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In the Western imagination, the Middle Eastern harem was a place of sex, debauchery, slavery, miscegenation, power, riches, and sheer abandon. But for the women and children who actually inhabited this realm of the imperial palace, the reality was vastly different. In this collection of translated memoirs, three women who lived in the Ottoman imperial harem in Istanbul between 1876 and 1924 offer a fascinating glimpse "behind the veil" into the lives of Muslim palace women of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

The memoirists are Filizten, concubine to Sultan Murad V; Princess Ayse, daughter of Sultan Abdulhamid II; and Safiye, a schoolteacher who instructed the grandchildren and harem ladies of Sultan Mehmed V. Their recollections of the Ottoman harem reveal the rigid protocol and hierarchy that governed the lives of the imperial family and concubines, as well as the hundreds of slave women and black eunuchs in service to them. The memoirists show that, far from being a place of debauchery, the harem was a family home in which polite and refined behavior prevailed. Douglas Brookes explains the social structure of the nineteenth-century Ottoman palace harem in his introduction.

These three memoirs, written across a half century and by women of differing social classes, offer a fuller and richer portrait of the Ottoman imperial harem than has ever before been available in English.

Giving voice to childhood, memory, and resilience within a shared home.

The Home on Gorham Street looks back to an earlier era of care for orphaned and dependent children of Eastern European Jewish immigrants. Within this social history and ethnography, the voices of elders once wards of the home in the 1930s and 1940s tell us in sometimes poetic, often comic, usually ironic, and always poignant words what it was really like to grow up in an orphanage. Emerging from this penetrating adventure are principles for the future of effective group care in meeting the needs of the rapidly growing number of abused, forsaken, and orphaned children.

Goldstein's ethnography demonstrates amply that children who spend years in an institution can go on to lead productive lives under certain conditions. Such conditions may never have been met in any other children's institution. That they did exist one time, however, is cause not only to rejoice but also to understand that recreating these conditions is difficult and possibly impossible.

"The Huron River . . . was called 'Cos-scut-e-nong Sebee'. . . . [It] is a beautiful, transparent stream, passing alternatively through rich bottoms, openings, plains, and sloping woodlands, covered with heavy timber."
---History of Washtenaw County, Michigan, 1881

The Huron River---stretching 130 miles through three counties---has inspired numerous writers throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Contained here is a collection of new poems, essays, and stories, accompanied by maps, photographs, and illustrations that celebrate the Huron River. Over twenty locally and nationally known literary figures, including Alice Fulton and Charles Baxter, have contributed to this volume. In addition, the work of biologists, naturalists, and even an arche-ologist have been included to give a richer sense of the physical and cultural environment.

Each of these writers reminds us that our lives are more intertwined with the river and its watershed than we might think. The Huron River opens with these words: "Watersheds are the oldest and most durable markers of place. . . . These boundaries affect our lives by defining our natural environment, not only its topography but its soils, its plant and animal life, and to some extent its weather. The water that sustains most of us is the water that flows through our local watershed."

And the river's strength is wondrous unto itself. "The water will always be there, and it will always find its way down," writer Gary Snyder tells us. The river is sometimes visible, sometimes not; yet it "is alive and well under the city streets, running in giant culverts."

John Knott is Professor of English, University of Michigan. After working as a bookseller for twenty years, Keith Taylor now teaches writing part-time for the University of Michigan and works as a freelance writer.

Sharing stories by Indigenous survivors of sexual violence to reconceptualize justice beyond punishment and remediation

The Justice We Demand asks a profound and urgent question: What does justice truly mean for rape survivors? To address sexual violence, two dominant frameworks of justice persist: carceral justice, which centers punishing perpetrators through the criminal legal system, and restorative justice, which emphasizes repairing interpersonal relationships to resolve tensions between perpetrator and victim. Indigenous survivors and their communities, however, do not view justice as a neat binary between carceralism or restoration. Instead, they navigate complex legal and social systems across federal, state, local, and tribal jurisdictions, and they imagine justice in the form of ceremony, apology, banishment, and more, remedies that often fall outside the formal, colonialist legal system.

Centering the importance of storytelling in addressing trauma, Sarah Deer and Melinda Chen listen to the stories of fifty-one Indigenous women and Two-Spirit survivors of sexual violence to understand their versions of justice. Through their felt experiences, Indigenous survivors challenge conventional criminal justice paradigms that persist in Tribal Nations and settler colonial states, cultivating sovereign approaches to punishment and healing.

With actionable insight and resounding truth, The Justice We Demand urges us to reconsider what justice means and envisions a constellation of remedies led by each survivor’s needs, rooted in their own terms, bodies, and land.

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Revealing how people in need advocated for and negotiated their own care until the development of standardized medicine

The Voices of Need uncovers how men and women in Charlestown, Massachusetts, who turned to municipal authorities for aid, actively shaped how their need was understood and addressed. Through a close examination of Charlestown’s care networks, Angela Keysor shows how town selectmen relied on sufferers themselves to articulate what would relieve their distress, while local women—paid by town authorities—provided hands-on care in homes and neighborhoods. These networks flourished in the early and mid-eighteenth century, but their flexibility and responsiveness were increasingly strained by crisis and change. A devastating smallpox epidemic in 1763, followed by racialized debates over belonging after the legal end of enslavement in Massachusetts in 1783, exposed the limits of community-based care.

After the American Revolution, rising numbers of aid requests prompted town officials to reorganize care through a contract system in which paid caregivers attended to multiple dependents at once. As care became centralized and standardized, the space for individuals to define their own needs—and to influence how those needs were met—steadily narrowed. By 1819, with the founding of Massachusetts General Hospital, sufferers were fully redefined as patients, expected to submit to professional authority rather than participate in decisions about their own care.

Tracing this transition from negotiated assistance to institutional medicine, The Voices of Need illuminates a largely forgotten history of agency among the poor and infirm. In doing so, Keysor challenges conventional narratives of early American health care and shows how the rise of standardized medicine fundamentally reshaped the meaning of need, care, and authority. 

In 1889, Sitting Bull addressed the formal, Western-style education of his people. “When you find something good in the white man's road, pick it up,” he intoned. “When you find something that is bad . . . leave it alone. We shall master his machinery, and his inventions, his skills, his medicine, his planning, but we will retain our beauty and still be Indians.”

Sitting Bull's vision—that cultural survival and personal perseverance derive from tribal resilience—lies at the heart of Tribal Strengths and Native Education. Basing his account on the insights of six veteran American Indian educators who serve in three reservation schools on the Northern Plains, Terry Huffman explores how Native educators perceive pedagogical strengths rooted in their tribal heritage and personal ethnicity. He recounts their views on the issues facing students and shows how tribal identity can be a source of resilience in academic and personal success. Throughout, Huffman and the educators emphasize the importance of anchoring the formal education of Indian children in Native values and worldviews—in “tribal strengths.”