TY - JOUR
AU - Shirk,, Mark
AB - Abstract Recent controversies over bulk data collection remind us of the importance of surveillance as a site of citizen-state interaction. Surveillance is intimately linked to the nature and scope of the state, but receives comparatively little attention in traditional work on state formation. I show that the modern surveillance state emerged as a reaction to anarchist “propaganda of the deed,” which entailed assassinations of political leaders, as well as bombings of cafes, theatres, and landmarks. I theorize this mutation through a practice conception of state institutions, one that focuses on processes of boundary maintenance and transformation. I argue that boundary “shattering” constitutes an important mechanism of state transformation, one in which events or processes render existing boundary-drawing practices useless. The ensuing crisis requires the state to “reinscribe” new boundaries through the development of new practices. Introduction Recent controversies, such as the revelations of the US National Security Agency's bulk data collection program (Greenwald 2014; Austin 2015; Wood and Wright 2015), remind us of the central importance of surveillance and policing in the interaction between states and their citizens. Indeed, universal passports, national identification or Social Security cards, centralized police forces like the US Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), international forces like Interpol, and biometric markers like fingerprints (and eventually DNA), form the modern surveillance state. They allow states to track persons of interest, solve crimes, limit immigration, guard against interstate threats, extradite criminals, and even provide services. Surveillance often substitutes for more direct mechanisms of control, allowing the state to expand the scope of its influence over everyday life. As surveillance develops and transforms, so does the state itself (Caplan and Torpey 2001, 1–12; Hacking 1990, 16–46). In this article, I argue that the formation of modern surveillance states did not depend on the causes identified in classic literature on state formation and transformation such as warfare, macroeconomic developments, technological changes, or shifting cultural forces. I trace its development to the turn of the twentieth century and efforts by (mostly European and American) states to cope with an episode of trans- and subnational violence: anarchist “propaganda of the deed.”1 Propaganda of the deed was an idea within anarchist circles that actions such as bombings and assassinations, not words, would alert the masses to their predicament and spark revolution. Between 1894 and 1901, purported anarchists assassinated five heads of state or their consorts: French President Sardi Carnot, Spanish Prime Minister Antonio Canovas, Austrian Empress Elizabeth, Italian King Umberto I, and US President William McKinley. This tally adds to prominent assassinations before and after that period, including Russian Tsar Alexander II in 1881, Portuguese King Carlos I in 1908, and another Spanish Prime Minister in 1912. German Kaisers survived three assassination attempts, as did Spanish King Alsonso XII in 1906 and Belgian King Leopold II in 1904. The year 1900 saw unsuccessful attempts to assassinate the Prince of Wales in Brussels and the Persian Shah in Paris. Numerous public officials, including judges or ministers, also fell victim to purported anarchist assassins. Moreover, bombs exploded in public gathering places such as theatres and cafés and landmarks such as the Greenwich Observatory in 1894 and Wall Street in 1920. Anarchists attacked the Parliaments of France and Italy; Italy and Spain experienced numerous peasant revolts. How did propaganda of the deed play a role in the development of modern surveillance? It spurred new monitoring and enforcement practices to combat what we would now call terrorist violence. It also provided a key justification for the implementation and expansion of these practices. Moreover, antiglobalizers pointed to propaganda of the deed in their effort to restrict movement across national borders during the 1920s. This policy, in turn, necessitated additional layers of surveillance. I contend that passports and police databases were not “commonsense responses” made possible by technological innovations. They reflect a variety of creative practices that officials developed and that transformed the character of the state. Thus, we can best understand them by adopting a practice conception of the state, which focuses on how constant work undergirds state structures. New practices draw boundaries that demarcate a state from the nonstate and from the authority of other states (for more on the role of boundaries in international relations and the broader social sciences, see Walker 1993; Jackson and Nexon 1999; Sharma 2006; Mayrl and Quinn 2016). The process of boundary-drawing helps states render actions and people “legible” (Scott 1998, 2–3) and hence effectively subject to state authorities. Two ideal-typical (Weber 1949, 41–46, 90–105; Jackson 2010, 112–55) processes help us to understand this process: “shattering,” in which illegible processes make current boundaries untenable, and “reinscribing,” in which ensuing crises force states to develop creative solutions that rearticulate new boundaries. In the first section of this article, I develop my conceptual and theoretical framework. I next provide a short overview of the historiography of surveillance. In the third section, I show how the campaign against propaganda of the deed played a vital role in the development of the modern surveillance state at the turn of the twentieth century. I rely heavily on primary documents, including from archival research done at the National Archive in London and the Archive de Prefecture de Police in Paris.2 In the conclusion, I discuss broader implications of my claims, including for contemporary mutations in the surveillance state. Surveillance, Boundaries, and State Transformation Much of the state (trans)formation literature downplay the importance of transnational violence and surveillance. There has been a tendency for scholars of state formation and transformation, working mostly in the Weberian tradition (Weber 2004; see also Evans, Rueschemeyer, and Skocpol 1985) to conceive of the state as a singular, stable entity that changes during putative “big bangs” (de Carvalho, Leira, and Hobson 2011). Examples include the Peace of Westphalia (Hall 1999, 51–75; Philpott 2001, 73–150), the French and American Revolutions (Bukovansky 2002, 110–210), the rise of capitalism and other major economic changes (Spruyt 1994, 61–76), the Reformation (Gorski 2003, 1–38), a series of systemic wars (Barkin and Cronin 1994), and the development of broad international norms (Reus-Smit 1999, 26–40; Hall 1999, 26–50). Scholars often focus their explanatory attention on changes in the conduct of war, the creation of institutions like standing armies or bureaucracies, and variation among democratic and authoritarian regimes. Too often, they assume order, reifying the state while treating it as separate from its actions. This subsumes multiple agents into a single actor (Morgan and Orloff 2017, 7). Moreover, a great deal of the touchstone literature begins its story (at least) as far back as sixteenth or seventeenth centuries and ends it in the late nineteenth century with the formation of national states, the international state system, or both (for examples of recent scholarship pointing to major developments happening in the nineteenth century, see Mitzen 2013; Buzan and Lawson 2015). Such tendencies make it difficult to explain the significance of shifting practices of surveillance. While states are worthy of study as “forms of power that differ from those found in other arenas” (Morgan and Orloff 2017, 17), they are multiple and take work to maintain. They are constituted by multiple “fields” (Bourdieu 2015, 84–103; Steinmetz 2007, 45–54) or “many hands” (Morgan and Orloff 2017). State transformation has been a continuous process since states first became major political actors. The practice of drawing boundaries around political authority produces the state (for examples, see Lamont and Molnar 2002; Tilly 2004; Pachuki, Pendergrass, and Lamont 2007; Mayrl and Quinn 2016). Boundaries can be “physical,” such as the demarcations between states, or “conceptual,” demarcating international/domestic, citizen/alien, and public/private, among others. Boundaries set limits on authority. They “decide which issues, activities, and practices fall within [the state's] authority realm—the political” (J. Thomson 1995, 217), creating the “janus-faced” nature of the state (Jackson 1990, 28). The state becomes a “structural effect” purposefully set above “society” (T. Mitchell 1991, 89–95). This is based upon a relational ontology (Dewey and Bentley 1949; Somers 1994; Jackson and Nexon 1999) that places transactions analytically prior to the actors undertaking them. Boundaries can act as these transactions. Instead of defining the essential quality of an entity we instead focus on the distinction between that entity and another. Boundaries are drawn by practices (Neumann 2002; Adler and Pouliot 2011; Adler-Nissen and Pouliot 2014). Practices can be defined as habitual, patterned action that constitute the social world and its inhabitants. They construct the “conceptual maps” of actors that configure the universe of possible and desirable actions in a given situation. In a social world enacted through practices, “order is always shifting and emergent”; it is built “from routines and repetitiveness in ‘situated accomplishments’ of actors” (Bueger and Gadinger 2015, 453). The state is a practice, a process, something brought into being (Jackson and Nexon 1999; Foucault 2009, 255–84); “the art of government . . . [is] bringing into being what the state should be” (Foucault 2008, 4). Steinmetz (1999, 9) agrees, “states are never ‘formed’ once and for all.” Stasis and order, while empirically observable, should not be baseline assumptions. Practices constitute stasis and order by drawing, redrawing, and maintaining boundaries. They can differ not just across multiple states but also within single states (for an example see the varieties of German colonialism in Steinmetz 2007). Unified states are nothing more than a simplifying ideal type. The Process of State (Trans)formation While many practice theorists emphasize the difficulty of change (see Bourdieu 1977; 1990; Hopf 2010), those with a grounding in pragmatism (Friedrichs and Kratochwil 2009; Bauer and Brighi 2011; Cochran 2012; Bueger and Gadinger 2015) highlight change and creativity. Similarly, Rebecca Adler-Nissen (2016) distinguishes between “ordering” and “disordering” practices. Building on this, I propose two processes for understanding the development of the modern surveillance state and state transformation writ large: shattering and reinscribing (for similar, see Tilly 2004; Mayrl and Quinn 2016, 6–9). Boundaries constitute rule by ordering peoples, actions, and goods into categories, making them “legible.”3 The conceptual maps created by boundaries attempt to make what is illegible legible, so it can be taxed, controlled, relocated, etc. However, as James Scott (1998, 3) notes, these maps do “not successfully represent the actual activity of the society they depicted . . . they represented only that slice of it that interested the official observer.” For instance, actions taken to make sense of anarchism did not actually make sense of it but instead allowed the state to effectively combat it. Pragmatist social theorists argue that social change takes place in specific problem situations when habits no longer help actors to make sense of the world (Joas 1996, 127–44; Joas draws heavily on the works of John Dewey, see Dewey 1997, 2013). This is the first process, which I refer to as shattering. Shattering happens when state boundaries (a) are illegible to the state and (b) make the practices that draw boundaries no longer useful. In these moments, a crisis arises that goes beyond damage done and lives lost. The state becomes powerless; the distinction between it and society, alien, etc. no longer functions. Shattered boundaries force actors to come up with creative solutions to these problem situations. These solutions are dependent upon the creation of new conceptual maps that make a subset of previously unthinkable actions possible and a subset of previously common actions unthinkable. States may lose some capacity, legitimacy, or authority in one arena but gain elsewhere. We should note that a single entity called “the state” does not undertake this process, but instead by a series of agents acting in its name. In the words of Iza Hussin (2017, 349), legibility comes from “many eyes, many optics, many voices.” This process reinscribes boundaries. The state is once again an entity that helps actors “get along” in the world. Though still a state, it has changed. These processes stand in contrast to the argument that new policy decisions are rationally selected off a menu of possible options based on the criteria of “effectiveness.” This may be called the rationalist-efficiency argument. The focus is often on the technological determinants of policy choices. I will take fingerprints as an example. Fingerprinting technology developed as part of a larger eugenic project to identify people with predispositions to crime and deviant behavior (Sekula 1986). However, it only proliferated as police officers learned of its utility in the process of preventing and punishing propagandist attacks. Fingerprinting did not exist as a choice until a real-world problem shattered existing boundaries and it became a solution for reinscribing them. If fingerprinting proved so effective and the technology to implement it already existed, why, as outlined below, was it not utilized earlier? Some may claim trial and error. But this would not explain why the early choices made in combatting propaganda of the deed—treating anarchism as the crime, brutality against anarchists, show trials and executions—adhered so closely to how states and police forces had dealt with criminals and political dissidents in the recent past. Trial and error happens in the context of new understandings triggered by shattered boundaries. Finally, we get back to the idea underlying this and, most rationalist, arguments: governing actors are separate from the governing that they do. If true, then new policies do not change the actors. However, if order takes work to maintain, changes in the work reinscribe the order. Technological developments are not an exogenous force determining policy choice but instead part of the process of policy choices that become available (or not) based on the conceptual maps of relevant actors. Rationality, then, is not the starting point for social analysis but instead a learned and contextualized behavior (Onuf 1989, 258–89; Kratochwil 1991, 21–44; Weber 2002). In what follows, I use the ideal-typical processes of shattering and reinscribing to demonstrate how propaganda of the deed and the campaign against it played a role in the development of the modern surveillance state at the turn of the twentieth century. Propaganda of the deed caused a crisis for the boundaries of its time. It originated from a class of people on the periphery of late nineteenth-century European society with illegible political claims. Attempts to defeat it using current boundaries proved counterproductive. In response, states closed borders, centralized police forces, and enacted indirect control through immigration restrictions and passports. However, I will first flesh out the surveillance state and the literature on its development. Historiography on the Surveillance State The idea of a surveillance state is unfashionable with concepts like the surveillance society (Lyon 1994; Ball and Wood 2013) and the surveillant assemblage (Haggarty and Erickson 2000; Wilkinson and Lippert 2012; Vukov and Sheller 2013) highlighting decentralization. Many scholars correctly postulate soft boundaries between surveillance for security and national welfare and between state and private or corporate surveillance. However, state surveillance justified by the war on terror causes much contemporary furor. While surveillance has existed for centuries (Higgs 2004; Weller 2010), many of the practices that form the baseline for twenty-first-century techniques are widely believed to have roots in the turn of the twentieth century (C. Robertson 2010; Feldman 2011; Boersma et al. 2014). This is what I mean by “modern surveillance state.” Histories of the surveillance state from this period usually posit at least one of four causes. Many pinpoint to World War I breaking up the open, liberal system preceding it. The failure of this system resulted in tighter borders and an increased desire to know who and what resided inside. ID cards first appeared in Belgium (Van Brakel and Van Kerckhoven 2014) and the Netherlands (Roest et al. 2014) during the war. Second, some point to nativist and totalitarian emphases on proving citizenship (Feldman 2011; Vincent 2016). Still, others argue for the role played by national welfare measures (Higgs 2004; Roest et al. 2014; Van Brakel and Van Kerckhoven 2014). Finally, others (Lake and Reynolds 2008; McCoy 2009) argue that surveillance developed in the colonial periphery to control local populations. While not as common in scholarship on the period in question, others point to the importance of technology in new developments (Agar 2003). The history of the universal passport demonstrates these claims. Passports allow states to track and regulate the cross-border movement of all persons. Prior to the early twentieth century, diplomats and the upper classes used passports as tokens of privilege. By the middle of the twentieth century, states universalized passports for all international travel. Some scholars point to World War I as the cause. Mark Salter (2003, 78) claims that, “with the outbreak of World War I, there came a bureaucratic-governmental need to track combatants and verify deserters.” The first attempts to universalize passports came directly after the Treaty of Versailles. John Torpey (2000, 111–20) argues that economic changes, in part due to the war, saw a rollback of laissez-faire economics and a growing desire to regulate labor. Craig Robertson (2010, 1–20) emphasizes major demographic shifts due to migration. Jay Feldman (2011, 5) highlights nativism and fears of Bolsheviks and the Red Scare. Finally, other scholars have focused on the League of Nations processes and international agreements, such as the 1926 Geneva Conference, that standardized passports despite their unpopularity (Turack 1968, 230–41; Lloyd 2003, 115–39). These arguments are not “wrong,” but incomplete. The rise of the modern surveillance state depended upon many factors concatenating in specific ways in particular states. Propaganda of the deed was one important factor. It impacted the rise of nativism, in technological development, in administrative innovation, and as a direct justificatory device. Not all scholars ignore the role of propaganda of the deed and anarchism more generally in the development of the modern surveillance techniques. Yet, they do not connect it to larger questions of state building and global order. Recognizing the role of propaganda of the deed not only furthers our understanding of the development of state surveillance but also demonstrates how certain episodes of violence force states to rearticulate boundaries. Anarchism, Propaganda of the Deed, and the Late Nineteenth Century Anarchism was the leading radical movement prior to World War I (Hirsch and van der Walt 2010, xxxviii). It developed in the nineteenth century alongside industrialization, internationalism, and globalization. The harshness of early industrialization fueled a movement largely consisting of endangered urban craftsmen, artisans, and rural peasants. Meanwhile, accompanying technological advancements aided the movement of ideas and shaped a truly global movement (for analyses of the global dimensions of anarchism, see Anderson 2005; Berry and Bantman 2010; Hirsch and van der Walt 2010). However, while anarchists were active across six continents, propaganda of the deed was mostly restricted to Europe, the United States, and Argentina. Anarchists rejected property. The godfather of anarchist thought, Pierre Joseph Proudhon (2007, 1–2), famously proclaimed it as theft. Despite Marx’s claims that the state was merely an instrument of the bourgeois class, Proudhon and his protégé Mikhael Bakunin believed that socialism and communism only reconstructed property and the state in the name of the communist party (Morris 1993, 117–35; for more on anarchism's origins as a movement, see Cahm 1989). Consequently, anarchists rejected most forms of hierarchy and organization. Dynamiteur Emile Henry stated at his trial in April 1894 that “socialism changes nothing about the current order. It maintains the authoritarian principal . . . an old leftover of faith in a superior power.”4 Anarchism faced a problem: how does one bring about a revolution while maintaining a distaste for hierarchy? Some believed they could alert the masses to their predicament through deeds. Violence in this instance has a performative function as a method of communication rather than substantive political change (Loadenthal 2017, 40). In its earliest incarnation, propaganda of the deed—a phrase attributed to Paul Brousse—emphasized peasant revolts such as the one in Benevento, Italy, led by Errico Malatesta and Carlo Cafiero in 1877 (Fleming 1982, 10). Italian socialist Carlo Pisacane claimed that “[i]deals spring from deeds.” The assassins and dynamiteurs that would follow were a derivation of this idea. Cafiero, citing Pisacane, argued for “permanent rebellion, by work, by writing, by dagger, by gun, by dynamite” (Cafiero 2005, 152). To these men, a bomb could enlighten the proletariat, demarcate enemies from friends, and ultimately spark the revolution. Propaganda of the deed is a common, and contemporary, term for an episode of violence taking place from roughly 1880 to 1930, with a concentration from 1892 to 1906. Charles Gallo, who threw a bottle of vitriol into the Paris Stock Exchange in 1886, proclaimed at his trial that he intended to carry out “an act of propaganda by the deed for the anarchist doctrine” (quoted in Joll 1980, 131). French art critic and anarchist Felix Feneon claimed that “anarchist attacks did much more for propaganda than [twenty] years of pamphlets from Reclus and Kropotkin” (Rewald 1949, 113, author translation). Even anarchism's enemies used the term. A 1902 Arena op-ed claim regretted the move of an “insane propaganda of the deed” while a Washington Post columnist demonstrated the logic of the concept by claiming that the assassin of Empress Elizabeth “might cause all who impoverish the populace to tremble and shiver” (Kassel 2009, 246).5 Of course, not all anarchists used violence. When bombings first garnered international attention, they split the anarchist community. Some celebrated them, while others, including luminaries such as Piotr Kropotkin—Bakunin's protégé—denounced them. Malatesta (2005, 161) said these acts were “the absolute negation of all anarchist ideas and sentiments.” More representative, however, were those who denounced the acts but understood the impulse. As one widely distributed pamphlet claimed, “[w]e hate murder . . . [but] [t]he guilt of these homicides lies upon every man and woman who, intentionally or by cold indifference, helps to keep up social conditions that drive human beings to despair” (Anarchism and Outrage 1893, 7). The propagandists, therefore, did not constitute a cohesive group: attackers tended to be lone wolves. A robust anarchist press circulated ideas and fostered community (Ferguson 2014) allowing many propagandists to justify violence with anarchist rhetoric. Similarly, authorities often referred to all bombings as “anarchist” into the 1930s (example in Kinna 2006, 258–60). For these reasons, we cannot talk about propaganda of the deed without anarchism. Yet, we should recognize that anarchism was a much larger movement and that breakthroughs happened when states acknowledged this. Shattering Practices and Boundaries Crises and threats are not objective (Waever 1995; Balzacq 2010; Watson 2012); they must be defined in particular problem situations. The scale of propagandist violence added to a sense of crisis but was insufficient. There have been many other instances of assassinations and bombings by the Euro-American left outside of this period—usually by Marxist-Leninist groups such as the Red Army Faction and Weather Underground. The interwar period witnessed more assassinations of political leaders, though fewer heads of state, by anticolonialists than propaganda of the deed (Ford 1982). In England, Fenian separatists proved more deadly and numerous than propagandists (Knepper 2010, 145–46). A Serbian nationalist, Gavrilo Princip, committed the most (in)famous assassination of the age, that of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Yet, only propaganda of the deed provoked a crisis for the state itself. The states of late nineteenth-century Europe found themselves both powerless to stop attacks and unable to make sense of them. They made current boundary-drawing practices useless. Twentieth-century anticolonial attacks in Ireland, the Balkans, Algeria, or elsewhere, were destructive but legible. They wanted—or at least interpreted as wanting—their own state. Nationalists threatened particular regimes and territorial claims. Propagandists threatened the practices that allowed for those claims (Shirk 2017b, 662–63). Contemporary rhetoric reflects this. Many overstated the threat, tying it to anxiety about globalization—inflating it to an international conspiracy led by Jews and immigrants. In this section, I discuss the drivers behind this crisis focusing on illegibility of anarchist actions and claims and the ineffective responses by affected states. Illegibility Practices structure how we view the world, how we expect it to work. Propagandist attacks did not fit within the worldviews of government officials and the press. First, a lack of then-recognizable political content caused general confusion as regards to propagandist aims. Second, many conflated the propagandist bomb and the anarchist idea: anarchism became the crime. Third, many decried anarchism as part of a (nonexistent) international conspiracy blamed on “foreigners,” challenging internationalism. The Duke of Arcos, Spanish envoy to the United States, represents the first in 1901: Every other class of political assassin has at least some definite, tangible object in view. He commits murder because he seeks to remove some particular ruler or a member of some particular governing party or body. The anarchist assassin, however, murders simply at haphazard . . . They exploded bombs in a theatre in Barcelona[,] which was filled with innocent men, women, and children, none of whom were connected with the government. (Kinna 2006, 349) The Duke makes an unfavorable comparison between the propagandist and “every other class of political assassin”—often nationalist—because the latter's claims make sense within the nineteenth-century European state system. The anarchist (or propagandist), by comparison, “murders simply at haphazard.” They attack illegitimate targets such as “innocent men, women, and children.” For their part, the propagandists claimed the entire bourgeoisie as their enemy—recall the anonymous quote above excoriating those who benefit from, and acquiesce to, the system. This was not an isolated sentiment. The French attempted to convince the English to extradite one dynamiteur because he did not desire “a new form of government, but general destruction.”6 Statesman Jose Echegaray claimed in 1894 that the anarchist attempted to “upset everything: ideas and property and social relations” (Jensen 2004, 138). Hiding anywhere, these men were cowardly. They could be sipping coffee in a café or riding underneath a carriage. At his February 1885 trial, one judge castigated anarchist publisher Johann Most as “unlawfully, maliciously, and wickedly contriving, intending, and attempting in defiance of all principles of morality and good government to justify the crimes of assassination and murder.”7 Authorities resorted to this rhetoric not only to paint propagandists as inhuman, but because current practices and boundaries prevented the formation of convincing categories for them. To further demonstrate the illegibility of propaganda of the deed and anarchism generally, one only needs to take a look at Proudhon's and Bakunin's writings on international politics, which take the form of should-be since the current global order proved so antithetical to their aims (for more on anarchist international relations, see Prichard 2010, 2017). As evidenced in the quotes above, early attempts to frame the threat made the idea of anarchy the crime. Italian writer Ettore Zoccoli called anarchism “the most important ethical deviation that may ever disturb the world.” Harper's magazine called it ‘”the most dangerous theory that civilization has ever had to encounter” (Jensen 2014, 7, 11). Shortly after the assassination of his predecessor, Theodore Roosevelt proclaimed, “[a]narchy is a crime against the whole human race” (Jensen 2001, 19). George Bernard Shaw (2016, 4) observed in 1893 that anarchism and criminality had become synonymous. The target became “anarchy,” not the propagandist. Diplomats and police officers took claims of an anarchist conspiracy seriously despite little corroborating evidence. The editor of the English anarchist paper Commonweal caused a panic in 1894 when he sent a letter threatening reprisal for the arrest of comrades in Walsall (for more on this saga, see Oliver 1983, 77–82) and signed it “United Anarchist Groups, London.”8 The Italians argued for multilateral police operations in 1894 because “in every country the adherents . . . of the anarchist sect maintain relations with all their alliances in other nations” (Jensen 2014, 95). In 1892, the Spanish ambassador to Rome claimed that attacks “in Barcelona have their origins in, if indeed they don't obey, an international anarchist impulse” (Jensen 2014, 37). One German correspondent claimed that “the anarchist element is so mobile that[,] even if a plot were destroyed today, tomorrow another one would be formed.”9 Propagandists gleefully repurposed sensationalist media reports (Jensen 2014, 52–57). Trials for those accused of assassinations and bombings became arenas to spread anarchist propaganda and foment crisis. In 1894, Giuseppe Fornara pleaded guilty to possession of explosives and freely ventured his own plot to blow up the Royal Exchange, repeatedly yelling, “I want to kill the capitalists!”10 Henry was defiant at his trial in 1894, exclaiming, “Go ahead and cut off my head . . . Others will come after me.”11 Not only did propagandists publicly welcome their own deaths, but they also stoked fear of an international conspiracy by promising future attacks. In 1893, Spanish propagandist Paulino Pallas responded to his death sentence by proclaiming “Agreed! There are thousands to continue the work!” (Tuchman 2012, 661). In November 1893, a month after Pallas’s death, Santiago Salvador bombed the Lyceu Theater in Barcelona, killing fifteen people. Pallas was proved a prophet. A failure to differentiate anarchism from propaganda of the deed would create problems for those attempting to identify, track, and prosecute the latter. Too many anarchists preached nonviolence and were more sympathetic than the likes of Emile Henry. Finally, anarchism became associated with immigration and, ultimately, globalization. Claims of an anarchist conspiracy in England had antisemitic roots connected to the influx of Jewish immigrants following Russian pogroms. The United States categorized immigrants and exiles as anarchists. While both countries had “native” anarchists, authorities did not always take them seriously (Bantman 2013, 109–15). However, in some locales immigration also spread anarchism and often deepened working-class solidarity (Toledo and Biondi 2010, 369–74). Ineffective Responses Ineffective efforts to combat propaganda of the deed shattered boundaries because they proved the uselessness of contemporary practices. Early antipropagandist policy amounted to “a mass of draconian ‘antiterrorist’ legislation, summary executions, and a sharp rise in torture” (Anderson 2005, 3). These tactics often inspired further attacks as events in France in the early 1890s demonstrate. In 1891, authorities arrested and tortured striking miners in Clichy (Police Dossier, Box 1132). One of their friends, François Claudius Koenigstein, alias Ravachol, set off a series of bombs in the residences of the convicting judge and attorney, causing injuries but no fatalities. Police arrested him while he was bragging of his deeds to a waiter at the Café Very—though his execution was for prior crimes.12 At his trial he proclaimed that “my object was to terrorize so as to force society to look attentively at those who suffer” (Tuchman 2012, 653). In revenge, a man named Theodule Meunier exploded a bomb attack at the Café Very on April 25, 1892, killing the proprietor (Police Dossier, Box 1215). On November 8, police discovered another bomb in the Paris office of a mining company. They defused it and took it to the nearest police station where it unexpectedly exploded, killing six officers (Police Dossier, Box 140.). On December 9, 1893, August Vaillant detonated a bomb inside the Chamber of Deputies, causing multiple injuries but no fatalities. Vaillant mentioned Ravachol at his trial before being sentenced to death in 1894.13 In response, the Chamber passed the lois scelerate or “wicked laws,” (Les Lois Scelerate 1899) severely cracking down on anarchism. Vaillant's execution brought many threats of revenge (Police Dossier, Box 77; Box 79). A few months later, a man named Pauwels phoned in a suicide in two different apartments rigged with explosives, killing the investigating officers.14 On February 12, 1894, Henry set off a bomb in the Café Terminus, injuring twenty and killing one. Henry confessed not only to the Terminus bombing but also the bomb that went off at the police station fifteen months prior. At his widely published trial, he spoke eloquently of Vaillant and Ravachol, and as he was executed, he was heard screaming a muffled “Courage, Comrades! Vive l'anarchie!” (Police Dossier, Box 1115). In June, a young Italian named Santo Caserio fatally stabbed French President Sardi Carnot. A few days later, Carnot's wife received a letter addressed to the “Widow Carnot” that contained pictures of Ravachol and Vaillant and the words “He is avenged.” Paris police began arresting people for “incitement to hatred of the bourgeoisie” (Police Dossier, Box 1115), but attacks continued. Eleven bombs went off in Paris between 1892 and 1894. A similar cycle played itself out in Spain. An 1892 uprising in Jerez led to the arrest of many anarchists and the garroting of four. Resulting demonstrations in Barcelona led to twenty thousand being imprisoned. In 1893, Pallas’s bomb killed a military officer. Santiago responded by bombing the Lyceu. In 1896, Michele Angiolillo assassinated Canovas, leading to renewed torture of anarchists through 1897. Anarchist political movements would remain a potent force into the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s (Kaplan 1977, 172–85). Italian repression made the problem of peasant revolts more acute. Russian repression only led to anarchists and other revolutionaries flooding into Europe in the 1880s while doing little to end violence at home. A tough US immigration law passed after McKinley's assassination did not stop anarchist attacks nor did the Espionage Act of 1917 (Feldman 2011, 26–32). In fact, they only embittered the anarchist community, playing a role in the postwar surge of propaganda of the deed in the United States. It seemed that wherever police and governments used repression of anarchy and anarchists as a tactic it proved unproductive and often backfired. Claims of a vast anarchist conspiracy created space, perhaps intentionally, for secret police action. However, agents provocateur proved ineffective at best and counterproductive at worst. In 1895, former Scotland Yard first detective Patrick McIntyre remarked of London's infamous Club Autonomie that “a large minority of those frequenting the place were in the service and pay of Continental Governments” (Kinna 2006, 289). A French inspector commented in 1900 that “I realize why political squads never find any anarchists . . . Most of the anarchists are informers” (Jensen 2014, 77). Actual propagandists perpetrated most attacks (Jensen 2014, 52), but disgruntled agents also carried them out. The anarchist community discovered an Italian agent in London known as Rubino in 1902. Disconsolate at betraying his anarchist friends, Rubino decided to burnish his credentials by attempting to assassinate King Leopold of Belgium with a gun given to him by the Italian government (Di Paola 2007, 199–206). Angiolillo assassinated Canovas following him being fingered as an informer. An informer in the pay of the Russian Okhrana carried out an attack in Belgium to increase funding for the British Special Branch (Butterworth 2010, 340–45). The Paris police operated a widely read anarchist journal, Le Revolution Sociale (Woodcock 1962, 279). These examples, and in particular the Rubino and Angiolillo cases, demonstrate that the distinction between anarchist and informer was often tenuous and contributed to the persistence of the anarchist conspiracy. The heavy use of repression reflects attempts to control populations directly by dictating what they can say and do in public. Its failure added to the sense of crisis and opened up space for change, a good example of shattering. Increased movement of peoples, ideas, and goods across borders in the late nineteenth century compounded this problem. As Jensen (2014, 60) states, “[t]he era's fundamental belief in liberalism proclaimed that labor, as well as goods and capital, should be as free as possible to flow around the world.” These unregulated flows included propagandists and anarchists. As the Duke of Arcos complained, “the anarchist agitator who is driven out of one country by the authorities finds lodgment in another” (Kinna 2006, 355). It also played a role in attacks. Henry and Meunier were able to escape to London. Henry returned to bomb the Terminus, while England resisted French calls to extradite Meunier back to France over an argument about the political nature of his acts (Friedlander 1979, doc 69). Carnot's assassin was an Italian working in Lyon, Canovas’s an Italian traveling from England to France, Elizabeth's an Italian in Geneva, and Umberto's an Italian who had immigrated to the United States and returned. Vaillant and Pallas both lived in Argentina prior to attacks. Globalization and open borders became scapegoats—England in particular for its liberal exile policy.15—though actual effects were exaggerated. Reinscribing State Boundaries Propaganda of the deed was illegible to its targets. The movement's claims made little sense within the conceptual maps of those working for territorial nation-states. In addition, traditional methods of dealing with criminals and rebels proved ineffective. To defeat propaganda of the deed, states needed to rearticulate boundaries to make the movement legible. These efforts played a crucial role in the development of the modern surveillance state by pushing states to centralize police forces and collect biometric data (Jensen 2014, 341–65; Knepper 2010, 128–58). This in turn led to a number of new state practices such as necessitating passports for travel, new immigration restrictions (Bantman 2013, 131–56), increased police cooperation, and new extradition practices. These measures necessitated the identification and tracking of citizens. The state gained new authority to survey its citizens by rearticulating new boundaries to make sense of and defeat propaganda of the deed. However, it also gave up more direct forms of control such as limitations on political speech and the prosecution of its political enemies. Propaganda of the deed played a role in three ways. First, many surveillance practices developed to combat propaganda of the deed. Second, propaganda of the deed became an important justificatory device used to sell new practices. Third, propaganda of the deed became part of the larger nativist discourse that eventually took hold in the 1920s. The literature on propaganda of the deed provides plausible reasons why violence ended. Examples include World War I (Levy 2004; Butterworth 2010, 392–410), the anarchist community's rejection of propaganda of the deed (Woodcock 1962; Fleming 1982; Varias 1996; Bookchin 2001, 84–89), the rise of syndicalism (Sonn 1989; Varias 1996; Bantman 2006) and nationalism (Levy 2004; Anderson 2005; Zarakol 2011), learning to prosecute the act as opposed to the idea (Merriman 2009; Jensen 2014), and loosening labor restrictions (Jensen 2014). I do not pass judgment on these claims.16 Instead, I argue that a series of actions were (a) taken in response to propaganda of the deed, (b) stuck around—displaying a belief in their effectiveness—and (c) laid the foundation for the modern surveillance state. In late nineteenth-century Europe “borders were not hard to cross, legal agreements between states in matters such as extradition were few, and communications between police departments were still rudimentary” (Chaliand and Blin 2007, 183). In other words, this era provided favorable conditions for propaganda of the deed. European police departments were ill-equipped to deal with propaganda of the deed. As Jensen (2014, 124) argues, “[t]he extreme measures of the Italian and Spanish were in part the frustrated reactions of the government and police to difficulties in tracking down and identifying” propagandists. Decentralized police forces meant little communication between localities. This meant uncoordinated efforts and wasted resources. For instance, Jensen (2014, 76) found reports of five agents in the same anarchist meeting in France in the early 1890s. This contributed to the abuses of agents provocateur as individual officers often acted without the knowledge of their superiors. It also made it possible for a country like Spain to let others do their police work for them. Much changed because of propaganda of the deed. The US Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) was founded in 1908 (Avrich 1991, 140–77; Coben 1963, 217–45). By the eve of World War I, it boasted three hundred agents primarily concerned with white slavery and anarchism (Jensen 2014, 293). McKinley's assassination drove the modernization of the Secret Service as part of a larger movement toward science in political protection. The French created a special organization to centralize intelligence following the events of the early 1890s (Jensen 2014, 75–77). Germany attempted to follow suit in order to combat “anarchists and other social revolutionaries,” though resistance from south German states delayed its implementation (Jensen 2014, 91). Agencies that used agent provocateur tactics like the Russian Okhrana became the model for twentieth-century intelligence agencies such as the Nazi Schutzstaffel (SS), American Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), and the Soviet Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti (KGB) (Butterworth 2010, 415). Each of these agencies played, or still play, a major role in international surveillance. While early tactics left much to be desired, centralized police forces facilitated policy coordination, international cooperation, and the efficient direction of funds. As a result, suppression became less desirable because it created, according to one official, “a multitude of smaller groups whose surveillance could not be managed with the same reliability” (Jensen 2014, 349). The biggest advantage of centralization, however, proved to be the creation of biometric databases to identify criminals. Many contemporaries believed that criminality was a condition whose “victims” displayed certain features. For instance, in his treatise on assassination, criminologist Arthur MacDonald (1911, 510, 511, 513, 515, 517) took the time to describe the stature and facial features of notable assassins. The Italians started utilizing Cesare Lombroso's (2006) identification techniques and the French (and others) used Alphonse Bertillon's measures of ear and nose size (Kaluszynski 2001; Knepper 2010, 159–86). Max Nordau built on Lombroso’s idea of “degeneracy” to argue that anarchism, socialism, and liberated sexuality were symptoms of human regression (Knepper 2010, 172). “Bertillonage” became a common way to identify criminals and anarchists. Queries on the method appear in diplomatic communiqués from the era.17Robertson (2010, 64) argues that Bertillon “did not make use of an existing (social) identity; he used Bertillonage to produce a new identity.” The British abandoned Bertillonage in 1901 in favor of a further advancement—fingerprints. Developed by Englishman Francis Galston, this technique spread (Sekula 1986; Hall and Mendel 2012, 17–20). Anarchism understood as propaganda of the deed became a chief justificatory device for fingerprint databases as far back as 1911 (Robertson 2010, 241). The larger project to which Lombroso, Bertillon, Nordau, and Galston aspired, eugenics (Blom 2008, 334–59), was ultimately discredited. Nonetheless, their techniques opened a door for the scientific study of criminality. This new field would play a role in the centralization and professionalization of police forces described above. For instance, “by the end of the 1890s a scheme for systematic political surveillance had emerged in Switzerland for the first time” to deal with its anarchist community (Jensen 2014, 183). Seven international congresses on criminal anthropology convened between 1885 and 1911 (Knepper 2010, 159). Fingerprints and ear and nose measurements had to be catalogued for use, producing biometric databases. Police generated portraits parle—speaking portraits—to identify suspected anarchists with Bertillonage measurements, a description of skin tone and hair color, and a portrait where possible. Departments shared them across borders as they became standardized in 1898 (Jensen 1981, 332). One French police chief celebrated them as a “universal eye . . . unmasking criminals” (Jensen 2014, 184). In what follows I outline four effects of the centralized police forces—new immigration restrictions, universal passports, international police cooperation, and new extradition policies—and link them to propaganda of the deed. Immigration restrictions became a common response to the problem of propaganda of the deed. Many linked anarchism to both criminality and alien populations. The British enacted its first law restricting immigration, the Aliens Act of 1905, in large part due to fears of immigrant anarchists (Bantman 2013, 131–56). Paul Knepper (2010, 140) argues that taking “steps to rid Great Britain of ‘these criminals’ [anarchists] . . . would enable the country to rid itself of many alien criminals of the ordinary type.” The United States attempted deportation laws for anarchists throughout the 1890s, but anarchist fear was regional (Preston 1963, 21–34). After McKinley's assassination, Congress amended immigration law in 1903 to exclude anarchists (Jensen 2014, 256), but their broad definition led to the expulsion of the avowedly nonviolent backlash from a public who valued free speech (Goldstein 1974, 72–73). After the war, laws restricting immigration took hold. The United States passed a sweeping immigration law in 1924 that saw immigration fall from eight hundred thousand in 1922 to below one hundred thousand by 1931 and stay there through the Second World War (US Department of Commerce 1949, 33). More specifically, Italian immigrants, who bore the brunt of the nativist fear of anarchism, dropped from 222,260 in 1921 to 6,203 in 1925. The trial of Sacco and Vanzetti—Italian anarchists charged with murder during a bank robbery—demonstrates the linkage between fears of anarchists and immigrants. Their conviction and ultimate execution in 1927 led to judicial reforms in the United States such as greater oversight of capital cases and new interpretations of habeas corpus (for more on this case, see Joughin and Morgan 1976; Avrich 1991). However, debate over the reason for their treatment being anti-immigration or antianarchist animus demonstrates that anarchism and nationalism—while ideologically opposed—were often conflated in practice. While evidence exists that radicalization occurred prior to emigration (Jensen 2015), Sacco and Vanzetti demonstrate why immigration restrictions developed as a popular response regardless. As immigration restrictions proliferated, passports also became common. While passports had always been in use in some form throughout the nineteenth century, in Europe only Russia and the Ottoman Empire required all who entered to possess one. In fact, passports protected upper-class travelers (Knepper 2010, 94). Outside Europe, passports helped control colonial populations (Lake and Reynolds 2008, 186). Regulating borders was not thought a necessity at the end of the long nineteenth century. For instance, England's complaints about agent provocateurs from Spain and Italy dwelt mostly on incompetence.18 Other states could violate English sovereignty if they caught anarchists. The passport would eventually evolve into a document used to close borders, a major tool in the fight against propaganda of the deed. The passport depended upon the databases and police practices developed to keep track of subversives and, in particular, propagandists. It was basically the inverse of the portrait parle. Both included physical descriptions of the subject and information on nationality and even family and personal history (Turack 1968, 235). However, instead of the police, the traveler now carried the document. Surveillance had moved from identifying criminals to citizens having to prove their identity; their movements were tracked without direct police effort. Internationally shared databases underlaid the universal passport system, echoing the databases and information sharing developed two decades earlier to combat propaganda of the deed. They appear on the agenda of European states in the 1890s as a response to anarchism. In 1894, Germany and Italy attempted to require passports from all travelers from Switzerland, which had a large anarchist exile community. The measure failed due to concerns about the tourism industry but would be replicated elsewhere (Jensen 2014, 182). Britain created a “black book” of known anarchist names to check the passengers lists on incoming liners (Jensen 2014, 204). Universal passports and visas proved unpopular. For instance, all participants of the 1926 League of Nations conference declared a desire to do away with them.19 The public needed persuasion, and fear of propaganda of the deed proved persuasive. England announced that it would deny passports to “suspects, anarchists, and Bolsheviks”20 while the United States sold the passport as a way of keeping out anyone “advocating . . . or teaching anarchy” (US Department of Labor 1920, 65). Anarchy played a big role in deportation cases during this period (US House Committee on Immigration and Naturalization 1920). Governments justified passports using anti-immigrant sentiment and the fear of alien crime (Knepper 2010, 93–96), which, in turn, implicated anarchism. Passports also proved effective in limiting the movement of propagandists. Before the institution of passports, assassins and dynamiteurs, not to mention organizers and intellectuals, found it convenient to evade authorities by slipping across borders. This became much harder when passports restricted entry and forced people to identify themselves once inside a foreign country. In other words, it worked. On the other hand, Argentina resisted using passports or immigration controls into the 1930s and experienced one of the biggest waves of propaganda of the deed in the 1920s, most infamously a series of bombs by Italian emigrant Severino Di Giovanni (for more, see Bayer 1985). The campaign against propaganda of the deed included two major international conferences, the 1898 Rome Conference on Anarchism and the 1904 St. Petersburg Protocol. These conferences laid the groundwork for the creation of Interpol in 1923. As public diplomatic discussion proved ineffective during the Rome Conference, British metropolitan chief Howard Vincent claimed that anarchism was “wholly a matter for international police communication.” Vincent led closed-door breakaway sessions between various police officials attending the conference (Knepper 2010, 154). These sessions proved the most lasting impact of the conference as they shifted the issue from one of politics and international law to one of “professional standards of efficient policing” (DeFlem 2005, 283). Centralized police forces facilitated previously unthinkable direct relationships. For instance, Greek police obtained information from Italian counterparts as late as 1913 by citing a cooperative agreement signed at the Rome Conference (Jensen 1981, 335–36). The 1904 protocol, which only included ten countries after the United States, England, and France demurred citing fears of Russian political influence, deepened these contacts and led to anarchist intelligence bureaus in participating countries. Slowly, police cooperation went from covert actions and secret meetings to professional agreements made by competent bureaucrats. Jensen states that these acts made police cooperation “official and systematic to a degree it had never been before. Because of this, the system promoted by the Final Act of Rome and reinforced by the St. Petersburg Protocol can now take its rightful place as a major precursor, perhaps the first, to the creation in 1923 of an authentic international police organization [Interpol]” (Jensen 1981, 342). All of this entailed the possession of knowledge that only came with the new surveillance techniques developed to curb propaganda of the deed. Police bureaucracies stored and updated this knowledge. Police departments increased cooperation on issues of extradition and exile. Well into the 1890s, states simply expelled unwanted anarchists. England, a popular landing spot for these exiles, called this policy an “international discourtesy to a Friendly Power.”21 The English accused the French of “wanting to funnel toward England the dregs of the Society” (Foreign Office Papers, Box 412/68). Russia, Germany, and Spain provided no lists of expelled while the French, Italians, and Belgians provided lists a month or more after expelling anarchists.22 The English felt that this made their job much more complicated as they had no idea who to look for.23 For instance, the Belgians waited weeks after expelling an anarchist named Jaffei to tell the British of his possible arrival. At which point, one British official opined that it was only their “Good Fortune to Spot Him” that allowed for precaution.24 Such policies ended up unworkable in the fight against propaganda of the deed, and slowly change set in. For instance, Hungary and Germany began to exchange names and photographs of those expelled, echoing portraits parle and passports. The Netherlands, Luxembourg, Spain, Italy, Serbia, Bulgaria, and Austria-Hungary all made similar agreements with each other. The Rome Conference standardized the “attentat” clause, wherein no country could accept an exile charged with killing or attempting to kill a head of state.25 These policies necessitated international communication and centralized databases. In short, states needed the capability and authority to monitor their citizens. Conclusion Anarchist propaganda of the deed caused a crisis for the state at the turn of the twentieth century. Its politics were illegible to its targets and its tactics made conventional responses—such as show trials and public executions—counterproductive. The ways in which states traditionally affirmed the boundaries of their authority made the propaganda of the deed more effective. State officials responded by drawing new boundaries, creating new ways of ordering people and things, and developing new arenas of state capacity, authority, and legitimacy. Centralized police forces better coordinated information and action. New techniques, such as fingerprinting, led to the creation of biometric databases. These changes allowed for the rise of the universal passport, immigration restrictions, new extradition policies, and international police cooperation. The propaganda of the deed proved an important source of legitimacy for implementing and expanding these policies, created a “laboratory” for the development of surveillance practices, and provided a bogeyman for growing nativist, antiglobalization sentiment. Fear of anarchists increased pressure for mechanisms of controlling borders and for restrictions on immigration. We can trace the roots of later developments—such as Interpol, international intelligence organizations such as the CIA and KGB, and the growing science of police work—to the campaign against propaganda of the deed. These were not simply commonsense policy options taken off a possible menu of responses. They involved developing new practices that drew new boundaries of sovereign authority. It was not clear in the late nineteenth century that states could or should track citizens (Robertson 2010). As a result, states could exert, an often indirect, power on a broader swath of people's lives. Thus, in order to understand the significance of the campaign against propaganda of the deed, we must conceive of the state as produced by boundaries that take work to maintain. My findings carry with them broader implications. First, the argument provides further evidence of the coordering of the state and global order (Skocpol 1979; Tilly 1990; Barkin and Cronin 1994; Taliaferro 2006). Second, it contributes to a growing body of evidence that transnational and substate violence can play an important role in state transformation and international change (Thomson 1994; Nexon 2009; Phillips 2011; Adamson 2016). Third, the jihadist violence typified by al Qaeda shares similar properties of illegibility with propaganda of the deed (see arguments of Devji 2005; Krebs and Lobasz 2007; Zarakol 2011) and invoked a similar response.26 This further suggests that we more firmly incorporate possible sources of state transformation beyond warfare, economic shifts, and broader cultural forces. Moreover, accounts of state transformation need to look at more granular shifts in state practices, many of which do not clearly amount to alterations in formal institutions. Many surveillance innovations take this form. US bulk data collection and recent attempts by China (A. Mitchell and Diamond 2018) to create data tracking systems both represent major mutations in the state and its boundaries, but they prove difficult to make sense of via traditional approaches to state formation. The same can be said of the use of drones and other technologies for surveillance.27 All have the potential to radically transform the state's relationship to its citizens. They also have their roots in the development of the modern surveillance state at the turn of the twentieth century. This is where theories of the state formation and transformation focusing on boundaries, practices, and processes can really add to our understanding of international politics. Observers often characterize the problems of twenty-first-century politics by highlighting a range of phenomena putatively illegible to the state. These include, but are not limited to, ecological change, capital flows, piracy, disease, hacking, and social media, among others (for some examples on contemporary and historical work on these subjects, see Branch 2017; Chakrabarti 2010; Beyer and McKelvey 2015; Hurt and Lipschutz 2015; Shirk 2017a). If this is correct, then practice-based conceptions of the state, such as, though not limited to, the one developed here, are necessary to understanding the state's role moving forward. This, in turn, is necessary in understanding international politics. Supplementary Information Supplementary information is available at https://sites.google.com/site/markashirk/home/research and the International Studies Quarterly data archive. Notes Author's note: I would like to thank Patrick Thaddeus Jackson, Richard Bach Jensen, Kirwin Shaffer, Dan Green, Uri Gordon, Virginia Haufler, Davy Banks, Jacqui Ignatova, Meyer Kestnbaum, the patient editors at International Studies Quarterly, and four anonymous reviewers for invaluable comments and critique on this manuscript and the larger project to which it is attached. Special thanks also to Annie Rehill who translated many French archival documents for me. This project was funded by a dissertation grant by the Horowitz Foundation for Social Policy. Mark Shirk is a lecturer in International Relations at the University of Cambridge and a fellow at Sidney Sussex College. During the review process for this article, he was a postdoctoral fellow at Stonehill College. He got his PhD in Government and Politics at the University of Maryland. Footnotes 1 This term is preferred to anarchist terrorism, a common term in the literature not used at the time. Someone performing propaganda of the deed will be called a propagandist. For a deeper discussion, see Appendix B. 2 See Appendix A for more. 3 Legibility here is referring to the state and rule, but this is not its only use (for more, see Caplan 2009). 4 Police Dossiers, Box 1115. 5 For more discussion, see Appendix B. 6 Kinna (2006, 360); see also Home Office Papers, Box 144/485/X37842. 7 Home Office Papers, Box 144/77/A3385. 8 Home Office Papers, Box 144/242/A53582. 9 Police Dossiers, Box 1509. 10 Home Office Papers, Box 144/1711/A55860D. 11 Police Dossiers, Box 141. 12 There is some debate as to whether or not Ravachol was an anarchist/propagandist or a common criminal. However, many anarchists embraced Ravachol and his trial transcript shows anarchist sympathies (Malato 1894). 13 Vaillant was the first person executed for crimes that did not include murder in nineteenth-century France. 14 Police Dossiers, Box 1215. 15 Police Dossier, Box 141, Box 1509; Home Office Papers, Box 45/9739/A54881. 16 For more discussion, see Appendix C. 17 Foreign Office Papers, Box 27/3102. 18 Home Office Papers, Box 144/545/A55176; Box 144/757/118516. 19 Foreign Office Papers, Box 612/355 Section II/B/[1]. 20 Foreign Office Papers, Box 141/811, f.19. 21 Home Office Papers, Box 144/587/B2830C. 22 Foreign Office Papers, Box 412/68, f.4–5. 23 Home Office Papers, Box 45/10254/X3650, f.8–10. 24 Home Office Papers, Box 144/668/X84164, f.8. 25 Home Office Papers, Box 45/10254/X3650, f.1–5. 26 See Appendix D. 27 For more discussion, see Appendix E. 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TI - The Universal Eye: Anarchist “Propaganda of the Deed” and Development of the Modern Surveillance State
JF - International Studies Quarterly
DO - 10.1093/isq/sqy062
DA - 2019-06-01
UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/oxford-university-press/the-universal-eye-anarchist-propaganda-of-the-deed-and-development-of-YdW4Q7rt0S
SP - 334
VL - 63
IS - 2
DP - DeepDyve
ER -