Tour Guides’ Tricks vs Historians’ Hang-ups: Lessons for Teaching History

Recently, I’ve started working as a tour guide on Edinburgh’s beautiful Royal Mile. For two hours, come rain or shine, I escort random tourists down the narrow alleyways, onto cobblestoned streets, across graveyards, and into medieval courtyards, regaling them with (hi)stories about Edinburgh’s colourful past. It’s entertaining and challenging work.  Guides must be on-the-ball with funny jokes, vibrant vocabulary, and accurate answers to a wide variety of questions for the whole two hours. It’s draining work, but super fun. The time flies by.

Being a tour guide is exciting because of my great love of history, local knowledge of Edinburgh, and previous experiences helping tourists. Also, after spending 10+ years in admin office roles in both Canada and Scotland, I am crystal clear that I’d rather be walking the streets of one of the prettiest cities in Europe than sitting in a stale office staring at spreadsheets. No more spreadsheets, I say! No more!  But my education (ie. PhD in modern history) is dismally underutilised in a position that caters to “just tourists.” Surely after so many years of study, I can “do better” than tour guiding?

Tour guiding might be a “fall from grace” for ambitious academics, but other employment opportunities – especially at universities or in research – are notoriously competitive and outrageously difficult to attain. So, while the rejection letters pour into my inbox (and until I reluctantly decide to give up on my dream of being a university lecturer), I’ve decided to apply my skills elsewhere. Also, those bills don’t pay themselves.

But I’ve learned there is a vast difference between a tour guide and a historian. Like, wow. And some of the differences are totally refreshing. Others are a little disconcerting. And some are just down right hilarious. Despite starting this job with a somewhat cocky attitude (“Surely it can’t be that much harder than when I taught at a university…”), tour guiding has re-opened my eyes to history and history-telling. And, of course, sufficiently humbled my approach.

Historians and tour guides both earn money from the same skill set: the ability to teach history. Although one researches and lectures in a university, the other guides on the streets, often in the exact place where that history took place. While teaching history unites these professions, their approaches greatly differ. This is why I decided to write this blog. Hopefully, my observations will debunk some myths (or prejudices) we may have about both trades.

1) Story-telling vs (Hi)story-telling

Professional historians will vehemently say that teaching history as a story (or narrative) is not good history. But tour guides rely heavily on stories because they are entertaining. And, because one of the chief goals of tour guiding is to entertain, historical events are often conveyed in a narrative structure (setup, conflict, resolution), as it makes history accessible, engaging and much more memorable.

But stories and histories are not interchangeable. History should not be moralised, narrativised, pushed into little boxes of “good” versus “bad.”  As we all know, history is often written by the victors (ie. white, old, wealthy, MEN) and any publication about historiography – the study of writing history – is plagued with lengthy analyses about the inherent bias in historical sources. Today’s students of history undertake meticulous and often painstaking training about how to identify and overcome such biases, so that most contemporary historical research endeavours to be objective, evidence-based and (hopefully) self-aware and self-reflective.

And yet, it is worthwhile noting that some students of history, like Michael Conway, perceptively argue that it is not until a student engages in historiography that they begin to realise that history is not a single overarching description, but instead a conflict-ridden zone of historians/scholars bickering endlessly about all aspects of history. This, Conway argues, is actually more compelling: “History is not indoctrination. It is a wrestling match. For too long, the emphasis has been on pinning the opponent. It is time to shift the focus to the struggle itself”. But let’s get back to tour guiding…

When history is told as a story, the goal is often to promote consumption; it (negates that academic battleground that Conway writes about and instead) allows the reader/audience to easily absorb the information without any moral dilemma, ambiguity, or guesswork. But this does not mean that the story is not meaningful or stimulating. In fact, some of my favourite British public historians (such as Neil Oliver or Lucy Worsley) often present history as narratives. Fortunately, they often simultaneously question whether we should accept such interpretations as accurate.  By doing so, audiences are given a choice: they can blindly accept such portrayals as conveniently memorable stories, or they can wrestle with the ambiguity and interpret the (hi)story in their own way.

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Neil Oliver is a prominent archeologist and television presenter in Scotland. Criticised as being too Anglo-Centric by some, it did not stop him from being appointed as President of the National Trust of Scotland in 2017. (Photo credit: BBC)

But not all history can be put into a narrative structure. In the event you might disagree, then think of genocide, or slavery, or war. There’s no moral to be learned from the existence of concentration camps. There’s no overarching narrative of tragedy, comedy or redemption within slaves’ experiences. There are no “good” or “bad” soldiers in war. And, because these topics cannot be easily reduced or moralised, they continue to attract revision, debate and controversy among multiple stakeholders: historians, legal and legislative bodies, policy-makers, international organisations, humanitarians, educators, artists, authors, filmmakers, and so many, many more.

On Edinburgh’s Cowgate, I tell the story of Joseph Smith (“Bowed Joseph”), a poor, disabled 18thcentury cobbler who notoriously roused Edinburgh’s poorest segments of society into a frenzied mob (up to 10,000 people) whenever it suited him. The town officials were so wary of Bowed Joseph that they would often consult him before enacting local policies (such as increasing the price of ale). The “story” goes that when Joseph heard that a poor father-of-six had committed suicide after being evicted by an unconcerned landlord, Joseph beat his drum down the street to provoke thousands to storm the landlord’s house, stripping it of all possessions and piling the furniture into a nearby park. As the helpless town guard looked on, Bowed Joseph himself lit the match. The pyre reportedly burnt for hours.

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Bowed Joseph’s malformed skeleton (on display at the University of Edinburgh’s Anatomical Museum) shows us the devastating effects of childhood malnutrition in the 18th Century.

Historically speaking, we know very little about Joseph Smith. Born into abject poverty sometime in the mid 1700s on Edinburgh’s Cowgate, he developed rickets at a young age. He had strong, massive arms and short, bowed legs. We know this because upon his death in 1780 (falling from a coach after gambling at the race track in Leith), the University of Edinburgh’s prestigious Medical School acquired his deformed skeleton. Today, it’s displayed at the Anatomical Museum, which coincidentally was the only reason that I knew that Joseph Smith existed at all!

What the points of telling you all this? This is bad history, but a great story; the tale of an underdog who used his power for social justice. But – I would argue – stories like these teaches elements of history without the tourist even realising it. For example, the audience learns about Edinburgh’s brutal poverty, childhood diseases of the 1700s, the strength (and fear) of the mob to provoke political change, rioting as a commonplace practise of 18thC Scottish culture, existing class tensions between landowners and tenants – these are all historical themes that this story illustrates.

But I’ve practically sold my academic soul. I have compromised my formal objective, evidence-based study of history with an engaging narrative chiefly devoid of tangible facts, in order to achieve my manager’ goal: to entertain tourists about Edinburgh’s “history.”

2) Telling Entertaining (Hi)stories

Training for this job was mostly self-directed. I was not given a script, but simply told the appointed “audition date” I would give a two-hour tour of the Old Town to my manager. I was allowed to speak about anything, and was invited onto other guides’ tours to see their routes and topics. Considering this company is one of the highest rated on Trip Advisor (the chief reason I applied with them), I was surprised at this somewhat laissez-faire, trusting approach.

Although studying “all” of Scottish and Edinburgh’s history was slightly daunting, this worked perfectly for me. I have learned that both historians and tour guides are only as good as the knowledge they possess. Breadth and nuance of historical insight is entirely dependent upon that person’s work ethic and willingness to learn. Taaa-daaa – maybe tour guides and historians aren’t so different after all!

After my audition, my manager’s feedback was hilarious (…well, in retrospect): “Chelsea, you must use less dates. Tourists do not care if it happened in 1861, just say ‘mid-1800s.’ Of course, always know your dates in case anyone asks, but stop being so precise! Your groups don’t want a history lesson!”

My inner pedantic academic and pride as a “proper educated historian” shrivelled into a little lifeless ball of death. I laughed but was disconcerted. How can years of pushing for flawless historical accuracy (including memorising dates) be considered a weakness? I walked away from my audition a little bruised. My ego a little weakened. But then, it dawned on me. Could it be that imprecise teaching (the greatest faux pas of any educator) could be considered a strength here?! Could it be that extraneous pedantic detail was actually not necessary in guiding? Could it be that just the interesting, engaging, enjoyable parts of history are actually the focus?

A great relief settled inside me and that lifeless ball of death sprung alive again. Of course, tour guiding is about entertainment, and formal history is about education. Both can go hand-in-hand but are not identical. While History with a big H is important, we all know that aspects of it are tediously boring, even to historians: Economic history of immediate post-Confederation Canada? Not interested. Technical capabilities of British naval vessels in the Napoleonic Wars? Sorry, don’t care. Another biography of Winston Churchill? Please dear God, no.

Thus, I’ve learned that tour guiding isn’t just about using stories to tell history, but instead, to tell entertaining history. It’s like being given cream for your coffee, instead of weak milk. It’s like getting a filet mignon instead of rump steak. It’s like eating the centre of the cinnamon bun first, rather than the crusty outer edges. (ps. I like food analogies).

3) Questioning Impact and Legacy Without All the Pedantic Detail

As you’ve noticed, telling Edinburgh’s and Scottish history in entertaining, bite-size pieces are the trick of the two-hour tour guiding trade. But when I asked my manager if I could end with a question, instead of an amusing anecdote, he considerately listened and nodded his head. He simply said that so long as it was concise and clear, there’s no reason it wouldn’t work.

The need to understand and interrogate the legacy or impact of history details/facts/events/persons is a cornerstone of every good historical study. History conferences are full of scholars squabbling over the minutiae of history.  Even if it’s very technical details (i.e. the Spitfire only had 14-18 seconds of ammunition), those details can have significant impact upon larger events (pilot performance, casualty rates, future combat airplane design, and so on). That’s why details are so very important to historians, even if it makes them look like pedantic, over-obsessed nerds. If those details are inaccurate, misinterpreted, or false, then the larger context and the enduring legacy can also be questioned.

But would your average holidaying tourist be interested in such details?

No, let’s get real. Tour guides do not have the time to meticulously analyse every detail of Scottish history. For tourists, this would be the opposite of entertaining. Their holidays would be ruined by my tedious obsession with overwhelming empirical details.

Instead, I discovered that tour guides, similar to public historians, can approach it backwards – by deconstructing the legacy as a way to question details. For example, I deliberately end my tour beside the Writer’s Museum (with a view of the Royal Mile and the Scott Monument).

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The largest monument in the world dedicated to an author, the Scott Monument, was built in 1844.  (Photo Credit)

There I discuss Sir Walter Scott, arguably the most influential Scottish citizen to impact modern Scottish identity.  But because Scott’s writings showcased Scottish identity in a certain way – Highlands, stags, romance, the wilds of the north – it often failed to include other portions of Scottish society and culture.

This came to a climax (notice my narrative structure!) in 1822 when King George IV visited Scotland, the first official state visit in almost 200 years. Scott, a national celebrity, had been commissioned to plan the festivities and he did not fail to deliver. Notably, Polish conmen (Sobieski Stuarts) sought to benefit from the celebrations, publishing a famous book that claimed that specific tartan denoted a specific Highland Clan.  Scottish nobles raced to find their Highland ancestry so they could purchase their kilts in time for the King’s visit.  And Scott’s prolific writings (and explicit instructions for the festivities) had impacted locals and foreigners so much that when the King arrived, only a certain type of Scottish person was showcased – the “Highlander”. Bedecked in colourful tartan, this robust, whisky-swilling, haggis-eating, masculine, bearded and kilted “Highlander” came to represent all the Scots.

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Various cultural representations of Scotland have perpetuated the identity (myth?) of the “Highlander,” including films such as Highlander (1986), Braveheart (1995) and TV series Outlander (2014+). Perhaps it’s no wonder this image of Scotland still prevails today.

I thus conclude my tour with a question: Was Scott’s interpretation of the Scots actually an accurate reflection of Scotland’s identity? Or is he responsible for creating a redundant, overused, exploited image of the Highlands? I then humorously remind them to think twice about purchasing tartan scarves on the Royal Mile. Or watching Braveheart.

4) The Irrefutable Power of Location

The most formidable tool in the tour guide’s arsenal is not actually her/his ability to research history (the realm of professors) or to seamlessly present history in a convenient package (the realm of television programs), or even to repurpose history (the realm of public historians). Instead, it is the power of the physical location of historical events and legacies that allow tour guides to instil, showcase, mobilise, present, investigate, question, and explore history. By walking the same street that Bowed Joseph roused his mob, or by seeing the same views that JK Rowling saw when she wrote the first Harry Potter book, or by tasting haggis as Robert Burns would have tasted when he wrote “Ode to a Haggis,” the tourist is imprinted with so much more than just a history lesson. They themselves smell, taste, see, hear and thus participate in history in a way that no book, no TV show and no lecture can equal. It’s exponentially more powerful, more visceral and more resonant.

To my surprise, tour guides are often the only educational resource for tourists following a tight travel itinerary (I’ve checked with the tourists on my tours!). This means that tour guides are as vital to teaching history to the public as any other formally trained historian, curator or television educator. Although I travel a great deal, and have experienced amazing tours in places where history unfolded (the rise of the Third Reich in Munich, or discussing the Battle of Berlin steps from the Reichstag), I’m not sure I fully appreciated the role of tour guides in orchestrating and teaching history until now. Tour guides have an invaluable role in researching, selecting and presenting the physical locations of historical events, legacies and people to retell history. And by refocusing the audiences’ attention upon the location, tour guides revive history more authentically than can be created even in the most competent lectures, or among the most vibrant imaginations.

In 1774, one of my favourite Enlightenment authors, Voltaire, was dissatisfied with how scholars studied and wrote history:

“People are very careful to report what day a certain battle took place… They print treaties, they describe the pomp of a coronation, the ceremony of receiving the Cardinal’s hat, and even the entrance of an ambassador, forgetting neither his Swiss soldiers nor his lackeys. It is a good thing to have archives on everything that one might consult them when necessary… But after I have read three or four thousand descriptions of battles, and the terms of some hundreds of treaties, I have found the fundamentally I am scarcely better instructed than I was before.”

Voltaire proposed a solution that was rather innovative, especially for his time. Instead, he suggested that we should focus on location, artefacts, art and theatre to learn history:

“A lock on the canal that joins two seas, a painting by Poussin, a fine tragedy, are things a thousand times more precious than all the court annals and all the campaign reports put together.”

 

 

 

 

Refugees, Labour and Violence: Rethinking “borders” while in the Scottish Borders

Last month, I holidayed in a region of southern Scotland called “The Borders.” As the boyfriend was raised in one of its charming towns, I had a built-in tour guide. He showed me all the fluffy sheep, the gorgeous green rolling hills and told me stories of the Borders’ sparkling history of violence and raiding.

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This vantage of the Tweed valley and Eildon Hills is called “Scott’s View,” as it is reputed as one of Sir Walter Scott’s favourite views.

This lush swath of land held a contentious political boundary that separated Scotland from England. Between the 13th and 17th centuries, this magnificent countryside became ground zero in the quest to define those two nationalities. Repetitive small conflicts and systematic raiding dominated the region due to a group of mercenaries called the Border Reivers. Equipped with bows and arrows and mounted on little ponies, they were notorious for stealing, raping and fighting for live stock and lands.

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Queen Elizabeth I was so impressed with the Border Reivers ruthless success, that she once said, “with ten thousand such men, James VI could shake any throne in Europe.”  (photo: wikipedia)

Today, traces of the intense violence are still present in the abandoned peel towers that dot the countryside, where residents would hide from invaders. One particular peel tower called Smailholm Tower was made popular by Scotland’s cherished author, Sir Walter Scott. As a child battling polio in the late 1700s, Scott stayed with his grandparents at Sandyknowes farm just beside Smailholm Tower and even played in its ruins.

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Smailholm Tower was one of hundreds of defensive fortifications that dotted the countryside. Inside was often a local laird and enough room to house the sheep and cattle, a major resource for the Border Reivers.

Due to the strong oral traditions among the local farmers and shepherds, Scott also learned about the Border Reivers’s raids through workers on the farm, including his auntie who would sing to him. Years later, Scott transcribed and modified some of these folk tales, popularising them through his writings and publications. In one fell swoop, Sir Walter Scott’s renditions of these stories soon came to define an entire portion of Scotland’s (heavily disputed) land and (blood-soaked) history into the romanticised nation we know today.

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Abbotsford, Sir Walter Scott’s family home, is now a B&B and museum.

While Scott’s impact upon Scotland is indisputable – he seemed to be a remarkable and eccentric man – the Scottish Borders as a specific region made me stop and think. Scotland and England would eventually find peace (to an extent) so that the violence would stop, but what do such borders achieve?

Are borders entirely arbitrary, or do they serve a useful purpose? What do borders accomplish? How do borders define a group? Do they cause more peace or more violence? Do we still need them? Or should we build more?   

I’m not the first to ask such questions, especially in recent history. Just last month, it was the 70th anniversary of India and Pakistan’s creation. Or, it was the 70th anniversary of one of the bloodiest legacies that ever came from drawing a border.

In the immediate post-war era, calls for Indian independence from British rule could no longer by ignored by Westminster. Muhammad Ali Jinnah, leader of the Congress and Muslim League, demanded the creation of a Muslim state. With British PM Clement Atlee’s strong support, Lord Louis Mountbatten and Cyril Radcliffe were responsible for hastily drawing a boundary that essentially cut Punjab and Bengal almost in half.  But the problem was that millions of Muslims lived in what would become Hindu-majority India, while millions of Hindus and Sikhs lived in what would be Muslim-majority Pakistan.

Pakistan Remembering Partition

A photo from 19 September 1947 of an overcrowded train station by New Delhi (from an article by Dawn).

The “Mountabatten Plan” was submitted just five days before India and Pakistan were partitioned (14th and 15th August, respectively). Celebrations ensued, but so did mass migration. Over 15 million Muslims, Sikhs and Hindus essentially swapped countries, leading to over a million deaths in the violence that followed. Chaos reigned at train stations, looting and food shortages were commonplace. People apparently defended themselves from discriminate attacks with knives, guns, swords. Thousands sought shelter and refuge in sacred temples and tombs. Millions died because of this arbitrary, hastily drawn line in the earth. Millions died because of a border.

Borders, essentially, divide people.

Hundreds of years ago, physical features of the land would define a people, such as river or forest. But in more recent history, borders have been politically motivated rather than geographically defined. Or sometimes both. I remember being a young Canadian elementary student in Social Studies class and asking why the US-Canada border was straight on the left (west), but squiggly on the right (east). My teacher laughed and said the St. Lawrence River was the chosen boundary in the east, while the 49th latitude was the boundary in the west. The answer confused me, but then I was told that the US-Canada border is the longest undefended border in the world. “But we’ll be okay,” she reassured me. “Okay from what?” I remember thinking.

Borders “protect” people.

They keep foreigners out. They help us to define ourselves in relation to the “other” whatever we perceive it to be: barbarity, violence, backwardness, et cetera. By doing so, borders create a sense of homogeneity, safety and order for those inside, implying further that such civilised aspects of society only exist within that border. Borders thus legitimise our identities and strengthen our communities. Evidently, borders do accomplish a great deal.

Today’s borders allow free trade, the free movement of goods to be exchanged. This allows us to create links (sometimes exploitive) with our neighbours and is one of the best things to come out of colonisation and globalisation. And yet we do not afford that same freedom of movement to people, to labour.

As British journalist Giles Fraser says, “We are so hypocritical about our borders.” We will celebrate the fall of the Berlin Wall, but we will fortify Calais and the UK against the waves of eastern refugees and migrants. We will condemn Trump’s proposed wall with Mexico, but continue the oppressive system of First Nations reservations in Canada and the US. We shake our heads at the illegal detainment of Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza Strip, but we will applaud the commendable efforts of Médecins Sans Frontières (or, Doctors without Borders).

Why such hypocrisy? 

Professor Jonothan Moses claims in International Migration: Globalization’s Last Frontier (2006), that “as distance in the world recedes with technological, social, demographic and political advances, the demand for international migration will surely grow.” The only way to solve our multiple global problems, he claims, is through free migration. It is the last frontier to be conquered by the global community. Naturally, this sounds both radical and implausible, but he assures us that eventually we would become more just and happier, as the world’s economic and political bounty would be better distributed.

A world without borders? Is that possible?  

Just imagine a world where you could visit or permanently move anywhere you wanted without restrictions. Tropical islands everywhere would become overwhelmed with the world’s richest retirement-aged elites. Many long-distance relationships could be solved. Families separated by war or migration could be reunited.  Unmarried women could backpack through Saudi Arabia! And, importantly, the global divide between the rich underpopulated North and the poor overpopulated South would rebalance. Eventually.

But a world without borders is difficult to comprehend.  So if a borderless, free-moving, global population is one radical extreme, then at the other end of the spectrum is a world with well-defined “nations”. We know this world, because we are living in it. A world with borders, barriers and walls, such as those that currently in Israel/Palestine, or those proposed by Trump with Mexico, or those proposed by Brexit with Europe. No more EU Schengen plans. No more visa-free travel. Everyone restricted to their little nation. Everyone defined by their borders.

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The closing ceremonies of the London 2012 Olympics demonstrates just how much we are defined by our borders (Photo: Daily Mail).

But then, history. History tells us that borders aren’t necessarily the best invention since sliced bread. Borders cause war, then war happens, then borders are redrawn. Repeat. For example, one of the strongest underlying factors for the outbreak of the First World War was the fact that people were angry with their borders. And this anger took the form of nationalism. Pause here.

Nationalism (generally, a pride in one’s nation) is based upon a collective identity due to ethnic, religious, and/or political reasons. It’s a massive concept that historians debate endlessly (see Anthony Smith’s Theories of Nationalism (1971), Ernest Gellner’s Nations and Nationalism (1983), anything by Eric J. Hobsbaum). Because borders keep foreigners out, legitimise citizens within, and nurture collective pride and identity, nationalism is tied inextricably to borders – real or imagined. Nationalism does not always need to exist in a community, but it does exist because that community is legitimised by, or rebelling against, its borders. Correct? Yes.

So, in the early 1900s, multiple ethnic communities in the Balkans were formulating new identities that wanted autonomy from the Austria-Hungarian state and old Emperor Franz Joseph in Vienna. Two previous localised Balkan wars had proved just how forceful these groups were becoming. But the conflict escalated into the First World War when a member of one Serbian nationalist group assassinated the nephew of the Emperor. Nationalism, aggravated by borders (that these groups felt limited by), was thus a major component of the ongoing tensions that sparked and accelerated that conflict.

After the First World War, borders were redrawn: Poland, Finland and the Baltics were born. Austria-Hungary was split into Austria, Hungary, Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia. Alsace-Lorraine was returned to the French. German colonies were transferred to the victors. The League of Nations was created to hopefully broker ongoing peace and stability after an estimated 25 million deaths.

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The German delegates at the Treaty of Versailles: Professor Walther Schücking, Reichspostminister Johannes Giesberts, Justice Minister Otto Landsberg, Foreign Minister Ulrich Graf von Brockdorff-Rantzau, Prussian State President Robert Leinert, and financial advisor Carl Melchior. (Photo from Wikipedia).

For a time, it seemed to work. But the League of Nations faltered. Nationalism grew. This time Germany and Russia became massive forces that spurned many citizens to believe that their nations had not only the means but the right to reclaim lost territories and even conquer new ones. Hitler and Stalin’s fierce ambitions, and weak Allied leadership in the late 1930s heightened tensions and nurtured opportunity for conflict. The Second World War resulted in an estimated 50 to 80 million deaths.

The United Nations attempted to succeed where the League of Nations failed. European Integration became central to rebuilding a world after total devastation. A common market was created among its first four members and the free movement of goods became a cornerstone of collective European prosperity. Go, Europe!

Simultaneously, the Cold War constructed “the Iron Curtain” and, again, divided Europe and the world. The Berlin Wall was erected in 1961 and symbolised the cold, hard barrier between western capitalism and eastern communism. The last remaining right-wing dictatorships in Portugal and Spain soon dissolved. In 1989, the Berlin Wall fell and East and West Germany were finally reunited. Borders that had previously been so indestructible for decades seem to crumble in a few short months.

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Over 138 people died trying to escape through the Wall, and an estimated 5,000 were successful. The first to escape was East German border guard, Corporal Conrad Schumann, in August 1961 (Photo from here)

By 1993, the Schengen Agreements allowed for movement of “four freedoms”: goods, services, money and people. Millions of young people were able to study in other EU countries and the Euro currency was adopted by most EU nations. Remarkably, the EU eased gracefully into a period of prosperity and harmony. Goals to tackle climate change and terrorism unified these once national enemies. Germany, despite his historic territorial ambitions, became the world leader in accepting refugees and migrants. The EU won the Noble Peace Prize in 2012.

But then, Brexit. And Trump’s Mexico wall. It seems that some western leaders believe tightening borders, not eradicating them, is the best response to global migration.

So what’s the solution?

Rethink the nature of “borders.” Although totally removing borders is radical and implausible in the near future, global migration will only increase. As migrants move between countries, they often transition through multiple societies, adopting new identities in each and thus complicating the simple labels of “origin” and “destination.” Global migration is not only increasing, but becoming vastly more complex.

History proves that borders do not keep foreigners “out” nor keep citizens “in”. And why should they? The global economy is based upon free trade, the free movement of goods, so why shouldn’t that be extended to people, to labour? Meanwhile, current gaps between the rich and poor, the north and south, the citizens and refugees, are eroding due to instantaneous communications, faster transportation, and global infrastructures and this exact type of trade. Sorry, world, but refugees and migrants won’t just “go away,” no matter how high you build those walls.

According to the International Organisation of Migration, “Migration is an integral part of global transformation and development processes rather than a problem to be solved.” If true, then how do we improve this?

Of course, the best remedies lay in helping those on the other side of the border. Provide immediate aid to victims of war, hunger and disease. Allow those fleeing persecution and war to cross borders, with or without passports or visas. Commit to large-scale, international resettlement projects across borders. Do not underfund long-term peace projects that tackle the root causes of war, hunger and disease. Persecute human traffickers heavily. Combat all forms of racism and xenophobia at home and abroad.

The Scottish Borders unknowingly provides us a great deal of information about how this could work on a global scale. Although fighting over human and material resources could continue for centuries, strict borders will eventually disappear. People will eventually live without violence. And while pride for one’s nation is still very strong in this part of the world, and tensions between Scotland and English still certainly exist, the Borders is a serene and renowned land with its numerous peel towers and fluffy sheep.

Who wouldn’t be proud of that?