency of the Beaux-Arts education in the postwar context, and generally denounced colonial architecture and urbanism. Inspired by the local vernacular, and subjecting it to his own rationalist, Corbusian interpretation, he sought to modernize construction and maximize functional efficiency.178 While administrators were anticipating a restoration of the existing chapel complex in Carthage, Zehrfuss stressed the instability of the existing structure and instead proposed a completely new monument more in line with his aesthetic and theoretical approach in 1947, just before he returned to France (Figure 4.50). With the approval of the 177 On Zehrfuss in Tunisia following WWII, see Bechir Kenzari, “The Architecture of the ‘Perchoir’ and the Modernism of Postwar Reconstruction in Tunisia,” Journal of Architectural Education 59 no. 3 (2006): 77– 87; Marc Breitman, Rationalisme et Tradition: Le Cas Marmey (Liège: Mardaga, 1986); Christine Desmoulins, Bernard Zehrfuss (Paris: Infolio, 2008). In France, he was later tasked with developing Paris’ La Défense district and the 1958 UNESCO headquarters there (with Breuer and Nervi). Upon his death in 1996 he was described as “without a doubt the most well-known French architect” of the 1960s in M.J. Dumont, “Bernard Zehrfuss (1911–1996),” l’Architecture d’aujourd’hui no. 306 (1996): 34. 178 Desmoulins, Zehrfuss, 18. 254 French historic monuments commission and the Foreign Affairs Ministry, demolition began on 2 January 1950.179 In his project description, Zehrfuss laid out his tripartite charge; if his design was to embody France’s dedication to the memory of St. Louis on the territory given by the bey to France explicitly for that purpose, it had to do so in an appropriately Christian fashion that referenced as well the key martyrdoms of Sts. Cyprian, Felicity and Perpetua. Acknowledging the historic significance of the ancient acropolis site, the Roman temple of Asclepius needed to be at least partially excavated and incorporated into the new complex.180 He accomplished these tasks in his design with notable sensitivity to the site and architectural restraint.181 Zehrfuss’ intervention plan, conceived with Jean Auproux, called for the complete demolition of the existing chapel and the reuse of its constituent (and previously recycled) ashlar blocks. Though the precise plan and landscaping appear to have been revised by the architects from 1950 to 1951, the general program remained consistent. The old chapel was to be replaced with an open, rectangular esplanade (50m x 25m) at the Roman stratigraphic level, which, when framed by partially reconstructed columns, was intended to reflect the plan of the Roman temple of Asclepius (Roman god of medicine and healing) that had for over a century lain beneath the old chapel (Figures 4.51 and 4.52).182 An adjacent apse space, rendered in stone blocks also said to be of the Byzantine era and salvaged from the chapel, was to be surrounded by a curtain of thirty-four tall cypress trees. Partially mimicking the shape of the razed structure’s circular podium, it was thought to be on axis with ancient Carthage’s primary 179 Gandolphe, “St Louis,” 306. 180 J. Auproux (and B.H. Zehrfuss), Aménagement d’un ensemble monumental à la mémoire de Saint- Louis à Carthage (Tunisie): Rapport de l’architecte, 1 July 1951, 2, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 181 The same could be said of his later, and larger, 1975 Musée gallo-romain de Fourvière in Lyon. See Desmoulins, Zehrfuss, 148–67. 182 Preliminary excavations completed during January 1950, following the demolition of the chapel, revealed the precise location of column bases beneath the surface. See Jean Auproux, “Compte rendu de la visite de l’architecte…,” meeting minutes, 2 February 1950, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 255 street grid (on the decumanus maximus) and therefore in symbolic alignment with history.183 Here, where the original chapel had been, was to be placed a large effigy of St. Louis by local sculptor Henri Martin, simply rendered in dark marble and placed atop a mosaic surround. The twelve-ton block (3.3 m x 1.2 m x 1.1 m) had been transported from the ancient quarry at Chemtou by the French army. 184 As completed, the over-life-sized sculpture depicted the king in repose, his head resting on a fleur-de-lis-shaped pillow. Across his chest he held a large crucifix, the shape of which closely resembled a sword with blade pointed towards the feet (Figure 4.53). This ambiguous depiction of the weapon as Christian symbol communicated the identity of the sainted crusader-king. Included within the renovated complex, as well, was a very simple open-air altar, intended for use during the annual commemoration of Louis IX’s holy day (which had long since outgrown the original chapel’s interior, anyway) during which the referenced pagan Roman temple would be theoretically Christianized. An ancillary chapel dedicated to the additional martyred saints was to be built against the enclosure wall, as well as landscaped spaces reserved for ancient lapidary displays (see Figure 4.52). These alfresco antiquities garden spaces, to be maintained by the White Fathers, were intended to house some of the Lavigerie Museum’s hardier overflow. The excavation of large, Roman-era niches against the side of the site’s slope was to expose substantial ashlar buttressing and provide additional space for the display of recovered artifacts.185 The overall message of the new complex revolved around the more explicit and modern melding of archaeology with the image of St. Louis, who arguably played a much less prominent role in the space than had the earlier Gothic chapel. Zehrfuss, responding to the Church’s 183 Bills for the cypress trees (34 and 16 for elsewhere on site) are found in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 184 On the transferal of the marble block, see Anon., “Note pour Monsieur le Chef du Cabinet Militaire a.s. (au sujet) de la Chapelle St. Louis,” 2 March 1951, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 185 A. C(?), “La chapelle de Saint-Louis sera remplacée par une esplanade…” archived article provenance unknown (La Presse?), in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. See also Auproux (and Zehrfuss), Rapport, 2. 256 requirement that the temple be at least partially excavated, clearly gave priority to the site’s Roman ruins and archaeological remains, substantially augmenting the adjacent Lavigerie Museum’s prominence, while visually subordinating the site’s erstwhile “French” (architectural) effect. New interventions were simple, fairly abstract and avoided contributing to the hill’s existing historicist pastiche of styles, much as they did in other postwar Church projects designed during his tenure as chief architect of Tunisia.186 Essentially rendered an extension of Carthage’s archaeological museum, the space was intended to be visited and moved through by more than just Catholic pilgrims. Though the faithful could still easily appreciate the Christian significance of the place, its message was thence far more ecumenical and tourist-friendly in nature. Though the iconic chapel, a longstanding curiosity on site, was gone, historical authenticity and “age value” was retained in several material forms.187 Recycled materials, primarily Byzantine-era blocks that had been part of the chapel, stressed continuity. Materials taken from historic sources, such as the Chemtou marble for the new effigy, did the same. The actual inclusion of salvaged antiquities, including columns collected from other ancient sites, ashlar blocks (for the apse wall) and mosaics intended to surround the altar (and presumably the effigy) donated by the Lavigerie Museum and Antiquities Service, rendered the whole complex a large reliquary of sorts.188 The display of additional antiquities (statues, tombs, mosaics, etc.) further rendered it an open-air museum to Pagan, Christian, and colonial pasts. 186 See “Les grands réalisations catholiques dans la Régence,” Tunisie touristique (October 1954) for more on the Church’s architectural accomplishments in the destructive wake of WWII. 187 That is to say perceived social value based solely on something’s age alone, regardless of its actual historic significance, which is labeled “historical value.” See Alois Riegl, “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Character and Origin,” trans. K. W. Forster and D. Ghirardo, Oppositions 25 (1982): 24 and 38. 188 Mosaics were still needed in August 1955, and columns at Carthage’s Roman theatre were being discussed as potential options as well. See L. Driart, Correspondence to Monsieur le Président du Comité du monument de Saint-Louis de Carthage (Charles Saumagne), 13 August 1955, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367; L. Driart, Correspondence to Monsieur le Président du comité du monument de Saint-Louis de Carthage (Charles Saumagne), 4 August 1955, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 257 Financial shortfalls and repeated delays frustrated officials and public opinion in Tunisia, where administrators noted surprise at the tardy completion of a monument proudly symbolizing “the continuity (or permanence) of the French presence in Tunisia.” 189 Such interruptions resulted in major time and cost overruns and the inconsistent application of the architects’ plans. The original goal of 180 days’ construction was long surpassed, as the project was far from completed in August of 1952, the original target. 190 By 1955, Zehrfuss, who had already relinquished control to Auproux, had returned to working from Paris and directed inquiries to a Tunis-based J.P. Ventre.191 Not surprisingly, the project’s initial allocation of 5.5 million Fr proved insufficient, and in 1954 it was said that a further 2.5 million would be needed to finish the memorial complex. In the meantime, the stagnant worksite remained an undesirable eyesore on the tourist circuit.192 A social committee dedicated “to the memory of St. Louis de Carthage” was established to help secure elusive final funding and supervise the project’s conclusion.193 Additional money was found, and in June 1955 a 300,000 Fr bid for the project’s completion was accepted by the monument committee A local entrepreneur agreed to clear the space and install the effigy and columns according to the sculptor’s instructions before the upcoming 25 August feast of St. Louis—which unbeknownst to officials would have been the last before independence.194 It would appear that, despite a rush of activity (including repairs to 189 Perillier, “A Diplofrance—Paris” (telegram no. 450), 18 September 1951, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 190 B.H. Zehrfuss and J. Auproux, Aménagement d’un ensemble monumental à la mémoire de Saint- Louis à Carthage (Tunisie): Devis particulier, 10 July 1951, 8, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 191 B.H. Zehrfuss, correspondence to L. Driart, 9 May 1955, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. At about the same time the Comité du Monument had been working with a Mr. Pinard, who was described as an “architect- archaeologist,” towards the completion of the project. See L. Driart, “Note au sujet du Monument de Saint- Louis à Carthage,” 1 March 1955, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. The relationship between Ventre and Picard remains unclear. 192 Résidence générale, “Note a.s (au sujet) du terrain,” 5–7. 5.5 million Fr in 1950 equals roughly 155,000 USD in 2016. 193 Ibid., 8–10. 194 L. Driart, Correspondence to Monsieur le Président du comité du monument de Saint-Louis de Carthage (Charles Saumagne), 17 June 1955, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. Meeting minutes from the first committee session indicate that the Résident général allocated 1.5 million Fr (est. 38,000 USD in 2016) at 258 faulty work done earlier) in the first weeks of August, work was not completed in time for the planned 1955 inauguration of the new monument, and the plan was never fully implemented.195 Twenty years later it appears to have been frozen unfinished, although the intended cypress trees had been planted (Figure 4.54). 4.6 Tunisians and the Church’s built environments Indigenous Tunisians certainly responded to the resurgence and re-imposition of Catholicism in different ways. The presence of the Church in Tunisia was primarily a service to colonialists and Christian visitors, thus designed to reinforce the institution’s authority and the French administration. Undeniably passive in their influence, these monuments were not active proselytizing tools because the colonization of Tunisia was not intended to be an explicit exercise in traditional, evangelical missionary work but one of occupation by Europeans.196 While religious conversion was not a major goal in North Africa, Church-sponsored efforts towards locals instead focused on charity, education and healthcare provision.197 Though at times one finds explicit record of Tunisian responses to the Church’s presence and these activities, at most points it remains only inferable. While surely many locals were unable to avoid the prominent cathedral buildings and the St. Louis chapel complex throughout the Protectorate period, the majority probably did not visit that time. See Anon., “Compte-rendu de l’assemblé générale…,” meeting minutes, 21 July 1954, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. The allocation was drawn from state funds (derived from the “Algerian lottery”) budgeted for officially sanctioned “social and cultural works.” See Pierre Voizard, “Décision No. 51,” 3 July 1954, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. Still, in August 1955 it was suggested that a further 2 million Fr would be needed. See L. Driart, Correspondence 13 August 1955. 195 See L. Driart, Correspondence 13 August 1955; de Choiseul-Praslin(?), “Saint-Louis,” 1955(?), 2, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 196 While Europeans represented just two per cent of Tunisia’s population in 1881, by 1954 they came to be 7.5 per cent, reflecting the colonial occupation of the territory. See Soumille, “Représentation,” 87. 197 Lavigerie’s dedication to charity guided his missionary work, but he nonetheless viewed Islam as “an evil to be weakened slowly and overcome” well into the future. See O’Donnell, Lavigerie, 18. See also Soumille, “Représentation,” 89–94. 259 their interiors or experience their liturgical function. These monuments were erected in zones intended primarily for European and touristic use, the development of which marginalized the presence of the native who was largely excluded from the commercial core of Tunis’ ville nouvelle and the archaeological zone of Carthage’s Byrsa. Many historical travel accounts and photographs acknowledge what appears to have been at most a minimally present Tunisian contingent. Ayer’s identification of “Arab dandies,” “Biblical-looking patriarchs,” mendicants, and “Berber porters”—whose appearance detracted little from the bustling city’s overwhelmingly Parisian ambiance—is not atypical among visiting Orientalist commentators’ accounts.198 Given the state of colonial politics and the preference of Lavigerie and his successors for slow, subtle conversion (if any), however, it is reasonable to conclude that most locals’ experience of the cathedrals was limited to spectatorship from afar. As early as 1876, however, French-built Church installations atop the Byrsa had offended some locals. At that time, French Consul Théodore Roustan wrote to Lavigerie of the Tunisian elite’s dissatisfaction with the expanding chapel compound that was precursor to the St. Louis de Carthage cathedral. He noted that its walled, and thus citadel-like, appearance “dominate[d] the [nearby] palace of the bey and the summer villas of his chief ministers” who did not “appreciate the fact that the French flag planted on top… wave[d] above their heads” (Figure 4.55) 199 It seems fair to assume that the subsequent construction of the far more imposing cathedral complex must have inspired similar resentment among some locals. As for intended meaning, to those conversant in the architectural language of antiquity and early Christianity, these structures likely performed symbolically and didactically, communicating messages of socio-political continuity and 198 Ayer, Motor, 326. 199 Roustan quoted in Julia A. Clancy-Smith Mediterraneans: North Africa and Europe in an Age of Migration, c. 1800–1900 (Berkeley, CA: University of California, 2011), 283. 260 salvation. To locals lacking fluency in such imagery, however, allusions to antiquity such as these would have probably gone unappreciated and instead inspired different meanings. The 1930 Eucharistic Congress was undoubtedly controversial and a provocation, generating considerable opposition from local Muslims and certain French political groups in Tunis, although the event was generally portrayed by Catholic authorities as a success.200 Local sentiments were well recorded, even if they were sidestepped within official accounts, and it is widely believed that the Congress contributed to the era’s growing nationalist movement. Indeed it was remembered by many Tunisians as “an attack on their identity” and an affront to Islam. 201 The offense and turmoil caused by the congress has been characterized as highly disruptive— perhaps even more so than was the challenging economic situation for most Tunisians at the time, many of whom interpreted the event as an ominous precursor to further colonialist consolidation of France’s empire in North Africa.202 The Cardinal Legate, officially representing the Pope at the Congress, described the centuries following the Arab invasion as “fourteen centuries of desolation and death.” 203 Such a statement made publically and in the presence of Tunisian officials likely inspired great offense and captured the aloofness or hubris, if not aggression, of the Church. The participation, even if tacit, by Tunisian officials and the bey, troubled many Tunisians who increasingly came to view the Catholic Church and French 200 See, for example, positive coverage in the 17 May 1930 edition of La Vie catholique and the 18 May 1930 edition of La Tunisie catholique. Scathing criticism can be found amply in the 10 May 1930 edition of the newspaper La Voix du tunisien, a French-language weekly dedicated “to the defense of the Tunisian’s interests.” Alexandropoulos, in an article that only came to me following the research and drafting of this chapter, arrives at similar conclusions regarding the archaeological “double theme of martyr and resurrection” at the conference. See Jacques Alexandropoulos, “Entre archéologie, universalité et nationalismes: Le trentième Congrès eucharistique international de Carthage (1930),” Anabases 9 (2009): 66. 201 Mahjoubi, Les origines, 467. 202 Ibid. 203 Cardinal Lépicier quoted in ibid., 469. 261 administration to be nefariously aligned, but also the local administration as a defacto enemy of Islam and indigenous interests.204 The event clearly destabilized the colonial status quo. The announcement of Zehrfuss’ plan for the Byrsa hill provoked opposition from the public in Tunis, as well. Members of the nationalist Destorian movement objected to the further glorification of a crusader-king whose mission had been the defeat of Muslims in the Holy Land. Some French Catholics were said to lament the loss of a quiet interior space, thinking little of its apparently inflammatory statue.205 Tunisians’ vocal disapproval of Zehrfuss’ plan for the Byrsa hill, two decades after the tumultuous Eucharistic Congress, indicated that indigenous opposition to the Church’s offensive projects went unabated. 4.7 Maintaining history within the postcolonial Archdiocese of Tunis Independence from France, which came in March 1956, was not accompanied by wholesale renunciation of European influences in Tunisia. Indeed, during the initial period of his long presidency, Habib Bourguiba negotiated the complexities of sovereignty and ties to France with considerable dexterity. Pursuant to article five of the post-independence constitution (promulgated in 1959), the Tunisian state guaranteed the protection of Christianity (and all religious sects), provided its henceforth-discreet practices not disrupt public order. The conditional welcome notwithstanding, most Catholic Europeans left the country in the years following independence. The capital’s cathedrals, however, remain standing and testify even today to the city’s colonial past and its temporary restoration to Roman Catholic Christendom. 204 Ibid., 470–72. Calls for the bey and other officials to oppose the event, made by members of the Destour party, went unanswered. Opposition was expressed not only in the name of religion, but also the material demands born by Tunisians, as well as the erosion of democratic rights of locals on account of protest and boycott suppression tactics. See ibid. 205 In response to Tunisian objections, the author adds “On admettait parfaitement la chapelle en tant que monument funéraire et mémorial, mais la statue ne glorifie que l'homme et non le fait.” See Anon., “Note a/s. (au sujet de la) Chapelle St. Louis de Carthage,” 10 March, 1950, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367. 262 Of Tunis’ two cathedral complexes, only St. Vincent de Paul continues to accommodate today’s downscaled Archdiocese of Tunis and its remaining practicing Catholic population of 500.206 Its visual significance remains unavoidable on today’s (ironically enough) re-named Place de l’Indépendance, opposite what now functions as the French Embassy. In a manner evocative of the Church’s rather cavalier colonial-era attitude, St. Vincent de Paul far exaggerates the relatively minor presence of Catholicism in postcolonial Tunisia. Several prized artworks from the St. Louis Cathedral, including the top portion of the St. Louis reliquary and the reproduction of the Notre Dame de Carthage relief, have been transported from the ex-primatial Carthage cathedral, rendering it today a double memorial—to the saints and to the decommissioned St. Louis cathedral building itself (Figure 4.56). Also noteworthy within the cathedral today is the use of mosaic decorations. The current altar is clad in them (as had been the pre-Vatican II high altar, according to historic photographs), and panels that include portraits of North African saints and scenes from their lives are displayed in the aisles and ambulatory. Clearly emulating ancient aesthetics (and ancient techniques?), these simply rendered scenes would seem to again reinforce the notions of continuity and the historicity of the Church and its cathedral. For example, the portrait of St. Victor is positioned above an engraved stone label identifying him (in French and Arabic) as having been born in Tunisia and Pope from AD 189– 198. Hanging nearby, a framed sheet (a more recent addition?) provides more information about his life and significance, but does not detail the provenance of the actual panel. To the casual 206 It was estimated that, as of 2007, only 500 Catholics practice regularly nationwide, despite the frequent publication of 200,000. See “International Religious Freedom Report 2007,” US Department of State, accessed 17 April 2017, http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/irf/2007/90222.htm. The 2014 report says only that Church officials attest to the presence of “fewer than 5,000” Catholics dispersed throughout the country. See “International Religious Freedom Report 2014,” US Department of State, accessed 1 February 2016, http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/irf/religiousfreedom/index.htm. See also Pierre Soumille, “L’Église catholique et l’état tunisien après l’indépendance,” in Les relations églises-état en situation postcoloniale, ed. Philippe Delisle and Marc Spindler (Paris: Karthala, 2002), 155–201. On more recent developments in Christian worship in contemporary Tunis, see Katia Boissevain, “Migrer et réveiller les églises: Diversification des cultes chrétiens en Tunisie,” L’Année du maghreb 11 (2014): 105–121. 263 visitor or faithful user, these works may seem—because they certainly appear—to be actual ancient relics. In the adjacent Church office building one finds a similar usage of mosaic decorations, however, there they are clearly labeled as reproductions of historic pieces housed at the city’s Bardo Museum (see Figures 4.56 and 4.57). Unlike St. Vincent de Paul, the Cathedral of St. Louis de Carthage has been subject to a more substantial transformation. Like all but seven Catholic churches in Tunisia, it has been desacralized and transferred to the independent Tunisian state in what amounted to “a sudden and massive loss” for the Church in material terms that reflected the downsizing of its postcolonial constituency.207 In accordance with the Modus Vivendi agreement between Tunis and the Vatican enacted in 1964, forfeited properties were repurposed as public institutions in a manner “compatible with their former usage,” such as community art center, theatre or (perhaps curiously) police station.208 The same agreement forbade the Catholic Church from engaging in both political activities and proselytizing. Rather than having been razed, reconfigured into a mosque (as was not uncommon in other postcolonial contexts) or dramatically altered after independence, St. Louis de Carthage was instead converted into a multipurpose exhibition and event venue called the Acropolium in honor of the Punic acropolis upon which it still sits.209 Celebrated items were removed during the conversion process. Lavigerie’s tomb was relocated from the cathedral to the Roman headquarters of his White Fathers missionary society in 1964 (Figure 4.58). The relics of St. Louis (a skull fragment and small piece of viscera) were 207 X.X.X., “L’Eglise en Tunisie,” Annuaire de l’Afrique du Nord 3 (Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1964): 68. 208 Article 6, “Conventio (Modus Vivendi) Inter Apostolicam Sedem et Tunetanam Rempublicam (juin 1964)” reprinted in Soumille, “Indépendance,” 197–99. 209 On the conversion and its reuse at the time of its 1994 renovation, see Nacer Boudjou, “L’Acropolium de Carthage: L’Espace multimédias,” Réalités 459, 29 July–4 August 1994, 34–35; Khedija Menchari, “Le bon example de l’Acropolium de Carthage,” La Presse(?), 7 September 1994, n.p. in BDT 264.031.161.2 COL ACR. See also Samira Rekik, “L’Acropolium de Carthage (ex Cathédrle Saint-Louis): Splendeur et richesse de l’art byzantin,” Réalités déco, December 2010, 40–49. 264 eventually sent to the bishopric of St. Denis, outside Paris, in 1985.210 After thirty years of neglect and near ruin the structure was “restored” under the aegis of a larger national culture and tourism development plan from 1992–95, and thus formally recast within the national and touristic imagination alongside the Carthage antiquities museum (Figures 4.59 and 4.60). Managed now by a private firm for the Ministry of Culture, the center hosts occasional music performances, fashion shows and art expositions catering to cultural elites both local and foreign. At its opening, its director—the historian/choreographer Mustapha Okbi—stressed the site’s age in describing the repurposed monument as a spiritual space, and a “place for meeting producers, creators and lovers of art, a real intersection of colors that will illuminate with its fires the Carthage stage, already aged three millennia.”211 Though stripped of its crosses and most overt Christian symbols, its now pastel-painted interior remains host to forgotten Latin inscriptions, tarnished fleurs-de-lis, the faded arms of Lavigerie and his noble patrons and several dusty altars. 212 Though the Acropolium website currently says nothing about the building’s rich history, the past remains abundantly present on site through the building itself and brochures distributed to visitors who tend to casually drop by when touring the adjacent UNESCO Carthage historic site.213 Behind the ex-cathedral and Carthage Museum (the ex-Lavigerie Museum), one today finds the largely overlooked St. Louis chapel site. While it is not clear exactly how much of Zehrfuss’ plan was actually completed in the chaotic years of sporadic construction, few cypress 210 Jean-Joseph Milhiet, “L’Incroyable odyssée des reliques de Saint Louis,” Bourbons no. 24 (May/June 2000): 20. 211 Okbi quoted in Menchari, “Le bon exemple,” n.p. 212 The structure has not entirely shed its Christian identity entirely, however. It is often colloquially said that the nearby and massive Mâlik ibn Anas Mosque (originally the el Abidine Mosque in honor of the former president), completed in 2003, was designed in part to visually surpass the presence of the ex- cathedral from afar. See below. 213 Anon., “L’Acropolium de Carthage,” Acropolium de Carthage, accessed 21 March 2016, http://www.acropoliumcarthage.com/. In the past the website, which is very basic, has included only minimal background on the structure, as have brochures available on site. See also Boudjou, “L’Acropolium,” 354–35. 265 trees are found, and the gardens are but grassy plots (Figure 4.61). The Asclepius temple colonnade remains in position as “restored,” and plaques briefly explain the history of the Roman structure. The site appears to have accumulated a large collection of mismatching column drums and architectonic fragments typically found outside most antiquities museums. Whereas architectural renderings illustrated the intended presence of many statues, tombs and other pieces on display in the garden, few are found now. The effigy of St. Louis lay still in the apse, and several tantalizing vestiges of the sites earlier form remain. The original 1840 statue of St. Louis by Charles Seurre, minus its hand and scepter, stands amidst some trees, while the tombstone of Matthew de Lesseps, Consul General of France in Tunis who died there in 1832 and was buried in the St. Louis chapel precinct but presumably reinterred elsewhere in 1950, leans forgotten against a wall capped by a random assortment of more column capitals (Figure 4.62). Though the site is labeled on museum site plans for tourists as the “location of the St. Louis chapel,” it is done without any explanation. 4.8 Conclusion: Style, materiality and political power Archbishop Charles Lavigerie, who had so successfully infiltrated the colonial system in North Africa and managed to operate with a certain degree of immunity to the widespread anticlerical hostility in France, expressed unabashed nostalgia for mythologized political and religious glories in many ways. Both Catholic ceremony and language emphasized a link to North Africa’s Christian past that pre-dated the seventh-century arrival of Muslim Arabs, thereby casting the previous fourteen centuries as a regrettable hiatus in Christian governance—a tragedy remedied by the resurrection of Lavigerie’s Church “after a thousand years of death.”214 Thus his nineteenth-century Church was intended to appear as an extension of early 214 Pons, Église, 251. 266 Christianity—in practice, materiality and imagery—much as the Tunisian Protectorate itself was considered a social, cultural and religious extension of France (or for some, the Roman Empire before that). The colonies were in many critical ways “laborator[ies] of Western rationality,” urban planning and architectural design, but they were also, like post-revolutionary France itself, venues for the French Church to attempt the reconstruction of a more conservative “cultural climate that could sustain and reinforce Catholic practice as a social norm.”215 For a while it appears to have succeeded in Tunisia, at least for its intended audiences. The Church not only tethered political legitimacy claims to material and symbolic associations with local history but also to contemporary ecclesiastical architecture in neighboring colonies and metropolitan France itself. Tunisia was, after all, a relatively minor component of an expansive global empire and needed to be set within the French imperial system and a changing Christendom. The neo-Byzantine Basilica of St. Augustine in colonial- era Bône (Algeria), completed in 1909 and designed by Carthage’s Abbot Pougnet, performed very similarly to St. Louis de Carthage and St. Vincent de Paul through roughly analogous architecture. 216 Léon Vaudoyer’s eclectic Cathedral of Ste-Marie-Majeure at Marseille (completed in 1893) and Abadie’s Paris’ Sacré-Coeur basilica strike one as comparable heritage fabrications, as well, in a way further stitching together the colonized Mediterranean basin with a “Gallo-Byzantine” thread (Figure 4.63). 217 These buildings, like many of their historicist 215 Patricia Morton, Hybrid Modernities: Architecture and Representation at the 1931 Colonial Exposition, Paris (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 2003), 5; Jonas, Cult, 125. 216 David Prochaska, Making Algeria French: Colonialism in Bône, 1870–1920 (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1990), 247. Colonial Bône was ancient Roman Hippo and is today’s Annaba. 217 Crinson, Building, 92. The appearance of Abadie’s Sacré-Coeur caused considerable controversy (aesthetic, religious, political) at the time. The architect may have seen in his design a symbolic reconciliation of Eastern and Western, pre-schism and contemporary Christendom, as well as indirect references to the Hagia Sophia and to Charlemagne, but he made no such explicit claim, stating only that it was conceived in “the style of the Sacred Heart.” See Paul Abadie, Bulletin de l’oeuvre du voeu national, March 10, 1886, 155 quoted in Jonas, Cult, 195. 267 contemporaries, implied that “a medieval matrix of styles could sponsor a modern style,” worthy of admiration and nationalist pride.218 These monuments, through their unique blend of historic, local, and metropolitan stylistic influences, sat ambiguously between imported and local aesthetics without straying far from the French and historical roots to which they were linked so aggressively. Satisfying the spiritual needs of immigrant Christians and strengthening French political claims to the occupation of the country appear to have far outweighed any evangelical mission targeting local Muslims, to whom—despite contemporary so-called “associational” policies—relatively little administrative or architectural sensitivity appears to have been paid. Aesthetically, Tunisia’s cathedrals thus fail to conform to conventional interpretations of colonial assimilation and association perspectives that would see structures either “conquer” by imposition or sympathetically “protect” by appropriation. These variously historicizing cathedrals were thus more than tritely eclectic and they did not “assimilate” or “associate” as simply as earlier imperious Neoclassicism or later Arabesque fantasies might have attempted. Concerns were more transhistorical than demographic; the structures associated with a mythologized account of the region’s early Christian period rather than contemporary Tunisian people. They were selectively assimilationist, however, not because they were designed to incorporate or appeal to locals, but rather in their attempted elision of distant past and present. Events, quotidian and spectacular, likewise communicated strategic continuity. Roman Catholic officials in Protectorate-era Tunisia presented their chief structures as reliquaries, and as relics themselves, investing them with spiritual power through architectural allusions and the incorporation of historic materials. As such, the buildings functioned as “points of contact between the divine and the human,” like medieval relics, as well as between the 218 Bergdoll, European Architecture, 270. 268 colonizing power and the colonizing people (and to a far lesser extent to the colonized).219 The martyred Church was thus resurrected. One postcard from 1917 reading “Amphitheatre of Carthage: The cult of Saints Perpetua and Felicity in the place of their martyrdom,” highlighted modern commemorative installations while inviting pilgrims to experience the space’s significance personally (Figure 4.64). Such items also allowed visitors to memorialize their visits and also to share them globally via modern postal networks. This exporting of images likely functioned as well as invitations to potential pilgrims and tourists, enhancing the position of France and the Church by demonstrating establishment and progress. The deliberate reuse of historic materials by colonialist architects and clergy during this time was of course not without precedent. Medieval Christians, for example, had cultivated what has been described as “an intense concern, in theology and practice,…with materiality,” and so too did Lavigerie, Delattre and their peers in Tunisia, who clearly similarly emphasized the material significance of ruins, recycled stones and commemorative liturgical instruments.220 Adding still more to the import of the buildings themselves, they were generated through a process that revived earlier practices of reuse and reimagining, as material remains of Roman- era structures have been recycled since the Roman (Constantinian) era itself and often relocated at great expense, even when masons were amply capable of producing new pieces. Indeed, “the Middle Ages always looked upon antiquities with a gaze that was at once admiring and also exploitative,” keen to imaginatively ascribe meaning to prestige embodied in stone.221 219 Julia Smith, “Portable Christianity: Relics in the Medieval West (c.700–1200),” Proceedings of the British Academy 181 (2012): 144. 220 Bynum, Materiality, 267. 221 Arnold Esch, “On the Reuse of Antiquity: The Perspectives of the Archaeologist and of the Historian,” in Reuse Value, eds. Richard Brilliant and Dale Kinny (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011), 17. Scholarly interest in spolia has recently increased significantly, as attested to by this volume. See also Michael J. Waters, “Reviving Antiquity with Granite: Spolia and the Development of Roman Renaissance Architecture,” Architectural History 59 (2016): 149–79; Maria F. Hansen, The Eloquence of Appropriation (Rome: l’Erma de Bretschneider, 2003), on spolia in the early Christian era. Many thanks to M. Waters for kindly brining to my attention much of this literature on spolia and for sharing a draft of his aforementioned 269 Christians and Muslims alike made use of spolia during the medieval period, for many different—and many unknowable—reasons.222 At times reused building material was meant to communicate a victory, as a captured trophy or sorts demonstrating superiority; at others these materials functioned more as easily repurposed or reinterpreted elements intended to enhance structures. Sometimes they were just used because of their convenience, as ready-made construction or decorative elements without any symbolic value or added meaning.223 The modern colonialist Church in Tunisia, however, revived Christianity in part through the strategic deployment of ancient ashlars, mortars and springs quite intentionally. The revival functioned in both directions. As historian Arnold Esch has asserted: For reuse grants life, both in the sense of survival…and in the sense of afterlife. Reused, Antiquity lives on, assimilated into a new context; it continues to speak to people, and continues to exert its agency.224 Thus the Church was symbolically reborn through the revival of Christianity in North Africa, but the latter was also strengthened and made newly relevant by the Church’s archaeological activities and architectural recycling. In order to be appreciated, observers and users needed to be aware of the “shifting [of] ‘presence’ forward” and the “transgressive act of appropriation” undertaken by the reframers.225 Whereas questions of motivation and implied meaning in the earlier use of spolia remain often unclear, in the case of colonial Tunisia, we have ample evidence to support the notion of an intentional, explicit and political process of appropriation and deployment. The Church ensured its audience was aware, rendering its built environments modern Christian “memory palace[s]” designed to both inspire and impress.226 article. 222 On the complexities of “spolia studies” and scholarly interpretation, see Michael Greenhalgh, “Spolia: A Definition in Ruins,” in Brilliant and Kinny, eds., Reuse Value, 75–95. 223 Michael Greenhalgh, Marble Past, Monumental Present: Building with Antiquities in the Mediaeval Present (Boston: Brill, 2009), 527. 224 Esch, “Reuse,” 17. 225 Richard Brilliant, “Authenticity and Alienation,” in Brilliant and Kinny, eds., Reuse Value, 169. 226 Hansen, Eloquence, 268. 270 It ought to be said that the sites chosen above, with the exception of the Zehrfuss/Auproux monument to St. Louis in Carthage, were developed in the earlier years of the Protectorate, and thus during an era of more blatant historicist design. They, like many of the smaller parish churches scattered across Tunisia, it drew on traditional, simple ecclesiastical forms popular in Europe and elsewhere. Church structures built after WWII, however, were somewhat less overtly tied to the past. The Church of Sts. Peter and Paul in coastal Sfax and Bizerte’s Notre-Dame de France, for example, were decidedly more Modern in their approaches, though certainly not immune to historical precedent (Figure 4.65).227 Their vast interiors were pierced with stained glass, and their interior vaulting was held aloft on fine concrete columns. Arches in the case of Bizerte’s church recalled Early Christian architecture within the larger Modern structure (Figure 4.66). The technological and aesthetic characteristics of new buildings thus changed with time, just as the rest of architecture in Tunisia did. Even the conservative Church participated in the evolving Modernist project, keeping time with larger colonialist objectives that prioritized civilizing modernity and technological advancement. Within the postcolonial context, these buildings have continued to change in their use. Ceded to the Tunisian State in 1964, they have since been redeveloped. Sfax’s church, following a period as a library, is slated to be renovated into a médiathèque in 2017, using Paris’ successful model as an example. As a part of the city’s 2016 “capital of Arab culture” celebrations the vast square outside it was renamed “Peace Square.”228 The former church in Bizerte serves as a cultural center now. Like Carthage’s Acropolium, the appropriation of these buildings by the Tunisian state is a highly political act. Their maintenance (or lack thereof) suggests officially sanctioned 227 “Églises et chapelles,” Tunisie touristique 8 (October 1954), n.p., in APT. 228 I.B. “Sfax: L’ancienne église catholique bientôt transformée en médiathèque,” Kapitalis, 19 June 2016, accessed 1 May 2017, http://kapitalis.com/tunisie/2016/06/19/sfax-lancienne-eglise-catholique-bientot- transformee-en-mediatheque/. The Catholic Church maintains a base in Sfax, however, operating out of a smaller chapel nearby since the 1960s. 271 respect and tolerance of the past, just as the events they host demonstrate commitments to learning and other cultural liberal arts. Since independence, the Catholic Church in Tunisia has continued emphasizing its connection to the country’s Early Christian history, a fact quite clearly visible in its essentially intact downtown cathedral building. The institution is today a humbled one, but its legacy of evoking Tunisia’s ancient past and facilitating its experience by others remains apparent. The recent publication of Eternal Carthage: A Pilgrimage Through History and the Christian Ruins of Carthage, and other similarly themed volumes, by Father Silvio Moreno (the cathedral’s vicar) demonstrates this, as do the tours he occasionally guides of Carthage’s Christian landmarks. 229 Establishing the field of archaeology in North Africa during the nineteenth century, Lavigerie and his White Fathers directed considerable attention and resources to what would become Tunisia’s original tourism identity, and the presence of sacred sites worthy of visits remains noteworthy. Moreno’s volumes, written to be guides for visitors and pilgrims, testify to the enduring appeal of the country’s ancient religious sites and efforts to market them abroad. The resurrection of Christian North Africa from its Carthage base contributed to the so- called civilization of the region by France and attracted investment and other financial resources to the Protectorate. Antiquity thus inspired a considerable array of symbolically meaningful antiquity-inspired built environments, many of which were actively cultivated and marketed as tourism attractions. Travel literature and advertisements were of course major players in this (Figure 4.67). Church propaganda, such as the 1930 Eucharistic Congress programs, included suggested itineraries for the Tunis area and excursions into the country’s interior, prominently 229 Silvio Moreno, Carthage éternelle: Un pélerinage dans l’histoire et les ruines crétiennes de Carthage (Tunis: Institut de Verbe Incarné, 2013). See also Moreno’s Une catéchèse vivante: Archéologie et l'art chrétien, le musée du Bardo en Tunisie (Tunis: Institut de Verbe Incarné, 2015) and his Notre Dame de Carthage (2016). 272 featuring ancient sites (that were not always explicitly Christian).230 Indeed, Carthage had existed twice it was said—as a Punic city and then a Roman one, but more recently as a “Third” or “French Catholic Carthage.”231 The Church was thus an active agent in the early development of modern tourism in Tunisia, laying the groundwork for the exploitation of what would become the country’s most marketed cultural heritage assets. 230 Secrétariat du Congrès, Livret-Guide, 105. 231 Stefan Altekamp and Mona Khechen, “Third Carthage: Struggles and Contestations over Archaeological Space,” Archaeologies 9 no. 3 (2013): 472. 273 FIGURES Figure 4.1. Aqueduct bridge constructed over Oued Meliane [Tunisia] by the Romans in 135 under the reign Emperor Hadrian. A. Elevation drawing, 1873 (top). B. Elevation drawing, 1873 (bottom). This version includes Arabic-language labels and features a drawing of the bridge as built. (Sources: Ph. Caillat, Notice sur l’ancien aqueduc de Carthage et sa restauration (Paris: Imprimerie Polyglotte de L. Hugonis, 1873), 23, in BNT E-4-356 (rés) (A) and “Souvenir de la restauration de l’aqueduc…,” elevation drawings, 1873, in APT, “Archéologie” carton (B).) 274 Figure 4.2. Aqueduct/bridge over the Meliane River, near Uthina (Colin, 1863). Photographs, 2016. A. General view (top). A later roadbed and pipes were added to the 1863 structure. B. Arch detail (bottom). Nineteenth-century(?) mason marks visible in some reused stones. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett) 275 Figure 4.3. The flow of Zaghouan waters in Tunis. Lithograph, 1861. (Source: Moynier, “Jaillaissement des eaux du Zaghouan à Tunis,” L’Illustration 38 no. 966 (31 August 1861): 140.) 276 Figure 4.4. Chapel of Saint Louis IX de Carthage (Jourdain, 1840), Carthage. A. Photograph, 1890 (top). B. Section drawing, undated (bottom). (Source: Pierre Gandolphe, “St. Louis de Carthage (1830–1950),” Cahiers de Byrsa (1951): pl. III (A) and ibid., pl. XIX (B).) 277 Figure 4.5. Royal Chapel (Cramail, 1816, 1843), Dreux, France. Photograph, 2010. (Source: Nicolas Vigier, Wikimedia Commons.) 278 Figure 4.6. Chapel of Saint Louis IX de Carthage interior (Jourdain, 1840), Carthage. Lithograph, 1878. (Source: Gandolphe, “St. Louis,” pl. XIII.) 279 Figure 4.7. Chapel complex of Saint Louis IX de Carthage, Carthage. A. Painting, 1845 (top). B. The complex’s northwestern entry portal. Lithograph, 1852 (bottom). Note its Gothicized triumphal arch-like form. (Sources: Gandolphe, “St. Louis,” pl. VII (A) and Aimé Rochas, “Tunis,” L’Illustration 20 no. 509 (27 November 1852): 349 (B).) 280 Figure 4.8. Chapel of Saint Louis IX de Carthage complex (Jourdain, 1840), Carthage. A. Site plan, 1878 (top). B. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920 (bottom) (Sources: Gandolphe, “St. Louis,” pl. XIV (A) and author’s collection (B).) 281 Figure 4.9. Tunis’ first cathedral (1881) on the Place de la Résidence, Tunis. Photograph (postcard), c. 1883. The Avenue de la Marine extends eastward towards Lake Tunis. (Source: Author’s collection.) 282 Figure 4.10. Damous el Karita basilica, Carthage. A. Photograph (postcard), c. 1950 (top). The walled area behind the basilica is a modern Christian cemetery. B. Plan, 2014 (bottom) (Sources: Wikimedia Commons (A) and J. Patout Burns and Robin M. Jensen, Christianity in Roman Africa (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), fig. 16.) 283 Figure 4.11. Reliquary of St. Louis IX from the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. A. Photograph (postcard), undated. B. Detail photograph, 2013. The allegorical figures stand on shields emblazoned for Jerusalem (left) and France (right). (Sources: APT “Cathédrale: Documents, Photos” carton (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 284 Figure 4.12. Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Drawings, 1991. The drawings are labeled “Politecnico di Milano Facoltà di Architettura” and scaled 1:100. A. Plan (top). Note that there are undrawn chambers within the structure behind the chapels at left. B. Interior section (bottom). Note that the figure atop the dome is not present. (Source: Cesare Pellegrini and Volfango Frankl, “Il parco archeologico di Cartagine: Studi per una valorizzazione,” architectural drawings, 1991, in AA.) 285 Figure 4.13. Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1900. (Source: Author’s collection.) 286 Figure 4.14. Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Interior photograph, c. 1945. St. Louis IX appears at left and St. Cyprian at right. These roundels do not appear in early images of the cathedral’s interior and were added at an unknown time. (Source: APT “Paroisse St. Louis” carton.) 287 Figure 4.15. Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1900. (Source: Author’s collection.) 288 Figure 4.16. Roofline details of the Cathedral of St. Louis (Pougnet, 1890), Carthage. Photographs, 2016. A. Fleurs-de-lys crenellation and stairwell dome (top). B. Spires and crossing dome (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 289 Figure 4.17. Notre Dame de Carthage sculpture. A. Photograph, undated (left). B. 1930 International Eucharistic Congress prayer card (right), c. 1930. (Sources: APT “Cathédrale: Documents, Photos” carton (A) and author’s collection (B).) 290 Figure 4.18. Notre Dame de Carthage relief. A. Drawing and photograph, unknown date. Original remains with reconstructed infill (top left). B. Drawing, unknown date. Full reconstruction drawing of the panel (top right). C. Photograph, 2016. Reconstructed Mary portion of the panel rendered in stone (bottom). This was originally in the Carthage cathedral’s Notre Dame chapel. (Sources: Musée Lavigerie: Catalogue sommaire (Algiers: Missionaires d’Afrique Maison- Carrée, c. 1935), 22 (A), ibid., 23 (B) and Daniel E. Coslett (C).) 291 Figure 4.19. Donation plaques inside the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. Photograph, 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 292 Figure 4.20. Central Tunis, c. 1930. Plan, 2015. Key: 1. Cathedral of St Vincent de Paul 2. Place Cardinal Lavigerie 3. Sea Gate/French Gate 4. Avenue de France 5. French Résidence Générale 6. Site of first 1881–98 cathedral 7. Site of Cemetery of St Antoine, chapel and gardens 8. Avenue Jules-Ferry. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett, “(Re)creating a Christian Image Abroad: The Catholic Cathedrals of Protectorate-era Tunis,” in Sacred Precincts: The Religious Architecture of Non-Muslim Communities across the Islamic World, ed. Mohammad Gharipour (Boston, MA: Brill, 2015), 364.) 293 Figure 4.21. Inauguration of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet- Labranche, 1897), Tunis. Published photograph, 1897. The original cathedral remains in place at right and will be demolished soon after this time. (Source: Ponce Martel, “La nouvelle cathédrale de Tunis,” La France illustrée no. 1209 (29 January 1898): 102–03.) 294 Figure 4.22. Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet-Labranche, 1897), Tunis. Architectural drawings, 1945. A. Cross-section at transept (left). B. Plan (right). The drawings at the piers were added during a lighting upgrade and are not architectural. Not reproduced to scale. (Source: APT “Cathédrale: Documents, Photos” carton.) 295 Figure 4.23. Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet-Labranche, 1897), Tunis. A. Photograph, c. 1945 (top). Earlier photos show more traditional chandeliers in the nave. B. Photograph, c. 1953 (bottom). (Source: APT “Cathédrale: Documents, Photos” carton.) 296 Figure 4.24. Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet-Labranche, 1897), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. Unfinished capitals are visible in the nave and crossing. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 297 Figure 4.25. Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia exterior with towers (Queyrel, 1909), Tunis. A. Photograph, 1909 (left). B. Photograph (postcard), c. 1925 (right). (Sources: “Cathédrale de Tunis.” Photographs. In CAP BAH-25-1909-08525 dossier 076 Ifa 14/8 (A) and author’s collection (B).) 298 Figure 4.26. Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia towers (Queyrel, 1909), Tunis. Photographs, 2016. A. Exterior of east tower (top). B. Interior of west tower (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 299 Figure 4.27. Initially proposed façade and towers for the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Elevation drawing, c. 1898. A. Photograph (top left). B. Lithograph, 1898 (top right). The images are clearly related. C. Detail of drawing (A) with contrast adjusted by author for clarity (bottom). The procession-like relief depicting St. Vincent de Paul beneath the rose window was never executed. (Sources: CADN 1TU/1/V/1427 (A and C) and Anon., “La nouvelle cathédrale de Tunis,” Le Pèlerin 22 no. 1097 (9 January 1898): 13 (B).) 300 Figure 4.28. Apotheosis of St. Vincent de Paul (Le Mare, 1930) from the apse of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. A. Photograph, 2013 (top). B and C. Photographs, 1930. The Zitouna mosque façade is visible at left, opposite the cathedral’s (bottom left). C. Photograph, 1930. Saints in the apse triforium (bottom right). (Sources: Daniel E. Coslett (A) and APT “Cathédrale: Documents, Photos” carton (B and C).) 301 Figure 4.29. Unfinished columns within the east triforium of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Photographs, 2016. A. The nave’s first bay adjacent to the crossing. (top). A detail view showing finished(?) and unfinished capitals (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 302 Figure 4.30. The Eternal Father or Abraham figure from the façade of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. A. Façade. Photograph, 2013 (top). B. Photograph, 2011 (bottom). Images from 1910 show that this sculpture was being done at the time (while the mosaic panel below was still not present). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 303 Figure 4.31. Ecclesia and Synagoga from the façade of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia, Tunis. Photographs, 2016. A. Ecclesia figure (left). Earlier photographs show a slender cross-shaped staff in her hand (made of metal?). B. Synagoga figure (right). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 304 Figure 4.32. Proposed Church of Notre-Dame de Tunis (Queyrel, 1914), Tunis. Elevation drawing, 1914. (Source: L.D.(?), “Pose de la première pierre de Notre-Dame de Tunis,” La Tunisie illustrée 99 (1914): 14.) 305 Figure 4.33. Ticket to 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). Printed ticket, 1930. Members of the clergy paid half price (10 francs) for their tickets. (Source: APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton 1.) 306 Figure 4.34. “Children’s Crusade” in the Roman Amphitheatre during the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). Photograph, 1930. (Source: APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton 6.) 307 Figure 4.35. Triumphal arches of Sbeitla and Carthage, as presented in Congrès Eucharistique International: Carthage 1930: Actes et Documents (1931). Published photographs, 1930. These images were originally juxtaposed on the same page as here, with the original over the reconstruction. (Source: Anon., XXXème Congrès eucharistique international Carthage 1930: Actes et Documents (Tunis: La Tunisie catholique, 1931), 320 bis.) 308 Figure 4.36. Triumphal arch of Sbeitla reproduced in Carthage. Photograph, 1930. The arch is visible at right on the Avenue Lavigerie. In the distance is the Lavigerie Institution. (Source: Congrès Eucharistique International de Carthage Mai 1930 (Tunis: Namura, n.d. (1931?)), n.p., in APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton 6.) 309 Figure 4.37. The “Martyrs’ Chapel” in the Roman Amphitheatre, Carthage. A. Photograph, c. 1930 (top). B. Photograph, 2013 (bottom). (Sources: Anon., XXXème Congrès: Actes, 129 (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 310 Figure 4.38. The Roman Amphitheatre during the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930), Carthage. Photographs, 1930. A. Overview with subterranean “Martyr’s Chapel” (top). B. Detail of decorative backdrop (bottom). (Sources: APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton 6 (A) and APT unmarked folder (B).) 311 Figure 4.39. The Basilica Maiorum, Carthage. A. Photograph, 1930. The platform built for the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930), Carthage (top). The statue at left is likely of St. Augustine. B. Plan, 2014. The platform sat over the confessio (bottom). (Sources: Alfred L. Delattre and G. Lapeyre, L’Archéologie et la Congrès eucharistique de Carthage (Tunis: J. Aloccio, 1932), 41 (A) and Burns and Jensen, Christianity, fig. 20 (B).) 312 Figure 4.40. The Basilica of St. Cyprian during the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930), Carthage. A. Photograph, 1930. Ciborium and seating platforms (top left). B. Photograph, 1930. Note visible wood planks, seams and painted finishes used in the construction (top right). C. Plan, 1930. General site plan with seating arrangements (bottom left). D. Photograph, 2016 (bottom right). (Sources: Delattre and Lapeyre, L’Archéologie, 50 (A), APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton 6 (B), APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton 1 (C) and Daniel E. Coslett (D).) 313 Figure 4.41. Ciborium of the Church of San Prospero, Perugia (Italy). Photograph, 2009. The structure dates to the eighth century, according to Eurcharistic Congress officials. (Source: Renzo Dionigi, “Perugia, S. Prospero, ciborio,” Flickr, 2009, accessed 10 March 2017, https://www.flickr.com/photos/renzodionigi/3959127392.) 314 Figure 4.42. Encampment for participants of the 30th International Eucharistic Congress on “St. Monica Hill” near the Byrsa, Carthage (May 1930). Photograph, 1930. The church of St. Monica is visible at left. (Source: APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton 6.) 315 Figure 4.43. Ostensorium (monstrance) created for the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). Photographs, 2016. A. Complete front (top). B. Detail (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 316 Figure 4.44. Ostensorium (monstrance) motifs. A. Photograph, 2016. Detail of ostensorium base (top). B. Published photograph, 2014. Bir Ftouha mosaic from Carthage (bottom). (Sources: Daniel E. Coslett (A) and Burns and Jensen, Christianity, fig. 29 (B).) 317 Figure 4.45. Closing procession during the 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). A. Photograph, 1930 (top). B. Photograph, 1930. The cathedral, site of final benediction (bottom left). C. Plan, 1930. Procession route (bottom right). (Sources: APT “Congrès Eucharistique 1930” carton 1 (A and C) and V. Brami, ed. XXXe Congrès Eucharistique International de Carthage (du 7 au 11 Mai 1930) (Nancy: Imprimeries Réunies de Nancy, n.d. (1931?), n.p. in APT (B).) 318 Figure 4.46. Site plan for 30th International Eucharistic Congress, Carthage (May 1930). Plan, 1930. The final procession route is marked in red. Ancient ruins are identified in green. (Source: Secrétariat du Congrès, XXXème Congrès eucharistique international de Carthage Livret-Guide à l’usage des congrèssists (Tunis: Ch. Weber, 1930), in CADN 1TU/1/V/2122.) 319 Figure 4.47. Carthage—Byrsa—Punic Tombs with the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920. (Source: Author’s collection.) 320 Figure 4.48. Project for a Monument erected in the memory of King Saint Louis by the descendants of crusaders on the ruins of Carthage (Julien, 1875). Perspective drawing, 1875. (Source: APT “Paroisse St. Louis” carton.) 321 Figure 4.49. Project for a Monument erected in the memory of King Saint Louis by the descendants of crusaders on the ruins of Carthage (Julien, 1875). Chapel plan, 1875. (Source: APT “Paroisse St. Louis” carton.) 322 Figure 4.50. Exploratory excavations at the St. Louis de Carthage chapel, Carthage. Plan, 1950. Illustrated is the plan of the chapel, as well as the location of a sondage trench excavated to reveal the building foundations and placement of Roman temple blocks beneath. A major foundation crack is also shown. (Source: Jean Auproux, “Compte rendu de la visite de l’architecte…,” meeting minutes, 2 February 1950, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367.) 323 Figure 4.51. Monument to the memory of St. Louis in Carthage (Zehrfuss and Auproux, 1950). A. Axonometric perspective, 1950 (top). B. Site plan, 1951 (bottom). Adjustments to landscaping and simplification of the apse plan are visible. (Source: Auproux, Jean and B.H. Zehrfuss. Aménagement d’un ensemble monumental à la mémoire de Saint-Louis à Carthage (Tunisie): Travaux d’aménagement, in CADN 1TU/2/V/367.) 324 Figure 4.52. Monument to the memory of St. Louis in Carthage (Zehrfuss and Auproux, 1950). Axonometric perspective (detail), 1950. This is the earlier plan (see Figure 4.51A). Contrast has been enhanced by the author for clarity. (Source: Auproux, Jean and B.H. Zehrfuss. Ensemble monumental avec aménagement du jardin de France à Carthage, axonometric drawing, 15 June 1950. In CADN 1TU/2/V/367.) 325 Figure 4.53. Effigy of St. Louis IX (Martin, 1951), Carthage. Photograph, 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 326 Figure 4.54. The garden and effigy of St. Louis IX, Carthage. Photographs, c. 1975. (Source: APT “Paroisse St. Louis” carton.) 327 Figure 4.55. Chapel of St. Louis de Carthage, Carthage, with French flags. Photograph, 1940. (Source: APT “Paroisse St. Louis” carton.) 328 Figure 4.56. Ambulatory of the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia (Bonnet- Labranche, 1897), Tunis. Photograph, 2013. Note the placement of the Notre Dame de Carthage statue in the pre-Vatican II high altar location. Note as well the unfinished engaged capitals. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 329 Figure 4.57. Mosaic panels in the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Olivia and neighboring Church office property (the Archdiocese), Tunis. Photographs, 2013. A. Portrait of St. Victor in the cathedral aisle (top). B. Church office property main entry foyer (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 330 Figure 4.58. Tomb of Archbishop Lavigerie in the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. A. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920 (top). B. Photographs, c. 1920 (bottom). These bronze figures from either side of the effigy represent Lavigerie’s anti-slavery work in Sub-Saharan Africa. (Source: APT “Paroisse St. Louis” carton.) 331 Figure 4.59. The Acropolium (ex-Cathedral of St. Louis), Carthage. Photograph, 2016. The current entrance to the facility is at right. Beyond the ticket area is a small, enclosed garden space. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 332 Figure 4.60. Interior elements of the Acropolium (ex-Cathedral of St. Louis), Carthage. A. Nave. Photograph, 2016 (top left). B. Ex-Notre Dame chapel. Photograph, 2011 (top right). C. St. Louis reliquary base. Photograph, 2016 (bottom left). D. Chapel/altar opposite that of Notre Dame. Photograph, 2016 (bottom right). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 333 Figure 4.61. Ex-Monument to the memory of St. Louis in Carthage (Zehrfuss and Auproux, 1950). Photographs, 2016. A. The apse and effigy (top). B. Looking towards the former altar location along the Roman colonnade. No restored columns appear as originally intended, and the trees appear to be later additions (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 334 Figure 4.62. St. Louis on the Byrsa today. A. Photograph, 2013. The original 1840 statue by Seurre (top). B. Photograph, 2016. Martin’s 1950 effigy (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 335 Figure 4.63. Sacré-Cœur Basilica (Abadie, opened 1914), Paris. Photograph, 2011. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett). 336 Figure 4.64. Amphitheatre of Carthage: The cult of Saints Perpetua and Felicity in the place of their martyrdom, highlighting modern commemorative installations. Drawing (postcard), 1917. (Source: Author’s collection.) 337 Figure 4.65. Postwar Catholic churches in Tunisia. Published photographs, 1954. A. Notre- Dame de France (Jean le Couteur et al., 1953), Bizerte (top). B. Church of Sts. Peter and Paul, Sfax (1953?) (bottom). (Source: “Églises et chapelles,” Tunisie touristique 8 (October 1954), n.p., in APT.) 338 Figure 4.66. Notre-Dame de France (Jean le Couteur et al., 1953), Bizerte. Interior photograph, c. 1953. (Source: “Eglise Notre-Dame-de-France, Bizerte (Tunisie),” Fonds Le Couteur, Jean, in CAP Objet LECJE-B-48-06.) 339 Figure 4.67. Air France advertisement featuring the Cathedral of St. Louis, Carthage. Printed advertisement, 1954. (Source: “Les grands réalisations catholiques dans la régence” (special edition), Tunisie touristique 8 (October 1954), n.p., in APT.) 340 5. Antiquity as a Revenue Generator Colonialism, at its foundation a capitalist enterprise, depended on the generation, collection and distribution of wealth and resources. One need only look at the imagery deployed on Tunisia’s banknotes to see clear connections between the country’s pre-Arab past and its economy. Not unlike the postage stamps presented in chapter 3, these elements of visual culture function as instruments of “banal nationalism” that visually represent the nation through references to shared cultural heritage, inspire loyalty and participation in sanctioned national communities and legitimize the state.1 The materiality of banknotes tends to “reify the existence of the nation-state and their symbolic visual content is seen to both reflect and construct it,” according to leading scholarship of the subject.2 Whereas the degree to which states may actively advance political agendas via banknote iconography may be overstated,3 correlations between imagery and prevailing socio-political perspectives are unavoidable in these officially 1 Michael Billig, Banal Nationalism (London: Sage, 1995); Jan Penrose, “Designing the Nation: Banknotes, Banal Nationalism and Alternative Conceptions of the State,” Political Geography 30 no. 8 (2011): 429–40. 2 Ibid., 430. The same could be said of coinage in the ancient world. See, for example, Christopher Howgego, Volker Heuchert and Andrew Burnett, eds. Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces (New York: Oxford University, 2005); Sitta von Redden, Money in Ptolemaic Egypt (New York: Cambridge University, 2007). 3 Penrose sees “little evidence of a masterful hand of the proactive, nation-building state at play” in her research, noting that many scholars overlook the actual design and production processes of banknotes. Penrose, “Designing,” 431. (These points were taken and inspired several conversations with employees of the National Bank of Tunisia and its Mint Museum in 2016.) She furthermore suggests that a reconceptualization of the state—which in his opinion is not independent from society—ought to be undertaken. Ibid., 438–39. 341 produced pieces. Protectorate-era Tunisian currency frequently featured picturesque vignettes of antiquities-laden landscapes and reproduced mosaic vignettes. Many of these images were reinterpreted through the early independence period (Figure 5.1). Columned ruins and colorful mosaics were eventually joined by images of modern architecture, factories and other infrastructure championed by the progressive Bourguiba regime, all “tangible symbols of the Nation that evoke its history and dominant values” or “anchors of the Tunisian identity” (Figure 5.2).4 Surveying the issued banknote types from the pre-colonial, colonial and republic periods (prior to the 2011 revolution), one finds that antiquities appeared on exactly half. Roman-era materials dominated.5 Twice during Bourguiba’s tenure were issued special dinar6 coin sets designed to similarly recall the diversity of Tunisia’s antiquity through the deployment of familiar images of Carthaginian, Berber and Roman people and places (Figure 5.3). 7 Ben Ali’s administration also stressed cultural dualities by juxtaposing references to the country’s Arab and pre-Arab histories on its currency. A recent ten-dinar banknote, for example, featured a portrait of Dido, the legendary founding queen of Carthage. On its reverse was depicted the façade of the Capitoline temple (Roman) at Dougga, beside a satellite dish commemorating the 4 Ali Khiri and Abdelhamid Fenina, Numismatique et histoire de la monnaie en Tunisie: Tome III: La Monnaie contemporaine (Tunis: Simpact, 2008), 120 and 125. This source includes an extensive catalog of Tunisia’s currency produced from 1881–2008. 5 Statistics calculated using published catalog in ibid. If the four banknote types issues since the 2011 revolution are included, the proportion featuring ancient references becomes 48%. Were one to break the pre-colonial and colonial apart from the post-independence republic period, the balance shifts to 61% antiquities-themed during the former two periods, to 43% since independence (again, excluding new issues since 2011). Roman sites and material (rather than Punic or Early Christian) dominate during all periods. Note that generic neoclassical vignettes and allegories of France in Roman armor are being counted as antiquities-themed issues, and reissues of identical images are counted separately. 6 The name for Tunisia’s post-independence currency unit, the dinar, was chosen with the abandonment of the franc in 1958, recalling the term used during the pre-colonial period, itself derived from the Roman denarius. Ibid., 97. 7 The 1969 set featured ten coins featuring a Phoenician ship, Massinissa, Jugurtha, Hannibal, mosaics of Virgil, Neptune and Venus, the iconic El Djem amphitheatre, Sbeitla’s Roman forum, as well as local Christian theologian St. Augustine. Ibid., 108–11. 342 2005 UN-organized World Summit on the Information Society hosted in Tunisia (Figure 5.4).8 Depictions of such sites, among Tunisia’s most tourist-friendly and frequently touted, are of course no accident; according to Imed Cherif at the Central Bank of Tunisia, personages “that mark this history of the country are chosen according to the prevailing context at the moment of [the banknotes’] conception.”9 Were one interested in studying these materials first hand, one could visit the Tunisian Central Bank’s Musée de la Monnaie (Mint Museum) in Tunis.10 Its ovoid gallery was opened in 2008. Located behind its prow-like entrance portico, the space appears to float between glossy blue water and a star-studded sky (Figure 5.5). Twenty-five centuries of history are there displayed in a spectacular, tourist-friendly manner that conveys Tunisia’s economic sovereignty and its importance as a Mediterranean center of commerce and trade. 11 At its formal inauguration, President Ben Ali emphasized the longevity of the country’s history in referencing the “civilizational heritage of our money across three-thousand years.”12 The museum space’s formal resemblance to an ancient ship, a point of pride expressed by the museum’s director during a site visit in September 2016, is intentional. It reflects a series of interests important to 8 The setting of this meeting in Tunis was particularly surprising for many who were aware of the state’s substantial harassment of journalists and its heavy-handed restriction of the press and internet. See Kenneth Perkins, A History of Modern Tunisia (New York: Cambridge University, 2014), 214–15. 9 Imed Cherif (director of the Central Bank of Tunisia (BCT) Mint Museum), email correspondence with author, 12 January 2017. He further explained that the designs are completed by “independent artists,” that the public is not in anyway involved in the design or conception of banknotes, and that the final decision for designs rests with the governor of the Bank, in consultation with members of the government including the President of the Republic and leader of parliament. More specific information regarding recent changes in banknote imagery was not made available. 10 The building’s architect was Lotfi Rebai and its interior was designed by Noureddine Lajnef with the Ministry of Culture. It was opened on the fiftieth anniversary of the BCT’s foundation. Anon., “Musée de la Monnaie, Tunis,” Archi-Mag (2009), accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.archi- mag.com/museemonnaie.php. See also the interior design firm’s page at Design Archi Concept, “Musée de la Monnaie,” accessed 2 March 2017, http://design-archi-concept.tn/portfolio/musee-de-la-monnaie/. 11 The museum also includes a small shop and library. For images of the annex building’s exterior (the museum is a portion of the BCT annex) and the gallery’s interior, see ibid. On the opening of the museum by President Ben Ali, see also Salem Trabelsi, “Consécration de la souveraineté monétaire de la Tunisie,” La Presse Magazine, 30 November 2008, 2. 12 Ben Ali quoted in ibid. 343 the Ben Ali regime at the time, including Hannibal and Carthage, ancient history, flashy tourism and family-friendly cultural institutions, as well as state power’s strength and beneficent appearance. Imagery found in such contexts—on currency and in the Mint Museum’s structure—can bee seen as intended for both internal and external audiences, thereby complexly binding identity, antiquity, capital and tourism. An inherently colonialist act, tourism involves the enactment of a power relationship wherein one observes and draws upon another for information or entertainment.13 Fascination with identifying and experiencing the authentic “other” sits at the core of these interactions that typically involve some degree of exploitation. This exploitation typically depends on a form of domination, whether it be physical, political, commercial or all of the above. Indeed, modern tourism traces its roots to modern European imperialism, and the Mediterranean has long since been a premier destination for Western travelers with varying interests. The first to visit North Africa and the Levant during the modern era, for pleasure or personal improvement, were religious pilgrims and wealthy elites looking to learn from the traditional “Grand Tour” experience.14 Ancient sites played a dominant role in such forms of tourism geared towards religion and piety, as well as natural history, art, literature and other humanities. Whereas Tunisia had been a relatively minor stop within these early travel networks, tourism there expanded dramatically at the beginning of the nineteenth century following Napoleon’s conquest of Egypt (1798–1801). That seminal event inspired increased tourism throughout the 13 Shelley Baranowski et al., “Discussion: Tourism and Empire.” Journal of Tourism History 7 no. 1–2 (2015): 1–31; Ellen Furlough, “Une leçon des choses: Tourism, Empire, and the Nation in Interwar France,” French Historical Studies 25 no. 3 (2002): 441–73; Stephanie Malia Hom, “Empires of Tourism: Travel and Rhetoric in Italian Colonial Libya and Albania, 1911–1943,” Journal of Tourism History 4 no. 3 (2012): 281–300. 14 The Mediterranean was a tourist destination as early as antiquity, however. See Bertram M. Gordon, “The Mediterranean as a Tourist Destination from Classical Antiquity to Club Med,” Mediterranean Studies 12 (2003): 203–26. 344 Mediterranean region and in history-rich Tunisia.15 The swift advent of European colonialism in the coming decades further expanded these processes. Tourism was an important element of colonialist policy and activity undertaken by French administrators and citizens. The enlistment of French people as tourists within the empire “was intended to contribute to imperial self-recognition and hence to an imperial understanding of French national identity.”16 Tourism professionals and politicians alike thus came to see the role that tourists might play as agents of colonialist propaganda.17 Each visitor, his or her travel agent, host and vendor—indeed the empire in general—functioned as an advertisement that might encourage further tourism and settlement. An extensive network of travel companies and tourism promotion agencies, such as the Touring Club of France (TCF)—whose existence was largely dependent on the colonial system—facilitated colonialist tourism with particular efficacy 15 Lucette Valensi, “Premiers touristes en Tunisie: L’extension du grand tour au XIXe siècle,” in Le Tourisme dans l’empire français, eds. Colette Zytnicki and Habib Kazdaghli (Paris: Société française d’histoire d’outre-mer, 2009), 17–28. See also Myriam Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments en Tunisie (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2013), 17–67. 16Furlough, “Une leçon,” 443. No event more potently reflects the alignment of tourism and empire than the 1931 Colonial Exposition in Paris, for which visitors were invited to tour the colonized world in a single day of consumerist spectacle. The event was designed to facilitate widespread participation in the Empire, to stimulate interest in its maintenance, and to encourage actual travel to distant territories within “Greater France.” See ibid., 445–50. See also Patricia A. Morton, Hybrid Modernities: Architecture and Representation at the 1931 Colonial Exposition, Paris (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 2000). See also Eric Zuelow, A History of Modern Tourism (New York: Palgrave, 2016), 92–5, on the touristic and imperialistic nature of fairs/expositions in general. 17 Nabila Oulebsir, “Du voyage pittoresque au tourisme patrimonial,” in Initiateurs et entrepreneurs culturels du tourisme (1850–1950), eds. Jean-Yves Andrieux and Patrick Harismendy (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2011), 124. For an example of how this worked in practice, see Emma Burbank Ayer, A Motor Flight Through Algeria and Tunisia (Chicago: McClurg, 1911). In this case, an American couple came to Algeria and Tunisia, with their car, in large part inspired by the successful visit of friends a year before (1). The book ends, however, by demonstrating clearly its pro-colonialist propagandistic nature. From the deck of a Marseilles-bound ship from Algiers, one of the American pair waxed: “And the French administration in Africa—how marvellous [sic] it is when you think that for several centuries before they came to Africa this country had been suffering from the worst sort of government; that there were no roads that could be called such, no schools, no justice, and no agriculture to speak of! Now, the splendid roads, reaching all parts of the mountains and deserts; the fair system of railroads; the thousands of acres of vines, the thousands of date-palms and the millions of olive-trees they have planted; the hundreds of artesian wells they have sunk; the paternal interest they take in the people in giving them schools and a fair and just taxation, and in many other ways looking after their interests—all this makes the French occupation and its results the best colonization scheme yet devised” (435). 345 during the interwar period.18 With the help of published guidebooks, such as the Guide Michelin or those published by the Joanne and Baedeker firms, visitors experienced the successes of the so-called civilizing mission firsthand and participated in “the ideological work of defining France as a great imperial power and legitimizing the goals of empire,” while the same time contributing to its coffers.19 The promotion of travel between Europe and its colonies was thus intended to strengthen attachment to imperial holdings among domestic audiences, while also allowing competitive colonizing powers to demonstrate their administrative effectiveness both internally and externally. Whereas travel from the metropole to the colony had initially occurred for reasons to do with “conquest, trade, and settlement[,]…leisure visiting…was encouraged by accumulated imperial curiosity and affiliations.”20 At the center of these touristic relationships were exchanges, or transactions, of ideas, images, customs, goods and money, all of which were linked to colonial systems and processes.21 Archaeology sat at the nexus of modern scientific inquiry, the production of knowledge, the mastery of space, the justification of rule and the attraction of attention. Colonialist interests in producing an “archaeology of Empire,” as well 18 A branch office of Thomas Cook and Sons had opened in Tunis in 1902, ensuring Tunis’ place in fashionable European itineraries. Kenneth Perkins, A History of Modern Tunisia (New York: Cambridge University, 2004), 154. 19 Furlough, “Tourism, Empire,” 472. Note that the state Antiquities Service did not publish official guide books of Carthage until 1951, leaving the field open to Church-affiliated excavators and private tourism firms. Stefan Altekamp and Mona Khechen, “Third Carthage: Struggles and Contestations Over Archaeological Space,” Archaeologies 9 no. 3 (2013): note 13 on 490. 20 Gordon Pirie in Baranowski et al., “Discussion,” 6. Here Pirie describes Roman ruins and their visitation by tourists as “distractions from modernity” otherwise often displayed within developed colonies. One might disagree with this unqualified distinction, however, given the thoroughly modern processes of excavation, presentation, and touristic exploitation undertaken by European experts. 21 Dennison Nash describes “a level of [economic] productivity sufficient to sustain leisure” as the “necessary cause of tourism,” thereby highlighting its capitalistic foundation and imperialist execution, regardless of actual historical empires. Dennison Nash, “Tourism as a Form of Imperialism,” in Hosts and Guests: The Anthropology of Tourism, ed. Valene Smith (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania, 1989), 39. 346 as in developing robust tourism trades, inspired excavations across North Africa.22 The 1929 edition of the iconic Guide Michelin demonstrates effectively the alignment of tourism and the politics of colonialism in practice. Its text reinforced colonialist claims to modernity and civilization through its appeal to both antiquity and tourism. The region had known peace, unity and prosperity only in two periods: the eras of Roman and then French rule, its authors claim.23 Not unlike what was done via political rhetoric and touristic literature in general, other periods are characterized as chaotic and underproductive in an effort to enhance the perception of the colonial system.24 “Over the centuries the Roman tradition was revived, but more humane, more generous, more penetrating, the ‘French peace’ has succeeded in carrying to the most inaccessible solitudes of the desert the material and moral goods of its civilization,” the book’s authors ultimately conclude, while of course inviting visitors to go and see the achievements of French munificence for themselves.25 In assessing Tunisia’s touristic identity, Abbassi—like many others—has singled out the country’s geographic position as a Mediterranean “crossroads” and its multicultural history as its distinctive elements, during both the colonial and postcolonial periods.26 Reflecting the latter, archaeological heritage in Tunisia was instrumental in the development of the early tourism industry. Bacha describes the relationship as one of “very strong dependence” between the two that “at times favored one over the other.”27 The origin of this pairing lay in 1896. Although there 22 David Mattingly and R. Bruce Hitchner, “Roman Africa: An Archaeological Review,” Journal of Roman Studies 85 (1995): 169. See also Peter van Dommelen, “Colonial Constructs: Colonial and Archaeology in the Mediterranean,” World Archaeology 28 no. 3 (1997): 305–23; Oscar Moro-Abadía, “The History of Archaeology as a ‘Colonial Discourse,’” Bulletin of the History of Archaeology 16 no. 2 (2006): 4–17. 23 Anon., Guide Michelin: Maroc, Algérie, Tunisie (Paris, 1929), xi. 24 Furlough, “Tourism, Empire,” 454–57. 25 Anon., Guide Michelin, xvi. Though speaking of Morocco in this portion of the guidebook’s introduction, the sentiment would have applied to Tunisia and Algeria as well. 26 Driss Abbassi, “De la colonie à l’état independent: Le tourisme en Tunisie entre propagande et pédagogie,” in Zytnicki and Kazdaghli, eds., Le Tourisme, 387–98. 27 Myriam Bacha, “Patrimoine et tourisme en Tunisie au début du protectorat: Interactions et dépendances,” in Zytnicki and Kazdaghli, eds., Le Tourisme, 155. 347 had been little support for archaeology beyond academics and clergy during the late nineteenth century,28 the French Association for the Advancement of the Sciences’ Congrès de Carthage that year marked a major turning point.29 Responding to the interest shown by this group—which toured sites of ancient and Islamic significance during the conference—the government became increasingly interested in the marketing potential offered by the country’s heritage assets. During the 1890s Father Alfred-Louis Delattre (1850–1932) had come to see the potential money that could be made from exposing archaeological ruins and providing tours thereof. Proceeds from his guided visits and published brochures—first in 1893 and again in 1895— were used to fund further excavations, and by including suggestions for nearby leisure sites his mode of presentation was adjusted to accommodate contemporary travel practices.30 The colonial government openly endorsed the value of archaeological tourism in 1899 when the French Ministry of Public Instruction authorized the excavations at Dougga so that “the simple tourist, as well as the archaeologist, could not fail to visit” its impressive ruins.31 The relationship between money, archaeology and tourism was clearly no secret. It was publicized in a 1903 article printed in France’s Le Figaro newspaper that reminded readers of Tunisia’s 3,000 years spent “playing an important role on the world’s stage.”32 Despite its current poverty, the piece claims that its rebirth would come with the garnering of great capital, particularly through heritage-based tourism. The TCF, founded in 1891 to promote travel by automobile, extended its work to North Africa and (through its subsidiary Committee on Picturesque Sites and Monuments) established the Tunisia-based savant society called the 28 Again, on pre-colonial era visitors to Tunisia, who often came to see and/or study antiquities and Islamic heritage sites, see Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments, 17–67. 29 The same group returned to Tunisia for a meeting in 1913. Their visit to the ruins of El Djem’s Roman amphitheatre was featured on the cover of La Tunisie illustrée no. 64, 4 April 1913. 30 Bacha, “Patrimoine et tourisme,” 159. 31 Ministère des affaires étrangères (1899) quoted in ibid., 158. 32 Le Figaro supplement (15 April 1903) quoted in ibid., 160. 348 Institut de Carthage. 33 Together, these organizations petitioned the colonial and French governments for funding to protect and exploit sites in Carthage, often hosting special events on site and appealing to intellectual and political notables for support. More broadly speaking, efforts to enhance tourism activities and transcontinental exchanges were significantly bolstered in 1910 with the creation of the Committee on Tourism for Algeria and Tunisia (generally known as the Comité algéro-tunisien) by the TCF. Together with the Comité d’hivernage (Wintering Committee) of 1903, the Comité algéro-tunisien initiated a longstanding campaign to support heritage tourism to Tunisia in 1911. The TCF’s Revue du Touring-Club de France became a principal source of news and propaganda to that effect, and one of its first initiatives was the publication of a photo album of images intended to lure visitors from France. The volume, called Grand tourisme en Algérie et Tunisie featured images depicting ancient archaeological and Islamic heritage sites, as well as landscapes and urban scenes.34 A survey of the album confirms the noteworthy presence of antiquities, which were the subject of six of thirty-one photographs.35 In 1920 the Central Committee for Tunisian Tourism was created. During that same year Tunis’ souks were designated a historic zone—explicitly for the benefit of tourism, among other things, according to legislation—as was Carthage. The tourism argument for the excavation and preservation of ancient heritage was sufficiently persuasive and regularly deployed by that time. Thenceforth tourism was the predominant factor in the official formulation of heritage policy for the remainder of the colonial period and beyond.36 Events such as the 1930 International 33 Ibid., 160–61. 34 Ibid., 162. 35 This is 19.4% of the images. The six were half Tunisian and half Algerian. Touring-Club de France, Comité algéro-tunisien, Grand tourisme en Algérie et Tunisie (Paris: Touring-Club de France, n.d.). 36 Bacha, “Patrimoine et tourisme,” 163. 349 Eucharistic Conference (presented in chapter 4) manifested the strong alignment of archaeological, political and touristic aims. Though European missions were regularly drawn to Carthage, it was Roman Tunisia that garnered the more consistent attention and excavation throughout the colonial period in what amounted to a “flagrant [historiographical] imbalance.”37 Forts, cities and monumental structures dominated the agendas of colonialist archaeologists who prioritized large-scale sites of high visibility and the recovery of statuary and mosaics.38 Such sites were accessible and legible to tourists. These artifacts were visually appealing and filled popular museums. A brief survey of published tourism-related materials from across the first half of the twentieth century confirms this narrow focus and the dominance of Roman references, imagery and sites.39 The Dépêche coloniale illustrée, a highly illustrated magazine published from 1901–1924 in France, 40 for example, frequently presented Tunisian history and ruins to its readers. Picturesque images of columns, statues and excavation scenes were common features on its covers and in its columns. A typical example from 1911 showed Sbeitla’s triumphal arch beside the title “La Tunisie antique” on its cover (Figure 5.6).41 “No country in the world is perhaps as rich in standing ruins (vestiges) as is the Regency of Tunisia,” begins the issue’s main story.42 What follows is a detailed account of the country’s most notable cities and sites, prioritized 37 Clémentine Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie (XIXe–XXe siècles) (Paris/Tunis: Karthala/IRMC, 2010), 29. 38 Fenwick, “North Africa,” 513. Materials-based interests in heritage were the domain of European colonizers and tourists. Tunisians were almost entirely left out of the recovery, analysis, and presentation processes, reflecting their relative ignorance of classical history, philosophy and languages, as well as their primary concern with history that followed the Arab conquest of North Africa. See Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 31–33. “History began with the arrival of Arabs and of Islam in this region” is how Gutron characterized the general Tunisian perspective on North Africa’s history” (32). 39 On more explicitly scholarly journals disseminated at this time—addressing antiquity and Islamic art and architecture—see Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments, 122–27. 40 The Dépêche coloniale illustrée was a supplement to the daily Dépêche coloniale newspaper, published from 1892–1937. 41 La Dépêche coloniale illustrée 11 no. 11 (15 June 1911). 42 Eugène Gallois, “Aux ruines de Tunisie,” in ibid., 121. 350 according to their extant Roman materials. Maps, photographs and drawings accompany the text and represent the most iconic and visible of remains, creating an image of the country essentially devoid of post-Roman influences.43 The tour began in Carthage, the “head of the country, the queen of its cities” which passed from Carthaginian capital to the “no less powerful chief city of Rome’s most beautiful colony.”44 La Tunisie illustrée (1910–1922), which called itself an “illustrated revue for Tunisian popularization” (revue illustrée de vulgarisation tunisienne), regularly featured stories on antiquities, museums and ancient sites, effectively disseminating scholarship and enticing tourists with similarly sensational language and imagery. An example from 1911 prominently featured a photograph of Sbeitla’s iconic tripartite temple complex. The label beneath the image lists the new train line necessary for reaching the site, as well as several intermediary (and tourist-friendly) cities (Figure 5.7). 45 Tourism maps published throughout the colonial period often privileged Roman sites along a north-south travel circuit established by road and rail networks (Figure 5.8).46 Tourist writings attest to the ease of movement and participants’ impressions. An American motorist named Emma Ayer, for example, noted in her 1911 travelogue that the roads of Algeria [and Tunisia?] were said to be “the best in the world, superior even to the national roads in France” (Figure 5.9).47 Ayer’s account sets Tunisia’s Roman history and relics within a broader, Orientalist account of her 43 Blame for the destruction of Rome’s civilization here, more so than “earthquakes and the bad weather of the seasons,” is attributed to the Vandals and then Muslims. Nonetheless, the witnesses of Rome’s prosperity can be discerned from the “magnitude of their [i.e. ruins] proportions and the majesty of their lines.” Ibid., 121. 44 Ibid. 45 Sbeitla (ancient Sufetula) offers ruins as beautiful and noteworthy as the well-known Timgad (in Algeria), contends one of the issue’s authors. Other stories present the city of Sousse, wintering in Tunisia, Tunis’ Municipal Theatre, and Muslim medicine. Le Passant, “Le Temple de Sbeitla,” La Tunisie illustrée 2 no. 15, 5 January 1911, 11. 46 See, for example Arthur Pellegrin, “Le Tourisme en Tunisie,” Encyclopédie mensuelle d’Outre-Mer (1954): 16. 47 Ayer, Motor Flight, 4. 351 voyage, but again stresses the majesty of their presence and accessibility.48 Said to have come to North Africa inspired by the successful visit of friends the year before, it is likely that—through her illustrated published account—Ayer enticed many others to follow, particularly from the Anglophone world. Alongside the longstanding touristic predilection for Tunisia’s antiquities was an Orientalistic fascination for Arabo-Islamic arts, architecture and culture.49 Visitors were enticed with images of temples and mosaics, but also with minarets and souk scenes. Disdain for Arab- led destruction of Roman heritage and consistent denigration of indigenous Tunisian society notwithstanding, interests in so-called “traditional” Tunisian culture guided the attention of colonialist administrators and visiting tourists. Henri Saladin, architect of the Hôtel des Posts and avid savant-archaeologist, published the first known manual on Islamic architecture in 1907.50 His 1894 guide to Tunisia discusses his excavations at Lamta, the Islamic architecture of Kairouan, Tunis’ “traditional” city or medina, and historic aspects of cities throughout the Protectorate.51 Interest in “Arab” art had existed for quite a while—in part inspiring the expansion 48 The modern town of El Djem was dirty and melancholy, she said, its residents accustomed to using stones from its impressive amphitheatre in their constructions. The monument was “pretty well excavated and cleaned out,” she contended. Though it accommodated 10,000 less than Rome’s Colosseum, this one was “much more imposing” she concluded. Ibid., 383 and 384. Noteworthy, however, is Ayer’s characterization of the Romans as “blood-thirsty, Pagan…colonists” (384). Perhaps her being an American informed this perspective. At the end of the “unusual and glorious trip,” one in the Ayer party concluded that for “…for the archaeologist,…what interesting ruins of Roman times, of temples, aqueducts, baths, cisterns, arches, and columns! But let him take the trip in a good automobile, and above all with an excellent chauffeur” (434). 49 The bias towards representations of antiquity in published guides (both through text and images) continues into the postcolonial period. See Habib Saidi, “Tunisia in the Imagination of the Western Tourist,” in The Mediterranean Reconsidered, eds. Mauro Peressini and Ratiba Hadj-Moussa (Gatineau, Quebec: CMCC, 2005), 94–96. 50 Henri Saladin and Gaston Migeon, Manuel d’art musulman, (Paris: Picard, 1907). See Myriam Bacha, “Henri Saladin (1851-1923): Un architecte «Beaux-Arts» promoteur de l’art islamique tunisien,” in L’Orientalisme architectural entre imaginaires et saviors, eds. Nabila Oulebsir and Mercedes Volait (Paris: Picard, 2009), 215–30. 51 Henri Saladin and René Cagnat, Voyage en Tunisie (Paris: Hachette, 1894). This dissertation’s author also excavated early Christian burials in Lamta, during the spring of 2006. The scene then looked very much like that on ibid., 37. On the archaeological work of Saladin and Cagnat for the Mission de Tunisie, see Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments, 74–6. 352 of the Bardo Museum in 189952—and landmarks associated with Islam had first been added to the official Tunisian heritage list in 1894.53 The touristic value of Tunisia’s medinas and souks was acknowledged often, such as in 1920 when portions of Tunis’ medina were designated a heritage protected zone in no small part because of its appeal to visitors like Ayer who deemed it a “real, old, Oriental city.”54 Imagery presented on popular tourism promotion posters, such as one by Roland Olivier from 1949, capture the full amalgamation of Tunisia’s touristic assets (Figure 5.10). In this example, above the words “Tunisia, Carthage, its sun, its ancient ruins, its oases” one finds the somewhat incongruous juxtaposition of Dougga’s iconic temple—located far inland and nowhere near Carthage—camels, the bay of Tunis from Sidi Bou Saïd near Carthage, fruits and vegetables, a woman in traditional Tunisian attire and a young girl in modern western-style clothing. Combined, the references evoke temporal and physical exoticism and escape. In the wake of independence from France in 1956, President Bourguiba continued to present an image of architectural modernity that was in many ways less influenced by local traditions and more in line with broader international trends. He intended to forge the image of Tunisia as a thoroughly advanced, internationally relevant society on par with its Western counterparts, through a process of infitah (opening) or political and economic liberalization.55 Tourism was a major component of modernization and investment policy-making throughout his tenure. Within this realm Tunisian heritage was in many ways folklorized consistent with 52 Ibid., 177–88. 53 The first “Islamic” monument to be classified officially was the Manouba garden pavilion. At this time such structures, and mosques, were deemed to be in the exclusive care of indigenous users, rather than the colonial administration. Ibid., 193–96. [Bacha, Patrimoine et Monuments,] 54 Victor Valensi, “Notice sur le Projet d’aménagements, d’embellissements, et d’extension de la ville de Tunis.” (Tunis: Municipality of Tunis, 1920), 9; Jellal Abdelkafi, La Médina de Tunis: espace historique (Paris: Alif, 1989), 78–79. See also Louis Poinssot, “Mesures prises pour la conservation des villes ‘arabes’ de Tunisie,” Urbanisme, 33 (1935): 95–99; Ayer, Motor Flight, 327. 55 On the Tunisian infitah, see Gregory White, A Comparative Political Economy of Tunisia and Morocco (Albany, NY: State University of New York, 2001), 79–119; Christopher Alexander, Tunisia: Stability and Reform in the Modern Maghreb (New York: Routledge, 2010), 75–9. 353 colonial-era Orientalizing tendencies, and presented as a superficial backdrop for leisure activities.56 The building that would become the Ministry of Tourism headquarters, opened in 1959 on the newly re-named Avenue Bourguiba, represented well the regime’s intended cultural mélange and dominant dedication to Modernist forms (see Figure 3.58). It was said at the time to represent both traditional Tunisian architecture—rather obliquely through its interior garden patio—and in its horizontal Corbusian massing, fenestration and pilotis, it engaged contemporary “ultra-modern” trends.57 The relatively immense Hotel Africa, opened nearby in 1971 on the Avenue Bourguiba, was similarly contemporary and featured prominently in images of Tunis (see Figure 3.59). In the words of Tunisian-born, French-trained Jewish architect Olivier-Clément Cacoub, his building was “an expression of modern architecture based on research of pure, simple and useful forms” and represented the urban aspirations of a growing city.58 By 1962 tourism was a “coherent [state-led] development strategy,” 59 the effects of which were more visible along the central Tunisian coast. There architects designed hotels that were celebrated for their sensitivity to site and to a lesser extent, adjacent Islamic heritage that was presented as “slightly exotic, folkloric, and subordinate to state-sponsored activities.”60 Shade- giving arcades, such as those at Cacoub’s Hotel Ribat in Monastir (Bourguiba’s hometown) for 56 Habib Saidi, “When the Past Poses Beside the Present: Aestheticizing Politics and Nationalising Modernity in a Postcolonial Time,” Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change 6 no. 2 (2008): 104–06. 57 Anon., “Voici la maison du tourisme,” La Presse de Tunisie, July 18, 1957, 3. The building was extended in 1972 and features a large relief sculpture on its new exterior. See also Anon., “An Addition,” Tourism in Tunisia 4 (May 1960): 3; Anon., “New Offices for the Tourist Department,” Tourism in Tunisia 11 (April 1962): 2. 58 Olivier Clément Cacoub, Architecture de soleil (Tunis: Cérès, 1974), 93. Jason Kyriacopoulos designed the building with Cacoub. Initially operated by the Le Méridien firm founded by Air France, the luxury hotel reinforced and facilitated postcolonial ties between France and Tunisia. Tunisia’s flagship carrier, Tunisair, was established in 1948 in a joint venture between the Tunisian government, investors and Air France. See also Juliette Hueber and Claudine Piaton, eds. Tunis: Architectures 1860–1960 (Tunis: Elyzad, 2011), 192; Mohamed Bergaoui, Tourisme et voyages en Tunisie: Le temps des pionniers, 1956– 1973 (Tunis: Simpact, 2003), 115–18. 59 Robert A. Poirier, “Tourism and development in Tunisia,” Annals of Tourism Research 22 no. 1 (1995): 158. 60 Jessica Gerschultz, “A Bourguibist Mural in the New Monastir? Zoubeïr Turki’s Play on Knowledge, Power and Audience Perception,” International Journal of Islamic Architecture 4 no. 2 (2015): 321. 354 example, arguably recall typical mosque architecture in addition to (related) Roman forms (Figure 5.11).61 Arches and nature-inspired forms—particularly waves—were common features in many of Cacoub’s seaside projects.62 The Hotel Ulysses on the island of Jerba promised visitors a place “where dreams become facts” in communion with Homer on the alleged mythological island of the lotus-eaters.63 Its triple arched portico framed views of a legendary “wine dark sea” (Figure 5.12). Though major development projects on the coast are known to have done considerable damage to unexcavated archaeological sites, 64 building continued rapaciously. Although tourism development along the “sun, surf and sand” model successfully attracted Europeans and nourished impressive growth within the hospitality sector during the late 1960s and 1970s,65 during the 1980s mass tourism market saturation resulted in stagnation and decline. Bourguiba’s presentation of a tourist-friendly and stable Tunisia had captivated visitors, but ever-larger coastal hotel complexes outpaced growth. Opposition from conservative Islamicist factions challenged Bourguiba’s open, Franco-Tunisian or “Mediterranean” vision and the Tunisian government was initially slow to accommodate and facilitate heritage-based tourism, relegating cultural patrimony initially to more academic circles. Elements of the country’s cultural heritage served merely as exotic backdrops. They were not actively promoted by a Bourguiba regime that was uninterested in separating the country’s cultural heritage from its history of colonization.66 The past was denigrated, while the present celebrated. History 61 See ibid., 321–28. 62 Cacoub, Architecture de soleil, 81–89, 100–10, 114–15. 63 Anon., “Ulysses Hotel,” Tourism in Tunisia, 11, April 1962, 5. 64 Abdelmajid Ennabli, “North African Newsletter 3: Part 1. Tunisia 1956–1980,” trans. J.H. Humphrey, American Journal of Archaeology 87 no. 2 (1983): 200. 65 Investments in Société des hôtels tunisiens touristiques (a state-run enterprise) more than doubled from 1965–67 alone. Perkins, History of Modern Tunisia (2004), 152. See also ibid., 152–56; Mike Edwards, “Tunisia: Sea, Sand, Success,” National Geographic 157 no. 2 (1980): 184–217. 66 This fact was not lost on some Tunisians, a significant portion of whom came to view Bourguiba’s tourism policies as derogatory of Tunisian culture and history. See Saidi, “When the Past Poses,” 103–06. 355 recalled dark eras of oppression. Tourism, Bourguiba maintained, required optimism and facilitated a way forward. Ben Ali, almost immediately upon assuming the Presidency in 1987, reaffirmed the state’s commitment to tourism development. He adopted a more pro-heritage approach, however, that aimed to recast tourism as a “source of new life, a way to spread Tunisian influence around the world and, above all, a sphere where objects and images from past and present can be displayed side by side.”67 The establishment of the Agence nationale de mise en valeur et d'exploitation du patrimoine archéologique et historique (National Agency For the Promotion and Exploitation of Archaeological and Historic Heritage) in 1988 signified a shift in policy towards more active, commercial heritage exploitation.68 Attempts to diversify tourism offerings into the adventure, ecological, urban and heritage areas, as was increasingly common throughout the Europe, North Africa and elsewhere, achieved limited initial success, however.69 Its further expansion and diversification along post-Fordist lines during the 1990s coincided with significant privatization efforts, all of which included the construction of new theatres, museums, sporting facilities and the promotion of accessibility to archaeological sites.70 By the mid-1990s Tunisia was “one of the fastest growing tourism economies in the world.”71 Tourism was then used as a tool for development, but also for the consolidation of power and the projection of images of openness and stability by the Ben Ali regime, which sought to increase tourism 67 Saidi, “When the Past Poses,” 103. Saidi adopts a Deleuzian approach to his study of Tunisia’s tourism promotion during the 1990s and is thus very interested in the juxtaposition of past and present. 68 Carlo Perelli and Giovanni Sistu, “Jasmines for Tourists,” in Contemporary Issues in Cultural Heritage Tourism, eds. David Arnold, Angela M. Benson and Jamie Kaminski (New York: Routledge, 2014), 74. 69 Waleed Hazbun, Beaches, Ruins, Resorts: The Politics of Tourism in the Arab World (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota, 2008), 37–50. On archaeological heritage and tourism in Peru and Belize, for examples, see David Pacifico and Melissa Vogel, “Archaeological Sites, Modern Communities, and Tourism,” Annals of Tourism Research 39 no. 3 (2012): 1588–1611; Doug Ramsey and John Everitt, “If You Dig It, They Will Come! Archaeology Heritage Sites and Tourism Development in Belize, Central America,” Tourism Management 29 (2008): 909–16. 70 Hazbun, Beaches, Ruins, Resorts, 50–55. See also Poirier, “Tourism.” 71 Ibid., 158. 356 receipts, improve its international image and guarantee its position of dominance. 72 Such “paradoxical globalization” 73—at once open and integrated but also tightly controlled and internally oppressive—failed in the wake of the last global economic downturn and related political instability. The difficulties experienced by the tourism industry since the 2011 revolution notwithstanding, the importance of antiquities has endured. Carthage, as well as the Bardo Museum, have remained the country’s primary heritage tourism attractions. The physical patrimony of Tunisia, as it has always been, is an immensely valuable and attractive asset for tourists and state-controlled development. This chapter presents intersections between archaeology and tourism, both of which are practices greatly indebted to modern European imperialism. Particular case study examples focus on major sites in greater Tunis, including suburban Carthage. The chapter addresses the reanimation of ancient ruins, the development of two of the country’s premier antiquities museums (the Carthage Museum and the famed Bardo Museum), an example of two popular Carthage hotels, as well as more contemporary examples of antiquity’s deployment across the urban built environment, including children’s theme parks and the popular display of mosaic imagery within both state and private properties. Throughout these examples one will encounter consideration of Tunisia’s pre-Arab past as a politicized commercial tool that has been exploited by colonialist officials and the country’s first two postcolonial presidents, Habib Bourguiba and Zine el Abidine Ben Ali. Through both the state (and corrupt individuals) sought to maintain power and acquire wealth through tourism, not entirely unlike the preceding colonial administration had. The chapter concludes with brief consideration of the post-2011 revolution period and speculation as to the future of the past in a changing Tunisia. 72 Hazbun, Beaches, Ruins, Resorts, 56–71. By 2001 Ben Ali’s government had supervised the doubling of Tunisia’s hotel capacity since 1987. Half of the in-country bed nights were in four- and five-star accommodations by 2002. Ibid., 65. 73 Ibid., 76. 357 5.1 Living monuments in Carthage: the Roman theatre Carthage’s Roman theatre, in its excavation, development and exploitation, reflects much of the complex interconnectedness of archaeology, tourism, identity and spectacle. Originally built by the Romans c. 150 AD and destroyed by the Vandals in AD 439, the 11,300- seat facility was discovered by French archaeologists under the direction of Paul Gauckler— director of the antiquities service—in 1904.74 Substantially excavated twice since then, in 1904– 1905 and to a lesser extent in 1967, it has been a major feature of the greater Carthage archaeological site for over a century. The largely reconstructed venue has hosted cultural events throughout that time, and it remains a popular setting for music performances as home of the annual summer International Carthage Festival held on-site since 1964.75 When discovered in 1904, the Roman theatre of Carthage was found to be severely degraded, the majority of its remains broken and missing beneath the site’s sloping terrain. Portions of the stage, orchestra and hillside seating terraces (cavea) were unearthed, and restorations were undertaken immediately while excavation was still underway (Figure 5.13).76 In the years since then (largely after the late 1960s) the theatre has been subjected to major work intended to consolidate and return the building to service, including the construction of seating, a large stage, and technological components needed for modern lighting and sound equipment (Figure 5.14).77 Much of this was done with apparently little regard for the structure’s 74 Karen E. Ros, “The Roman Theater at Carthage,” American Journal of Archaeology 100 no. 3 (1996): 481–82 and 468. On Gauckler and his tenure, see Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments, 151–248. 75 The privately sponsored International Carthage Festival is held every summer and features music, dance, theatre, and film performances/presentations. The ancient Basilica of St. Cyprian is also used for some events during the festival. See Anon., “Presentation,” Festival International de Carthage, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.festivaldecarthage.tn/fr/page/presentation. Note that there is also an unrelated Carthage Music Festival at the theatre, presented in the spring since 2009, under the auspices of the Ministry of Culture. 76 Images of the theatre, pre-restoration, can be found in Ros, “Roman Theatre,” and on the cover of La Tunisie illustrée no. 12, 10 October 1910. 77 It is not entirely clear at this point when much of this work was done. Picard, according to Ros, “Roman Theatre,” conducted his excavations “before the most extensive restorations had taken place” and 358 original form or the preservation of extant remains. 78 Arguably obtrusive facilities for administration, food service and restrooms have been constructed on the premises as well. Architectural elements, such as columns and capitals, have been taken away and returned to the site at various times, scattered about to perhaps render the enclosed space more “archaeological” in effect for visitors.79 Modern performances were held within the structure very quickly after its discovery, playing a role in the site’s initial publicity and partially financing its excavation. They were first presented under the auspices of Dr. Louis Carton80—a strong proponent of the notion that archaeology ought to serve contemporary (colonialist) needs—and his amateur enthusiast organization called the Institut de Carthage (Carthage Institute) in 1906. Designed to raise interest in antiquities, to entertain colonizers and tourists, and to augment Tunis’ profile as a modern center of culture much improved by the advent of French colonialism, they initiated the published his reports in 1967 (452). An image of the theatre with the rebuilt cavea appears in the Tunisian government’s Pour sauver Carthage statements published in 1971, leading one to conclude that the substantial (re)construction work took place during the late 1960s. Note that the text criticizes the ill- informed reconstructions that had occurred—the cavea was the likely target here. See Ministère des affaires culturelles et de l’information (République tunisienne), Pour sauver Carthage (Tunis: UNESCO/République tunisienne, 1971), 29. 78 Ros, “Roman theater,” 452. 79 Ibid., 474. Vagnone and Ryan use the term “poetic preservation” to describe such dubious interventions intended to arouse touristic interest. See Franklin D. Vagnone and Deborah E. Ryan, Anarchist’s Guide to Historic House Museums (New York: Routledge, 2016), 37. 80 Carton (1861–1924), a military doctor, directed excavations at Dougga (from 1892 until 1899) and founded both the Carthage Institute and the Archaeological Society of Sousse. He dedicated his career, after 1906, to the study of Carthage, where he positioned himself between state archaeological institutions (with which he initially cooperated) and local scholars. His earliest studies in Tunisia addressed the importance of hydraulic infrastructure and its potential resurrection by modern colonizers, thus making him one of the early proponents of the colonialist ‘materials-based resurrection’ school of thought. See Myriam Bacha, “Un archéologue amateur: Louis Carton (1861–1924) et le projet du parc archéologique de Carthage (Tunisie)” in Andrieux and Harismendy, eds., Initiateurs et entrepreneurs, 21– 33; Clémentine Gutron, “Archéologie et tourisme: Visiter les runies de Tunisie avec le docteur Carton,” Revue tourisme (May 2006): 111–12. It was not unusual for military personnel to participate in archaeological research during this time. The tradition stems from Napoleon’s exploits in Egypt. Since then, army officials played a significant role in exploring and cataloging conquered territories. Ibid., 112– 13. 359 use of the site as a “living place.” 81 It has remained one since that time. The theatres constructed throughout the Roman Empire would have been deployed as symbols of culture and civilization—of Romanization—by ancient authorities, 82 so it is thus fitting that French colonialists would have wanted to restore and reuse them as similarly charged references to their own imperialist objectives. That the building was used right up until its destruction by the Vandals in AD 439 would have further strengthened French pretensions to the role of cultural restorer.83 Indeed, Carton’s remarks at the 1906 event reinforced these popular colonialist “civilizing” tropes. “France, who came to this country as educator, France, inheritor of ancient Rome, and who has, for centuries, fought for all noble and generous ideas, could not perpetuate the work of destruction” but was obliged to intercede, he said. 84 Host of the 1906 event, Carton’s Carthage Institute (formally the Tunisian Association of Letters, Sciences and Arts), was founded in 1893 in order to “make Tunisia known.”85 Its mission statement acknowledged that the association’s “field of study…is unlimited,” but included “literature, history, geography, ethnography, anthropology, archaeology, numismatics, physical and natural sciences, linguistics, paleography, maritime science (la marine), social and political economy, colonization, etc. etc.”86 The Institute was charged with establishing a library, 81 Oulebsir, “Du voyage,” 121. 82 Ros, “Roman theater,” 483. 83 Writing by Augustine and Salvianus testify to the theatre’s popularity until its destruction. Ibid., 482. 84 Louis Carton, “Les Discours,” La Revue tunisienne 13 no. 59 (1906): 433. Carton characterizes French education as “moral and intellectual” moments later. Ibid. 85 Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments, 215. In its inaugural meeting, its one speaker’s remarks captured the full spectrum of contemporary colonialist rhetoric. Stressing the importance of the country’s Roman period, he reminded the assembled that great ruins attest to Tunisia’s “ancient [viz. Roman] magnificence.” Pavy in Anon., “Séance d’inauguration,” Revue tunisienne 1 (1894): 23. Punic Carthage had failed, he continued, due to Rome’s might and its own “lack of patriotism” (22). The Arabs had later arrived and submerged Roman civilization in Tunisia like a destructive wave (27). Not to neglect praise for modern France, the author concluded by boasting that one day “the splendors of Roman Africa will pale in comparison to those of French Africa” (31). 86 “Statuts de l’association,” Revue tunisienne 1 (1894): 4. The group was to be divided into three sections, including historical and geographical sciences, physical and natural sciences, and letters and arts. Ibid., 5. 360 publishing a journal—its interdisciplinary La Revue tunisienne was produced from 1894 until 1948—facilitating competitions, conferences and artistic presentations, cooperating with similar organizations in France and elsewhere and the hosting of visiting scholars.87 Carton was the primary individual behind the group’s early activities, but its membership included the full host of civic, religious and intellectual characters. Demonstrating its prestige and quasi-official endorsement, seats were reserved for the French Resident General, several military officials, the Archbishop of Carthage, several clergymen, beylical officials and state ministers.88 Among its many activities, the Institute’s archaeological advocacy work 89 garnered the group considerable notoriety. In general, Carton aimed to draw attention to the Carthage site and the importance of its excavation and preservation through explicitly touristic endeavors. His goal was to make ancient history—through its ruins—accessible to the most people possible by way of published writings90 and fully developed archaeological parks. “Science will be in vain if it confined itself to hovering in spheres inaccessible to the public which it has the duty to instruct,” Carton said in 1924. 91 He thus functioned within the realms of both archéologie savante (scholarly archaeology) and archéologie vulgaire (popular archaeology), the latter occupying most of his time during his later career.92 With his vigorous promotion of tourism he excelled in the latter. Tourism, he believed must be viewed as a vitally useful “economic instrument.”93 “The protection of Carthage,” he maintained, “interests not only science, art and literature; it affects directly the 87 Ibid., 4. 88 A full list of the original leadership and honorary membership was published in “Statuts,” 8–9. 89 The Institute created a separate archaeology section in 1903. 90 Carton had published about 200 pieces by 1921, including books, reports and articles. Gutron, “Archéologie et tourisme,” 111. A full bibliography was published in “Bibliographie de Louis Carton,” Revue tunisienne 29(?) (1921): 270–80. 91 Louis Carton, Pour visiter Carthage (Tunis: J. Barlier, 1924), 6. 92 Gutron, “Archéologie et tourisme,” 113. 93 Louis Carton, Carthage et le tourisme en Tunisie (Boulogne-sur-Mer: Imprimeries Réunis, 1919), 6. See also Gutron, “Archéologie et tourisme,” 117–118. 361 development of the country and its economic outfitting by tourism….”94 “The name of Carthage alone constitutes a global advertisement, constant and free, for the colony,” he boasted in his request for the legal protection of the site by appealing to its commercial potential.95 His many pamphlets and guidebooks were typically “practical, technical, and animated,” according to Gutron.96 They usually included not only the relevant site history conveyed in a language that was notably accessible, but also recommendations for lodging, transportation and other logistical concerns, rendering them quite personal in both tone and content.97 For example, Carton’s Pour visiter Carthage from 1924 includes not only a substantive history of ancient Carthage, but informs readers that a small welcome center at the main Carthage tram (TGM) stop was operated by the Comité des Dames Amis de Carthage (Friends of Carthage).98 The center sold useful guides, plans and postcards he advises.99 While introducing three suggested itineraries through the town, he cautions visitors that a private vehicle may be necessary for those unable to manage the significant amount of walking required to reach the disparate sites.100 Guidebooks such as these were primarily textual, but they did often incorporate a small number of artifact photos and ruin plans. Carton’s 1924 book includes a foldout plan of the entire Carthage environs that highlights modern infrastructure and known archaeological sites, rendering the image—much like the text did of Carthage itself—a compelling amalgam of past 94 Carton, Carthage et le tourisme, 5. 95 Ibid., 9. Those dismantling ruins for collectible antiquities and building materials “kill the goose that lays the golden egg,” he warned. Ibid., 20. 96 Gutron, “Archéologie et tourisme,” 114. 97 Ibid. 98 The association, a women-only society founded in 1921, was run by Dr. Carton’s wife. 99 Carton, Pour visiter Carthage, 36. The same were available from the Carthage Museum, he said. Proceeds benefited excavation operations. 100 Ibid., 35–36. The suggestion is relevant still today. For those particularly pressed for time, Carton suggests a five-hour visit. The abbreviated and exhausting itinerary (to include the Tanit sanctuary, the Punic ports, the Douimès, St. Cyprian and Damous el Karita basilicas, the Antonine and Dido Baths, the so-called “Fountain of 1000 Amphorae,” the so-called “Prison of Perpetua,” the Roman theatre and amphitheatre, Punic tombs on the south slope of the Byrsa, and a sunset to be viewed from the hill’s summit) was accomplishable with a car and experienced guide, he said, provided one spent no more than three or four minutes at each stop (36)! 362 and present (Figure 5.15). The ultimate goal of one’s visit—a comfortable but informative promenade through the site’s ruins—was thus supported from multiple perspectives. Carton did not neglect scholarly material, however, as his volumes included notes and often referenced ongoing debates within the fields of archaeology and history.101 As noted above, in order to generate excitement and revenue, Carton and the Carthage Institute organized spectacular theatrical performances in Carthage’s Roman theatre. Receipts from such events would fund the restoration of the ruin’s marble seating, for example, over the course of several years.102 Such presentations demonstrated most dramatically his approach to making history accessible and inspirational, as well as lucrative. Ultimately, thanks to these special events and its publications, the Carthage Institute “played a fundamental role in the promotion of Tunisian heritage” and development of modern Tunisian tourism.103 Returning to the first modern performance that occurred in 1906, just two years after the theater had been unearthed by Gauckler and his team, one finds a wealth of information regarding colonialist tourism in Tunisia. The cover of the event’s program depicted a bare- breasted woman lifting her veil overhead as she floats over the ruined theatre—an image of the fictional Salammbô, a Carthaginian priestess created and made immensely popular by Gustave Flaubert in his iconic 1862 novel Salammbô—here playing a double role as a personified 101 Carton also did this as well through his “Chronique archéologique nord-africaine” column for the Carthage Institute’s Revue tunisienne, which he authored from 1903 to 1921. This was intended to be a publically-accessible venue for the dissemination of information on archaeology. Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments, 216. For a snapshot that represents well the colonial-era predilection for Roman studies, a survey of Carton’s 1907 “Chronique” reveals the following page distribution of his writings on excavation sites/ancient cultures throughout North Africa: approximately 2.75 pages on Berber archaeology, 2 lines on Numidian, 3 pages on Punique, 14.75 pages on Roman, and 4.5 on Christian material. Setting aside the small Numidian portion, that is 59% Roman. Louis Carton, “Chronique archéologique nord-africaine,” La Revue tunisienne 14 (1906): 165–76 and 303–17. 102 Carton, Carthage et le tourisme, 30. 103 Bacha, Patrimoine et monuments, 216. 363 Carthage in phoenix-like ascent (Figure 5.16).104 Following a series of speeches by Carton and others, men and women dressed in costumes inspired by antiquity performed several pieces, each of which evoked particular episodes in the city’s ancient history. The artistic portion of the event began with a “parade of Romans across the ruins” accompanied by an orchestral “Praetorian March” by Lenepveu (a member of the Institute) (Figure 5.17). The “Hymn to Tanit” (Carthage’s chief goddess) and “Air of the Doves” from Salammbô—an opera based on Flaubert’s iconic novel by Ernest Reyer, himself member of the Institute—were then sung by soprano and contralto. Tunis’ chorale then sang a piece called “The Dead Cities” by Maréchal. The fifth act from Charles Gounod’s opera Polyeucte, which chronicles the life of the martyred St. Polyeuctus in third-century Armenia, was then performed by a cast of costumed characters.105 Subsequent musical and oratory offerings reinforced the themes of ancient Rome and Carthage, early Christian martyrdom and French culture, broadly presenting an image of historical continuity that bypassed Tunisia’s thousand-year Arabo-Islamic era (Figure 5.18).106 Though one reviewer questioned the propriety of such a display on hallowed historic ground, he appreciated that the spectacle may have inspired some public interest in the site, indicating that the Institute may have succeeded in revealing the need for its preservation.107 104 “Théâtre de Carthage 27 Mai, 1906,” event program, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2079A. Set in third-century BC Carthage, Flaubert’s fictional title character is a Carthaginian priestess of Tanit and daughter of the general Hamilcar Barca (Hannibal’s father). The veil is the sacred veil of Tanit and protects the city. Death befell anyone with whom it comes into contact. Flaubert’s book was extremely popular in France during the nineteenth century. See Anne Green, Flaubert and the Historical Novel: Salammbô Reassessed (New York: Cambridge University, 1982). 105 The opera was based on a popular play by Pierre Corneille from 1642. Polyeuctus was a Roman soldier martyred in AD 259 in Armenia, according to Christian tradition. 106 This fact, clear from the general program, is quite succinctly manifest in the set of four “evocations” towards the end of the event, for which different speakers addressed “Punic Carthage,” “Roman Carthage,” “A young Berber,” and “France.” “Théâtre de Carthage 27 Mai, 1906,” event program. For a full textual account of the day’s performances, see Louis Carton, “La fête,” La Revue tunisienne 13 no. 59 (1906): 423–31 and for reprinted press coverage of the event, see Anon., “La presse,” La Revue tunisienne 13 no. 59 (1906): 471–519. 107 Article from Journal des débats (21 December 1906) reproduced in Louis Carton, “Pour Carthage!” Revue tunisienne 14 (1907): 74–75. 364 The “sober restoration” of the theatre for the event, which involved the re-erection of the stage wall, broken columns and seating terraces, was done without totally effacing the site’s picturesque ruin quality, the reviewer notes further.108 Responding to critics of the restoration, however, Carton maintained that only minimal interventions were executed in order to facilitate the comfortable execution of performances. Speculative attempts to recreate ornamentation and other elements were avoided, that work left to a team of professional archaeologists, architects and artists, Carton concluded.109 Similarly dramatic spectacles occurred at the theatre during the years that followed, indicating that the events were popular with both the public and members of the Carthage Institute. A larger event was hosted by the Institute (again under Carton’s direction) the following year; the Fête au Théâtre antique de Carthage Tunisie took place on Easter Monday, 2 April 1907, and welcomed an estimated 6,000 spectators. 110 Publicity for the spectacle featured an image of a contemporary woman offering flowers to what is presumably a statue of Tanit,111 this 108 Ibid. 109 The quoted reviewer was not satisfied, cautioning against an accommodations made for actors and spectators (whose “bad taste” would not help). One best be careful, he wrote, or else an entirely new theatre would soon replace the ancient one. It was more appropriate, he maintained, to appeal directly to the French foreign ministry for funding needed to support its proper restoration than to expect real support from public spectacle (74–75). Carton would continue to advocate for the partial restoration of the theatre, among other Carthage sites. “Would it be a crime to put the fallen column drums back on their bases, and as needed to complete a few? Is that not current practice in architectural restoration?” he asked in 1919. “No one would oppose, henceforth, I think, having the seating tiers restored following the example given by so many ancient theatres.” Using the extant fragments as model would mitigate uncertainty, he further surmised. Carton, Carthage et le tourisme, 28 and 30. (Note that the reconstruction that was eventually carried out decades later has been deemed to be incorrect. See below.) He confessed to wanting to go farther, however, into the realm of (potentially speculative?) reconstruction, by suggesting that the original marble seats be rebuilt. The stage wall, which if restored to its proper height would completely block the coveted sea view, should not be resurrected, however (30–33). 110 Victor Cruzet, “Fêtes antiques du théâtre romain de Carthage,” Illustration algérienne, tunisienne et marocaine 2 no. 20 (13 April 1907): 5. The issue’s cover bears a photograph of the assembled crowd, seated on the unfinished slopes of the theatre’s cavea. The author incorrectly describes the ruin as an amphitheatre. It had been calculated that 4,000 had attended the spectacle in 1906. Carton, “La fête,” 425. 111 The statue is actually a rendering of a painted marble sarcophagus lid unearthed in Carthage and still on display at the small museum there. Dated to the 4th–3rd century BC, the winged figure holds a dove and incense jar (likely offerings, thus making her a priestess) and shows influences from Greek and 365 time not within the theatre itself, but from a vantage point (likely Sidi Bou Saïd) high over Carthage and its Punic ports (Figure 5.19).112 The modern woman was thus acting as a priestess of sorts (likely the iconic Salammbô) in her adoration of Carthage’s chief goddess, here arguably a stand-in for the city itself and its history. According to the colorful poster reservations for the event could be made at the Office tunisien d’hivernage (wintering) in Paris, the festival’s administrative office in Tunis, and at travel agents elsewhere, indicating that planners were hoping to draw audiences from Tunisia and the metropole. Headline events included productions of Prêtresse de Tanit, by Lucie Delaru-Mardrus, and the premier of La Mort de Carthage, by Grandmougin. 113 Images of the spectacle were published afterwards, illustrating the degree to which the theatre was consolidated and dressed for the occasion (Figure 5.20).114 Within the ruined stage building—the walls of which were “rebuilt” with little regard for their original form in order to create an authentic-appearing ambiance—115was erected a tetrastyle temple façade with Aeolic (viz. Phoenician or Punic) capitals and a triangular human form with raised arms representing Tanit emblazoned on its pediment. The so- called “Temple of Eschmoun” (Eshmun) resembled Dougga’s iconic tetrastyle temple and dominated stage platform, the front of which was lined with column shaft fragments and Etruscan artistic culture. At the time it was displayed upright at the museum and made quite an impression on visitors. See Anon., “Sarcophagus lid,” Rijksmuseum (Amsterdam), accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.rmo.nl/english/exhibitions/archive/carthage/highlights/sarcophagus-lid. Note that in 1906 it was thought that the figure may have represented a priestess of Tanit. See, for example, its description in E.M. Stevens, “The Lavigerie Museum at Carthage” in Douglas Sladen, Carthage and Tunis: The Old and New Gates of the Orient, vol. I (London: Hutchinson, 1906), 88–90, 121. In other places it has been described as a priestess of Isis. See Roald Docter, “Punic Carthage,” in Carthage: Fact and Myth, 36. The piece featured prominently in published literature and graced the cover of a c. 1935 museum guide. See Anon., Musée Lavigerie: Catalogue sommaire (Algiers: Missionaires d’Afrique Maison-Carrée, c. 1935). 112 “Fête au théâtre antique de Carthage Tunisie” (2 April 1907), poster, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2079A. 113 For more on Carton and the performances, see a special edition of La Revue nord-africaine 6 no. 15, 13 April 1907, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2079A. 114 Cruzet, “Fêtes antiques,” 5–6. 115 Bacha, “Archéologue amateur,” 26. 366 assorted capitals. 116 A particularly noteworthy moment included the singing of prayers to Eshmun by sixty members of the Tunis Chorale dressed in white robes and bright purple sashes that were, not unlike the armor worn by soldiers in the play, modeled on those worn by ancient sculptures found in the Carthage museum.117 Scenes of dramatic sacrifice to Moloch (Baal Hammon) were also well loved by the audience, according to Cruzet, who were thoroughly impressed by the performances of Tunis’ local theatre talent.118 In his final thoughts on the event, Cruzet relished the sensational awakening of Carthage: Carthage has lived. Its spirit was drawn out before us. We saw its white wings tremble…. But Carthage is no more…oh goddess! After the incense and the subtle perfumes that we have offered you, you have returned to your tomb….119 Such dramatic prose of course reflects the era’s literary style, but also captures the passionate connection to the site and its illustrious past felt by many. This conception of Carthage’s Roman theatre as a “living place,” 120 consolidated, restored, inhabited and celebrated as a relevant site of collective memory, continued throughout the colonial period. Groups such as the Amis de Carthage and the Catholic Church repeatedly advocated for and activated Carthage’s ancient sites with the intent to convey their own interpretations of the sites’—and their own—contemporary relevance. The “living place” conception held value for colonialist powers aiming to both justify their acts and entertain their people in a manner that evoked the resurrection of an idealized historic atmosphere.121 The use 116 Eshmun was the Phoenician god of healing. His temple at Carthage was once atop the Byrsa hill (the ancient acropolis) where the ex-St. Louis Cathedral now stands. 117 Cruzet, “Fêtes antiques,” 5. 118 Ibid. 119 Ibid., 6. 120 Oulebsir, “Du voyage,” 121. This conception, so well captured by the reuse of ancient theatres, was not unique to Carthage’s theatre site. The Roman theatre at Orange, France, was a popular site for modern performances as well, for example. 121 In a contrast that suited colonialist views in general, Arabo-Islamic historic sites were considered “definitively dead” and thus isolated relics suitable for study alone, therefore theoretically far less relevant. Ibid. 367 of the revived theatre space continued and at times it hosted controversial events.122 In his sensational preview of Tunisia in the year 2000, published in 1922, Carton had foreseen the Carthage theatre as “one of the most famous stages of its kind,” “soberly restored,” and host of an annual event attracting artists from around the globe wanting to mix “great historical memory” with the day’s creative energy.123 Founded in 1983, the Journées théâtrales de Carthage (Carthage Theatre Festival) celebrated its eighteenth season in 2016 with performances by internationally significant groups, thus maintaining the space’s dynamic theatrical tradition and fulfilling Carton’s vision.124 Clémentine Gutron suggests that most of today’s Carthaginois encounter ancient Roman heritage here at the heavily reconstructed Roman theatre, but not in celebration of ancient arts or the resurrection of indigenous Christianity as was the case during the colonial era, but rather 122 In 1926, for example, a performance of Le Croisé (The Crusade) written by a member of the Amis de Carthage caused major offence when it depicted a liaison between King (St.) Louis IX and the bey’s wife to reconcile Christianity and Islam. Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 175–6. Advertisements for performances of Horace (Cornelle) and Britannicus (Racine) by actors of the Comédie française appear on La Dépêche tunisienne, 11 May 1956, 3. Dougga’s Roman theatre has also hosted performances. See, for example, publicity for a presentation by members of the Comédie française of Euripides’ Andromache as retold by J. Racine in 1960 in Anon., “’Andromache’ at Dougga,” Tourism in Tunisia 4 (June 1960): 12. Britannicus was performed in 1961 and featured prominently in tourism literature as well. See Anon., “Britannicus at Dougga,” Tourism in Tunisia 8 (July 1961): 4–5. The performance was viewed by “enthralled spectators, like 2,000 years ago,” according to ibid., 4. 123 Louis Carton, La Tunisie en l’an 2000 (letters d’un touriste) (Paris: G. Van Oest, 1922), 252. Note that he foresaw a much more aggressive reconstruction campaign that included restoration of the theatre’s seating terraces and its colonnade-capped stage building. He also anticipated the construction of many new hotels amidst the numerous excavated ruins of Carthage visible from the theatre. Ibid. The volume, which took the form of a series of letters exchanged between two male tourists, conveyed views on the state of the country and its archaeological sites in a hypothetical future. A grand Carthage archaeological park was part of the picture, complete with expanded hotels offerings, newly unearthed structures, etc. 124 “Accueil,” Journées théatrales de Carthage, accessed 18 April 2017, http://jtcfestival.com.tn/. The festival is held under the auspices of the Tunisian Ministry of Culture. It is worth noting that when the “reanimation” of the theatre for contemporary performances—such as those hosted by the International Festival of Carthage—was an explicit goal of the Tunisian government in its preparations for the major UNESCO campaign to excavate Carthage’s ruins in the 1970s and 1980s and included in a document outlining its priorities. See Ministère des affaires culturelles et de l’information (République tunisienne), Pour sauver Carthage, 30. On the performance of ancient theatrical material in the post-colonial context, see Lorna Hardwick, “Shades of Multi-lingualism and Multi-vocalism in Modern Performances of Greek Tragedy in Post-colonial Contexts,” in Classics in Post-Colonial Worlds, eds. Lorna Hardwick and Carol Gillespie (New York: Oxford University, 2007), 305–28. 368 in the pursuit of contemporary (and secular) spectacle.125 The International Carthage Festival, for example, draws thousands each summer and has featured in recent years classical music and opera, performed by the Tunis orchestra and visiting ensembles, well-known international pop musicians, as well as performers from throughout the Arab world.126 Its setting is today a collection of architectonic fragments and heavy-handed reconstructions, commodified in a way that arguably only superficially acknowledges the theatre’s historical significance. It is regularly deployed in advertisements for the popular events it hosts (Figure 5.21). The theatre has, however, earned a place within the collective memory of today’s Tunisians (or at least the residents of suburban Carthage) and remains an important site on today’s cultural heritage agenda. 5.2 Heritage repositories: The Lavigerie (Carthage) and Bardo (Tunis) Museums Tunisia’s earliest antiquities museum was founded atop Carthage’s Byrsa hill in 1875. Though relics unearthed by archaeologically-inclined priests had been displayed in the walls and gardens surrounding the nearby 1841 chapel of St. Louis before then, it was in 1875 that members of the Société des Missionaires d’Afrique (also know as les Pères blancs or White Fathers)127 under the direction of Delattre established what would become the Musée Saint- Louis (Figure 5.22).128 Delattre was a prolific excavator and published more than six hundred 125 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 191. Gutron estimates the seating capacity now at “more than 5,000,” which would be considerably less than the 11,300 estimated for its original configuration by Ros in “Roman Theater,” 468. 126 For general information and archived programs from recent years, see “Festival international de Carthage,” Festival international de Carthage, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.festivaldecarthage.tn/fr/home. 127 The curious name was derived from the white tunics, based on the traditional attire for men in parts of North Africa, initially worn by members. 128 Gutron, “Mise en place,” 169–72. The museum’s name was inconsistently used and changed over time. Initially the St. Louis (sometimes with “de Carthage”) Museum (1875–1899), it was then named for Lavigerie in 1899. From then it was variously called the Musée Lavigerie de St. Louis de Carthage or just 369 articles, reports and books during his long career.129 Under his leadership the collection of the museum grew steadily from 1875 through his death, despite occasional conflicts between his team of clergy-archaeologists and professionals at the state’s Antiquities Service.130 In 1879 a large seminary was erected on the Byrsa hill, adjacent to the Chapel of St. Louis, under the direction of archbishop Lavigerie. Its main body and two wings created a “U” shaped plan that housed a high school (Collège Saint-Louis) and from 1881 a full scholasticate (a college-level school for training members of the clergy). The museum was installed within space reserved in this structure, the open end of which was enclosed with the eventual construction (1885–1890) of the St. Louis IX cathedral (see Figures 2.1 and 5.23).131 The completed compound occupied symbolically charged terrain on the site of the Roman forum, with its aligned St. Louis chapel and surrounding open-air museum space, seminary and museum and cathedral, oriented in accordance with the primary urban axis of Roman-era Carthage.132 Arcaded facades enwrapped the body of the main building, shading porches from the harsh Mediterranean sun. Twisted columns, horseshoe arched fenestration, delicate crenellation, finials and a cupola over the entry added an exotic air, unifying the compound’s ambiguously Classical and Arabesque architectural components (Figure 5.24). The building’s deep loggias and south-facing grounds afforded stunning views of surrounding Carthage, the famed pair of Punic ports, the Gulf of Tunis and the distant Bou Kornine (“two horned”) the Musée Lavigerie. With independence in 1956 it was renamed the National Museum of Carthage. For the sake of clarity, it will be called simply the Carthage Museum here. 129 Joann Freed, “Le Père Alfred-Louis Delattre (1850–1932) et les fouilles archéologiques de Carthage,” Histoire et missions chrétiennes 4 no. 8 (2008): 78. This article presents a thorough summary of Delattre’s life and achievements. According to Freed, Delattre was compelled by Church authorities to focus more directly on Carthage’s Christian sites, turning away from his noteworthy work on Punic remains (74–75). 130 On conflicts between “amateur” and professional archaeologists in colonial-era Tunisia, see Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 74–81. 131 Gutron, “Mise en place,” 173. See below for more on the cathedral. 132 This was the orientation and path of the decumanus maximus. Freed, “Le père,” 75. 370 mountains. To the southeast lay the St. Louis garden with its chapel, statuary and artifact-lined enclosure walls (see Figures 5.24 and 4.8). The collection of the Carthage Museum was primarily drawn from excavations completed within the vicinity, and after just five years in operation the collection numbered an impressive 6,347 objects (inscriptions, statuary pieces, coins, medals, architectural fragments, etc.).133 It generally prioritized items of the Roman and Early Christian periods, in keeping with the historiographic biases of the colonialist Church and state. Materials from the Punic era were also displayed in dedicated spaces. Ultimately, however, artifacts from the past were presented in a manner that clearly stressed the region’s Christian heritage and thus legitimized the presence of the modern Catholic Church and European colonizers. Material claims for the first (Punic), second (Roman) and third (French Catholic) Carthages were thus broadcast from here and through published academic and tourist media.134 Originally allocated just a single vast room, the Museum filled quickly. By 1898, an adjacent refectory—somewhat larger than the first room—was converted into exhibition space.135 A third room, the “Crusader Room,” included Christian relics by that time. Within these three rooms one found the museum’s objects, during the early decades, presented in vitrines made of wood and glass. Cases were arranged thematically according to prevailing historiographic interests—thus Punic, Roman, Christian and Crusader-era (Figure 5.25).136 The rooms extended from a vestibule accessible to the seminary’s cloister, in which some Christian- 133 Charles Lavigerie, “De l’utilité d’une mission archéologique permanente à Carthage” (Algiers: Adolphe Jourdain, 1881): 10–11. (BNF). This long text is a plea from Lavigerie to the French Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres asking for a permanent archaeological mission to be established at the St. Louis College under Delattre’s direction. It describes in great detail the significance of Carthage and the nature of these early archaeological finds by Church officials. 134 Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 472–77. 135 Pierre Gandolphe, “Origines et débuts du Musée Lavigerie,” Cahiers de Byrsa 2 (1952): 171. 136 For a tourist-friendly, but reasonably detailed, description of the museum’s contents during its first decades in operation, see P.A. Vellard, Carthage autrefois, Carthage aujourd’hui (Lille: Victor Ducoulombier, 1896), 40–53. See also Alfred-Louis Delattre, Un pèleringe aux ruines de Carthage et au Musée Lavigerie (Lyon: Jevain, 1902), 35–69. 371 era relics were displayed, including the iconic “Notre Dame de Carthage” relief sculpture. Large doors emblazoned with the arms of Pope Leo XIII (r. 1878–1903) and Lavigerie made clear the authority through which the White Fathers and their museum operated.137 The first room contained relics of the Punic era, as well as “Roman and pagan mosaics,” said Delattre in 1902.138 Such objects, though perhaps of little interest to Christian visitors, may help inform understandings of Old Testament history, he said in his published guide for pilgrims. 139 According to Delattre the second large room contained material from the Early Christian period, as well as a variety of other archaeological pieces. Among the venerated objects were ceramic lamps, lead weights, coins and other pieces of sculpture. An account from 1905 suggests that the three rooms were organized more simply as Roman, Punic and Crusader (including early Christian and Medieval materials), indicating that perhaps the materials had been reorganized within the three main halls.140 A catalogue, likely printed in 1935, divided the museum into a “gallery” located “before the rooms of the museum” (the covered arcade outside the main entrance), the “Roman room,” the “vestibule,” the “Christian room” and the “Punic room,” indicating that at that time the same five spaces had been devoted to the expanded collection.141 The “Crusade room” was a highly politicized space where antiquities and France met. The relatively small room’s walls were entirely covered with large frescos by a priest called l’Alouette (a student of the renowned French painter M. Picot)142 depicting episodes from Louis IX’s very brief time in Carthage. Executed from 1884 through 1886, the five large tableaux 137 Ibid., 35. 138 Ibid., 48. 139 Ibid., 49. 140 E.M. Stevens, “The Lavigerie Museum at Carthage” in Sladen, Carthage and Tunis, vol. I, 81. Gandolphe, “Origines et débuts,” 171 describes the same distribution, noting that the new larger room was dedicated to Punic materials and the original space became the Roman room. 141 Anon., Musée Lavigerie, 7 and 8. Unfortunately it is not possible at this time to reconstruct the intended path through the space and/or possible hierarchical arrangements of the galleries during these early years. Detailed plans have so far proven elusive. 142 L’Alouette had been brought to Carthage by Lavigerie to decorate its new cathedral, though the work was not completed. Gandolphe, “Origines et débuts,” 171. 372 included scenes of St. Louis’ 1270 arrival in Carthage, his healing of the sick and wounded, a battle scene between French forces under Louis IX and Tunisian forces lead by the bey, the king’s death and finally, on the ceiling, his dramatic apotheosis (Figures 5.26 and 5.27).143 Contemporary figures were embedded within these scenes, as were archaeological objects on display at the museum. The healing tableau, for example, featured the king assisted by a Papal legate whose appearance was based on that of Lavigerie. Notables from the ranks of the White Fathers were immortalized elsewhere in the scene depicting the king’s death; alongside the Lavigerie-like legate Delattre was shown dressed in the iconic white robes of the Pères blancs.144 Such imagery reinforced the historic presence of France in Tunisia, providing a strategic link between Christian antiquity and modernity. Church and state were fused here in the person of the sainted king. In terms of artifacts, early Christianity was represented within this room by cases including objects from the period, including relief sculptures and lamps. A few items from the medieval era further demonstrated French involvement in later periods and complemented the frescoes above. Tourists, who by 1896 were coming to the Carthage Museum in growing numbers every year,145 often published their impressions of the museum and its significance. In 1906, for example, Douglas Sladen remarked that he could not but regard these buildings [i.e. the seminary/museum complex] as blots upon the citadel hill, which should have been kept sacred to the memory of Hannibal’s Carthage. But this does not prevent one from seeing the grandeur and imaginativeness of the work done by the White Fathers in making the graves of Punic Carthage give up their dead….146 143 Vellard, Carthage autrefois, 39–40; Delattre, Un pèleringe, 35–36. The St. Louis reliquary from the Carthage cathedral was also included in the death scene. 144 Delattre, Un pèleringe, 35–36; Gandolphe, “Origines et débuts,” 172–73. 145 Vellard, Carthage autrefois, 40. 146 Sladen, Carthage and Tunis, vol. I, 74. 373 Captivated, like so many before him, by the spirit and image of Carthage, Sladen—who was British and thus perhaps less enthralled by St. Louis’ nationalistic contribution—concludes emphatically that “Hannibal is Carthage.” 147 French author Louis Bertrand, in his 1905 travelogue, recounts his visit to the Carthage museum with similar sentimentality. Pilgrimage to the museum is necessary, he contends, in order to “recover a bit of Punic and Roman Carthage.”148 Upon entering he was immediately struck by the space’s “special” atmosphere, which he inhaled, an “atmosphere analogous to that of the hospitals, infirmaries and mortuary caves” with their “bland, complex, indefinable odor.”149 Bertrand, who was relatively uninterested in Christian relics owing to his substantial predilection for Roman history, notes that the collection was dominated by “Greco-Punic” and “Egypto-Phoenician” pieces.150 Visiting in 1911, Ayer of course visited the Carthage Museum. A “fascinating place,” she said,151 the museum was sufficiently enthralling and its enthusiastic priest/guide (Delattre himself?) pleasantly accommodating.152 In 1964, as a part of a larger agreement reached between the Vatican and independent Tunisian state, the entire Byrsa complex and its archaeological collection were surrendered to Tunisian authorities. 153 Adjustments to the museum’s building, organization and content undertaken during the second half of the Protectorate era remain somewhat unclear,154 but major changes that occurred during the 1990s are more apparent. Most obviously from the 147 Ibid., 76. 148 Bertrand, Le jardin, 286. 149 Ibid 286 and 287. Bertrand goes on to describe the museum’s “austere rooms” and half-lit vitrines, commenting at length on the displayed lamps (287). 150 Ibid., 295. 151 Ayer, Motor Flight, 374. 152 The guide showed the Christian artifacts “with reverent care and tenderness,” noticeably lingering over them more so than he did the pre-Christian materials. Ibid., 375. 153 Gutron, “Mise en place,” 174. 154 Gandolphe, writing about the museum in 1952, makes no mention of major changes beyond the 1898 extension into the second large room and the overflow display of some materials outside in the gardens and courtyard, indicating perhaps that no substantial programmatic changes had occurred. Gandolphe, “Origines et débuts,” 173. 374 exterior, the building’s fenestration has been simplified—simple arched windows have replaced horseshoe arches visible in older photographs—and its crenellation removed (Figure 5.28).155 Major excavations during the 1970s and 1980s had substantially enriched the material record of Carthage’s antiquity, thus bringing it great international exposure and necessitating this substantial revision of the museum’s program and content. As the Byrsa site is so significant it has been outfitted with placards and pavements conveying its archaeological significance. For example, the layouts of the Roman-era forum and its great library hall have been delineated on the ground with stone panels and circular depressions representing columns, as well as re-erected bases and drum segments (Figure 5.29). Excavations of earlier Punic-era materials along the southern slope of the hill (carried out by the White Fathers and later teams) have unearthed remains that had been buried by Roman rebuilding of the acropolis. A necropolis and structure foundations remain exposed and visible to visitors from atop the terrace on what is truly a palimpsest site (see Figures 5.30 and 4.47).156 The partially completed monument to St. Louis conceived by Zehrfuss and Auproux in 1951 sits outside the museum’s disused original doorway, the footprint of a temple to Asclepius marked in its pavement. Partially excavated and overgrown ancient buttressing sits exposed in an open pit on the yard’s southeastern edge adding to the space’s unavoidable air of abandonment (Figure 5.31). The Carthage Museum’s interior has been substantially redesigned.157 Its presentation program was described by its director as “not systematic, but successive and progressive” so that visitors move from a general introduction to “progressively from one stage to another, with 155 It is not clear exactly when these changes were made. Photographs from c. 1975 show the original crenellation in place (see Figure 4.54). 156 Abdelmajid Ennabli, “The Museum of Carthage: A Living History Lesson,” Museum International 50 no. 2 (1998): 26–27. 157 It is not clear at this point, however, at precisely what time these changes were made. Though not with ideal clarity, Ennabli said in 1998 that “The museum took over the old disused buildings, renovating them and adapting them to their new function.” Ennabli, “The Museum of Carthage,” 28. 375 each period or theme linked to, and complementing, the others.”158 One’s visit was intended to begin on the second floor, preferably in the southern wing (Figure 5.32). There one found a general introduction to the history of Carthage and displays including noteworthy finds from the Punic phase of the city’s past. The adjacent primary exhibition room was divided into four parts, and ran the full length of the original eastern museum portion of the building. Fronting the open loggia that addresses the site of the razed St. Louis chapel and garden, the gallery presented “Phoenician-Punic, Roman-African, Palaeo-Christian, [and] Arab-Islamic” Carthage (Figure 5.33).159 Abdelmajid Ennabli, the museum’s director at the time, further described the intended experience as an inspiring, mystical one influenced by preserved artifacts and the site itself: The journey on which the visitor is now embarking is one of allusions and reminiscences, a subtle interplay between the objects perceived in the showcases and the glimpses of light and greenery through the windows, like a constant pendulum movement swinging between the echo of history and the mirage of the landscape—a long history of grandeur, conflict and decline captured for a fleeting instant in the shafts of light from the surrounding site.160 Such descriptions are reminiscent of earlier colonial-era characterizations that stressed the city’s spiritual nature and cathartic potential. Adjacent rooms included mosaics, amphorae and barrel vaulting displays, stressing the importance of trade and technology. From these one then passed into the Byrsa Gallery, a room stretching the length of the complex’s north wing and subdivided into Punic and Roman sections. The renovation of this particular space was undertaken through joint support from the Tunisian National Heritage Institute (INP) and the French Foreign Ministry agreed upon in 1992, the goal of which was the display of materials excavated by the French Archaeological Mission 158 Ibid., 27. 159 Ibid., 29. The Arab-Islamic period is represented by glazed ceramics of the eleventh through fourteenth centuries. Ibid., 28. This era would have been called the medieval or ‘Crusader’ period in the past. 160 Ibid., 29. 376 during the recently completed UNESCO “Save Carthage” campaign.161 Within the 450 m. sq. gallery were shown items recovered from the Byrsa hill itself, as well as architectural and topographic models (Figure 5.34).162 The large rectangular gallery was divided by cases and diagonally arranged partition walls into niches, facilitating both a cursory stroll and a more thorough stroll through the space along a basic Punic-to-Roman chronology. A large panel depicts the Roman rebuilding of the Byrsa hill after its reestablishment in AD 29. Painted by J.M. Gassend in 1996, it illustrates the site’s complexity quite effectively (Figure 5.35). A large reconstruction of the Punic city by the same artist conveys the grandeur of the first Carthage. With the prominent Byrsa and ports as visual topographic anchors, the image successfully informs and links present to past. Proceeding downstairs one entered another large gallery (perhaps the converted refectory), this one paved in a Roman mosaic, filled with small-finds cases and large-scale sculptures. Crossing through here, one entered the Punic sarcophagus room—home of the iconic “Priestess of Tanit”—and then a room dedicated to Roman sculpture (Figure 5.36). The Paleo-Christian room was located past the entrance hall and included mosaics, ceramics and other religious objects that had once been the pride and joy of the White Fathers. “Science and Archaeology” was the theme of the final room in the museum, offering visitors a look at the process of excavation and conservation.163 Upon exiting the museum into the St. Louis garden, 161 On the French mission’s Byrsa work and the Byrsa Gallery, see Jean-Paul Morel, “Mission archéologique de Carthage-Byrsa,” Les nouvelles de l’archéologie 123 (2011): 39–43; Serge Lancel and Jean-Paul Morel, “La colline de Byrsa: Les vestiges puniques,” in Pour sauver Carthage, ed. Abdelmajid Ennabli (Paris: UNESCO/INAA, 1992), 43–68. 162 Anon., “Musée de Carthage: La Galerie de Byrsa,” Architecture méditerranéenne: Tunisie (1997): 179. This source contains a listing of the many individuals (French and Tunisian) responsible for the scientific and artistic planning of the gallery. 163 This very concise summary of one’s visit to the museum (c. 1998) is taken from Ennabli, “The Museum of Carthage,” 28–30. The author also describes the museum’s modest library (the collection of which was originally based on that of the White Fathers) and workshop facilities in ibid., 31–32. 377 the visitor—hopefully transformed, according to Ennabli—encountered not just a landscape, but “a stage in which a long story has been played out….”164 The experience of the Carthage Museum today is not the one Ennabli described so vividly in the late 1990s. One now enters through a door inside the courtyard’s northern corner. Access is now limited to the complex’s northeastern wing, rendering accessible only the upstairs Byrsa Gallery and the ground floor hall with the expansive Roman mosaic and sarcophagi (relocated from the closed room) (Figure 5.37). The chronological itinerary thus no longer works as planned, as one enters the Byrsa Gallery from the northwest corner and proceeds backwards, beginning with Roman material. One is then forced to retrace one’s steps after having seen the Punic material in order to return to the only open stairwell in order to descend. The orientation materials and archaeological exhibit described by Ennabli are inaccessible, leaving one largely ill prepared for the intended informative and inspiring visit.165 The garden is isolated and feels forgotten, no longer the finale. The essential thematic and chronological choreography has been destroyed. Many important pieces are not accessible to visitors, and the city’s Christian heritage is all but absent from current exhibitions.166 It should be noted that the adjacent ex-Cathedral of St. Louis, now the multipurpose Acropolium, draws tourists as well. As noted above, the structure’s conversion in 1964 and restoration during the 1990s rendered the space a popular venue for concerts, fashion shows 164 Ibid., 30. 165 It is not clear when the east wing was closed to visitors. This has been the case for at least as long as I have been visiting the museum since 2005. It is possible that the closure coincided with the World Bank’s suspension of funding for development works in Carthage in 2005. See Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 485. Attempts to gain access to the original museum portion (the east, or central mass) of the building in 2016, now said to be used for museum storage under the jurisdiction of the Bardo Museum, were unsuccessful. 166 There is a small Paleo-Christian Museum located near the TGM tracks elsewhere in Carthage, but it is quite minor and appears to be closed quite often. Embarrassing Tunisian officials, it was robbed in the wake of the revolution. 378 and art exhibits.167 The garden between the museum and former cathedral hosts a number of artifacts, though not of antiquity. Today one there finds, among other pieces dating to the nineteenth- and twentieth-century Catholic history of the site, a small statue of the Virgin Mary of an unidentified provenance (Figure 5.38). Broken but crudely restored in places (nose and hands), the figure sits idly. There is also a small statue of St. Monica.168 For a brief time people came here to see another statue—that of Cardinal Lavigerie. The highly controversial monument had stood just inside the medina behind its Sea Gate from 1925 though 1956 and was relocated here, where it remained from 1956 though the 1964 surrender of the complex to the Tunisian state (see Figures 3.40, 4.20 and 5.38).169 A plan proposed by its director during the 1990s for this spot would have seen the erection of a large belvedere or observation platform. Elevated on pointed arches high over the garden, it would have reflected the ex- cathedral’s architectural style and offered more stunning views of the surrounding ruins and Gulf of Tunis, thus reinforcing the building’s connection to a geography saturated in pre-Arab history (Figure 5.39).170 The former cathedral and its enclosed garden have thus attracted religious pilgrims and visitors for a long time, many of whom came to see both the antiquities museum, as well as the Byrsa’s Catholic sites, and they continue to do so as complementary or symbiotically-linked attractions. 167 Nacer Boudjou, “L’Acropolium de Carthage: L’Espace multimédias,” Réalités 459, 29 July–4 August 1994, 34–35. 168 According the M. Okbi (director of the Acropolium), the statue of Mary was found buried in the garden. The St. Monica statue likely comes from the decommissioned church of Sainte Monique (now within the property of the Presidential Palace) (see figure 4.42). Mustapha Okbi (Acropolium director) via Nicolas Lhernould, (Archevêché de Tunis) email correspondence with author, 15 March 2017. 169 Daniel E. Coslett, “(Re)creating a Christian Image Abroad: The Catholic Cathedrals of Protectorate-era Tunis,” in Sacred Precincts: The Religious Architecture of Non-Muslim Communities across the Islamic World, ed. Mohammad Gharipour (Boston: Brill, 2015), 369–70. The monument was presumably removed in 1964 and perhaps returned to France, although details regarding its removal and current location are unknown. 170 Moez Chelli, Amènagement d’un belvédère: Jardin de l’Acropolium de Carthage, architectural plans, c. 1994, in AA. It appears that the plan was rejected by the Ministry of Culture due to concerns for the adjacent museum property and views into (potentially unsightly) storage areas. The sustained appeal of the panorama, very much a colonialist activity, is noted. 379 The second major antiquities museum founded in Tunisia was the Bardo Museum, located in the walled royal outpost of Bardo just to the west of Tunis. Though established after the Carthage Museum, it quickly became preeminent and remains the country’s top tourist destination,171 having long since eclipsed its predecessor in size, significance and popularity. Originally called the Alaoui Museum—in honor of the titular sovereign at its foundation, Ali- Bey—it was initially established by the decree of 7 November 1882, just a year after the Protectorate was established.172 A subsequent decree in 1885 codified its collection scope and setting within disused nineteenth-century portions of the bey’s walled Bardo Palace, or the “Tunisian Versailles” according to one 1848 visitor.173 In 1888 the museum was inaugurated by the Antiquities Service in the presence of the bey, the Resident General, members of the Institut de France and other French dignitaries inside the palace’s former harem quarters (Figure 5.40).174 Quickly challenged by the growing collection’s size, the facility was expanded into adjacent palace rooms in the spring of 1896.175 Work for yet another expansion was underway again in 1899.176 Since that time it has grown to occupy more of the original palace and several later architectural additions, the most recent one having opened in 2012. Unlike many major national museums, the Bardo Museum’s collection has come almost exclusively from Tunisian soil, thereby directly representing the country’s rich cultural 171 Naim Ghali, “Tourism culturel en Tunisie: État des lieux et perspectives,” in Zytnicki and Kazdaghli, eds., Le Tourisme, 406. 172 This was the same decree that first regulated the protection of antiquities. The museum was renamed the “National Museum of the Bardo” or Bardo National Museum after independence. Such museum establishments were not unusual in within the colonized Mediterranean region. On the collection and presentation of classical antiquities by French military and political authorities in Algeria during the early colonial period, see Bonnie Effros, “Museum-building in Nineteenth-century Algeria,” Journal of the History of Collections 28 no. 2 (2016): 243–59. 173 Aimé Rochas, “Tunis,” L’Illustration 20 no. 509 (27 November 1852): 350. 174 A folder marked “Inauguration du Musée du Bardo” in CADN 1TU/1/V/1351bis proved to be regrettably sparse. 175 Paul Gauckler, “Guide du visiteur au Musée du Bardo,” Revue tunisienne 3 no. 10 (1896): 309. 176 Paul Gauckler, “Note” from Direction des antiquités et des arts, 5 April 1889 in CADN 1TU/1/V/14235. 380 heritage.177 Although it does include notable pieces of Early Christian and Arabo-Islamic art,178 its collection of Roman artifacts—particularly its mosaics—remains unparalleled. The museum’s location within the bey’s palace—since independence the seat of Tunisia’s parliament— reinforces its significance and reflects an official interest in celebrating the country’s pre-Arab history. The original space dedicated to the nascent Bardo Museum had been built as the beylical harem during the 1850s but completed later under the reign of Mohammad es Sadok (1813–1882) (Figure 5.41).179 Designed by Tunisian architects and decorated by Tunisian craftsmen, the square planned-room incorporated a cruciform court with corner rooms. White marble columns hold aloft ornately carved plaster-coated vaulting over the intimate space (Figure 5.42). Its walls were clad in colorfully glazed tiles typical of the region. Adjacent to this space was a grand patio, ringed in more white marble columns, at the center of which originally stood a small fountain. This plan reflects the traditional North African courtyard dwelling.180 The arcade supported an open gallery, above which arched windows facilitated the space’s illumination. Intricately carved pendants were dressed in colorful pilasters, medallions and moldings, betraying Italian influence (Figure 5.43).181 Given over to the museum by 1896 but not yet renovated for use as an atelier at that time, an adjacent shallow-domed concert hall included two elevated platforms or balconies—one for women with direct access to the harem and 177 Selma Zaiane, “Le Musée national du Bardo en métamorphose,” Téoros 27 no. 3 (2008): 18. 178 An “Arab Museum” was opened in 1899 in the “Small Palace” adjacent to the harem. It was enlarged substantially in 1913. See A. Merlin and L. Poinssot, Guide du Musée du Bardo (Musée Alaoui) (Tunis: Gouvernement tunisien: Protectorat français, 1951), 69–76. 179 Gauckler says it was begun under Mohammed c. 1855 and then finished by Mohammad es Sadok (r. 1859–1882). See Gauckler, “Guide du visiteur,” 309. Binous, however, says the harem was initiated under the reign of Husayn Ibn Mahmoud (r. 1824–1835). See Jamila Binous, “The Summer Palaces,” in Ifriqiya: Thirteen Centuries of Art and Architecture in Tunisia, eds. Jamila Binous et al. (Vienna: Electa, 2002), 110. 180 Ibid. 181 Gauckler said that the Italian-style “glitter” found on the “bizarrely” executed elements was typical of modern Tunisian palaces. Gauckler, “Guide du visiteur,” 310. 381 another for the orchestra (Figure 5.44). Across the patio was another new addition to the museum, a former dining room dressed in more Italian-influenced decorations. The coffered ceilings of both are painted in arguably “excessive polychrome floral Baroque ornamentation.”182 At the far end of the patio lay a ballroom or Grande Salle des Fêtes—the last of component of these early museum extensions (Figure 5.45). The carved wooden ceiling of this space is its architectural highlight. Again reflecting a degree of Italian influence—echoing the assessments of many before her, Binous says it “borders on the excessive”183—sixteen gilt panels rose into a glittering cupola and then resolved into a rarely executed central stalactite-like pendant.184 Each of these rooms was eventually filled with artifacts; their walls and floors were clad in intricate Roman mosaics,185 their niches and arcades sheltering statuary recovered from across Tunisia. By 1896 it was already said that the Bardo’s collection represented all eras of Tunisia’s antiquity and drew upon all its regions.186 The collection’s initial materials came from a variety of sources, including excavations undertaken at the town of Le Kef by a Mr. Roy and his Archaeological Society there, a set of objects that had been sent to the Résidence générale by René Cagnat, items from the garden of the Bône-Guelma train company’s headquarters, agents of the Medjerda train line, and from Manouba by Prime Minister Khereddine Pasha.187 The collection was quickly enriched by excavations undertaken by archaeologists working for the Antiquities Service, including Dr. Carton at Bulla-Reggia and Dougga, as well as others at 182 Binous, “The Summer Palaces,” 111. 183 Ibid., 110. 184 Gauckler, “Guide du visiteur,” 309–11; M’hamed Fantar, Le Bardo: Un palais, un musée (Tunis: Alif, 1990), 8–27. 185 The most celebrated mosaic was installed on the Salle des Fêtes floor. Discovered by the 4th Regiment of Tirailleurs in 1886 near Sousse and transported to the Bardo in 1887, the stunning Neptune mosaic measured 137 m. sq. In 1896 it was said to be the largest mosaic displayed in any museum. Ibid., 314; R. de la Blanchère, Collections du Musée Alaoui: Première série (Paris: Firmin–Didot, 1890), 17–32. 186 Gauckler, “Guide du visiteur,” 311. 187 Ibid. 382 Sousse, Lamta, Makthar and elsewhere.188 A full catalogue would not be published until 1897, but Gauckler’s 1896 guidebook included very brief descriptions of objects in all four of the museum’s functioning rooms and adjacent halls/vestibules at that time.189 It is clear from this guide that items made their way into the museum quickly. For example, the mosaics installed on the Salle des Fêtes floor—“the most beautiful specimen known in mosaic art of Roman Africa”— had been relocated very recently from Uthina, a site excavated by Gauckler himself from 1893– 1895.190 Comparison with the 1951 edition of the official guidebook reveals the considerable growth of the museum’s collection and its redistribution throughout the crowded space.191 By this time rooms were named for the most part by the origin of their most notable pieces. The Patio thus became “the Roman Carthage room,” having previously been dedicated to epigraphic and architectural artifacts, rather than objects recovered from a specific location. Similarly, the Salle des Fêtes became the Salle de Sousse (Sousse Room). The original harem quarters became the Virgil Room, owing to its incomparable mosaic portrait of the author with muses (Figure 5.46).192 The Bardo Museum has been a popular destination since it opened, featuring prominently in travel literature since that time. Thanks to the “zeal and activity of its young conservator, Mr. Paul Gauckler[,]” who operated with “a beautiful and patriotic ambition,” the Bardo Museum was becoming “one of the most important museums in Europe,” said Bertrand in 1905.193 Bertrand was, not surprisingly, quite impressed by the Bardo’s collection of ancient 188 Ibid. 189 Ibid., 311–26. 190 Ibid., 313. 191 Merlin and Poinssot, Guide du Musée. 192 Yacoub, Le Musée, 73–74. The mosaic is said to be the only extant portrait done in Virgil’s lifetime. Ibid., 74. Rooms were reclassified based on objects’ origins under the tenure of Merlin c. 1910. See Taher Ghalia, “La collection de négatifs en plaques de verre du Musée national du Bardo,” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, 151 no. 1 (2007): 100. This iconic Virgil scene has graced the cover of the popular Latin language textbook Wheelock’s Latin for several editions. 193 Bertrand, Le jardin, 296. 383 Roman mosaics (“…admirable—so suggestive of ancient mores!”).194 In general, however, he confessed to being somewhat overwhelmed. “One is crushed by the abundance of objects, and the eye is lost in the flickering of colors,” he waxed.195 Others reported similar impressions. Sladen enjoyed his visit to the “valuable and perfectly delightful museum” in 1906,196 while Ayer noted that “The whole place bristled with mosaics of more or less fanciful designs, and more or less fine in finish.”197 By the end of the twentieth century the museum had been fully integrated into dominant heritage narratives that stressed Tunisia’s place as a physical and symbolic Mediterranean crossroads. A 1993 guidebook to the museum boasts of the country’s “privileged geographic location” and grand history, despite its small size.198 Carthage is cited eight times, and the Mediterranean Sea is referenced six times, in its two-page introduction.199 “The Bardo Museum remains a beautiful history book for Tunisia, the Maghreb and the Mediterranean,” writes M’hamed Fantar, stressing the facility’s universality.200 The building has grown and changed during its century of existence. Both Sladen201 and Ayer202 mention visiting chambers dedicated to Punic materials on the floor beneath the main level (hence the ground floor), indicating that by 1906 the museum had expanded from its original rooms into the additional rooms on the floor below. By 1951 the museum had come to occupy many smaller rooms on the building’s ground floor, in addition to extra rooms on the second floor adjacent to the original spaces.203 Additional spaces were used by the museum by 194 Ibid., 296. 195 Ibid. 196 Douglas Sladen, Carthage and Tunis: The Old and New Gates of the Orient, vol. II (London: Hutchinson, 1906), 510. 197 Ayer, Motor Flight, 348–49. 198 Aïcha Ben Abed Ben Khader, Le Musée du Bardo (Tunis: Cères, 1993) cited in Abbassi, “De la colonie,” 396. 199 Ibid. 200 Fantar, Le Bardo, 27. 201 Sladen, Carthage and Tunis, vol. II, 512. 202 Ayer, Motor Flight, 347–48. 203 Merlin and Poinssot, Guide du Musée, 4. 384 1970 on all three levels (Figure 5.47).204 Structural additions had also been made to the complex during the 1930s and 1950s.205 The museum’s simple exterior was given an arcaded entrance portico that opened on to a vestibule and galleries located within the palace’s old storage magazines in 1968 (Figure 5.48).206 By 1970 the museum filled forty rooms within the palace and its purpose-built extensions on three levels; 207 most of the latter were boxy, large whitewashed rooms lit by skylights, again often clad with mosaic panels. In many of them the floors were also paved in ancient mosaics (Figure 5.49). The most substantial expansion of the museum, however, would open in 2012, in large part due to a loan from the World Bank. The original palace portion of the museum, however, remains largely intact in terms of its structure. 5.3 A hero reborn: Hannibal in independent Tunisia Independence in 1956 necessitated a renegotiation of identities, as well as affiliations with power and the past. Educated in France and an admirer of Western conceptions of modernity, Habib Bourguiba, as Tunisia’s pater patriae, guided the country through independence and the immediate post-independence period with particular dexterity. A free Tunisia would maintain windows open to the West, and he ensured that ties to France and its culture were not severed entirely. His forward-looking approach aside, Bourguiba’s vision of Tunisia’s future was thus in important ways anchored in the past.208 While he clearly disparaged Tunisia’s cultural heritage and traditions with vigor—deeming them tainted and backwards—he selectively chose to emphasize elements of the country’s history that served his own personal views and ambitions. His appreciation of French culture notwithstanding, he did not perpetuate 204 Mohamed Yacoub, Le Musée du Bardo (Tunis: Ministère des affaires culturelles, 1970), 9, 43 and 109. 205 Denis Lesage, “2012: Métamorphose muséale en Tunisie,” Archibat 26 (2012): 75. 206 Yacoub, Le Musée, 5. 207 Zaiane, “Le Musée,” 18. 208 Driss Abbassi, Entre Bourguiba et Hannibal (Paris: Karthala, 2005), 25. 385 earlier French preoccupations with Rome and Roman North Africa.209 Instead, he is said to have likened himself to Jugurtha, the Berber king who opposed Roman domination following the epic fall of Carthage. Substituting France for Rome, Bourguiba proudly made it known that whereas Jugurtha had suffered an ignominious end at the hands of his Roman captors, he had won.210 Bourguiba would further oppose France-as-Rome through his adoration of Hannibal, Carthage’s general whose elephants had so famously terrorized Rome (viz. Europe, the West). In this way he manifested a certain ambivalence regarding the pre-Arab past. This fact can be further seen in the Tunisian coat of arms. Made official by Presidential decree following independence in 1956, featured a lion passant, balanced scales and a Carthaginian galley, the sails of which bore prominently the symbol of Tanit (Figure 5.50). By the same decree the state’s motto was made “Liberty, Order, Justice,” and symbolically the ancient ship represented liberty.211 In 1985 Bourguiba further elevated his status when he was pictured on a postage stamp beside not an ancient king, but Baal Hammon, Carthage’s chief deity (Figure 5.51). “From Carthage to Bourguiba,” the stamp read.212 209 Mattingly and Hitchner describe a postcolonial “backlash against Roman studies” stemming from colonial-era privileging of Roman history and its affiliation with European rulers by Maghrebi scholars. Mattingly and Hitchner, “Roman Africa,” 170. This would appear to be at odds with the clear dominance of Roman antiquities on Tunisian banknotes throughout the duration of Bourguiba’s rule. On resistance to Rome in antiquity by residents of North Africa, see Marcel Benabou, La résistance africaine à la romanisation (Paris: François Maspero, 1976). 210 Anon., “Chadli Klibi rend hommage à Bourguiba ce ‘Jugurtha qui a réussi,’” Espace Manager, 6 April 2016, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.espacemanager.com/chadli-klibi-rend-hommage-bourguiba-ce- jugurtha-qui-reussi.html. 211 Habib Bourguiba, “Armoiries du Royaume” (Decree of 21 June 1956), Journal officiel tunisien 74 no. 50 (22 June 1956): 826. The arms were simplified following the 1957 declaration of the republic in 1963, but the escutcheon went largely unchanged (though the motto was rearranged—“Order” was shifted to the front—and the scales and lion reversed). The Tanit symbol was stricken from the ship’s sail at that time, however. The 1963 law described the vessel as just a “ship,” rather than an explicitly Carthaginian one, though its physical form went otherwise unchanged. See Law 63-20 “Relative aux Armoiries de la République” (30 May 1963), Journal officiel de la République tunisienne 107 no. 26 (24–31 May 1963): 753. A call for a new coat of arms was launched in 2014 with the promulgation of the post-revolution constitution and revised motto (“Liberty, Dignity, Justice, Order”), but nothing has yet come of the appeal. 212 Mohamed Inoubli, Catalogue Inoubli (Tunis: Tuniphil, 2012), 42. 386 In an immensely symbolic act, Bourguiba left most older beylical palaces aside and chose to build a new presidential residence on the Sainte-Monique hill adjacent to the ruins of the Roman-era Antonine Baths, thereby (re)establishing the symbolic capital and seat of power in Carthage.213 In the building designed for Bourguiba by Cacoub can be seen reflections of Roman architecture—in plan and in some of its vaulting and thermal fenestration—but the décor is predominantly Arabesque in appearance (Figure 5.52).214 Still, Bourguiba made clear his intention during a speech in Rome when he told local listeners that their and his ancestors had fought at sea, and by installing the Presidency in Carthage he was “assuming our [viz. Tunisia’s] historic heritage.”215 Among Tunisians the identification of Carthage with Dido, Hannibal and his elephants and the city’s great empire was strong, and in his new palace he assumed for himself a privileged position as the successor of past heroes.216 Within the palace’s Council of Ministers chamber, it is said that Bourguiba installed five pedestals. On the first four were placed busts of Hannibal, Jugurtha, Ibn Khaldoun and St. Augustine. Reflecting his personal confidence and respect for Tunisia’s history, the final pedestal stood empty, awaiting a bust of Bourguiba himself.217 So strong was his adoration of Hannibal in particular that in 1968 he took an unofficial trip to Istanbul in search of Hannibal’s final resting place. Turkish officials, caught off-guard, escorted Bourguiba to the site traditionally believed to be Hannibal’s burial place. There, in the desert near the Hellespont, Bourguiba allegedly wept over the forgotten mound for nearly an hour, before collecting a bit of sand to take back to Tunis with him. His suggestion that he might 213 Paul Sebag, Tunis: Histoire d’une ville (Paris: l’Harmattan, 1998), 643; Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 477–78; Perelli and Sistu, “Jasmines,” 71; Saidi, “When the Past Poses,” 111–12. 214 See Cacoub, Architecture de soleil, 28–30. The main building was done in 1962 but extended in 1965 and 1970 by Cacoub (132–33). Despite the apparent influences, in his short writing on the building he mentions Andalusian, traditional Tunisian, and French (in the furnishings and formal gardens) references alone (28–30). 215 Bourguiba quoted in Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 478. 216 Saidi, “When the Past Poses,” 111–12. 217 Tahar Belkhodja, Les trois décennies Bourguiba, (Paris: Arcantères/Publisud, 1998), 29. 387 repatriate Hannibal’s remains immediately on his personal airplane—to properly memorialize him in his homeland—proved to be too much. Turkish officials assuaged his disappointment with a promise to build a proper mausoleum in commemoration of the heroic opponent of Rome and the fraternity between Tunisia and Turkey on site.218 This story conveys well Bourguiba’s idolization of Hannibal and represents perhaps the origin of repeatedly revived plans—so far unachieved—to monumentally honor him in his home country. Here, perhaps, was laid the foundation for the “land of Hannibal” image that would come to full fruition under Ben Ali during the 1990s. When Ben Ali ascended to the Presidency by means of palace coup in 1987, he continued Bourguiba’s veneration of Tunisia’s Punic or Carthaginian past in opposition to the Roman history so admired by French colonialists, but he substantially advanced the process by more overtly deploying a resurrected and recast Hannibal. Tunisia was to represent a crossroads in the Mediterranean and a synthesis of its historic cultures. Hannibal was to be its figurehead, or mascot. Sadok Chaabane, political advisor, RCD leader and Minister of Justice under Ben Ali, as well as president of a Hannibal Club, articulated the essence of the regime’s historicist perspective. Tunisia’s mission today concurs with Tunisia’s project in Hannibal’s time…. It is an undertaking that will make the Mediterranean play its former part, one in which Tunisia is an active participant, not with warfare and conflict but with free competition, not with an exploitative and hegemonic mentality but with the spirit of fair partnership for mutual development[,] he said in 1997.219 Hannibal was restored to Tunisian political discourse and the nation’s “thought structure…to build…[its] future and define its cultural mission…mapping out…horizons 218 Ibid., 29–30. No such monument came to fruition. Belkhodja was in charge of Bourguiba’s personal security team at the time and accompanied him on the trip. 219 Sadok Chaabane, Hannibal Redux: The Revival of Modern Tunisia (Le retour d’Hannibal), trans. Mounir Khelifa (Tunis: Maison Arabe du Livre, 2004), 78–79. See also Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 230–31; Abbassi, “De la colonie,” 397. 388 that befit the grandeur of his triumphs, more than two thousand years ago,” Chaabane continued.220 Ben Ali, not unlike Bourguiba before him, thus projected an image of cosmopolitan sophistication. Among Tunisians he aimed, according to classicist Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, to inspire what she calls “heritage citizens’” through active excavation, preservation and management of archaeological sites, aiming to shape “individuals into tolerant citizens of the world” for what were ultimately economic and political purposes.221 Indeed, this process was part of a larger one designed by the Ben Ali regime to foster national pride and patriotism among the Tunisian people.222 Hannibal was rendered a goodwill ambassador of sorts.223 Carthage itself, as a UNESCO listed site since 1979,224 became a symbol of tolerance,225 and its management for children and adults was designed to integrate Tunisia, and Tunisians, into the 220 Chaabane, Hannibal Redux, 78. 221 Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, “Roman Archaeology and the Making of Heritage Citizens in Tunisia,” in Making Roman Places: Past and Present, eds. Darian Marie Totten and Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2012), 159. The discourse of state-sponsored reform and Tunisianité functioned as a means of control. This form of “civic patriotism” and “communitarian nationalism” gave form to an otherwise ambiguous idea, and in this case made a case for Tunisian identity in the midst of globalization and therefore has a certain populist connotation and appeal. See Béatrice Hibou, The Force of Obedience: The Political Economy of Repression in Tunisia, trans. Andrew Brown (Malden, MA: Polity, 2011), 228–32. See also Larbi Sadiki, “The Search for Citizenship in Bin Ali’s Tunisia: Democracy Versus Unity,” Political Studies 50 (2002): 497–513. 222 Saidi, “When the Past Poses,” 103. 223 This idea is not totally without historic basis, as the Roman author Livy noted Hannibal’s strategic transculturalism and ability to motivate and unite people and mercenaries of different origins. See Phillip C. Naylor, North Africa: A History from Antiquity to the Present (Austin, TX: University of Texas, 2009), 39. 224 Carthage was listed in 1979 under criteria II (“to exhibit an important interchange of human values, over a span of time or within a cultural area of the world, on developments in architecture or technology, monumental arts, town-planning or landscape design”), III (“to bear a unique or at least exceptional testimony to a cultural tradition or to a civilization which is living or which has disappeared”), VI (“to be directly or tangibly associated with events or living traditions, with ideas, or with beliefs, with artistic and literary works of outstanding universal significance”). See “The Criteria for Selection,” UNESCO World Heritage Convention, accessed 18 March 2017, http://whc.unesco.org/en/criteria/. 225 This point is illustrated clearly by the drafting of the “Carthage Charter on Tolerance in the Mediterranean” in 1995. This document, the product of a conference held in Carthage that year, “call[s] on intellectuals, politicians and communications authorities to do their best to contribute to the promotion of education for tolerance and to the consolidation of the values of freedom and respect for human rights, by propagating a culture of human fellowship.” UNESCO, “Carthage Charter of Tolerance in the Mediterranean,” Report 146EX/INF.6 (Paris: UNESCO, 22 May 1995), 4. http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0010/001004/100440Eo.pdf. The document’s support for democracy and freedom is of course somewhat ironic in light of the Ben Ali’s “façade democracy” at the time. See also Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 185. 389 globalizing world of heritage tourism.226 Hannibal’s revival was thus ultimately a part of the government’s larger attempt to construct a national identity that would help stem any potential Islam-based challenge by inculcating a tolerant, pluralistic (and docile) society. 227 The establishment of the “Euromed” region through the 1995 Barcelona declaration reflected this trend on a larger scale. Linking fifteen European Union member states with a dozen invited regional neighbors (including Tunisia, Morocco, Algeria, Egypt, Cyprus, Israel, Turkey and others), it pursued a general objective of turning the Mediterranean basin into an area of dialogue, exchange and cooperation guaranteeing peace, stability and prosperity [that] requires a strengthening of democracy and respect for human rights, sustainable and balanced economic and social development, measures to combat poverty and promotion of greater understanding between cultures, which are all essential aspects of partnership[.]228 Culture, heritage and tourism were significant components of these partnerships and dialogues.229 Ben Ali was an enthusiastic participant—Tunisia was the first adopter from the Maghreb—and saw the agreement as European endorsement of his regime’s economic and security policies.230 226 Lafrenz Samuels, “Roman Archaeology,” 165. Indeed, classification as a UNESCO World Heritage site recognizes (and bestows) global significance and “universal value,” accolades generally assumed to bring increased recognition, and tourist numbers. See Dallen J. Timothy, “Contemporary Cultural Heritage and Tourism: Development Issues and Emerging Trends,” Public Archaeology 13 nos. 1–3 (2014): 37–39. Problems from increased management and visitation have been acknowledged. See Marco D’Eramo, “Unescocide,” New Left Review 88 (July/August 2014): 47–53. 227 David Bond, “Tunis Between Maps and Memory,” in Minoranze, pluralismo, stato nell'Africa mediterranea e nel Sahel, ed. Federico Cresti (Ariccia: Aracne, 2015), 118–20. See also Sadiki, “Search for Citizenship.” Such policies also produced financial benefits enjoyed by the family of Ben Ali. Civil war in Algeria during the 1990s almost certainly influenced Ben Ali’s concern for limiting Islamicist influences in Tunisia. 228 European Union, “Barcelona Declaration,” European Mediterranean Conference, 28 November 1995, accessed 14 March 2017, http://www.eeas.europa.eu/archives/docs/euromed/docs/bd_en.pdf. 229 Bond, “Tunis Between Maps,” 119–20. See also Perkins, History (2004), 197–98; Alexander, Tunisia (2010), 93–96. 230 Ibid., 95. The plan, operational after 1998, never quite lived up to expectations due to several political and economic issues. Subsequent EU-Tunisia free trade negotiations have continued as recently as 2016, however. 390 The domestic presentation of antiquities through news media and popular literature effectively captured the heroic status afforded to him by the regime. Officially produced tourism advertisements aired on television more directly featured scenes of Tunisian ruins and interspersed them with images of contemporary monuments including the Carthage palace and downtown seat of the Prime Minister, thereby further strategically fusing past and present.231 Print media also elevated Hannibal. One article, for example, likened him to Napoleon for France, Garibaldi for Italy, and Ramses for Egypt, rather hyperbolically characterizing him as a figure “with global influence in the most rigorous sense of the term.”232 Laudatory popular biographies further implicate scholars and authors in his promotion among adults. Abdelaziz Belkhodja’s Hannibal Barca: l'histoire véritable (2011), in which Hannibal and his epic fight against Rome are celebrated, is typical of this type.233 According to its author, the hero and his accomplishments ought to be told because the world has changed little; diversity is undervalued and, in the face of imperialist oppression that descends from ancient Rome “liberty [today] is non-negotiable.” 234 Dido, or Elyssa, Carthage’s mythological founder, was also lauded, particularly as a representation of Tunisian women, the regionally progressive status of whom has been a point of pride for the government since independence.235 Children were also subject to Ben Ali-era infatuation with Hannibal. One piece, which appears to be textbook for early 231 Saidi, “When the Past Poses,” 111. 232 Tahar Ayachi, “Le Club Hannibal dépoussière l’histoire,” La Presse de Tunisie, 17 October 2000, 13. 233 Abdelaziz Belkhodja, Hannibal Barca: l'histoire véritable (Tunis: Apollonia, 2011). In another book, Le retour de l’éléphant (2003) he imagines a future Tunisia (in the year 2103) that has renamed itself the Republic of Carthage and assumed preeminence among world powers. Heritage features prominently in the new Republic, and cultural institutions and sites draw visitors from all over the West. See Saidi, “When the Past Poses,” 114. 234 Belkhodja, Hannibal, 13. 235 See, for example, the Didon d’or (“Golden Dido”) award given to successful women in Tunisia during the Ben Ali regime. Established in 1998 by Mongi Loukil (successful businessman, tourism professional, and “friend of the arts”), the prize included a plaque depicting an abstract female mask by sculptor Néjib Brahim. It was said to represent the “female founder of civilization” and all Tunisian women. See Anon., “Le Didon d’or 2000 décerné à la Chambre nationale des femmes chefs d’enterprise,” La Presse de Tunisie, 5 October 2000, 11. 391 elementary school use called Tunisia: The Great Journey,236 presents a pluralistic panorama of Tunisia’s history in propagandistic cartoon form. Guided by a female allegorical figure representing the nation who arguably appears neither Arab nor European—perhaps Berber— two children are escorted through a dreamscape populated by historic characters, including Berbers, Dido, Hannibal (“the greatest of world leaders in his time”),237 Romans, Vandals or Byzantines, and then Arabs, Crusaders, Ottomans and French (Figure 5.53).238 While the socio- cultural and political achievements of the country under the leadership of Muslim powers are presented as most significant, Hannibal is clearly idolized (alongside Ben Ali, of course).239 Hannibal’s rebirth was not just for internal audiences, however. Leslie Plommer noted in 1997 that the historical figure, “one of antiquity’s boldest tacticians,” had been “dusted off and deployed in a new battle—to win the favor of tourists.”240 Political scientist Waleed Hazbun has described Hannibal’s reformed function as a “distinctive, territorially rooted identification for the nation’s external image” presented in what amounted to a strategic “dovetailing of tourism development and image making with national identity formation and mythmaking.”241 Cultural 236 Anon., Tunisia: The Great Journey (N.p.: n.p., n.d.). (No other publication information is available, save for “ISBN 9973-17-881-5” printed inside the cover. This ISBN does not appear to be legitimate, however. Based on the images included, it appears that the book was published at some point in time during the late 1990s though 2001.) It is not clear if this book was an officially-sanctioned textbook intended for use in schools, or just a volume produced for private consumption. Many thanks to Dr. Laryssa Chomiak at CEMAT for sharing her copy. Dr. Chomiak confirms that the book was used by at least one known instructor, but that others were unfamiliar with it. 237 Ibid., 27. Many thanks to Feras Hammami for his help with translating the book’s original Arabic text. 238 An allegorical representation of Tunisia (who appears unveiled, but wears a traditional red chechia hat, green vest—the traditional color of Islam—and a purple—the color of Ben Ali’s party and allegedly his personal favorite—skirt) describes contemporary Tunisia as a “democratic country similar to Carthage…[that] lives in safety and peace [and] carries a message of love and tolerance to the countries of the world” (28). Impressed, Hannibal bids the children convey his greetings, pride, and satisfaction with the knowledge that today’s Tunisia is strong and enjoys successful leadership to Ben Ali upon their return (29). The Romans conquered and occupied, despite Hannibal’s strength (30). 239 On the use of propaganda in school textbooks during the colonial and postcolonial periods, see Abbassi, “De la colonie”; Abbassi, Entre Bourguiba, 127–51. 240 Leslie Plommer, “Hannibal Revived as Tunisia’s New Mascot,” The Guardian, 11 April 1997, 10. Plommer attributes his having been neglected in Tunisian historiography to “Islamic political correctness” that marginalized pre-Arab-conquest epochs, as well, perhaps, as a disinterest in “lionising a loser.” Ibid. 241 Hazbun, Beaches, Ruins, Resorts, 71. See also Saidi, “When the Past Poses.” On Cyprus, see 392 Hannibal Clubs charged with resuscitating the figure’s celebrity and representing an open, tolerant, welcome Tunisia were established in the USA and Japan during the late 1990s, there extending the regime’s Janus-like mission around the globe.242 He was also featured on a postage stamp designed by the prominent Tunisian painter—and prolific designer of Tunisian postage stamps, banknotes and coinage—Hatem El Mekki in 1995, further mobilizing his image and its attendant ideology (see Figure 3.68).243 Ben Ali, whose background was in the Tunisian military, symbolically presented himself alongside, or on par with, Hannibal in various rhetorical and artistic ways. Indeed, the regime exalted Hannibal more than Carthaginian culture, although the alleged sacrificing of children by Carthaginians has remained a controversial subject for many within the realms of scholarship, politics and tourism.244 To represent himself and his rule, he installed a thirty-seven-meter clock Deirdre Stritch, “Archaeological Tourism: A Signpost to National Identity,” in Images, Representations, and Heritage: Moving Beyond Modern Approaches to Archaeology, ed. Ian Russell (New York: Springer, 2006), 43–60. 242 Ayachi, “Le Club Hannibal,” 13. Clubs in France, Italy, and Spain were said in 2000 to be forthcoming in ibid. The place of Hannibal Clubs since the revolution is not entirely clear. The site and its purported capacity for pluralistic tolerance appear to have survived, however. In 2016 reports circulated on the establishment of the Fondation Alliance Carthage in Carthage. Proposed by a group called “T3” (Tunisie musulmane, juive et chrétienne) based in France under the direction of Héla Mahdi, the site is to be an inter-communal cultural center from which a “dialogue of civilizations should radiate.” The 3,000 square meter complex would include a theatre, handicrafts boutiques, and a restaurant, all of which would open to tourists. Hatem Bourial, “Fondation Alliance Carthage: Un centre de dialogue des civilisations en Tunisie,” Webdo, 26 August 2016, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.webdo.tn/2016/08/26/fondation- alliance-carthage-centre-de-dialogue-civilisations-tunisie/. This story included an architectural rendering of a somewhat Gehry-esque structure, without explanation, attributed simply to FCA (presumably Fondation Alliance Carthage). 243 The iconic bust depicted was excavated in Capua, Italy, is today part of the Quirinal Palace’s collection in Rome. The bust has become the standard model for hypothetical portraits of Hannibal and was used for the five DT banknotes as well. Representations of the stamp by Hatem El Mekki have appeared in newspaper articles referencing Hannibal and in mosaic reproduction outside the Carthage post office. See Inoubli, Catalogue, 53. 244 The site in question here is the iconic “Tophet of Salammbô” cemetery, a sanctuary dedicated to Tanit and Baal Hammon. The practice of infanticide had been described by Flaubert in his writings on sacrifices to Moloch and represented in the performance at the Carthage theatre in 1906. This scene was also a favorite when featured in Giovanni Pastrone’s celebrated 1914 film Cabiria. On the film and the pastiche of its sets, see Annette Dorgerloh, “Competing Ancient Worlds in Early Historical Film: The Example of Cabiria (1914), in The Ancient World in Silent Cinema, eds. Pantelis Michelakis and Maria Wyke (New York: Cambridge University, 2013), 229–46. During the early 2000s the Tunisian government sought to 393 tower, with a musical fountain at its base, during a comprehensive renovation of the entire Avenue Bourguiba in 2001. Capped in gold, the structure’s dark bronze skin was laser cut with a traditional mashrabiya (latticework) pattern, the ornate filigree rendered particularly visible when illuminated from within after dark.245 The President’s office published little information regarding its design or intended symbolism, and major architectural publications offer no account for its apparently Egyptian obelisk-like profile. Formal similarity with Tunisia’s Punic-Libyan mausoleum at ancient Dougga may also be observed and would strengthen allusions to Carthage (see Figures 3.48 and 3.49).246 Ben Ali had proposed memorializing Hannibal’s achievements through built environment interventions a several points. In 2001, for example, three million USD were allegedly set aside for construction a monument in Carthage (details of which have been difficult to locate),247 and the Punic port’s round island has been cited as potential home to just such an installation several times. Indeed, Bourguiba’s desire to see the remains of Hannibal repatriated from Turkey, conceived on his 1968 trip, has has not been forgotten. In 1997 it was reported that the officially sanctioned Hannibal Club’s quest to see Hannibal’s bones reinterred in Carthage were downplay the longstanding interpretation of the site, elevating Carthaginian culture and denigrating Flaubert (and ancient writers). See Andrew Higgins, “Les sacrifices des enfants à Carthage: mythe ou réalité?” Jeune Afrique, 27 June 2005, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.jeuneafrique.com/66869/archives-thematique/les-sacrifices-d-enfants-carthage-mythe-ou-r- alit/. See also Clémentine Gutron, “La mémoire de Carthage en chantier: les fouilles du tophet Salammbô et la question des sacrifices d’enfants,” L’Année du Maghreb 4 (2008): 45–65; Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 209–14. A succinct recap of recent controversies and the most recent research on the subject can be read in Maev Kennedy, “Carthaginians Sacrificed Own Children, Archaeologists Say,” The Guardian, 21 January 2014, accessed 2 March 2017, https://www.theguardian.com/science/2014/jan/21/carthaginians-sacrificed-own-children-study. For a survey of excavation activity on the site, see Hélène Benichou-Safar “Les fouilles du tophet de Salammbô à Carthage (première partie),” Antiquités africaines, 31 (1995): 81–199; Henry Hurst, The Sanctuary of Tanit at Carthage in the Roman Period: A Re-interpretation (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1999). 245 Anon., “Aménagement de la Place du 7 novembre de Tunis,” Architecture méditerranéenne: La Tunisie modèrne (2007): 98–99. 246 Daniel E. Coslett, “(Re)branding a (Post)colonial Streetscape: Tunis’s Avenue Bourguiba & the Road Ahead,” International Journal of Islamic Architecture 6 no. 1 (2017): 59–96. 247 Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 484. 394 halted when it was decided that their current location was ultimately unknown. A “symbolic urn of earth” from the vicinity was later deemed an acceptable substitute, but as of May 2013 has not yet been successfully acquired.248 Though actual plans for such a “Hannibal Park” have been particularly elusive, it is said that Ben Ali supported the plan, and that initial work was done on site to prepare for construction of the fully designed monument. The facility would include a burial mound on the circular port’s island, the entirety of which would otherwise be reconstructed to its Punic-era appearance rather than its subsequent Roman-era form (Figure 5.54). A bridge would provide access to the central monument, the perimeter of which would make use of “luminous crystal columns.” 249 The radiant facility would include a gallery of images depicting Hannibal’s accomplishments and the symbolic urn. The park, in this form, was conceived by Mongi Geddès of the Bardo Museum’s Hannibal Club affiliate.250 Noteworthy is the fact that he has been described as “an hotelier, a tour operator, a lover of art and ancient history” and is not an archaeologist or professional scholar. 251 The lucrative touristic potential of such an installation is thus likely not undervalued by such a figure. 5.4 Carthage, UNESCO and the “Save Carthage” campaign Concerns for the preservation of Carthage, on a scale greater than that of partially excavated isolated monuments, had been voiced early on by Dr. Carton. In 1919—the year Carthage was elevated to municipality status—he offered a view of the “modern” city with its hills crowned by public edifices and sumptuous hotels, among which, in a setting of greenery, the silhouette of the melancholy ruins rises; the lonely strollers wander, to there dream of its tragic past, in the groves and along its paths marked with marbles; the 248 Plommer, “Hannibal Revived,” 10. See also Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 229. 249 Abdelhamid Ferchichi, “Rapatriement du ‘fils de Carthage,’ Hannibal: Frustration de Club Hannibal,” Espace Manager, 16 May 2013, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.espacemanager.com/rapatriement- du-fils-de-carthage-hannibal-frustration-du-club-hannibal.html. 250 When asked how he came up with the idea, he mentions encountering the humble tomb of Hannibal in Turkey when visiting years ago. He makes no mention of Bourguiba’s earlier visit. Ibid. 251 Ibid. 395 elegant crowd packs the station, the ancient theater, the circular quays of the old military port, which now becomes a port of pleasure.252 Carthage could thus be a living, thriving city deeply enriched by the integration of its archaeological assets and modern amenities. By the time he said this, Carthage’s land had been developed to the point that excavating the entirety of the ancient capital’s footprint was quickly becoming physically and financially impractical.253 Though the Church’s many buildings stood largely isolated on large Church-owned plots, Tunis’ wealthier European residents had begun populating the otherwise agricultural district (Figure 5.55). The TGM tramline, some stations of which were named for Salammbô, Hamilcar and St. Monica following its relocation towards the coast in 1907, increasingly facilitated their settlement.254 Streets crisscrossing the ruin-rich territory were eventually given names including Hannibal, Hamilcar, Plutarch, Strabo, Virgil and Septimius Severus, and “modern” style villas were raised with increasing rapidity. Bertrand’s stated preference for the néoromain (Neo-Roman) style for these villas went largely unheeded.255 Though smaller parcels of land had been classified as protected landmarks by state action—where not derailed by conflict with the Church, a considerable landowner in the area— large scale protection of Carthage would come in 1920. Indeed, the promulgation of the Decree 252 Carton, Carthage et le tourisme, 43–44. See also Carton, La Tunisie en l’an 2000, 43–73. 253 The Church purchased large parcels of land, but the Antiquities Service was not able to, thus much of the property was either kept by the Church or sold to others. See Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 473–74. 254 Development was occurring for the most part near the Roman amphitheater (site of the first TGM station) and then, with the relocation of the TGM line on its way to Sidi Bou Saïd in 1907, near the ancient Punic ports. Sebag, Tunis, 360–61 and 452–53. 255 Bertrand warned that the proliferation of new villas in banal pastiches of “Italian” or seventeenth- and eighteenth-century French styles, as well as those in the “modern” style, risked turning Carthage into a banal suburb like those of Marseille or Nice. The “absurd” Arabisant appears to have vexed him quite a bit. Louis Bertrand, Les villes d’or (Paris: Arthème Fayard, 1921), 105. Why not build in the style of ancient Roman villas, or better yet, reconstruct them, Bertrand asked. The Roman villa style was far more amenable to climatic and modern needs than was the so-called Moorish, he asserted (105–06). See also Hédi Dridi and Antonella Mezzolani Andreose, “’Ranimer les ruines:’ l’archéologie dans l’Afrique latine de Louis Bertrand,” Les nouvelles de l'archéologie, 128 (2012): 10–16. 396 of 8 January 1920 declared much of the area a zone protectrice (protected zone). This, however, did not halt modern construction, but only obliged landowners to engage the Antiquities Service for a pre-construction survey. Hesitant to permit excavations on their private property for fear of eventual expropriation, many owners simply ignored the requirement.256 Some disparate lots, including the Tophet, the ports and several ancient church sites, were designated with a broad swath of land from the coastal Antonine Baths up to the amphitheatre as an “archaeological park,” using a term that had little legal meaning at the time but was nonetheless then fairly progressive.257 Major growth in Carthage continued during the 1950s and 1960s—the government called it an “urbanistic explosion without precedent”258—greatly challenging the preservation of historic sites and jeopardizing the potential for their eventual exploration (Figure 5.56). From 1956 to 1975 the population of Tunis’ northern suburbs doubled, and Carthage’s built area grew commensurately.259 An additional fourteen hectares of Carthage were developed from 1960– 1972, and Bourguiba’s new Presidential Palace compound alone covered sixteen hectares of archaeologically rich terrain along the coast.260 Expanding highways and airport facilities have further endangered unexcavated sites. Growing concerns regarding the state of affairs prompted the Tunisian government to partner with UNESCO during the 1970s and 1980s in an unprecedented effort to marshal resources towards the salvaging of whatever might be left to excavate.261 Towards these ends, a primary consideration for the government was Carthage’s under-exploited and abundantly jeopardized touristic potential. 256 Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 475. 257 Ibid., 475–76. 258 Mohamed Fendri, “Monuments menacés,” in Ministère des affaires culturelles et de l’information (République tunisienne), Pour sauver Carthage, 23. 259 Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 478 based on Sebag, Tunis, 644. 260 Sebag, Tunis, 646; Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 478–79. 261 Tunisia ratified the 1972 Convention concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage, which established the UNESCO World Heritage List, in 1975. The country has since that time 397 By encouraging the economic growth of modern Carthage through tourism, one can hope to succeed in convincing its inhabitants that they are the inheritors of a heritage that is in their interest to see fructify by an appropriate promotion[,] said the National Institute of Archaeology and Art’s Director of Historic Monuments division, Mohamed Fendri. Such a motivation was “easily admitted by all.”262 In order to best know how to maximally leverage archaeological assets for economic ends, it was the government’s position that all known sites must be systematically and fully excavated, then subject to thorough study by experts (Figure 5.57). The final stage of UNESCO’s cultural heritage promotion-based Projet Tunis-Carthage, dating to 1969, included a major excavation program intended to foreground the site’s significance and its seemingly inexorable decline.263 The so-called “Save Carthage” campaign (Campagne international de sauvegarde de Carthage), lead by Abdelmajid Ennabli of the Tunisian Antiquities Service, eventually involved six-hundred individuals (archaeologists, conservators, historians, architects, et al.) on eighteen teams from twelve countries including Tunisia, the United States and United Kingdom, Canada, France, Poland, Italy, Bulgaria and Denmark.264 While each team worked independently in assigned sectors, there were considerable cooperation and sharing of information among them that made the operation a model of international collaboration (Figure 5.58). Salvage received twenty-six financial and technical assistance packages (totaling nearly $721,000) and currently has seven sites on the prestigious register. UNESCO, “Tunisia: International Assistance,” http://whc.unesco.org/en/statesparties/tn/assistance/. The sum includes figures from 1979–2010 that have not been recalibrated to match in relative value. Listed cultural sites include the Amphitheatre at El Djem, the Archaeological Site of Carthage, the site of ancient Dougga, Kairouan, the medinas of Sousse and Tunis, and the Punic site of Kerkuane. The Ichkeul National Park is the country’s sole listed natural site. See UNESCO, “Tunisia,” accessed 18 April 2017, http://whc.unesco.org/en/statesparties/tn/. 262 Ministère des affaires culturelles et de l’information (République tunisienne), Pour sauver Carthage, 24. 263 The Tunis-Carthage Project was largely unsuccessful in its work, in part because of the differing methods embraced by those responsible for the Tunis medina component and the (arguable favored) Carthage component. Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 479. 264 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 62 says excavators come from a dozen countries, but other sources cite different numbers. Stephen L. Dyson, In Pursuit of Ancient Pasts: A History of Classical Archaeology in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (New Haven, CT: Yale University, 2006), 247, gives only the listed nine countries. 398 excavations conducted from 1972 through 1986 revealed a great deal about the city’s Punic history, but its Roman phase dominated studies.265 Early Christian material was also uncovered, substantially improving knowledge of that period.266 Ultimately, the accomplishments of the campaign were impressive.267 Indeed, it was said to have “revolutionized our knowledge of one of one of the leading cities of the ancient Mediterranean and provided increasingly effective protection against development” in the area.268 On the ground, the UNESCO program resulted in the excavation and preservation of a handful of dislocated sites, isolated within the (sub)urban fabric of the modern city. Ultimately, some sites remain more visible, while others are less visible and neglected (Figure 5.59). In other places, vestiges sit in median strips and small park spaces, there serving as a form of historical urban decoration (Figure 5.60). Larger projects designed to better protect and unify the sites within a fully realized archeological park, however, have failed to materialize. The Tunisian government has proposed several plans for the preservation of Carthage and the development of a massive archaeological park there. The mid-1970s saw the promulgation of several legal acts intended to delineate a new parc national Carthage-Sidi Bou Saïd, which would have covered a total of 650 hectares within four contiguous municipalities. Some land was reserved for the park in 1977, but planning proceeded slowly. Conceptual master plans were developed the following year for each of the four involved districts. In 1979, the same year that Carthage was added to the prestigious UNESCO World Heritage List,269 the government published a development project (projet d’aménagement) for the park. Using 265 Ibid., 246–48. 266 See Liliane Ennabli, “Results of the International Save Carthage Campaign: The Christian Monuments,” World Archaeology 18 no. 3 (1987): 291–311. 267 Many reports and articles on finds have been published over the years. For a selection of chapters on various aspects of the excavations, see Ennabli, ed., Pour sauver Carthage. 268 See Mattingly and Hitchner, “Roman Africa,” 180. For a very brief summary of the campaign’s findings, see ibid., 180–83. 269 In 1979 Carthage was added to the UNESCO list along with the Tunis medina and the Roman amphitheater at El Djem. 399 funding from the Tunisian government and the UN’s Development Program, the project envisioned a park that facilitated “archaeological, natural, touristic and recreational” functions, rather than one that was totally “museumified” or completely given over to unbridled tourism.270 Political and commercial concerns stymied planning, but in 1985 a decree set aside all unbuilt land (650 hectares) as a zone non-aedificandi due to their archaeological and aesthetic significance (Figure 5.61). 271 An impressive accomplishment, the classification did not adequately preserve open space, however, as population growth and land speculation continued to exert pressure and officials failed to enforce rules. While the value of land near the Presidential Palace doubled from 1985–1993, Carthage’s population also doubled and no plan to relocate residents from non-aedificandi properties was created. Economic liberalization and tourism development were major concerns of the Ben Ali government in the years after Bourguiba’s forced retirement, and Carthage factored largely in tourism planning. A series of meetings in 1991 chaired by Ben Ali—within the scope of the UNESCO “Save Carthage” campaign—concluded with calls for the immediate realization of the long-dormant parc national Carthage-Sidi Bou Saïd.272 Reinvigorated processes were set into motion, culminating with a 1996 edict defining the boundaries of the future park and the 1998 selection of urbanist Jellal Abdelkafi’s “Plan for the Protection and Promotion (mise en valeur) of the Carthage-Sidi Bou Saïd Site” (PPMV).273 PPVM implementation was anticipated to begin in 2001, and several ambitious components were debated, many of which proved controversial 270 Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 480. 271 Ibid., 481. Of the classified 650 hectares, 450 were within the municipality of Carthage. Impressively, this constituted the majority of space within the city, the footprint of which was just 640 hectares. Ibid. The text of the decree can be found in “Décret n’ 85-1246 du 7 octobre 1985,” Journal officiel de la République tunisienne 128 no. 73 (18 October 1985): 1413–14. 272 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 185. At this time the government also pledged to open archaeological parks at Dougga and Sbeitla. On Dougga in particular, see Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 137–166; Lafrenz Samuels, “Roman Archaeology,” 163–65. 273 Note that the plan is also referred to as the “Protection and Enhancement Plan” in some documents, including many authored by UNESCO. 400 and potentially expensive. The removal of all colonial-era architecture from the Byrsa summit and the touristic reanimation of the Punic ports were among the contentious options circulated. Once again a great memorial to Hannibal in Carthage was also discussed, apparently prompting the allocation of three million dollars in 2001. World Bank funding was also secured that year for the development of heritage sites across the country, including Carthage.274 Although Ben Ali has often been presented as a major instigator in the park’s planning, since his ouster in 2011 it has become clear that he had undermined the protection of antiquities by authorizing illegal construction and removing material from state museums to decorate the homes of his family and associates. The construction of the massive el Abidine Mosque (since the revolution known as the Malik ibn Anas Mosque) (2000–2003) by Ben Ali, within the zone non-aedificandi, represents well his imperfect dedication to the park’s mission (Figure 5.62). The mosque by Ayad Sriha—a reflection of his attempts to assuage domestic Islamicist resistance to his regime—did considerable damage to three hectares of unexcavated ground and with its expansive parking lot (said to be 1,000 spaces) imposes substantially on the site.275 On Ben Ali’s order a pathway was constructed to connect the mosque to the Presidential Palace, excavations for which were done hastily and involved haphazard reconstruction of portions of the roadway done without proper consultation with the INP (Figure 5.63).276 At the same time, the expropriation of the remaining 260 hectares of land (and relocation of 223 households) designated for the park was not pursued. Carthage was withdrawn from the World Bank development program in 2005, resulting in the suspension of Carthage Museum renovations 274 Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 484. 275 See Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 182–88; Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 482–83. On the mosque, which was funded in part by the Saudi royal family, see “La Mosquée el Abidine Carthage,” Architecture méditerranéenne (Marseille: Editions RK, 2007), 51–57. It is often said that Ben Ali wanted to see the mosque supersede the visual prominence of the ex-Cathedral from afar in an effort to reassert Islam’s dominance. Compellingly, the mosque appeared on the 2005 10 DT banknote beside Dido. 276 The path—described as “cheesy”—was rarely, if ever used. Chokri Touihri, interview with author, 6 December 2013 401 and further park planning. The major increase in mass tourism that would have resulted would have almost certainly upset remaining residents of the quiet enclave. Altekamp and Khechen thus conclude that the PPMV ultimately failed because of it “represented a major threat to the status quo of local residents and a considerable burden to the state’s budget.”277 Speculation by developers remains a major problem, as land values in this posh district have continued to rise. Altekamp and Khechen have reached a bleak—and perhaps misleading—conclusion in their analysis of the situation: “Carthage is totally consumed.”278 Indeed, it remains a suburban enclave, peppered with partially excavated sites amidst posh villas, and the symbolic heart of state authority, as the seat of the country’s president, in post- revolution Tunisia.279 The 2012 request by UNESCO for a revised PPMV by 2014 has yet to be fulfilled. The Tunisian government has yet to submit one as of July 2016, citing unresolved funding issues related to land classification.280 Although some activists have raised awareness to the perilous state of affairs, the future is far from clear.281 5.5 The Hôtel Saint-Louis et de Carthage and the Villa Didon Authorities in colonial-era Tunis were mindful of the need to accommodate visitors and certain projects, such as the municipal theatre, casino, café and winter garden on the Avenue Jules-Ferry, were intended to entice and entertain in the early years of the twentieth century.282 277 Altekamp and Khechen, “Third Carthage,” 485. 278 Ibid., 486. 279 Some activists have recently called attention to the deteriorating state of Carthage. See ibid., 487–89. 280 UNESCO, “Decision: 40 COM 7B.29” (2016), accessed 18 April 2017, http://whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/6694. 281 Clémentine Gutron, “(V)ont-ils vraiment sauver Carthage?” Qantara 79 (2011): 37–39; Frida Dahmani, “Tunisie—il faut sauver Carthage,” Jeune Afrique, 22 October 2015, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.jeuneafrique.com/mag/270959/societe/tunisie-il-faut-sauver-carthage/. 282 For the original call for proposals/concession terms, see Ville de Tunis, Concession d’un théâtre- casino et d’un café-restaurant (Paris: E. Compiègne, 1900) in ANT FPC/M5/0011/0802. Note that the Tunisia Palace Hotel, built behind the casino-theatre complex as a part of this project has been replaced by a shopping mall. The current hotel by that name, on the Avenue de France, is a renovated bank 402 Although several ambitious developers had proposed grand hotel projects during the 1890s,283 existing hotels were few and far from luxurious during the early 1900s. Commenting on the general state of tourism facilities in 1906, Sladen said noted that most Tunisian hotels are not large…. They are more like restaurants with a few bedrooms attached—excellent restaurants with French food at Italian prices…. Providentially there are not enough foreigners as yet to pay for large establishments.284 Visitors to Carthage had a few basic lodging options during the early decades of the Protectorate. They were comfortable and, most importantly, quite close to the ancient city’s preeminent sites and offered stunning views of the surrounding area. One of two on the Byrsa hill in the first years of the twentieth century, the Grand Hôtel St. Louis et de Carthage opened some time around 1897.285 Located on the southeastern edge of the hill just outside the museum complex, the building’s stacked arcades and general Neoclassical or Renaissance aesthetic stood out against the rugged acropolis (see Figures 2.1 and 5.64). From its open terrace and glazed hall below, one enjoyed a commanding panorama of Carthage’s growing suburban landscape, the Punic ports, the gulf and mountains (Figure 5.65). The rear of the hotel overlooked the St. Louis chapel and its artifact-filled garden. Both the vista and nearby antiquities were significant selling points, as an 1898 advertisement from La Tunisie française proudly noted. “In proximity to the museum and cathedral, built on the wall of the Roman citadel, at the center of principle ruins,” it said, boasting further that it offered “the building that took the old name about a decade ago. A description and images of the newly completed theatre are found in Anon., “Le Casino-théatre de Tunis,” Le Monde illustré 91 no. 2386 (20 December 1902): 588. See also Hueber and Piaton, Tunis, 97–99. 283 Stressing their modernity and European quality, the designers in two cases employed Neoclassical and Second Empire styles appropriate for Paris. See J.-B. Masserano, “Projet de grand hôtel,” n.d., text and front elevation, in CADN 1TU/171/643; N. and G. de Vésine and Co., “Plans du modern hôtel à Tunis,” text and plans, 1897, in CADN 1TU/171/643. 284 Sladen, Carthage and Tunis, vol. II, 350. 285 A brief advertisement/article introducing readers to the hotel appeared on Anon., “Carthage: Grand Hôtel Saint-Louis de Carthage,” La Dépêche tunisienne, 15 October 1897, 3. 403 most beautiful panorama of all its environs.”286 One could be no closer to the historic site—here on the Roman wall—or have no better view. The twenty-five-room hotel contained dining facilities with space for up to a hundred, and it featured a “clean kitchen” (cuisine soignée).287 Presumably the hotel was a popular place for not only nighttime lodging, but for luncheons during day trips from the city center. Well-known visitors included Bertrand, who stayed here in 1904 or so, briefly mentioning his visit in his Le jardin de la mort (1905).288 By 1929 the property was classified as “simple, but well-kept” in the Guide Michelin, which also cited its having electric lights, modern toilette facilities, one bathroom (with bath) and parking for two cars.289 The later history of the hotel remains unclear.290 Some time during the 1960s, however, it was replaced with a much larger facility that remains visually prominent from many points in Carthage (Figure 5.66). Postcards from the 1970s show the new building,291 whitewashed with an arcaded façade, overlooking lower Carthage and the Gulf of Tunis (Figure 5.67). Oriented at a forty-five degree angle, a secondary mass at its base was presumably the restaurant and took maximum advantage of spectacular views. Slender concrete arches arranged over the restaurant and simple decorative patterning above its windows provided visual interest to the 286 La Tunisie française, 27 August 1898, 3. The advertisement also informed readers that the hotel was recommended by the French and English Touring Clubs. Note that the distinction of being the first hotel in Carthage was contested by the nearby Grand Hôtel de Carthage, an advertisement for which (on the same page of the newspaper) made the identical claim. Similarly, both described themselves to be “French” hotels, although the proprietor of the St. Louis Hotel was named F. Martinoli and the competing Carthage Hotel (run by a Mr. Rampon) declared itself “the only French Hotel.” 287 Ibid. 288 Bertrand, Le jardin, 284. 289 Guide Michelin, 158. The guide says the hotel had only fifteen rooms at this point, perhaps indicating that they had been expanded since 1898 or several had been dedicated to other uses. The same entry indicates that in Carthage there then resided 800 “Europeans” and 1,200 “Indigènes.” The list of sites identified as worth seeing include the “St. Louis Hill” with its cathedral, museum, amphitheatre, Damous- el-Karita and ancient cistern ruins (all incorrectly said to be located atop the hill itself), and view of the Gulf of Tunis. 290 Attempts made to access archival material at the Municipal archives of both Tunis and Carthage (in 2013 and 2016) proved unsuccessful. It appears that files kept in the latter (a dossier from 1999) have gone missing in recent decades. All old ONTT records were lost in a flood in 1984 and no materials on the property appear in the ANT. 291 The hotel was said to be 3,000 sq. m. Anon., “Philippe Boisselier ou la passion du design: Villa Didon,” Maisons de Tunisie, February 2009, 17. 404 building’s rather plain box-like massing.292 Given its scale and dominant use of arches, however, the Modern structure appears to be compatible with the adjacent seminary/museum complex as a continuation of its distinctive facades.293 During the 1990s the hotel—renamed at some point the Hôtel Reine Didon (Queen Dido) and then the Villa Didon, most likely with its post-independence (re)construction—was renovated into a five-star facility. Its owner, the successful Tunisian “Palm Beach” firm of Mongi Loukil, hired the French architect and interior designer Philippe Boisselier to upgrade the aging facility. From 1997 through 2004 Boisselier was engaged in the hotel’s renovation, the scope of which included the decoration, reorganization and extension of spaces throughout the complex, including its lobby, guest rooms, “public” spaces and its restaurant.294 Boisselier described his aesthetic here as representative of contemporary “international design,” noting the structure’s setting adjacent to the Mediterranean and Byrsa’s archaeological site.295 One must be free to watch “solar and seasonal rhythms…” from here, he says.296 Boisellier describes the building as a “Noah’s ark abandoned on the hill,” “a jewel inserted in a jewel case,” a lyrical place where “one reads the elegant words of Flaubert’s Salammbô.”297 Further commenting on his inspiration and approach, he notes that “essentially, this place between archaeological history, the birth of the world and of Queen Dido, could do without decoration (décorum) and adopt total minimalism.”298 Thus in general, the building was simplified wherever possible and transparency prioritized. Photographs and models indicate that the basic form of the structure went 292 One may see in the complex’s massing something like a ship with a prow, a relevant reference here overlooking the Punic ports and Gulf of Tunis. 293 Nabil Ben Khelil, Maisons de Carthage (Tunis: Dar Ashraf, 1996), 188. 294 The restaurant originally opened as “Spoon” under the direction of the acclaimed French chef Alain Ducasse, who has since left the project. 295 Philippe Boisselier, “CV” (2012), 4, accessed 7 March 2017, http:// http://philippeboisselier.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/cv-2012-PHB.pdf. See also Oliver Schmitt, “Un balcon sur la Méditerranée,” Le Monde 2 no. 50 (29 January 2005): 8. 296 Anon., “Philippe Boisselier,” 18. 297 Ibid., 18 and 20. 298 Ibid., 18. 405 unchanged; its iconic arcade façade remains its signature architectural feature (Figure 5.68). A simple portico was added to the main entrance on back of the structure; its slender white columns give it a vaguely Neoclassical appearance that recalls something one might see in Greece or Italy. Like its predecessor, the Villa Didon’s marketing has exploited the site’s historic significance. For example, its original post-renovation logo featured the familiar triangular Tanit symbol (Figure 5.69).299 Its current website invokes Carthage’s “daily-lived mythology” in its presentation, broadcasting its location at the “heart of an archaeological park.”300 The site continues with a brief account of the hotel’s past rich in its sensational language: A mythical hotel, reborn to a new life…in a completely modern concept, it forgets not the murmur of the thousand-year-old stones. One says that in past times, at the beginning of the previous century, it was called Hotel Saint Louis, named for the neighboring cathedral. A small colonial-style hotel, it lived many lives…with much happiness, but was always the place where beats the heart of the city queen.301 Once the haunt of “poets, historians and aesthetes,” the revived Villa Didon respects “the grandeur of the environment,” “the echoes of history and the traces of the [Dido] legend,” and ultimately “the place’s spirit” through its timeless modern form.302 Having eschewed Moorish, “neo-colonial,” Mediterranean, or Neoclassical style options, Boisselier “immersed himself in ancient Carthage” and was inspired by the site’s history and light, ultimately choosing a simple, contemporary style (Figure 5.70).303 The hotel’s “Spa Didon,” however, does adopt a somewhat historicist architecture with its columns and vaulting, perhaps in keeping with the acknowledged 299 See ibid. Since then the Tanit symbol has been replaced with the hotel’s name in Arabic. 300 “L’Hôtel,” Villa Didon, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.villadidoncarthage.com/fr/cms_items/view/1/el. 301 Ibid. 302 Ibid. 303 Ibid. Photographs of interiors are available on Philippe Boisselier’s website. See Philippe Boisselier, “Hôtel Carthage,” accessed 2 March 2017, http://philippeboisselier.com/wordpress/architecture/carthag/. 406 legacy of bathing owed to ancient Romans (Figure 5.71).304 Landscaping with olive and orange trees, cypresses and palms were chosen to reflect the region’s typical flora—both in antiquity and today—but also to further render the hotel a natural extension of the archaeological park’s landscape, according to the website. Despite the attention afforded the proximity of the archaeological site and its significance, it is noteworthy that the hotel maintains its erstwhile programmatic rejection of the iconic historic site. Fenestration clearly privileges the gulf view and there is no convenient way to pass from the hotel to the museum/ruins. Both properties are walled off and arguably uninviting from the exterior (see Figure 5.31). Affiliations with contemporary bourgeois Carthage and ancient Carthage contribute to socio-economic exclusivity, rendering the Villa Didon a prestigious—and extremely expensive— place.305 Capitalizing on its proximity to archaeological materials, just as its predecessor did, the hotel caters to wealthy tourists and business clientele. Lording over the tranquil suburb and highly visible from positions below and from the coast, it represents the latest form of luxury hospitality in a city competing for global attention and capital. Tunisia’s pre-Arab past continues to play a vital role in such lucrative processes. 5.6 Carthage consumed: the Carthageland theme park (Hammamet) Tunisia’s pre-Arab past is not just for consumption by wealthy tourists and educated elites. Indeed, it has been rendered accessible to the county’s youngest citizens, not only 304 The hotel’s current website describes the spa’s pedigree, pointing out that the ancient Carthaginians were known for good bodily care, and that the Romans built great baths and gymnasia (and libraries), which conquering Arabs adopted. “Spa Didon,” Villa Didon, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.villadidoncarthage.com/fr/cms_photos/category/5/element:8/Spa_Didon. 305 The hotel has just ten suites, ranging at its 2004 re-opening in price from 480 euro (“junior mini suite”) to 1230 euro (two-room senior suite) per night, with an intermediate 930 euro option (single room senior suite). C-.L.P. “Villa Didon: Une terrasse sur Carthage,” Madame Figaro, September 2004, 109. Note that prices have since dropped considerably. According to the hotel’s website in February 2017, prices now range from 235–590 euro, though rooms can also be reserved for considerably less though discount websites. 407 through textbooks and literature, but also in spectacular leisure-based built environments. Long since a center for traditional “sun, surf and sand” tourism, coastal Hammamet’s relatively small walled city had become overcrowded with tourists emerging from nearby beachfront resorts in the 1990s.306 In an effort to provide a suitably attractive but thoroughly planned alternative, officials supported the establishment of the Yasmine Hammamet district, the centerpiece of which in 2004 became the Médina Mediterranea. Not unlike the world’s fair pavilions of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,307 it invites visitors to experience selected architecture, art and food from the greater Mediterranean region, in what has been self-styled “the world’s first museum city.”308 The walled complex presents itself as an amalgam of both built wonders and choice entertainments, a clean distillation of the Islamic world’s pre-industrial patrimony presented for easy consumption (Figure 5.72). More “traditional” urban elements, such as covered souks, restaurants and cafés, were paired with a religion museum (dedicated to Judaism, Christianity and Islam), themepark, casino, hotel and nightclub, making the Médina Mediterranea a space that while appearing to be historic, includes the amenities and extravagances expected by twenty-first-century global tourists.309 Tunisian architect Tarek Ben Miled, in what is arguably reminiscent of the paternalistic approach taken by the French architects who designed colonial-era “indigenous” quarters, characterizes his Médina as a potential “utopia” of traditional building materials and methods that contrasts the “misunderstood modernity” of imported techniques less suited to the region’s 306 About fifty miles southeast of Tunis, Hammamet is the primary tourist destination for visitors outside the capital seeking the beach, particularly those on package tours. 307 See Zeynep Çelik, Displaying the Orient: Architecture of Islam at Nineteenth-Century World’s Fairs (Berkeley, CA: University of California, 1992). 308 Médina Mediterranea, “Yasmine Hammamet Médina Mediterranea Plan,” brochure, n.d. (acquired by the author on site in 2009). 309 Costumed performers wielding traditional Tunisian musical instruments animate the space, while locals hawk their wares in a remarkably spotless marketplace that reminiscent of those found in Tunis or Cairo. Stripped of explicit political and religious references, the Médina’s architectural pastiche has thus been themed to facilitate the consumption of goods, services and commodified space itself. References to monuments in Tunis, Cairo, Sidi Bou Saïd, Isfahan, Seville, and elsewhere, are numerous. 408 “climatic and sociological environment.” 310 He stresses the financial practicality of his multifunctional design in pointing out that it was achieved for less than 600 DT (about 430 USD in 2009) per square meter while making no mention of the attached themepark or general touristic function of his design.311 Ben Miled hopes that his work “awakens in visitors a great feeling of nostalgia for a lifestyle that should better suit their biological rhythm, their cultural style [and] their aesthetic choices.”312 The architecture itself was central in the Médina’s presentation by the national press, which described the “new city” as an entity that “unites most dimensions of a traditional and modern city.”313 Reproductions of “stone, terracotta and other original materials,” crafted “with great detail” by eighteen carpentry crews and nine masonry companies, in addition to numerous local artists and craftsmen, were highlighted.314 For La Presse it was the creation of jobs and the revival of traditional construction techniques that mattered most in the development of a Médina that “celebrates [Tunisia’s]…long history…and rich heritage.”315 The site offers more than just handicrafts and Arabo-Islamic heritage, however. Carthage is present. Through the adjacent amusement park, themed as “Carthageland,” one finds antiquity. There the park hosts Hannibal’s elephants amidst a compelling mix of Greek, Phoenician and perhaps Aztec forms that reflects the general ambiguity associated with little- known Punic architectural styles (Figure 5.73). One attraction allows visitors to retrace the journey of Hannibal over the Alps,316 while others feature dinosaurs and devils (often clad 310 Tarek Ben Miled, “Médina Mediterranea, Yasmine Hammamet,” Architecture méditerranéenne (Marseille: Editions RK, 2007), 205. 311 Ibid. 312 Ibid. 313 H. Hanachi, “Savoire-faire au service d’une cité,” La Presse de Tunisie, n.d., accessed 19 March 2009, http://www.lapresse.tn/index.php?opt=51&categ=10&supplement=1769. 314 Ibid. 315 Ibid. 316 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 193. 409 somehow in the Tanit symbol). Elephants of all types are a consistent theme.317 Opened in 2005, Carthageland is a direct response to contemporary politicized historicism and to globalization, but at the same time exhibits some of colonialism’s most salient techniques, such as pastiche, commoditization and a penchant for the picturesque. Like the entire Médina, it is arguably auto-Orientalist in its fetishized exploitation of heritage and identity for commercial purposes. Heritage tourism here participates in the process of both de-territorialization and re- territorialization in its application global practices geared towards the fabrication of specificity. As AlSayyad reminds us, these conflicting agendas can both foster competition, but also be counterproductive to political stability by inspiring nationalism. 318 The overall effect here, however, is that Hannibal plays the role of approachable national hero, relevant throughout the Mediterranean and tolerant.319 The entire complex effectively satisfies today’s tourists’ quest for destinations that are “interesting but safe, exotic but convenient, tasty but digestively friendly, full of character but antiseptically clean.”320 Ultimately in this case, Carthageland is a key component to the Médina Mediterranea, complementing its otherwise Arabo-Islamic identity. In its multifaceted Tunisianité it reflects Ben Ali’s vision of the country—Arab, Islamic, ancient, tolerant, safe and fun. The theme park concept has proven successful and popular, as similar parks have opened in suburban Tunis and Sousse’s tourist-friendly Port el Kantaoui district.321 317 For images of the park as of late 2014, see Talhat Mahmood, “Carthageland Hammamet,” Tunisia Weekend, 12 October 2014, accessed 2 March 2017, http://tunisiaweekend.blogspot.com/p/blog- page_67.html. 318 Nezar AlSayyad, “Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism: Manufacturing Heritage, Consuming Tradition,” in Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage: Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism, Nezar AlSayyad, ed. (New York: Routledge, 2001), 16. [1–33] 319 Hazbun, Beaches, Ruins, Resorts, 67–69. 320 Robert Mugerauer, “Openings to Each Other in the Technological Age,” in AlSayyad, ed., Consuming Tradition, 98. 321 The more generically marine themed Carthageland park opened on the edge of Tunis in the upscale Berges du Lac district. For images see Talhat Mahmood, “Carthageland Park,” Tunisia Weekend, 11 October 2014, accessed 18 April 2017, http://tunisiaweekend.blogspot.com/p/blog-page_78.html. “Hannibal Park” is in Sousse. 410 5.7 The globalized Bardo revisited As competition for seasonal beach tourism has stiffened and become less lucrative in a changing global marketplace, Tunisian tourism officials have since the 1980s sought to diversify the country’s offerings through the augmentation of its heritage tourism options.322 Tunisia’s distant past clearly remains a major component of its erstwhile “sun, surf and sand”-centric portfolio,323 as is made clear by the fact that in 2005 73% of paying tourists visited Carthage, the Bardo Museum, El Djem’s Roman amphitheatre and museum, and the Islamic holy city of Kairouan, the country’s top four heritage centers.324 In addition to Tunisia’s UNESCO-listed world heritage sites,325 the potential for the Bardo was seen to be formidable in the 2000s. Visitor statistics for the Museum—long since the country’s number one tourist destination among heritage sites and museums—have been impressive; almost 570,000 visitors came in 2000, and over 656,000 came in 2005.326 The need for an upgrade to the crowded and immensely popular site had been known for a long time and was recognized by the World Bank in its substantial financial support of the project. The recent World Bank-backed 12.7 million USD expansion of the museum reflects the sustained importance of antiquities-driven touristic activities in recent years while also inducting Tunisia into current museology trends that 322 Ghali, “Tourism culturel,” 403. 323 Traditional beach tourism has remained the primary draw for tourists, however. Reflecting the considerable work to be done, in a 2001 survey conducted by the National Office of Tunisian Tourism (ONTT) revealed that 82.1% of visitors had come for the “beach and sun,” while just 5.2% reported “culture” as their reason. A further 3.6% cited “culture and natural beauty”, while 9.1 said just “natural beauty.” 2001 ONTT statistics cited in ibid., 400. Coastal resort towns still dominate in terms of hotel beds, far surpassing the greater Tunis area (401). 324 Ibid., 408. 325 Ibid., 404–05. 326 It took several years to rebound from the decrease stemming from the 9/11 terrorist attacks of 2001. ONTT statistics cited in ibid., 406. In that same time, Carthage hosted over 687,000 tourists (2000) and then over 820,000 (2005) (Ibid.). The Bardo was by far the most popular museum in 2005. The next most popular museum, in Sousse, attracted nearly 40,800 that year (407). In 2010, while the museum’s extension was under construction and the global economic downturn was still an issue, the Bardo welcomed just over 279,000. In 2011 the total dropped further to just over 79,000, indicating that the revolution (which occurred in January of that year) had severely affected tourism at the Bardo. Ministère du tourisme (République tunisienne), Le Tourisme tunisien en chiffres: 2012 (Tunis: 2012), 84. 411 celebrate grand projects and standout contemporary architecture.327 Planning for the Bardo Museum renovation had begun in the early 2000s and construction began in 2009. In 2001 the World Bank, as part of its broader US$17 million loan for cultural heritage management and tourism development in Tunisia,328 focused considerable resources on its Bardo component. Included elements were a full study of the existing museum facility, the renovation and redistribution of exhibition space and its contents, the development of visitors’ orientation facilities and the construction of expansions.329 An initial plan for more modest interior improvements was adjusted in 2003, as the Tunisian government—with the support of the World Bank–chose to pursue a much more ambitious development plan intended to aggressively “transform the Bardo into a high-standard museum focusing primarily on the display of Tunisia’s unique collection of Roman mosaics….”330 French and Tunisian firms were awarded contracts following an international competition, and designs for the improvement of existing facilities and the construction of new ones were approved in 2007. The goal was to produce a museum capable of hosting up to a million visitors annually. Interventions within the greatly expanded space were designed by SCPA Codou-Hindley (France) and Amira Nouira (Tunisia) who ultimately added 9,000 m. sq. to the museum’s existing 11,000 (Figures 5.74 and 327 When considering the cost of the extension the following is worth keeping in mind: “The cost of the renovation/extension of the Bardo museum is substantially lower than European comparators for a result of similar quality: about US$900 per square meter at the Bardo vs. US$9,000 to US$10,500 per square meter at the Prado museum and the Louvre Lens. The cost of the new Islamic Department of the Louvre, scheduled to open in the Fall of 2012, is in excess of US$35,000 per sq. meter.” World Bank, “Implementation Completion and Results Report IBRD 7059-TUN (Report No: ICR2295),” (Washington, DC: 2012), 17. 328 The “Tunisia Cultural Heritage Project,” of which the Bardo renovation was just one of six components, was a US$27 program. See Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, “Trajectories of Development: International Heritage Management of Archaeology in the Middle East and North Africa,” Archaeologies 5 no. 1 (2009): 77–80. For more on the growing importance of international governance and development (at the expense of conservation) in heritage management, see Kathryn Lafrenz Samuels, “Transnational Turns for Archaeological Heritage: From Conservation to Development, Governments to Governance,” Journal of Field Archaeology 41 no. 3 (2016): 355–67. 329 World Bank, “Tunisia—Cultural Heritage Management and Development Project (Report No. PID6985),” (Washington, DC: 2001), 5. 330 World Bank, “Implementation Completion,” 9. 412 5.75). 331 The Arab Spring revolution—a momentous achievement that saw the Bardo’s attendance drop by nearly half between 2010 and 2012332—caused delays, but construction ended in 2011 and the museum reopened in May 2012.333 “Fairly neutral and resolutely contemporary” are the terms used by one critic of the addition in describing its general effect.334 Others have seen in its monumental façade an abandonment of the human scale in favor of the vertical, and a reference to city gate in its main portal’s appearance.335 Its façades, which thankfully conceal those of their unsightly twentieth- century predecessors, Lesage says, are pierced by irregular fenestration intended to reference an ancient Roman pavement technique called opus Romanum, (Roman work) in which irregularly sized rectangular pavers were fit together (Figure 5.76).336 Whitewashed planes and geometric masses further perforated by rectangular openings define the museum’s new interiors. This is all quite apparent in the entry hall (Figure 5.77). Whereas before one entered via a rather unceremonious passage and was quickly dropped into cramped exhibition spaces, one now enters into a vast, open space, the ceiling of which soars 11 m. overhead. There the famed 13 m. x 10 m. Neptune triumph mosaic from Sousse—previously displayed on the floor of 331 Lesage, “2012,” 77. 332 David Robert, “Five Questions for the Director of the Bardo Museum,” Art Newspaper 25 no. 275 (2016): 22. Museum attendance from 2010 to 2011 declined by 71.68%. Though it rebounded slightly in 2012, the difference between 2010 and 2012 was still about half. Calculations based on Ministère du tourisme (République tunisienne), Chiffres: 2012, 84. In 2014 (before the 2015 attack) figures had remained low. The total visitors for that year was just over 106,000, or less than a quarter of what they had been in 2009. Ministère du tourisme (République tunisienne), Le Tourisme tunisien en chiffres: 2014 (Tunis: 2014), 85. 333 Anon., “Bardo Museum Reopens in Tunis After Facelift,” Al Arabiya, 18 May 2012, accessed 19 April 2017, http://english.alarabiya.net/articles/2012/05/18/214940.html. 334 Lesage, “2012,” 76. 335 Soumaya Gharsallah-Hizem, “Le projet de renovation et d’extension du palais-musée national du Bardo à Tunis,” in Architectures au Maghreb (XIXe–XXe siècles): Réinvention du patrimoine, ed. Myriam Bacha (Tours: Presses Universitaires François-Rabelais, 2011), 218. 336 Lesage, “2012,” 76. One might fairly ask if today’s tourists are aware of such an abstracted and specific reference. Note that the unsightly facades that were covered by the extension were previously the back of the building, but visible to all entering the compound before. See Figure 5.73. Gharsallah-Hizem points out that these voids may be seen as an abstraction of traditional mashrabiya patterning. See Gharsallah-Hizem, “Le projet,” 217. 413 the Salle des Fêtes—has been given pride of place. One can now better appreciate the full composition and detail of the entire panel because of this billboard-like arrangement. Within the hall’s luminous interior it commands attention, making clear that this is first and foremost a museum dedicated to stunning Roman mosaics. To the east of Neptune, a glass-enclosed garden patio enlivens the space and opens sightlines into adjacent galleries. The experience here sets the tone for rest of the museum addition, which includes a gift shop and cafeteria,337 conference and classroom spaces, a temporary exhibition hall and media collection. Speaking of her interventions here, Nouira focused on spatial connections and light. “The streets—horizontal and vertical—as diagonals distribute the volumes of the structure (cité) and facilitate the penetration of light within,” she says. For her here, modernity means “fluidity, simultaneity, [and] speed.” The “simultaneity of gaze on the geography of the past, this architecture, all these forms of art, all these ages presented in this sumpuous and magnificent setting, allow the visitor to propel himself from the past…to better project himself into the future,” she suggests. 338 Indeed, clear circulation and consistent luminosity are hallmark characteristics of the expansive addition; they set it far apart from the many dark, labyrinthine rooms of the old palace.339 Codou confirms that his intent with the building was not to make a show of its form, but rather to “hide the surprises that are inside” like an architectural envelope.340 A devastating terrorist attack, attributed to the so-called Islamic State (ISIS), targeted the Bardo Museum on 18 March 2015. It resulted in the death of twenty-two people from ten 337 As of September 2016 the cafeteria space had been stripped of its contents and sat empty. The shop offered little at that time, save for a few thematic guidebooks and old postcards. The museum shop a decade ago offered far more. 338 Amira Nouira, “Extension et réhabilitation du Musée du Bardo,” Arch/AN, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.nouira-architecture.com/index.php/culture/bardo/. 339 The amount of light is in places too much, actually, as it causes sever glare on some of the glass cases that obscures one’s view of their content. 340 Pierre-François Codou quoted in Gharsallah-Hizem, “Le projet,” 216. Gharsallah-Hizem contends that as an envelope, it is nothing like the “ostentatious” spectacles seen elsewhere in contemporary museums (ibid.). Acknowledging the relative simplicity demonstrated here, one might object to this characterization, however, given its clear pursuit of greatness and monumentality. 414 European countries, Japan, Colombia and Tunisia.341 Great damage was done to artifacts and the museum’s interior during the invasion and resulting hostage scenario. The museum, like the entire county, has struggled to reestablish its tourism industry since the attack. Negative publicity has rendered both unattractive to many, and the scarred museum has gained unfortunate notoriety as a site of tragedy for those interested in so-called “dark tourism.”342 Empty rooms—some unfinished since construction, others emptied after the attack—and bullet- ridden cases contribute to an air of incompletion or instability, reminding visitors of recent gruesome events (Figure 5.78). What had once been a crowded, cramped museum now feels sparse and largely desolate because of its structural openness and lack of patrons. Visitation numbers were abysmally low in 2016, totaling less than 15,000 visitors per month or 180,000/year, a distressing decline from the 600,000/year average accommodated before the 2011 revolution.343 In the wake of the attack, victims were memorialized through mosaic portraits created by artisans in El Djem (Figure 5.79).344 A memorial panel within the entry hall—also rendered in colored mosaics—lists the names and countries of origin of those lost beside their national flags (Figure 5.80). The somber cenotaph casts a long shadow, standing out in today’s 341 Chris Stephen, Kareem Shaheen and Mark Tran, “Tunis Museum Attack: 20 People Killed After Hostage Drama at Tourist Site,” The Guardian, 18 March 2015, accessed 2 March 2017, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/mar/18/eight-people-killed-in-attack-on-tunisia-bardo-museum. It has been said that the primary target may have actually been the adjacent parliament complex in which counter-terrorism measures were being discussed at the time. Thirty-eight Europeans had been killed on a crowded beach in Sousse during June 2015, making the subsequent museum attack a strong statement about the importance and vulnerability of the tourism sector in Tunisia. 342 Tom Westcott, “Why Tunisia’s Bardo has Become a Museum of the Macabre,” The National, 22 March 2016, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.thenational.ae/arts-life/the-review/why-tunisias-bardo-has- become-a-museum-of-the-macabre. The term “dark tourism” was coined by Malcolm Foley and J. John Lennon in their study of tourists’ fascination with sites associated with the life and death of President John F. Kennedy. It has since been explored elsewhere at sites of conflict, violence, death and disaster. See Malcolm Foley and J. John Lennon, “JFK and Dark Tourism: A Fascination with Assassination,” International Journal of Heritage Studies 2 no. 4 (1996): 198–211. 343 Robert, “Five Questions,” 22. The director is using numbers that overlook the decline in visitation in the wake of the global economic crisis. For example, just under 458,000 visited the Bardo in 2009. Ministère du tourisme (République tunisienne), Chiffres: 2012, 84. 344 Anon., “Tunisia Commemorates Victims of Bardo Museum Attack with Mosaic Memorial,” Tunisia-TN, 18 March 2016, accessed 19 April 2017, http://tunisia-tn.com/tunisia-commemorates-victims-of-bardo- museum-attack-with-mosaic-memorial/. 415 quiet, brightly lit and whitewashed hall. In a way, the Bardo Museum complex today may be seen to stand as a metaphor for the greater colonial and postcolonial eras of Tunisian history. Originally an ancient palace, partially disused by the beylical regime, it was restored by the French administration to be “decorated” with antiquities largely for the colonizers’ own benefit. Italian influences in the historic building were apparent, and denigrated. Islamic art was acknowledged through the dedication of space towards its preservation and display, but it never received the acclaim that the antiquities collections did. The building’s new addition is abstract and thoroughly distinct from the original structure of the old palace, as if to theoretically distance itself from that past and appeal to tourists and Western audiences likely weary of eastern instability and terrorism. 5.8 Conclusion: Identity, consumption and capital Owing to the rich legacy of ancient mosaics in Tunisia—the country is variously described as having the most and the best Roman mosaics of any country—the art form has become an iconic object there, and in its portability and popularity it represents well the intersections of identity, consumption, capital and tourism.345 Indeed, the mosaic’s significance transcends the hallowed Bardo. They have become an indicator of Tunisian heritage and identity, gracing the masthead of Tourism in Tunisia during the 1960s 346 through stylistic 345 On Roman mosaics in Tunisia in particular, see Aïcha Ben Abed, Tunisian Mosaics: Treasures From Roman Africa (Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute, 2006). The latter text is less celebratory in its assessment, claiming only that “Tunisia possesses one of the richest and most varied collections of mosaic art in the Mediterranean basin” (4). Katherine Dunbabin, The Mosaics of Roman North Africa: Studies in Iconography and Patronage (Oxford: Clarendon, 1978) was particularly influential within the realm of archaeology when first published. 346 The magazine often featured articles on museums and heritage sites in Tunisia, most of which featured many images of mosaic panels in situ and conserved. See for example Anon., “At Carthage: 100 Roman Horses Discovered,” Tourism in Tunisia 6 (December 1960): 6–7; Anon., “The Hunting Season is Open,” Tourism in Tunisia 1 (December 1959): 7 informs visitors that while Hannibal’s elephants no longer roam Tunisia, other animals do and can be hunted. A photo of a mosaic featuring an ancient hunting scene appears with the article. 416 renderings by the prolific Hatem el Mekki and often appearing in his designs for Tunisian postage stamps and banknotes (Figures 5.81 and 5.2). His mosaic-inspired works were found in hotels as well, such as the Hôtel Corniche in Bizerte. They have served as backdrops in fashion photo shoots (Figure 5.82).347 Large reproductions of iconic pieces now on display at the Bardo can be spotted decorating government offices and businesses in Tunis (see Figure 3.63), official Tunisian tourism offices in Paris, and Tunisair bureaus in Rome and Lyon (Figure 5.83). An original triumphant Neptune scene can today be viewed in the American WWII cemetery visitors’ center in Carthage.348 Indeed, today’s upscale suburban Carthage is saturated in mosaics. Street signs there are rendered in black and white mosaic panels, posh private villas bear imitations of iconic pieces from the Bardo with understated pretension (Figure 5.84), and its local gas station displays a copy of the Bardo’s invaluable Virgil panel (Figure 5.85). Hannibal appears on a panel outside the post office in a mosaic reproduction of the aforementioned 1995 El Mekki stamp. Small reproductions remain one of the more popular souvenirs offered outside the Byrsa’s museum and most tourist sites throughout the country (Figure 5.86). As they were during the colonial era, Roman mosaics are still official representations and private status symbols, as well as tools used for marketing at home and abroad. The very word itself has taken on specific meaning in its connotation of a united diversity—an idealized whole composed of different, yet compatible, pieces. Such can be seen in the design of a collage of Tunisian built environments images using a gridded mosaic-like arrangement in Leïla Ammar’s recent Cités et 347 Anon., “Marie-Claire,” Tourism in Tunisia 4 (June 1960): 11. 348 This original mosaic was a gift from Bourguiba to US Ambassador G. Lew Jones in 1959 and then given to cemetery, where it was installed in the visitor center in 1960. American Battle Monuments Commission, “North Africa American Cemetery and Memorial,” brochure, n.d., 19–20, accessed 2 March 2017, https://www.abmc.gov/cemeteries-memorials/africa/north-africa-american-cemetery. The use of antiquities as official gifts was not unusual through the mid-twentieth century. A column from a monument in Ostia was given by Mussolini to Chicago for the 1934 world’s fair there. The king of Jordan gave one to New York for the fair there thirty years later as part of a larger “archaeological diplomacy” process. See Elizabeth Macaulay-Lewis and Jared Simard, “From Jerash to New York Columns, Archaeology, and Politics at the 1964–65 World’s Fair,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 74 no. 3 (2015): 343–64. 417 architectures de Tunisie (Figure 5.87).349 It is also apparent in the naming of Tunisia’s ever- popular nationwide radio station, “Mosaïque FM,”350 as well as text titles such as Carthage: A Mosaic of Ancient Tunisia.351 This idea would have resonated strongly during the Ben Ali era when Tunisia’s cosmopolitanism was so often presented and celebrated. Mosaics have been an integral part of Tunisia’s art and handicraft history since the mid- twentieth century. The Tunis École de Beaux Arts decorative arts atelier offered classes in mosaics and murals from the 1950s onward, and figures such as Gorgi and El Mekki in many ways established the field through their work on representing postcolonial Tunisianité. According to art historian Jessica Gerschultz, ancient mosaics were seen by some as partial “parents” of modern Tunisian painting.352 These highly influential artists, their students, and others affiliated with the artistic École de Tunis were often hired by the state and tourism agencies during the 1960s and early 1970s, thereby ensuring a certain prominence of their work, which often featured mosaic reproductions and mosaic-inspired designs. The Bardo Museum’s mosaic workshops, which still exist, trained craftsmen and craftswomen, including École students, in geology (for stone sourcing) and the restoration of ancient pieces, and many earned extra money by producing pieces of their own through independent ateliers. It was the explicit goal of the National Arts and Crafts Center, affiliated with the Bardo, to revive the art of mosaics, for scholarly, artistic and commercial purposes. In the words of Mr. Yacoub, a conservator at the Bardo in 1965, the museum’s craftsmen aimed to “conserve and create.”353 The National Artisanat Office sold official reproductions of originals in the Bardo’s collection during the 1960s 349 Leïla Ammar, ed., Cités et architectures de Tunisie (Tunis: Nirvana, 2015), 26–27. 350 The station’s website, incidentally, is currently administered by a company called “Tanit Web.” 351 Aïcha Ben Abed Ben Khader and David Soren, Carthage: A Mosaic of Ancient Tunisia (New York: Norton, 1987). 352 Jessica Gerschultz, email correspondence with author, 22 and 28 August 2016. Many thanks to Dr. Gerschultz for her so generously sharing much of the information on mosaics included within this section. 353 M.L.T., “Restaurer, faire revivre l’art de la mosaïque,” La Presse de Tunisie, 20 August 1965, 3. The precise nature of the relationships between these many organizations remains somewhat unclear. 418 and 1970s,354 and the Ministry of Culture’s Agency for the Development of National Heritage and Cultural Promotion still does so today.355 While many original ancient mosaics not housed in museums deteriorate forgotten in fields far from the capital’s museums,356 souvenir kiosks hawk crude reproductions and simple pieces to tourists wanting to take a bit of Tunisia home with them (Figure 5.88). Colonialism, at its core a capitalist enterprise, has always required the generation, distribution and collection of wealth by the colonizing power. Modern tourism in Tunisia has consistently depended on archeology as a generator of attractions, interest, visitors and revenue, as is demonstrated by statements from church and state officials, museum developers, hotel owners and others in positions to profit. Indeed, from its earliest development, archaeological activities suited the objectives of the Church and French administration, but providing material support for political and cultural claims made as a part of the colonial project. Unearthed antiquities fed longstanding orientalist conceptions of North Africa that stressed the preeminence of pre-Arab pasts, the barbarism of invasive Arab cultures and the superiority of modern European systems and society. The funds generated by tourists’ excursions to Carthage, the Bardo museum, hotels such as the Villa Didon and Hannibal-themed amusement parks in Tunis and beyond benefited state and private parties, while at the same time raising the 354 For example, the Tunis-based STAR Insurance company ordered a reproduction of the iconic Ulysses and sirens mosaic from the Bardo atelier in 1965 and had it installed in its headquarters’ lobby. An image of the panel was featured in the small article about it printed in the newspaper. See Anon., “Une mosaïque produite par le Musée du Bardo,” La Presse de Tunisie, 11 September 1965, 3. A visit by the author in September 2016 confirmed that it remains in place (though somewhat obscured by the later installation of office cubicles). 355 Ministère de la culture (République tunisienne), Agence de mise en valeur du patrimoine et de la promotion culturelle, “Iconographie,” accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.patrimoinedetunisie.com.tn/fr/panier/publication2.php?famille=3. 356 On efforts undertaken since the late 1990s to improve the conservation of ancient mosaics in Tunisia, largely with the assistance of the Getty Conservation Institute from 1998–2009, see Ben Abed, Tunisian Mosaics, 131–37. See also Aïcha Ben Abed, ed. Stories in Stone: Conserving Mosaics of Roman Africa (Los Angeles: Getty Publications, 2006). 419 level of interest in France’s colonial enterprise and then Tunisia’s independence, abroad.357 In the new Bardo extension, one encounters competitive aspirations and spaces that feel less local and more global. They reflect Tunisia’s participation in globalizing tourism processes that seek to both conform to arguably homogenous international standards while at the same time differentiating the country from its competitors through unique heritage presentations. With the museum as the epicenter of their preservation and study, mosaics remain inseparable from the image of Tunisia. Souvenir reproductions, dispatched around the globe by tourists and state agencies, bolster this link by connoting Tunisia’s heritage through an extended, consumable pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape. Advertisements and other digital social media advance this process further through the increasing dissemination of imagery—both positive and negative— to scattered audiences. Despite the growing importance of such media, the city of Tunis/Carthage with its actual antiquity sites remains among the country’s greatest assets. Traditional beach tourism will likely continue along the country’s coast, but the Bardo and Byrsa will almost certainly remain on the covers of guidebooks and brochures well into the foreseeable future. The built environments one encounters today in greater Tunis incorporate complementary themed spaces suited to programmatic and symbolic needs, both official and vernacular. State officers and individuals articulate “a representation of identity, building a favourable internal…and external…image” suitable for marketing to both local and foreign audiences that regularly incorporates antiquities and archaeology. 358 Indeed, correlations between imagery and prevailing socio-political perspectives are unavoidable in officially produced and mass-marketed pieces. Today’s Tunisia brand, or dominant cultural image, is 357 On the role played by colonial expositions in the generating of domestic interest in French colonialism, see Morton, Hybrid Modernities. 358 Robert Govers and Frank Go, Place Branding (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 17. On a small scale, the naming of Tunisia’s national soccer team the “Eagles of Carthage” c. 2004 represents this idea. 420 multifaceted and Mediterranean in nature. It is one deeply rooted in its complex pluralistic history, and the nation’s pre-Arab past has long since played a significant role in the articulation of contemporary Tunisianité. Indeed, the proliferation of Postmodern and commercial references to antiquity one encounters today on the streets of Tunis and in its shops is not accidental, but rather a reflection of Tunisian society’s participation in reimagined histories and a multifaceted national identity or “imagined community.” Commercial references to indigenous antiquity identify goods and places as Tunisian and are thus marshaled to sell Tunisian products, including soaps, canned vegetables, olive oils, jams, cigarettes and more (Figure 5.89). While the recent revolution and related instability have inflicted damage on the essential tourism industry and inspired renegotiations in citizens’ relationship to the past and power, Hannibal’s legacy and image, Roman ruins and mosaics and Christian sites survive. In the wake of the 2011 revolution, the Tunisian tourism ministry sparked controversy in its attempt to lure weary tourists back to its celebrated archaeological sites. “They say that Tunisia is in ruins. Come find out for yourself” beckoned one provocative advertisement, with an image of Dougga’s Roman theatre amidst verdant fields and blue skies (Figure 5.90).359 Another, produced later under the revolution-themed “Free to live it all” (Libre de tout vivre) campaign, highlights the proximity of ruins, the coast and golf courses (Figure 5.91). Tunisair, the state-owned flag-carrier, still maintains its fleet with names recalling the diversity of Tunisia’s history. Tourists and others may land at Tunis’ “Carthage” airport 360 on airplanes— predominantly made by Airbus—including the Hannibal, Jugurtha, Alyssa (Dido), El Djem, 359 Angelique Chrisafis, “Tunisia Woos Tourists with Controversial Advertising Campaign,” The Guardian, 11 June 2011, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.theguardian.com/world/2011/jun/17/tunisia-tourists- controversial-advertising-campaign. 360 Tunis’ main airport was called Tunis–Aouina, in reference to its actual location, until the mid- or late- 1960s, at which point the name was changed to Carthage. Conversation with Mohammed Bennani, 9 September 2016. 421 Carthage, Le Bardo, as well as Ibn Khaldoun, Khereddine and Habib Bourguiba and others.361 The pages of Tunisair’s in-fight magazine, La Gazelle, tout sun, surf and sand, as well as golf, shopping and handicrafts, beside images of museums, ruins and ancient art. Not surprisingly, the Bardo and Carthage still feature prominently and regularly, as do other picturesque sites (Figure 5.92).362 Advertisements sometimes suggest an ethereal quality, as if to say that in Tunis one dreams of ancient ruins (Figure 5.93).363 Travel and tourism, accounting for 12.6% of Tunisia’s GDP in 2015,364 is a major industry, and a necessity in an era during which persistent unemployment remains a substantial, persistent problem. Recent events and related security concerns remain significant challenges, but it appears that the decline in tourism may be stabilizing and a slow growth in the industry may occur over the next decade.365 Tunisia’s external image, though far from unscathed, thus continues to demonstrate resilience.366 The resonance of Tunisia’s pre-Arab past internally thus appears to have survived the revolution. Widespread opposition to Ben Ali and his cult of personality did not transfer directly 361 As of 2017 the company operated a fleet of twenty-nice aircraft, twenty-two of which were manufactured by the European Airbus corporation. The remaining seven were Boeing-made. “Discover Tunisair: Our Fleet,” Tunisair, accessed 6 June 2017, http://www.tunisair.com/site/publish/content/article.asp?ID=78&Lang=en. 362 See for examples, Joanna Ben Souissi, “Musée du Bardo,” La Gazelle no. 53, July–September 2013, 48–50; Martine Géronimi, “Oudhna l’incontournable,” La Gazelle no. 54, October–December 2013, 66– 68. Such magazines may be seen as tools used by airlines and state tourism agencies in competitive globalization and lifestyle myth-making. See Crispin Thurlow and Adam Jaworski, “Communicating a Global Reach: Inflight Magazines as a Globalizing Genre in Tourism,” Journal of Sociolinguistics 7 no. 4 (2003): 579–606. 363 “Golden Tulip El Mechtel Hotel” (Tunis), advertisement, La Gazelle no. 53, October–December 2013, 89. 364 World Travel & Tourism Council, “Travel & Tourism Economic Impact 2016: Tunisia,” (London, 2016), 3. The World Travel & Tourism Council calculates this figure and incorporates the direct, indirect and induced contribution made by tourism. See ibid., 2 for more information on the statistic. 365 The World Travel & Tourism Council estimates a 2.3% growth in tourism’s total GDP contribution in 2026. Ibid., 11. 366 Interest in Tunisia’s long history survives in France as well. A recent edition of Les Collections de l’Histoire magazine was entirely devoted to the country; its title was “De Carthage à Tunis: 3,000 ans d’exception.” Articles addressed facets of Punic and Roman Carthage, Arab Africa, and Tunisia’s modern democratic achievements, including archaeological excavations, the influence of Flaubert and Chateaubriand, the alleged conversion of St. Louis, and the writing of St. Augustine. See Les Collections de l’Histoire no. 70, January–March 2016. 422 to his regime’s heavy-handed imposition of Hannibal.367 On an official level, the figure has survived the post-revolution purging of Ben Ali’s political propaganda; he and the Punic ports were retained in 2013 on the front of new five dinar banknotes (Figure 5.94), having been first put there by Ben Ali’s regime in 1992.368 Where abstract symbolic references to the date of Ben Ali’s accession (7 November 1987) had been superimposed over a ship on the reverse before— in yet another way aligning Ben Ali with Hannibal—one today finds depictions of Carthaginian ships plying the sea unencumbered, now reunited with their illustrious commander (Figure 5.95).369 As in the past, they represent lucrative trade and military might, both of ancient and contemporary Tunisia. 367 On the propagandistic efforts of Ben Ali’s government to create “regime-compliant citizens” and their dismantling, see Laryssa Chomiak, “Spectacles of Power: Locating Resistance in Ben Ali’s Tunisia,” Portal 9 (2013): 70–83. 368 The ports were also featured on a new two-DT coin issued at the end of 2013. 369 Carthage’s queen Dido, however, was replaced on the ten DT bill with Tunisian poet Aboul el Kacem Chebbi (1909–1934) in 2013. This change was likely inspired by a resurgence of interest in the country’s Arabo-Islamic identity under the leadership of its post-revolution Islamicist government. It is also possible that resentment of Ben Ali’s wife Leïla Ben Ali (née Trabelsi) who was often referred to as “the Queen of Carthage” in reference to the Presidential Palace’s location, fueled the change. Attempts to further investigate these issues with staff at the Central Bank of Tunisia were unfruitful. 423 FIGURES Figure 5.1. Tunisian franc banknotes of the Protectorate era. Printed banknotes. A. 1938 issue featuring El Djem amphitheatre (top left). B. 1946 issue featuring Roman arch and mosaic (top right). C. 1950 issue featuring Dougga temple and Bardo Neptune mosaic (bottom). (Source: Ali Khiri and Abdelhamid Fenina, Numismatique et Histoire de la Monnaie en Tunisie: Tome III: La Monnaie Contemporaine (Tunis: Simpact, 2008), 172, 175 and 181.) 424 Figure 5.2. Bourguiba-era one dinar banknote (El Mekki, 1965). Printed banknote, 1965. (Source: Khiri and Fenina, Numismatique et Histoire, 247.) 425 Figure 5.3. Bourguiba-era silver one dinar coins. Minted coins, 1969. A. Coin featuring triumphant Neptune mosaic from the Bardo (top). B. Coin featuring El Djem amphitheatre (bottom). These are just two examples from a ten-coin set of heritage-referencing coins. (Source: Khiri and Fenina, Numismatique et Histoire, 211.) 426 Figure 5.4. Ben Ali-era ten dinar banknote. Printed banknote, 2005. Featured are Dido and the el Abidine Mosque, Dougga’s iconic temple and a satellite dish. (Source: Author’s collection.) 427 Figure 5.5. Musée de la Monnaie (Mint Museum) (Lotfi Rebai and Noureddine Lajnef, 2008), Tunis. A. Plan (top). B. Interior photograph, c. 2008 (bottom). (Source: Design Archi Concept, “Musée de la Monnaie,” accessed 2 March 2017, http://design-archi- concept.tn/portfolio/musee-de-la-monnaie/.) 428 Figure 5.6. “La Tunisie antique” cover from La Dépêche Coloniale Illustrée. Printed cover, 1911. (Source: La Dépêche coloniale illustrée 11 no. 11, 15 June 1911.) > RÉDACTION ET ADMINISTRATION : 19, Rue Saint-Georges, Paris (IXE) ABONNEMENTS : France... Un an 18 fr. — Colonies... Un an 22 Ir. — Etranger... Un an 25 fr. Vente du Numéro dans -nos Bureaux, Kiosques, Dépôts, — France : 0.75. — Par poste : i francÉtranger : i franc. — Par poste : 1 fr. 2 5. 429 Figure 5.7. Cover from La Tunisie Illustrée featuring Temples de Sufetula (Sbeitla). Printed cover, 1911. (Source: La Tunisie illustrée, no. 15, 5 January 1911.) 430 Figure 5.8. La Tunisie touristique: Sites et monuments. Printed map, 1954. Roman ruins are marked by small ruin icons. (Source: Arthur Pellegrin, “Le Tourisme en Tunisie,” Encyclopédie mensuelle d’Outre-Mer (1954): 16.) 431 Figure 5.9. The Colosseum at El Djem. Photograph, c. 1911. (Source: Emma Burbank Ayer, A Motor Flight Through Algeria and Tunisia (Chicago: McClurg, 1911), unnumbered plate after 384.) 432 Figure 5.10. Tunisie Carthage (Roland Olivier, 1949). Printed poster, 1949. (Source: Reproduction in author’s collection.) 433 Figure 5.11. Hotel Ribat (Cacoub, 1960), Monastir. Published photograph, 1961. (Source: Gilbert Van Raepenbusch, “Monastir and its Hotel Ribat,” Tourism in Tunisia 10 (December 1961): 5 in Jessica Gerschultz, “A Bourguibist Mural in the New Monastir? Zoubeïr Turki’s Play on Knowledge, Power and Audience Perception,” International Journal of Islamic Architecture 4 no. 2 (2015): 318.) 434 Figure 5.12. Hotel Ulysses, Jerba (architect and date unknown). Published photographs, 1962. A. Façade with entry (top). B. View from arcade (bottom). (Source: Anon., “Ulysses Hotel,” Tourism in Tunisia 11 (April 1962: 5.) 435 Figure 5.13. Roman theatre, Carthage. Photographs. A. Looking northwest c. 1906 (top). B. Looking southwest c. 1910 (bottom). (Sources: Karen E. Ros, “The Roman Theater at Carthage,” American Journal of Archaeology 100 no. 3 (1996): 462 (A) and La Tunisie illustrée no. 12, 21 October 1910, cover (B).) 436 Figure 5.14. The re-built Roman theatre, Carthage. Photographs. A. Looking northwest in c. 1996 (top). B. Looking south in 2016. The preserved portion of the cavea is visible at left (bottom). (Sources: Ros, “Roman theatre,” 450 (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 437 Figure 5.15. Ruines de Carthage tourist map. Plan, 1924. Ruins are marked in red. The TGM line runs across the coast at the bottom (east) of the map. (Source: Louis Carton, Pour visiter Carthage (Tunis: J. Barlier, 1924), n.p.) 438 Figure 5.16. 1906 Théâtre de Carthage program (Louis Flot, c. 1906). Printed cover, 1906. (Source: “Théâtre de Carthage 27 Mai, 1906,” event program, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2079A.) 439 Figure 5.17. 1906 Théâtre de Carthage event performances. Photographs, 1906. A. “Le Cortège dans les Ruines” (top). B. “In the wings (bottom left). C. “Les evocations” (bottom right). (Source: Louis Carton, “La fête,” La Revue tunisienne 13 no. 59 (1906): unnumbered plates after 444 (A), 448 (B) 502 (C).) 440 Figure 5.18. 1906 Théâtre de Carthage event program. Printed pamphlet, 1906. (Source: “Théâtre de Carthage 27 Mai, 1906,” event program, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2079A.) 441 Figure 5.19. 1907 Fête au Théâtre antique de Carthage poster (A. de Broca, 1907). Printed poster, 1907. (Source: “Fête au Théâtre antique de Carthage Tunisie” (2 April 1907), event poster, 1907, in CADN 1TU/1/V/2079A.) 442 Figure 5.20. La foule carthaginoise approuve le meurtre d'Abdogir (The Carthaginian crowd approves the murder of Abdogir) at the Fête au Théâtre antique de Carthage. Photograph, 1907. (Source: Victor Cruzet, “Fêtes antiques du théâtre romain de Carthage,” Illustration algérienne, tunisienne et marocaine 2 no. 20 (13 April 1907), 5.) 443 Figure 5.21. 2016 Festival International de Carthage program cover. Printed image (PDF), 2016. Note the image of the theatre’s cavea in the background and the use of the stylized cavea in the festival’s logo. Horses were commonly featured on ancient coins of Punic Carthage. (Source: “Festival international de Carthage,” Festival international de Carthage, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.festivaldecarthage.tn/fr/home.) 444 Figure 5.22. Enclosure wall with embedded fragmentary antiquities on the Byrsa hill, Carthage. Photograph, 2016. It is not clear if this is the original enclosure wall built with the 1840 Chapel of St. Louis, though based on its appearance, and old photographs, it likely is. The practice if mounting pieces like this goes back to that time. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 445 Figure 5.23. Carthage’s Byrsa looking northwest showing the cathedral, seminary/museum complex, and site of the St. Louis memorial. Photograph, c. 1953. The St. Louis Chapel has already been demolished and the Zehrfuss/Auproux memorial is under construction (the effigy was in place by 1955). The Hôtel St. Louis de Carthage is at the bottom left corner. (Source: Gilbert Van Raepenbusch; Courtesy of FBB.) 446 Figure 5.24. St. Louis garden and primary Lavigerie Museum façade (southeast), Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1930. (Source: Album-Souvenir LL Edit. du Musée Lavigerie (Paris: Levy et Neurdein Réunis: n.d.), n.p., in author’s collection.) 447 Figure 5.25. The “Punic Room” at the Lavigerie Museum, Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1930. (Source: Album-Souvenir, n.p. in author’s collection.) 448 Figure 5.26. The “Crusade Room” frescoes (l’Alouette, 1886) at the Lavigerie Museum, Carthage. Photographs (postcards), c. 1920. A. “The battle of St. Louis” (top). Architectonic fragments from the museum’s collection litter the ground. For scale, note the wooden display cases below the fresco. B. “The death of St. Louis” (bottom). The Lavigerie-like Papal legate administers a blessing, assisted by a priest with the face of Delattre. The altar at left resembles in part the Carthage cathedral’s reliquary. (Source: Author’s collection.) 449 Figure 5.27. The “Crusade Room” (l’Alouette, 1886) at the Lavigerie Museum, Carthage. Photograph, c. 1902. The apotheosis of St. Louis appears on the room’s ceiling. (Source: Anon., “Tunisie: Tunis et ses environs,” France-Album: Revue mensuelle, no. 75/76 (January 1902): n.p. in BNF.) 450 Figure 5.28. Exteriors of the Carthage Museum, Carthage. Photographs, 2016. A. Southeast façade (top). The central door was the original entrance (now inaccessible to the public). B. Northeast corner of courtyard (bottom). The central door at right opens into the original museum space (now inaccessible). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 451 Figure 5.29. Southwest esplanade of the Carthage Museum, Carthage. Photographs, 2016. A. This wall near the ground’s entrance features horses, a popular motif from Punic coinage, as well as blocks and other architectonic fragments (from the city’s Roman wall?) (top). B. Statue and column fragments have been re-erected on the flat platform indicative of lost structures. The Gulf of Tunis and Bou Kornine mountains are visible in the distance in this southeasterly view (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 452 Figure 5.30. The “Punic Quarter” on the Byrsa’s south slope, Carthage. Photographs, 2016. A. The Gulf of Tunis, Bou Kornine mountains, and Punic Ports are visible in the distance at right (top). B. From below looking towards the summit (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 453 Figure 5.31. The excavated buttress apses on the Byrsa’s southeast slope, Carthage. Photograph, 2016. The Villa Didon hotel is visible just outside the wall. The original gate from the 1951 Zehrfuss/Auproux memorial is still in place, but now locked above the large pit just inside the wall. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 454 Figure 5.32. The “St. Louis de Carthage” complex atop the Byrsa Hill, Carthage. Plan, 2016. The plan is reflects the structure as of c. 2000 and has been labeled according to 2016 and historic sources. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett based on posted on-site plans and 2016 on-site observations.) 455 Figure 5.33. The “Roman Room(?)” at the Carthage National Museum, Carthage. Published photograph, c. 1995. The current state of this room is unclear, as it was inaccessible in 2016. (Source: Nabil Ben Khelil, Maisons de Carthage (Tunis: Dar Ashraf, 1996), 65.) 456 Figure 5.34. The “Byrsa Room” at the Carthage Museum, Carthage. A. Plan, 1997 (top). B. Photograph, 2016 (bottom). (Sources: Anon., “Musée de Carthage: La Galerie de Byrsa.” Architecture méditerranéenne: Tunisie (1997): 179 (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 457 Figure 5.35. Punic Carthage mural at the Carthage Museum, Carthage (Gassend et al., 1996). Photograph, 2013. The Byrsa Hill is at the top. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 458 Figure 5.36. Ground floor gallery at the Carthage Museum, Carthage. Photograph, 2013. This room was likely the old refectory that way converted to museum space during the 1890s. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 459 Figure 5.37. Punic sarcophagi and Roman statue at the Carthage Museum, Carthage. Photograph, 2013. The iconic Priestess of Tanit piece is at left. These are now displayed at the far end of the ground-floor gallery. The doors beyond have been sealed. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 460 Figure 5.38. Christian statues in the ex-Cathedral/Acropolium garden, Carthage. A. Photograph, 2016 (top). The Virgin Mary (Notre Dame de Carthage, according to an inscription) of an unidentified provenance. B. Photograph, 1956 (bottom). Pilgrims pose beside the relocated statue of Cardinal Lavigerie. (Sources: Daniel E. Coslett (A) and Anon., “Dans le jardin des Pères Blancs,” La Dépêche tunisienne, 11 May 1956, 3 (B).) 461 Figure 5.39. Amènagement d’un belvédère: Jardin de l’Acropolium de Carthage (Chelli, c. 1994). Architectural drawings, c. 1994. The proposed viewing platform was not executed. (Sources: Moez Chelli, “Amènagement d’un belvédère: Jardin de l’Acropolium de Carthage,” architectural plans, c. 1994, in AA.) 462 Figure 5.40. Mosaic dedicatory plaque for the 1888 opening of the Bardo (Alaoui) Museum, Tunis. Photograph, c. 2008. (Source: Selma Zaiane, “Le Musée national du Bardo en métamorphose,” Téoros 27 no. 3 (2008): n.p.) 463 Figure 5.41. Main floor (second floor) of the Bardo (Alaoui) Museum, Tunis. Plan, 1890. (Source: R. de la Blanchère, Collections du Musée Alaoui: Première série (Paris: Firmin–Didot, 1890), 14 with annotations by author.) 464 Figure 5.42. Ex-harem quarters within the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. A. Photograph, c. 1910 (top). B. Photograph, 2008 (bottom). (Sources: Taher Ghalia, “La collection de négatifs en plaques de verre du Musée national du Bardo,” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 151 no. 1 (2007): 101 (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 465 Figure 5.43. The “Patio” room at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. A. Photograph (postcard), c. 1920 (top). B. Photograph, 2016 (bottom). (Sources: Author’s collection (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 466 Figure 5.44. The former concert hall (from the mezzanine) at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photograph, 2016. The chamber’s floor and walls are now clad in mosaic panels. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 467 Figure 5.45. The “Salle de Fêtes” at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. A. Photograph, 1888 (top left). B and C. Photographs, 2008 (top and bottom right). D. Photograph, 2013 (bottom left). (Sources: Ghalia, “La collection,” 99 (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B, C and D).) 468 Figure 5.46. The Virgil Mosaic (3rd Century AD) at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photograph, 2013. The author sits between two muses, Clio (history) and Melpomene (tragedy). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 469 Figure 5.47. The Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Plans, 1970. Ground floor, main (second) floor, and third floor (left to right). The portion used in 1890 is highlighted red. Rooms highlighted green were added to the museum by 1951. The third floor consisted of the gallery over the “Patio” and ex-concert hall mezzanines and a few adjacent chambers. Plans are not of equal scale. The Arab Museum was incorporated in 1899. Rooms were reclassified by objects’ origin under Merlin, c. 1910. (Sources: Mohamed Yacoub, Le Musée du Bardo (Tunis: Ministère des affaires culturelles, 1970), 9, 43 and 109 with annotations by author from A. Merlin and L. Poinssot, Guide du Musée du Bardo (Musée Alaoui) (Tunis: Gouvernement tunisien: Protectorat français, 1951), 4 and 25.) 470 Figure 5.48. Exterior of the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. A. Photograph, c. 1886. This was before the museum was established in 1888 (top left). B. Photograph, c. 1902 (top right). This is the primary façade after restoration. C. Photograph, 1914 (middle). D. Photograph, c. 2000 (bottom). (Sources: Ghalia, “La collection,” 98 (A), Anon., “Tunisie: Tunis et ses environs,” n.p. (B), Les grandes manoeuvres navales: Les escales, Tunis, le Bardo (Paris: l'Agence Meurisse, 1914), in BNF, accessed 5 March 2017, http://catalogue.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb41570855d (C) and Aïcha Ben Abed, Tunisian Mosaics: Treasures From Roman Africa (Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute, 2006), 90 (D).) 471 Figure 5.49. Interiors of the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photographs, 2016. These spaces are typical of the additions made in the 1950s. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 472 Figure 5.50. The coat of arms of the Kingdom of Tunisia, 1956. Printed drawing, 1956. The Carthaginian galley bears the symbol of Tanit prominently on its sail. (Source: Habib Bourguiba, “Armoiries du Royaume” (Decree of 21 June 1956), Journal officiel tunisien 74 no. 50 (22 June 1956): 826.) 473 Figure 5.51. From Carthage to Bourguiba postage stamp (Tunisia). Carthage’s chief male deity, Baal Hammon, is here depicted beside Bourguiba. Postage stamp, 1985. (Source: Inoubli, Catalogue, 42.) 474 Figure 5.52. Presidential Palace (Cacoub, 1962–1970), Carthage. A. Plan, c. 1974 (left). B. Interior photograph, c. 1974. This vaulted reception hall was added in 1965 and is in the plan at left. Note the Roman thermal style windows in the vaults (right). (Source: Cacoub, Architecture de Soleil, 32.) 475 Figure 5.53. Excerpts from Tunisia: The Great Journey. Published drawings, c. 1998. A. An allegory of Tunisia shows children the Punic city of Carthage and its prominent ports (top). B. The children are introduced to Dido in Carthage (bottom left). C. The group encounters Hannibal (bottom right). (Source: Anon., Tunisia: The Great Journey (n.p., n.d.), 27 and 28.) 476 Figure 5.54. Planned “Hannibal Park” memorial at the military (Punic) port, Carthage. Published architectural rendering and photograph, 2013. The rendering is at left and an aerial of the port and island is at right. (Source: Ferchichi, “Rapatriement.”) 477 Figure 5.55. Carthage & ses ruines. Plan, 1933. (Source: Cyrino Em., Carthage & ses ruines, plan, 1933, in APT “Archéologie” carton.) 478 Figure 5.56. Urban growth in Carthage, 1931–1970. Published plans, 1971. The juxtaposed plans were presented by the Tunisian government to illustrate extreme urban development changes between 1931, 1954 and 1970. The Byrsa hill has been circled in each by the author. (Source: Mohamed Fendri, “Monuments menacés,” in Ministère des affaires culturelles et de l’information (République tunisienne), Pour sauver Carthage, 22.) 479 Figure 5.57. Known and excavated sites in Carthage. Published plan, 1971. Excavated sites are rendered in plan in black. Known, but unexcavated, sites are marked with orange triangles. (Source: Ministère des affaires culturelles et de l’information (République tunisienne), Pour sauver Carthage, 17.) 480 Figure 5.58. Topographic plan of Carthage with select “Save Carthage” campaign international excavation team sectors indicated. Plan, 1992. The ancient Roman street grid has been superimposed over today’s landscape. (Source: Abdelmajid Ennabli, “Introduction,” in Pour sauver Carthage, ed. Abdelmajid Ennabli (Paris: UNESCO/INAA, 1992, 21.) [13–26] 481 Figure 5.59. Isolated excavated pockets in central Carthage. Photographs, 2016. A. Fenced site on the Rue Procope (top). B. Fenced site and exposed Roman road section along the coast at the Avenue de la République and Rue Séptime Severe (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 482 Figure 5.60. A small green space in central Carthage. Photograph, 2016. The Corinthian capital appears to have been heavily restored or may in fact be a reproduction. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 483 Figure 5.61. Carthage and Sidi Bou Saïd land classification (1985). Plan, 1985. The non- aedificandi zone is pink, while classified landmarks are darker red. (Source: Ennabli, ed. Pour sauver Carthage, 240–41, annotated and colorized by author.) 484 Figure 5.62. The el Abidine Mosque (Ayad Sriha, 2003) and its surroundings, Carthage. A. Photograph, 2013 (top). B. The mosque’s minaret as seen from the Damous el Karita site. Photograph, 2013 (middle). C. Aerial photograph, 2015 (bottom). (Sources: Daniel E. Coslett (A and B) and Google Earth with annotations by author (C).) 485 Figure 5.63. The restored Roman roadway leading to the el Abidine Mosque (Ayad Sriha, 2003), Carthage. Photograph, 2006. The pathway crosses north of the Roman theatre. (Source: (“Profburp,” Wikimedia Commons.) 486 Figure 5.64. The Grand Hôtel St. Louis & de Carthage, Carthage. A. Published advertising pamphlet, c. 1920 (top). B. The hotel is visible left of center atop the Byrsa. Photograph (postcard), c. 1931 (bottom). (Sources: “AK Tunis Tunisia Carthage Grand Hotel St. Louis Double PC,” Delcampe, accessed 7 March 2017, https://www.delcampe.net/en_GB/collectables /postcards/tunisia/ak-tunis-tunisia-carthage-grand-hotel-st-louis-double-pc-343974710.html (A) and author’s collection (B).) 487 Figure 5.65. The view from the Grand Hôtel St. Louis & de Carthage terrace, Carthage. Photograph, c. 1926. (Source: Louis Carton, Carthage (Strasbourg: Kahn, 1926), n.p. in FBB.) 488 Figure 5.66. The Byrsa Hill from the circular Punic military port, Carthage. Photograph, 2013. The Hôtel Reine Didon/Villa Didon is visible at center-right. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 489 Figure 5.67. The Hôtel Reine Didon, Carthage. Photograph (postcard), c. 1970. The Carthage Museum and ex-cathedral are visible at behind the hotel. (Source: Author’s collection.) 490 Figure 5.68. The Villa Didon hotel (ex-Hôtel Reine Didon), Carthage. A. Photograph of model, c. 1997 (top). B. Main entrance on back of building. Photograph, c. 2004 (bottom). (Source: Philippe Boisselier, “Hôtel Carthage,” accessed 2 March 2017, http://philippeboisselier.com/wordpress/architecture/carthag/.) 491 Figure 5.69. The Villa Didon logo. Published image, c. 2004. The Tanit logo is at right and has since been replaced by the hotel’s name in Arabic script. (Source: Anon., “Philippe Boisselier ou la passion du design: Villa Didon.” Maisons de Tunisie, February 2009, 18.) 492 Figure 5.70. Interiors of the Villa Didon, Carthage. Photographs, c. 2004. A. A bar (top). B. A guest room (bottom). (Sources: Boisselier, “Hôtel Carthage” (A) and “L’Hôtel,” Villa Didon. accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.villadidoncarthage.com/fr/cms_items/view/1/el (B).) 493 Figure 5.71. The Spa Didon at the Villa Didon, Carthage. Interior photograph, c. 2004. (Source: “Spa Didon,” Villa Didon.) 494 Figure 5.72. The Médina Mediterranea (Ben Miled, 2004), Hammamet. A. Exterior photograph, 2006 (top). B. A typical street from the interior. Photograph, 2008 (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 495 Figure 5.73. Carthageland at the Médina Mediterranea, Hammamet (architect unknown). A and B. Photographs, 2008 (top). Elephants, Tanit symbols, and masks are popular motifs. C and D. Photographs, 2014. Rides. (Sources: Daniel E. Coslett (A and B) and Talhat Mahmood, “Carthageland Hammamet,” Tunisia Weekend, 12 October 2014, accessed 2 March 2017, http://tunisiaweekend.blogspot.com/p/blog-page_67.html (C and D).) 496 Figure 5.74. The expanded Bardo National Museum, Bardo (Tunis). A. Site plan, c. 2012. The museum is highlighted within the old walled complex. The National Assembly building is just southeast of the museum. Portions of the original citadel walls are visible to the northwest. (top) B. Plan (ground floor), c. 2011. The extension is highlighted. The former eastern “front” and main entrance are to the right (bottom). (Sources: Anon., “Musée du Bardo, Tunis,” Archi-Mag (2012), accessed 7 March 2017, http://www.archi-mag.com/bardo.php (A) and Soumaya Gharsallah-Hizem, “Le projet de renovation et d’extension du palais-musée national du Bardo à Tunis,” in Architectures au Maghreb (XIXe–XXe siècles): Réinvention du patrimoine, ed. Myriam Bacha (Tours: Presses Universitaires François-Rabelais, 2011), 220.) 497 Figure 5.75. The expanded Bardo National Museum, Bardo (Tunis). Plan, 2012. The extensions are highlighted dark grey. (Source: Denis Lesage, “2012: Métamorphose muséale en Tunisie,” Archibat 26 (2012): 77.) 498 Figure 5.76. The new primary façade and entrance of the Bardo National Museum (Extension by Codou-Hindley and Nouira, 2011), Bardo (Tunis). A. Architectural rendering, c. 2005 (top). B. Photograph, 2013. (Sources: Gharsallah-Hizem, “Le projet,” 216 (A) and Daniel E. Coslett (B).) 499 Figure 5.77. The new entry hall of the Bardo National Museum (Codou-Hindley and Nouira, 2011), Bardo (Tunis). Photographs, 2013. A. New entrance hall with Neptune mosaic (top). B. Looking back from the hall towards the entrance (bottom). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 500 Figure 5.78. Gallery spaces at the Bardo National Museum, Bardo (Tunis). Photographs, 2016. A. An empty case visible at left, likely damaged during the 2015 attack and its contents not yet replaced (top). Note the glare in the glass at right. B. Unfinished gallery (bottom). The room was observed in almost the exact same state in 2013. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 501 Figure 5.79. 2015 attack memorial outside the Bardo Museum, Bardo (Tunis). Photograph, 2016. Mosaic portraits of each victim are included. A reproduction of the iconic Odysseus mosaic is at the center. Doves and the popular solidarity statement Je suis Bardo (I am Bardo) appears elsewhere in both French and Arabic. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 502 Figure 5.80. 2015 terrorist attack memorial inside the Bardo National Museum’s entry hall, Bardo (Tunis). Photograph, 2016. The names and nationalities of all twenty-two victims are listed on the mosaic panel. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 503 Figure 5.81. Tourism in Tunisia masthead by El Mekki. Printed image, 1960. (Source: Tourism in Tunisia 6 (December 1960): cover.) 504 Figure 5.82. Marie-Claire fashion photo featuring Tunisian mosaics. Photograph, 1960. (Source: Anon., Marie-Claire,” Tourism in Tunisia 4 (June 1960): 11.) 505 Figure 5.83. Tunisia tourism office on the Avenue de l’Opéra, Paris. Photographs, 2013. Antiquities feature largely in printed advertisements and reproductions of mosaics and sculptures are found in many places throughout the office. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 506 Figure 5.84. Private villa with mosaic reproduction, Carthage. Photograph, 2016. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 507 Figure 5.85. Virgil mosaic at the “Total” brand gas station, Carthage. Photograph, 2016. The mosaic reproduces the famous Virgil and muses panel from the Bardo. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 508 Figure 5.86. Mosaics reproductions for sale. A. Photograph, 2016 (top). The “Saint Louis Shop” is outside the Acropolium and Carthage Museum on the Byrsa. B. Photograph, 2013 (bottom). Among the kitschy camels and palm trees, Hannibal’s portrait is for sale at a stand in Sidi Bou Saïd. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 509 Figure 5.87. A Tunisian built environments mosaic. Published image collage, 2015. (Source: Leïla Ammar, ed., Cités et architectures de Tunisie (Tunis: Nirvana, 2015), 26–27.) 510 Figure 5.88. Mosaics disintegrating in situ, Thuburbo Maius. Photograph, 2005. Considerable efforts and money have been expended towards preserving mosaics in the field and in museums, particularly in cooperation with the Getty Conservation Institute. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 511 Figure 5.89. Carthage-themed products sold in Tunis. Photographs, 2013 and 2016. Carthage-branded quince jam, tomato concentrate, car rentals, and soap. Tanit symbols decorate a Carthage café (2016) and the main restaurant at the Tunis-Carthage airport (2016). (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 512 Figure 5.90. ONTT advertisement featuring Dougga’s Roman theatre. Published image, 2011. “They say that Tunisia is in a state of ruins. Come find out for yourself,” it says, referencing the 2011 revolution. (Source: D.D., “Une campagne ‘décalée’ pour relancer la destination Tunisie!,” Tourismag, 6 May 2011, accessed 7 March 2017, http://www.tourismag.com/articles/8408/une-campagne-decalee-pour-relancer-la-destination- tunisie.html.) 513 Figure 5.91. ONTT advertisement featuring El Djem’s Roman amphitheatre. Published image, c. 2013. “A day in Tunisia” consists of “Morning: Golf in Monastir. Afternoon: A visit to the amphitheatre of El Djem,” it says. (Source: “Tunisia. Free to live it all,” advertisement, World Tourism Organization, accessed 7 March 2017, http://lmd.unwto.org/poster-competitor/tunisia- free-live-it-all.) 514 Figure 5.92. Page spreads from Tunisair’s La Gazelle magazine featuring antiquities. Published pages, 2013. A. A Bardo feature (top). B. “Unmissable Oudhna” feature (bottom). (Sources: Joanna Ben Souissi, “Musée du Bardo,” La Gazelle no. 53, July–September 2013, 48–50 (A) and Martine Géronimi, “Oudhna l’incontournable,” La Gazelle no. 54, October– December 2013, 66–68 (B).) 515 Figure 5.93. Golden Tulip hotel advertisement from Tunisair’s La Gazelle magazine featuring Sbeitla’s triumphal arch. Published pages, 2013. “An endless horizon of inspiration,” is says. This hotel is in downtown Tunis, far from Sbeitla. (Source: “Golden Tulip El Mechtel Hotel” (Tunis) advertisement, La Gazelle no. 53, October–December 2013, 89.) 516 Figure 5.94. Five dinar banknote featuring Hannibal, the Punic Ports and ships. Printed banknote, 2013. The portrait of Hannibal is the iconic Quirinale bust. Carthaginian ships are featured on the reverse. (Source: Author’s collection.) 517 Figure 5.95. Five dinar banknote featuring Hannibal, the Punic Ports and Ben Ali’s “7.” Printed banknote, 1993. The ship’s prow is a map of the country. Note the mosaics in the background. (Source: Khiri and Fenina, Numismatique et Histoire, 266.) 518 6. Conclusion This study of Tunisia’s pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape reveals its reliance upon ancient literature, excavated archaeological material and perpetuated national identity mythologies since the 1860s. The process of knowledge production by French colonialists reinforced their own biases and assumptions about the past and about themselves. In crafting narratives that suited their objectives, they explored, excavated and reinforced by reference and archive. Essential to that process, archaeology in North Africa has always been linked with colonialism, whether through its aesthetic, political or commercial aspects. 1 It has played a role in the larger Orientalist narrative of the region produced through a “double process of cultural annexation and alienation” that elevated colonialists as masters of knowledge—hence power—based on their scholarly expertise and purported affiliation with ancient empires.2 As aptly conveyed by Saïd, Orientalism was a “kind of intellectual power,” or “a library or archive of information commonly and, in some of its aspects, unanimously held.” 3 This authoritative archive was held together by “a family of ideas and a unifying set of values proven in various ways to be effective” when 1 David Mattingly and R. Bruce Hitchner, “Roman Africa: An Archaeological Review,” Journal of Roman Studies 85 (1995): 165–213. 2 David Mattingly, “From One Colonialism to Another: Imperialism and the Maghreb,” in Roman Imperialism: Post-colonial Perspectives, eds. Jane Webster and Nicholas Cooper (Leicester: School of Archaeological Studies, 1996), 52. 3 Edward Saïd, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1978), 41. 519 deployed by those in power.4 In this case the ideas and values included the fascinating exoticism of Carthage’s Punic inhabitants, the inherent superiority of ancient Romans, the tragic demise of noble early Christianity, as well as France’s destiny to master and improve a land and people long since deprived of civilization. Conceptions of the Occident thus informed those of the Orient, and relationships between the two produced potent interpretations of the past and lasting built environments. The process of heritage fabrication undertaken during the colonial period remains relevant still; in today’s globalizing age heritage must be remade, “not stored in a vault or in an attic,” because “to reshape is as vital as to preserve,” according to Lowenthal.5 This case study demonstrates that Lowenthal’s thesis applies here, and Tunis’ built environments reinforce the notion effectively. This is not to say that authorities are necessarily making things up, but rather that the fabrication happens in the representation, the framing, the visual deployment of archaeological fact or history. It is image-crafting done strategically for aesthetic, political and economic ends that has supported the dominant colonial and postcolonial regimes. Objective fact has not been the goal in many of the cases explored here. As has been recounted above, Tunisia’s French administration deployed rhetorical and architectural references to Rome quite freely. Monuments such as the Résidence générale and the Hôtel de Postes, as well as allegorical statuary monuments, communicated power and order in a language familiar to European inhabitants and visitors. The Catholic Church, seeing itself as uniquely positioned to further the French colonial mission by uniting discordant French, Italian and Maltese factions, presented itself as the successor to the region’s earliest Christian residents. Its Chapel of St. Louis, as well as the cathedrals in Carthage and downtown Tunis, 4 Ibid., 41–42. 5 David Lowenthal, “Fabricating Heritage,” History and Memory 10 no. 1 (1998), 19. See also David Lowenthal, The Heritage Crusade and the Spoils of History (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1998), 127–72. Abramson offers a counterargument that urges us not to indulge to liberally in the subjective or unverifiable elements of memory. See Daniel Abramson, “Make History, Not Memory: History's Critique of Memory,” Harvard Design Magazine (1999): 78–83. 520 reflected this ideology in name, appearance and function. Excavations, restorations and pronouncements made for the 1930 International Eucharistic Conference proved to not only excite visiting and local Catholics but offend Tunisia’s Muslim population, many of which would cite the event as an inspiring moment for the coalescing anti-colonial resistance. Following independence, both Presidents Bourguiba and Ben Ali appealed to the country’s Carthaginian past, drawn by several aspects of its story, including its one-time dominance in the Mediterranean, its opposition to Rome (that is to say European hegemony) and its relative marginalization by the French who privileged Roman and Christian Tunisia quite vociferously. The regimes’ use of tourism—whether through museums, disseminated imagery or proposed monuments to Hannibal—for development and revenue generation complemented its strategic national identity crafting. Tunisianité depended on deference to a multicultural, tolerant and deep-seated heritage-based identity. Not unlike the way French colonizers needed to view themselves as justifiably empowered and capable of restoring prosperity and order, Tunisia’s autocratic regimes sought to placate internal opposition through appeals to cultural identities that were familiar and friendly to Western audiences. Allusions to antiquity in Postmodern architectures give further materiality to these concepts of history and identity. The wealth of material at one’s disposal and its flexibility within the realm of mythmaking have thus rendered the pre-Arab past a particularly useful tool capable of sustaining wide relevance across the modern era and in differing socio-cultural and political contexts. Choices made in the development of this project prioritized matching certain themes with distinct constituencies and time period emphases (see Figure 1.9). Most of the sites explored in this project manifest several, if not all, of the themes developed, however, as aesthetics, politics and economics are not easily divorced in the contexts of colonialism and globalization. For example, the Hôtel des Postes was considered here within the framework of aesthetics, but its form made bold political statements regarding the imposition of order and the supremacy of 521 modern technology and communications networks. It was of course a business, as well, and thus also a revenue-generating operation intended to garner wealth for the administration. Beyond its own function, it certainly furthered the commercial endeavors of the colonialist state and private interests. The ex-Cathedral of St. Louis, now the Acropolium, was originally a political tool used by the Catholic Church to exert influence in conjunction with the French administration. Its appropriation by the Tunisian state in 1964 and reuse as a multipurpose art and event venue was also a political act of sovereignty-claiming, and the exposition of local and international arts there today remains one. The cathedral’s initial political ambitions were of course embodied by its architectural style and the incorporation of ancient materials and relics, all of which contributed to its—and the entire Church’s—legitimacy in Tunisia. In its current incarnation the structure participates in competitive globalizing tourism as a cultural venue and compelling curiosity. Lastly, the newly expanded Bardo Museum does this, too. As was described above, it has benefited from World Bank funding and remains the city’s preeminent tourist attraction. In its earliest phases, however, its display of impressive Roman antiquities within the renovated beylical palace generated a meaningful juxtaposition that emphasized the appropriation and restoration of space by French authorities and the intentional prioritizing of one era’s civilization over others. These were significant political assertions. Given the importance of imagery and big-name museums today, the appearance of the Bardo extension matters greatly. As the museum attempts to regain positive attention in the wake of 2015’s devastating terror attack, it struggles with its image and attractiveness. Tourism has thus become a tool of the state, part of a “sector governed by the ‘aesthetics of power’…and its legitimization” in which the state assumes the role of “self-representational and projective” image promoter.6 Thus, most of the sites explored in this dissertation could be reconsidered 6 Habib Saidi, “When the Past Poses Beside the Present: Aestheticizing Politics and Nationalising Modernity in a Postcolonial Time,” Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change 6 no. 2 (2008): 102. This 522 from different thematic angles using all three of the project’s lenses, leaving ample opportunity for future study and the project’s further development. As a rich collection of considerable data on the origins and development of the sites it explores, it provides much for additional consideration. In that regard this document succeeds in another of its goals; for the majority of the selected sites this is likely the most complete account now available. This project addresses a number of assumptions one might make regarding the relevance of the ancient past in today’s world. Indeed, archaeologists and scholars often assume that a substantial disconnect between a place’s ancient and modern peoples exists, particularly in North Africa where Arab outsiders conquered and settled long after celebrated ancient civilizations waned. Today’s residents are considered to be “disinterested and disengaged” from the pre-Arab past, whereas outsider scholars are deemed the “rightful inheritors and translators of the past” in a form of neo-colonialist oppression.7 The robust development and deployment of Tunisia’s integrated and multimedia pre-Arab antiquity culture- scape demonstrates that this is not so simply the case there. Even before the revolution some were advocating for postcolonialist reappraisals of longstanding tropes of Carthaginian culture, particularly with regard to alleged infanticide. “We must stop looking at our past through the eyes of foreigners,” said researcher Mohammad Hassine Fantar. “When the Arabs study and understand their own history, we will be at the dawn of a true revolution,” he continued somewhat prophetically.8 Post-revolution leaders and citizens themselves have indicated that presentation of the state as mediator of past and present affords contemporary politicians and officials an apparent heroism, Saidi continues. (Ibid.) 7 Lynn Meskell, “Pharaonic Legacies: Postcolonialism, Heritage, and Hyperreality,” in Politics of Archaeology, Susan Kane, ed. (Boston: Archaeological Institute of America, 2003), 150. See also Eric Gady, “Le Musée des antiquités du Caire: un lieux de mémoire pour les égyptiens ou pour les occidentaux?” Outre-mers 93 no. 350 (2006): 81–90; Clémentine Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie (XIXe–XXe siècles) (Paris/Tunis: Karthala/IRMC, 2010), 137–66. 8 Fantar quoted in Andrew Higgins, “Les sacrifices des enfants à Carthage: mythe ou réalité?” Jeune Afrique, 27 June 2005, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.jeuneafrique.com/66869/archives- thematique/les-sacrifices-d-enfants-carthage-mythe-ou-r-alit/. 523 this process has perhaps been undertaken in some ways. Such reassessments are not purely academic or isolated from regular people, nor inseparable from ousted governments. Graffiti found outside the sacked villa of Imed Trabelsi (a politician and businessman, the nephew of Leïla Ben Ali, widely despised for his corruption) in the La Marsa suburb on its Rue Hannibal read: “Hannibal proved that nothing was impossible…the Tunisians, as well” (Figure 6.1).9 This statement suggests that, for some at least, the figure of Hannibal has been reclaimed by the people, divorced from its association with the former president.10 Have Tunisians, generally speaking, adopted Hannibal as their own, or are well-rehearsed and formerly imposed interpretations holding fast? 6.1 Distinctive antiquity as an opposite or foil The significance of Orientalism in the development and study of this material cannot be overstated. Indeed, colonialist infatuation with the apparently exotic beliefs and practices of Tunisian people influenced colonial policies in innumerable ways and was related to, and often complemented, presentations of pre-Arab antiquity (see Figure 5.10). The perceived timelessness of Tunisia’s Arabo-Islamic culture was counterbalanced by the exalted relevance of the region’s ancient superiority. In this regard the desire to define oneself—in the colonial-era case, as a Roman or early Christian reborn—entails the classification of “the Other” as opposite or foil. 9 Amanda Rogers, “For a Leaderless Revolution, a Monument with No Curator: A Walk Through Imed Trabelsi’s Looted Villa,” Aslan Media Initiatives, 12 July 2012, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.aslanmedia.com/%20arts-culture/mideast-art/7267-for-a-leaderless-revolution-a-monument- with-no%20curator-a-walk-through-imed-trabelsi-s-looted-villa. The reference here is to Hannibal’s legendary Alps crossing and sack of Rome. 10 There are several active Facebook groups run by Tunisians dedicated to the memory and celebration of Hannibal, such as the “Club Didon de Carthage” (https://www.facebook.com/groups/clubdidon/) and “Sur le Chemin d’Hannibal” (On the Path of Hannibal) (https://www.facebook.com/Sur-le-Chemin-dHannibal- de-Carthage-%C3%A0-Izmit-1704271276488803/). On digital “bottom-up” heritage discourses, see Anita Aigner, “Heritage-making From Below: The Politics of Exhibiting Architectural Heritage on the Internet—A Case Study,” International Journal of Heritage Studies 22 no. 3 (2016): 181–99. 524 Tunisia’s pre-Arab history was deployed as a tool for distinction by French colonialists who imagined themselves as fundamentally different from the colonized Tunisians. It provided the French with what Saïd calls a “flexible positional superiority.”11 Through the development of the pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape explored above, French authorities sought to demonstrate that French people were not Arabs, but instead were in essence Romans. At the same time, resident Catholics rooted their identity claim—that they were Christians, not Muslims—in excavated materials and built environments. Saïd’s description of Orientalism resonates strongly here. His concern for the effects of this distinctive function, however, reminds one that such effects can survive the demise of formal colonialism. “If the essence of Orientalism is the ineradicable distinction between Western superiority and Oriental inferiority,” he says, “then we must be prepared to note how in its development and subsequent history Orientalism deepened and even hardened the distinction.”12 Turning to the postcolonial context, it is clear that Tunisia’s independent regimes rearticulated their interpretations and presentations of the country’s pre- Arab antiquity culture-scape in a bid to distance themselves—and the entire Tunisian citizenry— from radical Islamicists whose goals might include the destabilization of government and establishment of Sharia law, the rejection of Western influences, or the challenging of existing power. “Civic patriotism” and “communitarian nationalism” that depended on the discourse of state-sponsored reformism that recalled Tunisia’s non-Islamic heritage contributed to nationalist myth-making and appealed to outsiders.13 This of course it not to say that Islam has not been an extremely relevant aspect of Tunisian identity and politics. Rather, it is to say that both Bourguiba and Ben Ali operated with vested interests in controlling it, suppressing its political 11 Saïd, Orientalism, 7. Such distinctions were essential within the contexts of ancient empires, as well. The Greeks and Roman both held similar views of their own superiority and the inherent barbarism of outsiders. 12 Ibid., 42. 13 Béatrice Hibou, The Force of Obedience: The Political Economy of Repression in Tunisia, trans. Andrew Brown (Malden, MA: Polity, 2011), 228–32. See also Larbi Sadiki, “The Search for Citizenship in Bin Ali’s Tunisia: Democracy Versus Unity,” Political Studies 50 (2002): 497–513. 525 potential and maintaining open ties with external investors, visitors and audiences. Perpetuating colonial-era practices has proven to be an effective means to do just that. Noteworthy consistency in the deployment of imagery and ideas, and of sites referenced, betrays this tendency. Tunisia’s pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape is the product of, and has been, malleable material re-presented to suit the changing needs of those at the apex of socio-cultural and political hierarchies. This popularized mythology has come from elites, and thus it has retained its paternalistic nature. Attempts to recall supposedly pure origins through historiographic bracketing (see Figure 1.5) are also complex in that during no period was any single culture exclusively significant. Despite the clear preoccupation with Tunisia’s pre-Arab periods (as manifested in the pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape) during the Protectorate, the Arabo-Islamic eras and cultures attracted considerable Orientalizing attention. In fact, they were arguably essentially present as a foil for colonialist appeals to the pre-Arab period. Without the subsequent “decline,” the preceding “golden era” would have been less effective as a model and tool; the former cast the latter in relief and enhanced its standing. Similarly, post-independence Tunisian regimes have appealed to the country’s pre-colonial state as a source of cultural identity and political sovereignty. As demonstrated above, however, they have not disowned pre-Arab or early-Modern Tunisia. On the contrary, they have embraced both in different ways as demonstrations of tolerance and diversity, both for internal (political) and external (touristic) purposes. Interests in Carthage and Hannibal have dominated in recent decades, but Rome has not disappeared. Again, its survival and appearance is necessary; the story of Carthage and its heroic strength depend on its Roman antagonists. Western/French conceptions of modernity and universal values, such as “liberty, equality, fraternity,” have been blended with Islamic principles and affinities for Eastern cultures. The relative success of UNESCO World Heritage activities in Tunisia reflect effective 526 integration/appropriate here. The recent transition to legitimate democracy further betrays a sustained dedication to so-called universal Western ideologies. 6.2 On hybridity: Continuities and nuanced differences As “an emblematic notion of our era,” the term “hybridity” has undergone a “vigorous renascence in postcolonial theory,” as thinkers attempt to better understand oppression, power, agency and resistance to colonialism.14 It effectively embodies contemporary fascination with diversity and ambiguity. Whereas in the nineteenth century the term was used to describe biological and racial concerns, it has now been superseded by interests in the “strictly semiotic, discursive, and cultural realm.”15 Homi Bhabha’s critique of what he argued is Saïd’s somewhat hegemonic or monolithic interpretation of colonial discourse, articulated in his The Location of Culture (1994), 16 has inspired considerable work on hybridity as a form of empowering resistance. His conception of culture and identity suggests that they are dynamic and ambivalent. To him, hybridity takes the form of a third space that produces novel ideas and forms in contrast to hegemonic imposition and unquestioning reception.17 Hybridity as a concept remains a tool for challenging binaries, purity claims and essentialist interpretations. Hybridity discourse has inspired criticism that ranges from its complete dismissal to its more nuanced rearticulation.18 Amar Acheraïou suggests that a rethinking of hybridity from a “wider historical, cultural, and ideological perspective is a valuable critical alternative” to its 14 Marwan M. Kraidy, Hybridity, or the Cultural Logic of Globalization (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University, 2005), 1 and 57. 15 Amar Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, Postcolonialism and Globalization (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 89. Acheraïou identifies what is labeled here “a scramble for hybridity and the third space” in humanities, politics, and communications studies in the past three decades. (Ibid.) 16 Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (New York: Routledge, 1994). 17 Ibid., 211. 18 For critiques of hybridity theory, see ibid., 105–20; Kraidy, Hybridity, 65–73. 527 complete abandonment.19 A more “sober, realistic, and historically grounded conception of hybridity” that avoids fixation on “the angelic hybridism” so popular in today’s postcolonial scholarship would be preferable, Acheraïou concludes.20 In order to understand the true nature of cultural mixing, one must step back and take the long view. Contributing to this process, the present project has revealed the complexities of hybridity and the insufficiency of limiting that concept to the postcolonial context—which is a fairly common assumption—through the case of Tunisia. While one might be tempted, in looking at the pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape, to view its postcolonial perpetuation as a continuation of colonial-era practices and a manifestation of a reactionary hybridity that explicitly challenges hegemonic colonialist dominance, it is clearly more than that. Such narratives are perhaps not without validity; there is no denying that many aspects of contemporary Tunisian culture remain very influenced by Protectorate-era legacies, leading some to identify a certain “schizophrenic” Tunisian persona.21 Indeed, one discerns a strong element of hybridity and mimicry, not only in the layered multiculturalism of Tunisia’s contemporary identity itself, but also in the behaviors and policies that define it. While hybridity or “cultural mixture” may be pervasive in general—arguably all cultures are hybrid to some extent—it is the “degree, direction, and implication” of that mixture within its own context that matters most.22 Given the origin of archaeology, museology and professional built environments design in the context of colonialism and the nineteenth century, these colonial to postcolonial continuities are not entirely unexpected. They do, however, set Tunisia apart in some regards, as their maintenance is a departure from the postcolonial rejection of colonial-era policies and 19 Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, 107. 20 Ibid., 108. 21 Some are less optimistic. “The Tunisian identity still suffers from a postcolonial voidness that has made it impossible for people to make a true sense of who they are,” says Hedidar. Walid Hedidar, “Postcolonialism: A Road To Schizophrenia,” Tunisialive, 30 March 2017, accessed 31 March 2017, http://www.tunisia-live.net/2017/03/30/postcolonialism-a-road-to-schizophreni/. 22 Kraidy, Hybridity, 119. 528 practices seen elsewhere, such as in neighboring Algeria. Indeed, cultural mixture or hybridity has been essential to (imposed?) conceptions of Tunisianité for quite some time, and aspects of colonial-era French and Tunisian culture are significant parts of that dynamic identity. Marwan Kraidy reminds us that, in no small part because of imperialism, “all cultures are involved in one another; none is single and pure, all are hybrid, heterogeneous, extraordinarily differentiated, and unmonolithic.” 23 The Tunisia case demonstrates the transhistorical and contemporary transcultural nature of this relationship quite clearly. The project does reveal, however, that the contemporary hybridity discernable in today’s Tunisia and Tunisois built environments is neither new nor explicitly postcolonial. Successive regimes have reached back and drawn upon precedents in an effort to validate and strengthen their own claims to primacy. Despite assertions that an untainted, universally valid original lay at the core of past societies, it is clearly not so. Punic culture was a mixture of eastern Phoenician, indigenous North African, and other regional cultures. Rome’s identity was mixed, and eventually very influenced by the peoples it came to dominate throughout its empire.24 Roman North Africa in particular existed in a state of great diversity and “perpetual gestation” wherein “nothing was definitively acquired.” 25 Christianity owes much to its pagan and Jewish predecessors, and Islam in turn reflects considerable elements of its shred Judeo-Christian aspects. The Ottoman Empire was diverse, as was pre-Protectorate Tunisia. Muslims, Jews and Berbers lived there for centuries, alongside resident outsiders from Europe, well before the French assumed control in 1881. France, largely by virtue of its empire, operated in a state of increasing diversity and hybridity; it still does today. The idea of mixing has implied that the “ingredients” be pure in order to be subsequently corrupted or hybridized. Claims of pure origins, 23 Edward Saïd, Culture and Imperialism (New York: Vintage, 1994), xxv, quoted in ibid., 59. 24 On hybridity in ancient Greece, Rome, and elsewhere, see Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, 13–36. 25 Marcel Benabou, La résistance africaine à la romanisation (Paris: François Maspero, 1976), 579. See also Richard Hingley, Globalizing Roman Culture: Unity, Diversity and Empire (New York: Routledge, 2005). 529 however, are highly flawed, and the Tunisia case explored here contributes to developing discourses on these complexities and essentializing tendencies that diminish the significance of nuance. Rather than concepts in conflict, hybridity and opposition or distinction remain integrated. While colonial and postcolonial authorities were doing many similar things, using related materials and compatible language, the particulars of their approaches and precise aims reveal meaningful differences and the subtlety of strategic and unavoidable hybridity. In summary, by way of returning to the notion of hybridity’s “degree, direction, and implication,”26 one might reach several meaningful conclusions based on the present study. As said before, hybridity has always existed within the various cultures and civilizations that have occupied Tunisia. The degree to which that mixture is acknowledged, or indeed encouraged, has changed. During the Protectorate it was essential that antiquity’s hybridity be downplayed in favor of a more essentializing presentation of Roman and Christian purity. French hybridity was certainly not highlighted, and indigenous hybridity among Tunisians was not relevant from the French perspective (with the possible exception of Jewish Tunisians who were afforded a privileged place in comparison to Tunisian Muslims). This changed with independence, however, when Tunisia’s hybridity—Arab, African, Berber, Francophone, traditional, modern, etc.—became an essential aspect of the idealized national character. Identifying the exact reasoning behind this remains outside the scope of the present project, but it appears that this approach was, and still is, taken to maximize the country’s leverage with competing global influences. Economics has always been central to this process, and tourism increasingly so in recent decades. As for the direction of such hybridity claims, intended audiences have of course shifted with the end of formal colonization; but the denial or celebration of Tunisia’s hybridity has always been aimed at domestic and international constituencies. The justification of one’s position of dominance within the country for colonialists and the colonized, while demonstrating 26 Kraidy, Hybridity, 119. 530 the validity of a particular regime to competing global powers, has always been important and consistently relied upon the evocation of the country’s pre-Arab pasts. Finally, the implications of this hybridity remain great. If the cultural hybridity professed by recent governments truly exists in Tunisia and does relate to broader tolerance and commitments to social and political improvements achievable there, then interventions that reinforce it may be desirable. If this notion of hybridity and tolerance is a myth deployed to keep those in power in control, than its maintenance would appear to be a disservice to the Tunisian people. The recent revolution caused a great shock to the status quo, of course, and it is not entirely clear yet how the development of liberal democracy might change things. Factors long since hidden, including political Islam and poverty, represent major challenges to the erstwhile mosaic of contemporary Tunisianité. The past is clearly far from irrelevant in Tunisia. A pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape thrives today in tandem with an Arabo-Islamic culture-scape that intersects and overlaps with it, in many ways by its juxtaposition amplifying the relevance of both. Within the context of national identity formation today and global tourism, the pre-Arab past remains extremely influential. The nation’s genius loci (spirit of place) is said to depend upon it still. As shown here, the pre-Arab past remains an actively re-presented essential component of today’s Tunisianité. Heritage objects perform as recognizable features or what Saidi terms within the realm of tourism as essential “DNA markers” whose presence confirms the uniqueness of Tunisia in today’s globalizing world.27 6.3 On the future of the (pre-Arab) past in Tunis Just as Tunis and Carthage manifest the accumulation of the region’s history of occupation and empire, their built environments reflect a distinctive complexity. Most historic 27 Saidi, “When the Past Poses,” 109. 531 built environments have survived there, whether because of practical maintenance or intentional preservation. The resulting layered accumulation has proven receptive to, and inspiration for, changing meanings. As the ASM has begun protecting colonial-era architecture in central Tunis and authorities vie for the restoration of tourism revenues,28 Tunisia’s pre-Arab past seems likely to remain highly visible and strategically deployed. While it is true that the recent revolution did unleash long since pent-up Islamicist tendencies, and one can see a resurgence of that national identity trait in the successes of the Ennadha party in 2011 and 2014 parliamentary elections,29 one notes as well the durability of references to Carthage and Roman Tunisia, and to a lesser extent early Christianity in the region. The trend appears to be moving still towards a multicultural and connected future wherein deep respect for the country’s pre-Arab past and affinities for its much mythologized significance will guarantee its maintenance. Evidence indicative of the pre-Arab culture-scape’s lasting post-revolutionary significance exists in official imagery, museum events and tourism promotion material. Queen Dido has been removed from Tunisian banknotes but Hannibal retained, for example. While the Carthage Museum remains fairly quiet during the ongoing lull in tourism, interest in the early Christian and colonial-era religious history of Carthage has resurfaced. This is seen in the several works of Tunis-based Father Silvio Moreno recently published30 and a recent exhibition of several early Christian artifacts at the Bardo in a presentation intended to 28 Justin McGuiness and Zoubeir Mouhli, Tunis: 1800–1950 (Tunis: Association de Sauvegarde de la Médina de Tunis, 2004); Zoubeïr Mouhli, Faïka Béjaoui and Abdelkrim Gazzah, Tunis Living Heritage: Conservation and Creativity (Tunis: Simpact, 2013). 29 The party won the most votes in the 2011 election and formed a coalition with the leading secularist party (Nidaa Tounes) following the 2014 election, as it won second place in the wake of a crisis of anti- Islamicist criticism that had resulted in its peaceful resignation from leading the government earlier that year. 30 Silvio G. Moreno, Carthage eternelle: Un pélerinage dans l’histoire et les ruines crétiennes de Carthage (Tunis: Institut de Verbe Incarné, 2013). See also Moreno’s Une catéchèse vivante: Archéologie et l'art chrétien, le musée du Bardo en Tunisie (Tunis: Institut de Verbe Incarné, 2015), and his Notre Dame de Carthage, archéologie, histoire et dévotion (Tunis: Cathédrale de Tunis, 2016). 532 highlight shared Christian and Islamic history.31 According to the Bardo Museum’s director, Tunisians appear to be embracing their cultural heritage even more since the crippling attacks of 2015, and the number of Tunisian visitors has been increasing.32 Interest has been sustained and stoked by events such as a recent exposition called “Hannibal in Carthage,” hosted by the Bardo, for which the iconic Quirinale bust of Hannibal was loaned by the Italian government in 2016,33 the gifting of a reproduction of said bust to the Tunisian President in 201734 and another Hannibal exhibition—“Hannibal: A Voyage”—to be mounted by the Bardo later in the year (Figure 6.2). 35 The long-discussed plan for a museum dedicated specifically to Hannibal appears to be moving ahead, as well. A team of archaeologists and researchers at the INP are now working on plans for the facility—to be located in Siliana, site of the 202 BC Battle of Zama where Hannibal was defeated by the Romans—and an international appeal for design proposals is to be made early in 2018.36 The optimism notwithstanding, some still see Tunisians as foreigners at home, cut off from their ancient history despite its omnipresence. Links through spectacle and consumerist sites such as the Carthageland themepark—the quintessential “anti- Carthage”—have been described as superficial and nationalistic. 37 Globalization can render 31 Anon., “Expo ‘Lieux saints partagés’ au Musée du Bardo,” Cathédrale Catholique de Tunis, 8 January 2017, accessed 2 March 2017, http://www.cathedraledetunis.com/2017/01/expo-lieux-saints-partages-au- musee-du-bardo.html. The rise of Late Antique studies as a formal field of inquiry since the 1980s and 1990s might also explain some of this more recent interest in the field. 32 David Robert, “Five Questions for the Director of the Bardo Museum,” Art Newspaper 25 no. 275 (2016): 22. 33 Anon., “Tunisia—Quirinale’s Bust of Hannibal on Display in Bardo Museum,” Farnesina (Ministero degli Affari Esteri (Italy)), 25 May 2016, accessed 2 March 2917, http://www.esteri.it/mae/en/sala_stampa/archivionotizie/approfondimenti/2016/05/tunisia-da-quirinale-a- tunisi-busto.html. 34 Anon., “Le président italien Matarella offre un buste d’Hannibal au président tunisien,” La Nation, 8 February 2017, accessed 2 March 2017, https://www.lanation.tn/le-president-italien-matarella-offre-un- buste-dhannibal-au-president-tunisien/. 35 This exhibit will be coming from the Castle of Barletta museum in Italy’s Puglia region. Mounir Khelifa, email correspondence with author, 5 February 2017. 36 Chokri Touihri (INP Researcher and Curator of the Zama site and member of the steering committee of the Siliana Museum project), email correspondence with author, 7 February 2017. 37 Clémentine Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie (XIXe–XXe siècles) (Paris/Tunis: Karthala/IRMC, 2010), 193. See also ibid., 188–94. 533 Hannibal a hollow figure, attachments to whom can be seen to be of questionable sincerity.38 Conflicting assessments are not unexpected, however, given the state of things and the priorities of different groups. It is obvious that the relationship exists and continues to be complex. It likely will remain so into the future. The maintenance of the post-revolutionary nation-state continues to depend on the deployment of the country’s pre-Arab past. While increasingly visible political and religious diversity contributes to an evolving national identity, the pre-Arab past remains relevant and appears to function in a similar way despite being divorced from Ben Ali. Tunisia’s pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape has not been dismantled, and given the importance of tourism and positive receptions from Western powers, it will probably be reinforced. More conservative elements of the country’s particularly religious community may challenge some aspects of tourism and globalization, and of course terrorist remains a real threat, but it seems highly unlikely that they will succeed in neutralizing the pre-Arab past and its strategic representation. One might be tempted to consider potentially “better,” more “appropriate” or honest uses of history and heritage in the deployment of a pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape. Abramson, in his critique of memory-based approaches to space, commemoration and storytelling, suggests that one should avoid the pitfalls of subjective nostalgia, overwhelming pluralism and an absolute rejection of fact.39 He attributes the success of several contemporary projects to the fact that they do not return nostalgically to premodern monumentality. They do use Modernism’s formal tools and agendas, as well as memory’s purchase. Their abstract and open forms encourage multiple interpretations. But they also value history’s structure and animating potential. They resist irony and risk conviction. They encourage the receptivity of visitors who are made newly aware of history’s facts, meanings, and lessons.40 It is clear that most commemorative sites within Tunisia’s pre-Arab antiquity culture-scape— 38 Clémentine Gutron, “Nos ancêtres les Carthaginois,” Qantara 65 (2007): 54–57. 39 Daniel Abramson, “Make History, Not Memory: History's Critique of Memory,” Harvard Design Magazine (1999): 78–83. 40 Ibid., 82. 534 whether intentionally commemorative of commemorative simply by virtue of their preservation and presence—do poorly by Abramson’s standards and tend to exist as memory in the guise of official history. They are often monumental, unabashedly nostalgic and biased, dogmatic in their denial of multiple interpretations, and they fail to clearly convey the full richness of complex histories. Were one to accept the equation of memory with fabricated heritage, one might imagine alternative deployments of Tunisia’s pre-Arab history that rely more on scientifically rigorous (in this case, archaeological) studies. This study concurs with the notion that The role and responsibility of archaeology, therefore, is to present a balanced and creditable account of the past in a way that presents the past, not as an isolated event detached from the modem world, but rather as a building block of modern society.41 Even scientific explorations abiding by contemporary best practice standards, however, are not entirely resistant to subjectivity, as has been demonstrated well by the history of excavation in Tunisia, leading one to wonder if truly non-political knowledge exists. 42 Furthermore, archaeologists and other scholars are not necessarily in a position to completely prevent the corruption of their work in the presentations of others. Still, the dedication of increased resources towards improved excavation, interpretation and the scientific presentation of ancient materials could diminish the malleability of the past, rendering it less susceptible to overt politicization. Perhaps this would be a good place to begin acting upon the critique advanced by this project. “A well-informed public is the best defense against agendas that distort history for their own benefit”, and archaeologists play a critical role in presenting the past to diverse audiences in ways that are comprehensible and ethically sound.43 The erstwhile imposition of Tunisia’s chosen heritage-based identity from above, by those in power working to maintain their positions of dominance, makes finding “better” 41 George S. Smith, “The Role of Archaeology in Presenting the Past to the Public,” in Images, Representations and Heritage, ed. Ian Russell (New York: Springer, 2006), 123. 42 Saïd, Orientalism, 9–12. 43 Smith, “The Role of Archaeology,” 123. 535 approaches difficult. Those at the top have been generating and imposing communal memories for quite some time, and in the past these individuals have successfully assumed heroic status by situating themselves as descendants of ancient figures occupying the same spaces. As these inclinations appear durable (and self-serving), perhaps it will not be possible to imagine less questionable stewardship approaches until the ancient past is truly wrestled from the control of politicians, heritage tourism managers and other elites. Again, the ongoing revolution does not seem to have produced substantial resistance to durable state-serving presentations. Perhaps increased awareness to the use of the past towards these aims might expand potential critiques, opposition and revisions in the future, paving a way for a more balanced or objective understanding of the past in the present. Ongoing changes in the Tunisian situation will of course cause shifts in potential opportunities for future studies of this material. Current events notwithstanding, the historical material itself might be reinterpreted in time, as well. Gwendolyn Wright raises a very relevant point in her reminder that There is no single reading of a city, a place, or even a style of architecture that should dominate all other meanings. Architecture is a public arena, a world of contention and consensus. It must always be read in multiple ways, in terms of the specific artistic goals of designers, the social or economic goals of powerful figures, and the associations or uses of diverse groups. Each perspective is valid; they cannot even be ranked, although certain groups have considerably more power to assert the hegemony of their views and their values.44 This dissertation has pursued the dominant discourses put forth by those in positions of leadership, who have wielded the power to set agendas, control the flow of information and communicate most loudly. Where possible, it has acknowledged voices of opposition—for example in the use of allegory by anti-colonialists factions, the case of the 1930 Eucharistic 44 Gwendolyn Wright, The Politics of Design in French Colonial Urbanism (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1991), 312. 536 Congress and in discussing the 2011 revolution—but it has not elevated these voices to a more central role, nor has that been entirely possible. Given the nature of available archives, the dominance of colonialism and the postcolonial regimes’ partial continuation of colonial-era messaging, such a project would be very different and considerably more difficult, though no less compelling. Indeed, a project that fully explores opposition to the pre-Arab antiquity culture- scape’s celebration ought to be undertaken. The place of Tunisia’s indigenous Berber community and its Jewish contingent offers opportunities to further this study. Likewise, the relationship of Protestant and non-Catholic Christian residents (primarily British Anglicans, but also Greek orthodox) and the politicized Catholic Church hierarchy might prove compelling. There are certainly built environments associated with all of these groups that may be of interest and further advance the present work. Were one interested in further developing a full study of the past in Tunisia present, one could expand this project by more fully interrogating the representation of the country’s Arabo-Islamic history and built environments. Acknowledged somewhat here, these representations ran parallel and intersected with the pre-Arab manifestations that make up the core of the present project. Such work might shed light on opposition to the dominant narratives explored here, or even complement them. As was stated above, the methodological approach undertaken here could be reconsidered and lenses shifted to expose alternative historiographical and myth-making priorities (see Figure 1.9). For example, consideration of intersections between the colonial state and politically charged built environments would certainly be fruitful. Postcolonial aesthetics as related to pre-Arab antiquity would likewise shed light on important materials. Indeed, many of these issues have been explored through the present project thereby illustrating the inexorably interconnected nature of ancient history and contemporary politics, aesthetics and economics. Each realm has been shown to reinforce others in compelling ways that maximize its relevance and utility for those presenting a history-based interpretation of the present. That said, it bears 537 repeating an acknowledgement that the thematic approach and lens matrix developed here artificially separates issues that are inevitably interrelated. Aesthetics, politics and economics are certainly complicated issues, and their intersections often reveal great instances of compelling relationships and influences. Indeed, these issues should not be considered as siloes, but perhaps more appropriately as a woven or braided historiographic fabric within which politics plays a central role (Figure 6.3). This project establishes a substantial body of material that may contribute to future comparative studies of different colonial contexts in North Africa and elsewhere.45 The relative paucity of such truly comparative works remains an area for critical expansion of the field, as Cohen asserts.46 Lastly, further development of the culture-scape concept introduced here might also be undertaken and applied to other contexts as a potentially useful means for framing multimedia interventions in urban space. Thinking beyond the present project, the concepts explored here could be applied to similar colonial contexts with relevant ancient histories, such as Cyprus, where the author has done archaeology work and research since 2004. A project like this one undertaken on this former British colony would help bridge a longstanding and lamentable divide between the complementary scholarly domains of British and French colonial studies. Ultimately, this project demonstrates that Tunisia’s pre-Arabic history has consistently been of major consequence, both within academic circles, but also without. It has informed and inspired the shaping of national identities—and built environments—for both French colonialists and for Tunisian nationals. It remains an essential element of Tunisia’s face to the world beyond 45 Turkey, for example, has experience somewhat similar strategic deployments of ancient history and heritage. On museums and essentializing concepts of ancient civilizations there, for example, see Aslı Gür, “Stories in Three Dimensions: Narratives of Nation and the Anatolian Civilizations Museum,” in The Politics of Public Memory in Turkey, ed. Esra Özyürek (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University, 2007), 40–69. 46 Jean-Louis Cohen, “Architectural History and the Colonial Question: Casablanca, Algiers and Beyond,” Architectural History 49 (2006): 349–72. 538 and an aspect of Tunisian culture that has been subject to Orientalizing fetishization and commoditization alongside the country’s Arabo-Islamic character. In terms of processes and practices, this study reveals yet another aspect of what one might call postcolonial auto- occidentalization, or the self-imposed mythologizing of history and culture for internal and Western audiences in an effort to attract attention and capital, and to define and control. As such, the project advances a case for further study of the distant past’s relevance in the modern and contemporary eras. It foregrounds the importance of transhistorical and multimedia studies that acknowledge nuance and complexity in the exploration of compelling relationships between history and heritage, cultural identities and built environments. While opening wide avenues for the future study of a truly dynamic culture, it demonstrates the sustained potency of the past in representing distinctiveness and distinguishing among people, places and ideologies. 539 FIGURES Figure 6.1. Graffiti outside Imed Trabelsi’s sacked villa on Hannibal Street, La Marsa (Tunis). Photograph, 2011. It reads “Hannibal proved that nothing was impossible…the Tunisians as well.” (Source: Rogers, “For a Leaderless Revolution.”) 540 Figure 6.2. “Quirinale” Hannibal on display at the Bardo National Museum, Tunis. Photograph, 2016. The bust was loaned by the Italian government for special exhibition at the Bardo. (Source: Issam Barhoumi, Wikimedia Commons.) 541 Figure 6.3. Dissertation methods matrix reconsidered. Infographic, 2017. The thematic lenses are rendered as interwoven threads and the dissertation focus areas address intertwined segments across the chronology. Politics is at the core here. (Source: Daniel E. Coslett.) 542 APPENDICES 543 APPENDIX A Tunisian sites referenced in the dissertation (marked by larger red points). 544 APPENDIX B Tunis sites explored in the dissertation. 545 APPENDIX C Carthage sites explored in the dissertation. 546 APPENDIX D Timeline of Tunisian socio-political and built environments events (1830–2016). 547 APPENDIX E Short biographies of significant figures. Baal Hammon Baal Hammon was the chief deity of the ancient Punic religion. As the “king of the gods” he was affiliated somewhat with Rome’s Saturn. Associated with the weather, he was responsible for Carthage’s agricultural fertility. He was generally depicted as a bearded man with ram horns and to him Carthaginian’s allegedly sacrificed children (see the Biblical figure of Moloch). His female counterpart was Tanit.1 Ben Ali, Zine el Abidine (1936–) Ben Ali was the second president of the Tunisian Republic, in office from 1987–2011. He served in the military from 1958–1980, was director of national security from 1977–1980, and then briefly held several other ministerial positions (national security, interior) before his elevation to prime minister by Bourguiba in 1987. He assumed the presidency after having had Bourguiba declared medically unfit to govern. His initial overtures toward democratic reform eventually gave way to corruption and autocratic methods, notably effective in areas such as political suppression and domestic surveillance. Through highly managed elections he maintained power in what amounted to a “façade democracy.” He was ousted from office by popular protests in January 2011 and has since lived in exile in Saudi Arabia.2 Bertrand, Louis (1866–1941) Bertrand was a French scholar and author whose decade of teaching experience in French-occupied Algeria (1891–1900) inspired his views on the Latin past of North Africa and its renaissance under French colonialism. His considerable work was eventually dedicated to inspiring French colonialists to see themselves as restorers of the Roman Empire (and Christianity), and to guide them away from an Orientalist fixation of the region’s Arabo-Islamic identity.3 He was elected to the prestigious Académie française in 1925. Bourguiba, Habib (1903–2000) Bourguiba was the country’s preeminent nationalist leader during the anti-colonialist struggle (through his Neo-Destour party, founded in 1934) and emerged from the transition as prime minister and then president of the independent country in 1957. Educated as a lawyer in France from 1924–1927, he was a gradualist in his fight against French colonization. This approach cast him at odds with rival Salah Ben Yousef, whom he eventually outmaneuvered. He successfully negotiated internal autonomy from France and then independence after a period of exile. His policies were very much 1 Serge Lancel, Carthage: A History, trans. Antonia Nevill (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1992), 194–99; Paolo Xella, Baal Hammon: recherches sur l'identité et l'histoire d'un dieu phénico-punique, (Rome: Consiglio nazionale delle ricerche, 1991). 2 Kenneth J. Perkins, Historical Dictionary of Tunisia (Third ed.) (New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 2016), 41–53. 3 David Clark Cabeen, “The African Novels of Louis Bertrand: A Phase of the Renascence of National Energy in France,” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1922), 38–60. 548 informed by western perspectives, particularly in the arenas of women’s rights and education. He was declared “President for Life” by the legislature in 1974. Following years of autocratic governance and declining health he was removed from office in 1987 by his prime minister, Ben Ali, and died in seclusion.4 Cacoub, Olivier Clément (1920–2008) Cacoub was an architect born in Tunis. Trained in Paris, he earned the Grand Prix de Rome in 1953. Following independence he became Bourguiba’s preferred architect and completed many projects for the state, as well as other governments elsewhere in Africa. Among his many notable Tunisian works are the Hotel Africa, the Presidential Palace, and several hotels on the coast.5 Caesar, Julius (100–44 BC) Caesar was an author, general, and politician of ancient Rome. Following a successful military career he rose to power and participated in the events that saw the demise of the Roman Republic and the establishment of the Empire. As “Dictator for Life,” he enacted considerable socio-political reforms and saw Roman territory expand around the Mediterranean. He sent a colony to Carthage to reestablish the long-dormant city in 49 BC. His adopted son Octavian eventually became Rome’s first emperor under the name Augustus in the wake of his assassination.6 Carton, Louis (1861–1924) Carton was a French military doctor, an active archaeologist and major promoter of Tunisia’s antiquity. Extremely passionate about the need for introducing ancient history to the masses and of the mind that the French Empire was the Roman Empire reborn, he founded the Institut de Carthage (publisher of the Revue tunisienne) in 1893 and thrice was its president. In 1903 he established the Archaeological Society of Sousse. His fight for the protection of Tunisia’s antiquities resulted in the 1920 decree that established laws for just that. Carton died unexpectedly in 1924, leaving behind a legacy of over 200 publications, including many popular guides for tourists visiting Tunisia.7 Colin, Pierre (unknown) Colin resided in Tunis from 1852–1861. During that time he built the French Résidence générale (according to plans by P. Caillat), directed the restoration of the Zaghouan aqueduct, and allegedly established the urban plan for Tunis’ ville nouvelle.8 Delattre, Alfred-Louis (1850–1932) Delattre was a Catholic priest and archaeologist whose work unearthed considerable materials and information regarding ancient Carthage. He entered seminary at the age of 4 Perkins, Historical Dictionary, 60–69. 5 Olivier Clément Cacoub, Architecture de soleil (Tunis: Cérès, 1974); Juliette Hueber and Claudine Piaton, eds. Tunis: Architectures 1860–1960 (Tunis: Elyzad, 2011), 224. 6 Simon Hornblower and Antony Spawforth, eds., The Oxford Classical Dictionary (New York: Oxford University, 2003), 780–82. 7 Clémentine Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie (XIXe–XXe siècles) (Paris/Tunis: Karthala/IRMC, 2010), 261–62. 8 Jean-Luc Arnaud, “Tunis, le plan de Colin de 1860, un document sans auteur ni date!” MEFRIM 118 no. 2 (2006): 391–402. 549 16 (1866) and two years later joined Lavigerie’s Society of Missionaries of Africa (White Fathers). He was ordained in 1873. He was called to Cartage in 1875 where he supervised the establishment of its archaeological museum atop the Byrsa hill. He made considerable discoveries regarding Punic and Christian Carthage and was in frequent competition with his professional counterparts at the Bardo who resented Church control of the region’s premier archaeological site.9 Dido (Elyssa) Queen Dido, also known as Elyssa, was the mythological founder of Carthage who is said to have lived during the late ninth century BC. According to legend, her brother King Pygmalion of Tyre murdered her husband. She fled, with a group of loyal compatriots and traveled west. Stopping first in Cyprus, she and her cohort eventually arrived at the site of Carthage. There she cunningly negotiated the right to establish a city from local leaders on as much land as could be covered by an ox hide. To their surprise she had the hide cut into tiny strips and encircled a plot far larger than they had anticipated atop the highest hill, the Byrsa (the name of which comes from bursa, Greek for ox hide). According to Virgil, Aeneas visited her on his way to found Rome and left her unhappy, thus pitting the two future empires at odds. This epic story, uncorroborated by archaeological evidence, has inspired many works of art and music since the eighteenth century.10 Dido became a popular symbol for Tunisian women during the Ben Ali regime. Ennabli, Abdelmajid (1937–) Ennabli is a Tunisian archaeologist. He has directed the archaeological site of Carthage and was curator of the Carthage National Museum. He supervised the international UNESCO “Save Carthage” campaign from 1972–1986. Flaubert, Gustave (1821–1880) Flaubert was a French author whose flamboyant, romantic style and historical novels generated limited interest during his lifetime but considerably more afterwards. Having quit the study of law he turned to research and writing. His Madame Bovary (1857) and Salammbô (1862) were among his more popular works and inspired considerable art in their wake.11 Glaucker, Paul (1866–1911) Glaucker was trained history and geography before he became director Tunisia’s antiquities service in 1886. He had first come to North Africa in 1884 while recuperating for health reasons in Algiers and upon returning to France he had enrolled in school to become a teacher of history and geography. He led notable excavations at several sites in Tunisia and in 1896 published a visitors’ guide to the Bardo—the first of this genre— and the following year a full catalog of the museums burgeoning collection. He was in perpetual conflict with ‘non-professional’ archaeologists in Tunisia (principally Delattre, the priest, and Carton, the military official) throughout his career. He was 9 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 263–64. 10 Lancel, Carthage, 23–25; Eric M. Moormann, “Dido and Hannibal Through Western Eyes,” in Carthage: Fact and Myth, ed. Roald Docter, Ridha Boussoffara, and Pieter ter Keurs (Leiden: Sidestone, 2015), 109–17. 11 Gustave Flaubert, Salammbo, trans. A.J. Krailsheimer (New York: Penguin, 1977), front matter. 550 decommissioned in 1905 in the wake of press-fed personal scandal. He is said to be the country’s first ‘proper’ archaeologist.12 Guy, Raphaël (1869–1918) Guy was an architect trained at the École from 1894 to 1898. He built numerous buildings for the colonial government in Tunisia during the first decade of the 1900s, as he was made chief architect for the public works department in 1900. His L’Architecture moderne de style arabe was published posthumously in 1920 and included an extensive catalogue of Guy’s works in Tunisia and an essay by the architect on the significance of the style.13 Hannibal (247–c. 183 BC) Son of Hamilcar, Hannibal Barca was an accomplished Carthaginian general and is still regarded as one of history’s finest. During the Second Punic War he lead troops and some number of elephants from North Africa through Spain, over the Alps, and into Italy from the north. Having occupied Italy for fifteen years and successfully raided cities in Italy, he was forced back to Carthage and eventually defeated by Scipio Africanus at the battle of Zama in 202 BC. Driven from Carthage by Rome he died in what is now Turkey.14 He was made a modern cultural symbol or national mascot in postcolonial Tunisia. Jugurtha (c. 160 –104 BC) King of the Berber territory of Numidia (parts of western Tunisian and northern Algeria), Jugurtha rivaled Rome during the Jugurthine War (112–106 BC). His grandfather, Masinissa, had established the Kingdom of Numidia, breaking the nomadic tradition of the indigenous Berber people and setting up what would become a rivalry with the Roman Republic. Sulla captured Jugurtha during the War and had him humiliated, paraded though the streets of Rome. He died of starvation in prison there in 104 BC.15 Lavigerie, Charles-Martial (1825–1892) Lavigerie was a French Catholic clergyman that was appointed bishop of Algiers in 1866, and then cardinal-archbishop of the restored See of Carthage in 1884. As a link between the many Catholic European contingents residing in Tunisia at the time, he exerted considerable influence in colonialist governance. His Society of Missionaries of Africa (the White Fathers) were active in education, healthcare, and archaeology. He supervised the construction of the cathedrals in downtown Tunis and on the Byrsa hill in Carthage. Known for his work elsewhere in Africa in opposition to slavery, he made his distrust of Muslims known throughout his tenure.16 Louis IX (1214–1270) This French king invaded Tunisia in 1270 while on his way to fight a crusade against the Muslim rulers of Egypt. While camped in Carthage his army was decimated by 12 Gutron, L’Archéologie en Tunisie, 266–67. 13 Charles Bilas, Tunis: L’Orient de la modernité (Paris: L’Eclat, 2010), 310. 14 Hornblower and Spawforth, eds., Oxford Classical, 665–66. 15 Ibid., 799–800. 16 Perkins, Historical Dictionary, 144–45; J. Dean O’Donnell, Jr., Lavigerie in Tunisia (Athens, GA: University of Georgia, 1979). 551 dysentery. He too fell ill and died there. An unsubstantiated legend has it that he converted to Islam before his death. He was canonized by the Catholic Church in 1297 and remained a prominent figure in French colonialist mythology during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.17 el Mekki, Hatem (1918–2003) El Mekki was a prolific Tunisian painter. He was active in the resistance to colonization through his artwork and published political cartoons. Having traveled in Europe and North America, el Mekki (with his peer Hedi Turki) inspired abstraction and a cosmopolitan quality within the works of artists in the so-called École de Tunis.18 In addition to painted works he designed many Tunisian postage stamps and banknotes following independence. Pasha, Khereddine (c. 1822–1890) Khereddine, the favorite mamluk of Ahmed Bey, was the country’s preeminent statesman of the nineteenth century. He served as minister of maritime affairs and then as president of the Grand Council of Mohammad al Sadok Bey in 1860. He strongly opposed the borrowing of money from European powers that his adversary Mustapha Khaznadar (as prime minster) supported (and who profited from these arrangements personally) because of sovereignty concerns. While living in Europe from 1862–1869 he authored The Surest Path, a treatise on Western society and politics and his beliefs on Tunisia’s ideal approach to governance. Returning to Tunisia in 1869 he chaired the International Finance Commission that controlled Tunisian state finances and was ultimately unable to steer the country towards the Sublime Porte (administration of the Ottoman Empire) and away from European encroachment and the 1881 establishment of the protectorate.19 Saladin, Henri (1851–1923) Saladin was a French archaeologist, architect, and author active in Tunisia during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. He attended the Paris École des Beaux- Arts from 1871–1881 and later surveyed Tunisia’s antiquities for the French government. He authored several volumes on Tunisia’s Islamic art and architecture and designed Tunis’ postal headquarters (PTT), which opened in 1892.20 Tanit Tanit was a Phoenician goddess. Paired with her male consort Baal Hammon, she was a chief deity of the ancient Punic religion based in Carthage. She was affiliated with the eastern mood goddess Astarte and eventually found a place in the Roman pantheon as Juno and/or Caelestis. She was identified as a goddess of war and fertility. Children in Carthage were allegedly sacrificed to her as well to Baal Hammon. She was generally 17 Perkins, Historical Dictionary, 154; Afrodesia E. McCannon, “The King’s Two Lives: The Tunisian Legend of St. Louis,” Journal of Folklore Research 43 no. 1 (2006): 53–74. 18 Perkins, Historical Dictionary, 204. 19 Ibid., 138–139. 20 Myriam Bacha, “Henri Saladin (1851–1923): Un architecte «Beaux-Arts» promoteur de l’art islamique tunisien,” in Oulebsir and Volait, eds., L’Orientalisme, L’Orientalisme architectural entre imaginaires et saviors, eds. Nabila Oulebsir and Mercedes Volait (Paris: Picard, 2009), 215–30; Bilas, Tunis, 311. 552 ichnographically represented by a human form with arms raised (often beneath a crescent moon).21 Zehrfuss, Bernard (1911–1996) Zehrfuss was a prolific French architect during the postwar period. Trained at the Paris École, he was awarded the Grand Prix de Rome in 1939 with a project for a colonial empire pavilion. In 1943 he was sent to Morocco and Algeria to assess WWII damages and then was made chief architect for the colonial government of Tunisia, where he developed urban plans for Tunis, Sfax and Bizerte. He returned to France in 1948 and established a successful career in designing noteworthy industrial buildings, housing projects, and embassies, among others.22 21 G.H. Halsberghe, “Le culte de Dea Caelestis,” Aufsteig und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2 no. 17.4 (1984): 2203–23; Lancel, Carthage, 199–204. 22 Bilas, Tunis, 312; “Fiche descriptive: Fonds Zehrfuss, Bernard (1911–1996),” CAP, accessed 6 April 2017, http://archiwebture.citechaillot.fr/fonds/FRAPN02_ZEHRF. 553 BIBLIOGRAPHY The following references are organized into primary, secondary and tertiary categories. Within the primary and secondary lists, sources are organized thematically for the reader’s convenience. Subheadings indicate the contents of each subset. 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