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Place-making practices refer to the ways in which people create and define physical spaces as meaningful and significant through their everyday activities and social interactions.[1] In Ethnography, the study of these practices is often referred to as ‘ethnography as place-making,’ which involves the exploration of the cultural meanings and practices that shape the physical and social environments in which people live. This can include examining how people create and maintain social boundaries, how they express their identities and values through the built environment,[2] and how they negotiate power and control over the spaces they inhabit.

This place in Gröpelingen is made a place through the interaction of the people tending to the urban gardening project. 

1. Pink 2008, 178ff. 

2. See: urbanization 

3. Pink 2008, 190. 

The Formosa Plastics Global Archive supports collaborative analysis, organized around shared research questions, for example:

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The U.S. subsidiary of Formosa Plastics Corp (1301.TW) has agreed to pay $7.5 million and to cooperate with plaintiffs to settle an antitrust lawsuit alleging the company and others curbed the supply of a widely used chemical in a scheme to inflate prices. (Scarcella, August 16, 2023)

“When the government of Taiwan planned for the future of Taiwan several decades ago, it focused exclusively on industrially stimulating the economy. It has been promoting that kind of economic growth and development since the 1970s, making it appear as if industrial growth is the only factor to consider with regard to the country’s future. In the name of progress and economic revitalization, state-led industrialization walks hand in hand with private corporations. Together, they compete for the world’s largest petrochemical plants. The industrial development policy of Taiwan is one of the factors in the loss of Taiwan’s coastal wetlands, the subsiding of land from industrial water withdrawal and sand mining, and the increase of toxic air emissions, contaminated water, and toxic buildup of metals in soils (Wu and Wu 171–2). This “macroeconomy” policy ruins bioregions.” (Chang, 2023, p. 171)” 

The Taiwanese Formosa Plastics Corporation (FPC) is the tenth largest petrochemical company in the world. Focused primarily on the production of polyvinyl chloride (PCV) resins (Wu 2022), the FPC is the main subsidiary of the larger Formosa Plastics Group (FPG), a vertically integrated, global conglomerate that owns businesses in biotechnology, electronics, and logistics, among others (Wikipedia 2020). Formosa’s four main subsidiaries (all petrochemical companies) account for an estimated 10 percent of Taiwan’s gross domestic product (Wu 2022). The most important sites for production are Formosa plants in Yunlin County (Central Taiwan), Point Comfort (Texas), and Baton Rouge (Louisiana). Enabled by the shale gas boom discussed above, plants at all three sites are subject to ongoing expansions, including a proposed $200 million plant in Texas, and the $12 billion industrial complex in Louisiana. Formosa also operates a steel plant in Central Vietnam that is the focal point of much local and transnational activism.

Formosa’s current economic and cultural standing is deeply connected to Taiwan's history of industrialization. The Formosa Plastics Corporation and Group were founded by Wang Yung-ching and his brother Wang Yung-Tsai in Kaohsiung in 1954. Born under Japanese occupation, Wang Yung-ching made a living selling and delivering rice as a young boy, and later operated his own rice shop as a teenager. Eventually, Wang transitioned into the lumber business and benefited from market liberalization following the end of Japanese colonial rule (Lin 2016). However, since US military forces destroyed one of his mills during WWII, Wang received $800,000 from USAID, which he used as capital to found Formosa Plastics (Shah 2012). Until his death in 2008, Wang became one of Taiwan’s richest persons and remains widely known as the “god of management” (Huang 2008).

In Taiwan, conglomerates like the Formosa Plastics Group are called guanxiqiye (“related enterprises''), a colloquial term for tightly-controlled, family-owned businesses. According to anthropologist Ichiro Numazaki (1993), the expression emerged from 1970s business discourse and quickly became a self-identifying status symbol for many corporations (Numazaki 1993, 485). Numazaki argues that Chinese trading tradition (emphasizing partnerships) and Taiwan’s vexed relationship to Japan and China contributed to the rise of family-owned enterprises. Daughter Cher Wang has co-founded important businesses outside of the petrochemical sector, including consumer electronics company HTC. However, the Formosa family has also experienced a series of conflicts: in 1996, Wang Yung-Ching expelled his son Winston for extramarital affairs, who later became involved in ongoing efforts to disclose his father’s substantial tax evasion (Offshore Alert 2018). Today, the Formosa Group is in the process of transitioning key positions away from family members (Taipei Times 2021).

Formosa’s operations have further been shaped by Taiwanese politics and cross-strait relations with China. Considered a moderate liberalizer, Wang held close ties to Taiwan’s democratic party, but also continued to push for expansion in the Chinese mainland during his lifetime, often leading to conflicts between Taiwanese and Chinese administrations (Lin 2016, 81). In 1973, Wang’s plans to build a large petrochemical complex in Taiwan were halted by the authoritarian Kuomintang (KMT) government, but following the lifting of martial law in the mid-1980s, Formosa made a second attempt, suggesting to build the complex in the scenic Yilan County (Ho 2014). Rising concerns over petrochemical development and pollution, however, led to mass protests by local residents and fisher people, creating a landmark moment for Taiwan's larger democracy movement (Ho 2014). In face of this opposition, Wang arranged secret trips to mainland China, and later announced that the plant would be built on the island of Haitsang in Xiamen province. Yet, economic sanctions between China and Taiwan, combined with pressure by the nationalist KMT government, eventually led to construction of the vast petrochemical complex in the rural and impoverished Yunlin County in Central Taiwan (Lin 2016, 82).

When the first lockdown orders were passed in India and stay-at-home orders in California, many in my family dispersed across nations felt containment for the first time. An old couple had arrived to the US in December last year and could not leave now. I had planned to spend summer in Delhi with my family but that is not going to happen. It is too risky to be mobile. At the same time, our lives under lockdown are dependent on people being productive, at home or beyond. When I think about theorizing place and COVID19, I must take containment seriously. The moment reveals the inadequacy of concepts as containers, making the discursive gaps apparent (Fortun 2012) but leaving us flailing about as we meet each other, fingers-crossed. 

The clearest inadequacy is methodological nationalism (Wimmer & Schiller 2002): even as lockdowns have visibly occured across national borders, the transmission of virus through arteries of transnational industrial capitalism (some of it late, some not) and the privilege of transnational mobility point that as long as these infrastructures remain in place, so will this virus and more such to come. We continue to order things online, and Amazon continues to maintain these infrastructures. Public spaces are gradually opening with questionable safety norms in place. India, like other countries, is rescuing its citizens and bringing them back home, even as it continues to let migrant workers starve. 

There is consensus that things will not be as before, even as transnational mobilities continue to function. With enough PPE, fingers-crossed, everyone will be fine. What does it mean to take containment seriously, at a time when we are opening up? As things will continue to be normalized to our collective surprise and fatigue, this moment should mobilize us to think about different ways of organizing and care. These do not have to be new ways of thinking and doing but those that have blossomed in our lands for some time. 

In my annotation, I offer brief summaries of articles that animate my thinking about theorizing from confinement and that offer ways of doing already present: 

• Epidemics in American Concentration Camps: From the “White Plague” to COVID-19: Japanese Americans have formed the group Tsuru for Solidarity, calling for decarceration from prisons, jails, and detention centers. As these violent confined places become hotspots of infection, residents and descendants of residents of World War II concentration camps located across the US (most famously in Manzanar, California) recall accounts of epidemic management. Not surprisingly, the burden to remain healthy and disease-free was on detainees, which meant aggregating community and family resources when detainees were already deprived of livelihoods. As staffing problems arose during tuberculosis epidemic in 1940s, the hospital management even considered family members to take hospital shifts. 

• By Desperate Measures Relieved?: Public Health, Prisons, and the Politics of Life: Jason Ludwing writes about how notions of accelerating vaccine development for COVID19 through human "challenge trials" reminds him of medical experiments on incarcerated people in the US. Challenge trials depend on a volunteering body to take on the infection, but for people in prisons, the line blurs between a consenting body that volunteers and a coerced body that is sacrificed. He points to the prison-university complex  in collaboration between University of Maryland and Maryland Corrections in typhoid experiments based at Prison Volunteer Research Unit (PVRU) which launched many publications and research careers. The researchers frame those as ethical experiments because the male inmates received better accomodation and pay. Even though incarcerated populations will not be experimented upon during COVID, prison factories have remained open for producing PPE. Ludwig reminds us that this is not because of the moment, but an inevitable consequence of a system that deprives people of their bodies. 

• COVID-19, Biopolitics and Abolitionist Care Beyond Security and Containment: Eva Boodman argues that we must see beyond individual protection against microbes (biodefense) especially when it comes to people confined by coercion. Building from Foucault's biopolitics (make live/let die), Boodman sees this as continuation, not departure from what many groups have known all along: that the state and university is not for them. They know that we will keep getting messages of management and security as care. Boodman has a vision for abolitionist care, arguing that abolitionists over the years have assidously foregrounded racialized and class-ed neglect that COVID exacerbates and called for its end rather than thinking with. Abolitionist vision would mean calling an end for prisons, jails and all forms of carceration and in line with neglect of public health, an end to all for-profit nursing homes and treatment centers. It means to center mutual aid groups that have been working on-ground for a long time, and those that are built anew. It would mean for both to learn from each other. But mutual aid groups will also be careful to not be co-opted (as Black Panther Party's free breakfast program was co-opted by USDA), or serve as justification for further state neglect. Abolitionist care acknowledges that it will have to work temporarily with security apparatuses even as it continues to resist from inside. The end goal is not to settle for a liberal future.

• Beyond Inside/Outside: Imagining Safety During Covid-19: Author mobilizes her experience of leaving domestic abuse to think about living and working in confined domestic spaces. Feminized labor blurs inside/outside boundaries, revealed starkly by COVID. It is fatigued and exhausted but carries on. She says: "My experience of abuse was organized around waiting. Waiting for something bad to happen and then waiting for the bad thing to be over”. She says that the years of abuse live in her body. She was afraid to call for mediation because the police and state have worked to either criminalize or pass judgement on people like her. The work of transformative justice and prison abolition made her ask the question: why must we endure? Even though staying can be strategic, a way of survival, community can be elusive too. She offers the notion of "pod-building": does away with romantic ideas of community predicated upon shared identities and political analysis and pushes us to rely on relationship-building and trust with people we already know: that are reliable, have good boundaries and skills, which do not necessarily mirror our politics. This reconfiguration of care comes as she recognizes the link between intimate partner violence, gender-based violence, and prison-industrial complex that disrupted her healing and now animate her activism. 

• Working During COVID-19: Occupational Hazards and Workers’ Right to a Safe Workplace: A brief history of labor organizing around occupational safety and hazards and the role of ILO. To be recognized as occupational hazard, a worker in the American context must demonstrate that disease was contracted in place of work. For mining industry, the struggle to include silicosis and lung-based infections went on for decades and was successful but still requires heavy bureaucratic lifting. For petrochemical industries, this is even difficult as communities live in contamination, blurring home and work places. Workers in informal economy are even more precarious and face either starvation or contagion. As the ILO called for COVID to be recognized as a workplace hazard, could workers demand better conditions and from whom and how? The authors offer two examples from "occupied" factories, or those controlled by workers' assemblies: Rimaflow from Milan (Italy) and Traful Newen in Neuquen (Argentina). These workplaces implemented safety protocols much earlier than ordered by the state, and allowed older people, people with co-morbidity, and those who have domestic emergencies to stay at home with pay. Rather than decreasing production, these workplaces have seen an increase and created more jobs in a more ethical way.  

More reading: Care not Cages! #COVID19DecarcerateSyllabus

I've found myself returning to thinking about/around/within interstitial spaces of care, particularly within hospital settings, interested in how viral activity unsettles the ideas we have around space and boundaries, both biological and infrastructural. In COVID-19 pathology and response, the inbetween, the interstitial, become sites challenge and possibility. With COVID-19, we see an acknowledgment of once forgotten spaces quite obviously, with hospital atria and hallways being reconfigured into patient care spaces, makeshift morgues established in refrigerated trucks, and hospitals spilling out into neighboring streets and parks. More than ever, we see how hospitals are simultaneously bounded and unbounded--the most stable and unstable sites for care. Along this line of thought, what might thinking through hospitals as heterotopia of crisis and deviation afford?

Foucault outlines six principles for heterotopic spaces

The heterotopia is capable of juxtaposing in a single real place several spaces, several sites that are in themselves incompatible

Heterotopias are most often linked to slices in time—which is to say that they open onto what might be termed, for the sake of symmetry, heterochronies. The heterotopia begins to function at full capacity when men arrive at a sort of absolute break with their traditional time. This situation shows us that the cemetery is indeed a highly heterotopic place since, for the individual, the cemetery begins with this strange heterochrony, the loss of life, and with this quasi-eternity in which her permanent lot is dissolution and disappearance.

Heterotopias always presuppose a system of opening and closing that both isolates them and makes them penetrable. In general, the heterotopic site is not freely accessible like a public place. Either the entry is compulsory, as in the case of entering a barracks or a prison, or else the individual has to submit to rites and purifications.

Mishuana Goeman in Mark My Words talks about remapping as a way of rethinking space and temporality, so the future is driving the study of the past and the past is interrogated for the future.

Goeman uses the fiction of Native women to push forth the idea that words don’t only represent reality, arguing that by using narrative “in (re)mapping, we as Native people have the power to rethink the way we engage with territory, with our relationships to one another, and with other Native nations and settler nations” (38–39).

So imagining spatial encounters and relationships is actually a way of mapping alternative relationships

Massey’s understanding of space is the “product of interrelations,” “spheres of possibility,” “and always under construction or a simultaneity of stories-so-far” (6-7), so space is a meeting of histories.

What histories are meeting now? Maybe more importantly, whose histories are meeting? I think this is where scalar analysis can come in to complement Massey’s thinking about space.. to start to tease out a bit these entangled encounter or meeting space, knowing it will never fully be disentangled.

Also, when think about Massey’s line of space as a meeting place, something always in transit, I’m thinking specifically of encounters. And space/place as encounter. And stay at home orders rethink the way many of us are encountering each other, also in certain contexts, especially for those with the privilege of staying at home, change encounters are being lost. The sort of tranistness of space is being lost.