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Nature, Published online: 30 April 2024; doi:10.1038/d41586-024-01209-y
An innovative proposal to stop exam over-preparation, plus William Bateson’s 1924 take on the previous century of biology, in the weekly dip into Nature’s archive.
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Quantum mechanics is an extraordinarily successful scientific theory, on which much of our technology-obsessed lifestyles depend. It is also bewildering. Although the theory works, it leaves physicists chasing probabilities instead of certainties and breaks the link between cause and effect. It gives us particles that are waves and waves that are particles, cats that seem to be both alive and dead, and lots of spooky quantum weirdness around hard-to-explain phenomena, such as quantum entanglement.
Myths are also rife. For instance, in the early twentieth century, when the theory’s founders were arguing among themselves about what it all meant, the views of Danish physicist Niels Bohr came to dominate. Albert Einstein famously disagreed with him and, in the 1920s and 1930s, the two locked horns in debate. A persistent myth was created that suggests Bohr won the argument by browbeating the stubborn and increasingly isolated Einstein into submission. Acting like some fanatical priesthood, physicists of Bohr’s ‘church’ sought to shut down further debate. They established the ‘Copenhagen interpretation’, named after the location of Bohr’s institute, as a dogmatic orthodoxy.
My latest book Quantum Drama, co-written with science historian John Heilbron, explores the origins of this myth and its role in motivating the singular personalities that would go on to challenge it. Their persistence in the face of widespread indifference paid off, because they helped to lay the foundations for a quantum-computing industry expected to be worth tens of billions by 2040.
John died on 5 November 2023, so sadly did not see his last work through to publication. This essay is dedicated to his memory.
A scientific myth is not produced by accident or error. It requires effort. “To qualify as a myth, a false claim should be persistent and widespread,” Heilbron said in a 2014 conference talk. “It should have a plausible and assignable reason for its endurance, and immediate cultural relevance,” he noted. “Although erroneous or fabulous, such myths are not entirely wrong, and their exaggerations bring out aspects of a situation, relationship or project that might otherwise be ignored.”
Does quantum theory imply the entire Universe is preordained?
To see how these observations apply to the historical development of quantum mechanics, let’s look more closely at the Bohr–Einstein debate. The only way to make sense of the theory, Bohr argued in 1927, was to accept his principle of complementarity. Physicists have no choice but to describe quantum experiments and their results using wholly incompatible, yet complementary, concepts borrowed from classical physics.
In one kind of experiment, an electron, for example, behaves like a classical wave. In another, it behaves like a classical particle. Physicists can observe only one type of behaviour at a time, because there is no experiment that can be devised that could show both behaviours at once.
Bohr insisted that there is no contradiction in complementarity, because the use of these classical concepts is purely symbolic. This was not about whether electrons are really waves or particles. It was about accepting that physicists can never know what an electron really is and that they must reach for symbolic descriptions of waves and particles as appropriate. With these restrictions, Bohr regarded the theory to be complete — no further elaboration was necessary.
Such a pronouncement prompts an important question. What is the purpose of physics? Is its main goal to gain ever-more-detailed descriptions and control of phenomena, regardless of whether physicists can understand these descriptions? Or, rather, is it a continuing search for deeper and deeper insights into the nature of physical reality?
Einstein preferred the second answer, and refused to accept that complementarity could be the last word on the subject. In his debate with Bohr, he devised a series of elaborate thought experiments, in which he sought to demonstrate the theory’s inconsistencies and ambiguities, and its incompleteness. These were intended to highlight matters of principle; they were not meant to be taken literally.
In 1935, Einstein’s criticisms found their focus in a paper1 published with his colleagues Boris Podolsky and Nathan Rosen at the Institute for Advanced Studies in Princeton, New Jersey. In their thought experiment (known as EPR, the authors’ initials), a pair of particles (A and B) interact and move apart. Suppose each particle can possess, with equal probability, one of two quantum properties, which for simplicity I will call ‘up’ and ‘down’, measured in relation to some instrument setting. Assuming their properties are correlated by a physical law, if A is measured to be ‘up’, B must be ‘down’, and vice versa. The Austrian physicist Erwin Schrödinger invented the term entangled to describe this kind of situation.
How Einstein built on the past to make his breakthroughs
If the entangled particles are allowed to move so far apart that they can no longer affect one another, physicists might say that they are no longer in ‘causal contact’. Quantum mechanics predicts that scientists should still be able to measure A and thereby — with certainty — infer the correlated property of B.
But the theory gives us only probabilities. We have no way of knowing in advance what result we will get for A. If A is found to be ‘down’, how does the distant, causally disconnected B ‘know’ how to correlate with its entangled partner and give the result ‘up’? The particles cannot break the correlation, because this would break the physical law that created it.
Physicists could simply assume that, when far enough apart, the particles are separate and distinct, or ‘locally real’, each possessing properties that were fixed at the moment of their interaction. Suppose A sets off towards a measuring instrument carrying the property ‘up’. A devious experimenter is perfectly at liberty to change the instrument setting so that when A arrives, it is now measured to be ‘down’. How, then, is the correlation established? Do the particles somehow remain in contact, sending messages to each other or exerting influences on each other over vast distances at speeds faster than light, in conflict with Einstein’s special theory of relativity?
The alternative possibility, equally discomforting to contemplate, is that the entangled particles do not actually exist independently of each other. They are ‘non-local’, implying that their properties are not fixed until a measurement is made on one of them.
Both these alternatives were unacceptable to Einstein, leading him to conclude that quantum mechanics cannot be complete.
Niels Bohr (left) and Albert Einstein.Credit: Universal History Archive/Universal Images Group via Getty
The EPR thought experiment delivered a shock to Bohr’s camp, but it was quickly (if unconvincingly) rebuffed by Bohr. Einstein’s challenge was not enough; he was content to criticize the theory but there was no consensus on an alternative to Bohr’s complementarity. Bohr was judged by the wider scientific community to have won the debate and, by the early 1950s, Einstein’s star was waning.
Unlike Bohr, Einstein had established no school of his own. He had rather retreated into his own mind, in vain pursuit of a theory that would unify electromagnetism and gravity, and so eliminate the need for quantum mechanics altogether. He referred to himself as a “lone traveler”. In 1948, US theoretical physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer remarked to a reporter at Time magazine that the older Einstein had become “a landmark, but not a beacon”.
Subsequent readings of this period in quantum history promoted a persistent and widespread suggestion that the Copenhagen interpretation had been established as the orthodox view. I offer two anecdotes as illustration. When learning quantum mechanics as a graduate student at Harvard University in the 1950s, US physicist N. David Mermin recalled vivid memories of the responses that his conceptual enquiries elicited from his professors, whom he viewed as ‘agents of Copenhagen’. “You’ll never get a PhD if you allow yourself to be distracted by such frivolities,” they advised him, “so get back to serious business and produce some results. Shut up, in other words, and calculate.”
The spy who flunked it: Kurt Gödel’s forgotten part in the atom-bomb story
It seemed that dissidents faced serious repercussions. When US physicist John Clauser — a pioneer of experimental tests of quantum mechanics in the early 1970s — struggled to find an academic position, he was clear in his own mind about the reasons. He thought he had fallen foul of the ‘religion’ fostered by Bohr and the Copenhagen church: “Any physicist who openly criticized or even seriously questioned these foundations … was immediately branded as a ‘quack’. Quacks naturally found it difficult to find decent jobs within the profession.”
But pulling on the historical threads suggests a different explanation for both Mermin’s and Clauser’s struggles. Because there was no viable alternative to complementarity, those writing the first post-war student textbooks on quantum mechanics in the late 1940s had little choice but to present (often garbled) versions of Bohr’s theory. Bohr was notoriously vague and more than occasionally incomprehensible. Awkward questions about the theory’s foundations were typically given short shrift. It was more important for students to learn how to apply the theory than to fret about what it meant.
One important exception is US physicist David Bohm’s 1951 book Quantum Theory, which contains an extensive discussion of the theory’s interpretation, including EPR’s challenge. But, at the time, Bohm stuck to Bohr’s mantra.
The Americanization of post-war physics meant that no value was placed on ‘philosophical’ debates that did not yield practical results. The task of ‘getting to the numbers’ meant that there was no time or inclination for the kind of pointless discussion in which Bohr and Einstein had indulged. Pragmatism prevailed. Physicists encouraged their students to choose research topics that were likely to provide them with a suitable grounding for an academic career, or ones that appealed to prospective employers. These did not include research on quantum foundations.
These developments conspired to produce a subtly different kind of orthodoxy. In The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962), US philosopher Thomas Kuhn describes ‘normal’ science as the everyday puzzle-solving activities of scientists in the context of a prevailing ‘paradigm’. This can be interpreted as the foundational framework on which scientific understanding is based. Kuhn argued that researchers pursuing normal science tend to accept foundational theories without question and seek to solve problems within the bounds of these concepts. Only when intractable problems accumulate and the situation becomes intolerable might the paradigm ‘shift’, in a process that Kuhn likened to a political revolution.
Do black holes explode? The 50-year-old puzzle that challenges quantum physics
The prevailing view also defines what kinds of problem the community will accept as scientific and which problems researchers are encouraged (and funded) to investigate. As Kuhn acknowledged in his book: “Other problems, including many that had previously been standard, are rejected as metaphysical, as the concern of another discipline, or sometimes as just too problematic to be worth the time.”
What Kuhn says about normal science can be applied to ‘mainstream’ physics. By the 1950s, the physics community had become broadly indifferent to foundational questions that lay outside the mainstream. Such questions were judged to belong in a philosophy class, and there was no place for philosophy in physics. Mermin’s professors were not, as he had first thought, ‘agents of Copenhagen’. As he later told me, his professors “had no interest in understanding Bohr, and thought that Einstein’s distaste for [quantum mechanics] was just silly”. Instead, they were “just indifferent to philosophy. Full stop. Quantum mechanics worked. Why worry about what it meant?”
It is more likely that Clauser fell foul of the orthodoxy of mainstream physics. His experimental tests of quantum mechanics2 in 1972 were met with indifference or, more actively, dismissal as junk or fringe science. After all, as expected, quantum mechanics passed Clauser’s tests and arguably nothing new was discovered. Clauser failed to get an academic position not because he had had the audacity to challenge the Copenhagen interpretation; his audacity was in challenging the mainstream. As a colleague told Clauser later, physics faculty members at one university to which he had applied “thought that the whole field was controversial”.
Aspect, Clauser and Zeilinger won the 2022 physics Nobel for work on entangled photons.Credit: Claudio Bresciani/TT News Agency/AFP via Getty
However, it’s important to acknowledge that the enduring myth of the Copenhagen interpretation contains grains of truth, too. Bohr had a strong and domineering personality. He wanted to be associated with quantum theory in much the same way that Einstein is associated with theories of relativity. Complementarity was accepted as the last word on the subject by the physicists of Bohr’s school. Most vociferous were Bohr’s ‘bulldog’ Léon Rosenfeld, Wolfgang Pauli and Werner Heisenberg, although all came to hold distinct views about what the interpretation actually meant.
They did seek to shut down rivals. French physicist Louis de Broglie’s ‘pilot wave’ interpretation, which restores causality and determinism in a theory in which real particles are guided by a real wave, was shot down by Pauli in 1927. Some 30 years later, US physicist Hugh Everett’s relative state or many-worlds interpretation was dismissed, as Rosenfeld later described, as “hopelessly wrong ideas”. Rosenfeld added that Everett “was undescribably stupid and could not understand the simplest things in quantum mechanics”.
But the myth of the Copenhagen interpretation served an important purpose. It motivated a project that might otherwise have been ignored. Einstein liked Bohm’s Quantum Theory and asked to see him in Princeton in the spring of 1951. Their discussion prompted Bohm to abandon Bohr’s views, and he went on to reinvent de Broglie’s pilot wave theory. He also developed an alternative to the EPR challenge that held the promise of translation into a real experiment.
Befuddled by Bohrian vagueness, finding no solace in student textbooks and inspired by Bohm, Irish physicist John Bell pushed back against the Copenhagen interpretation and, in 1964, built on Bohm’s version of EPR to develop a now-famous theorem3. The assumption that the entangled particles A and B are locally real leads to predictions that are incompatible with those of quantum mechanics. This was no longer a matter for philosophers alone: this was about real physics.
It took Clauser three attempts to pass his graduate course on advanced quantum mechanics at Columbia University because his brain “kind of refused to do it”. He blamed Bohr and Copenhagen, found Bohm and Bell, and in 1972 became the first to perform experimental tests of Bell’s theorem with entangled photons2.
How to introduce quantum computers without slowing economic growth
French physicist Alain Aspect similarly struggled to discern a “physical world behind the mathematics”, was perplexed by complementarity (“Bohr is impossible to understand”) and found Bell. In 1982, he performed what would become an iconic test of Bell’s theorem4, changing the settings of the instruments used to measure the properties of pairs of entangled photons while the particles were mid-flight. This prevented the photons from somehow conspiring to correlate themselves through messages or influences passed between them, because the nature of the measurements to be made on them was not set until they were already too far apart. All these tests settled in favour of quantum mechanics and non-locality.
Although the wider physics community still considered testing quantum mechanics to be a fringe science and mostly a waste of time, exposing a hitherto unsuspected phenomenon — quantum entanglement and non-locality — was not. Aspect’s cause was aided by US physicist Richard Feynman, who in 1981 had published his own version of Bell’s theorem5 and had speculated on the possibility of building a quantum computer. In 1984, Charles Bennett at IBM and Giles Brassard at the University of Montreal in Canada proposed entanglement as the basis for an innovative system of quantum cryptography6.
It is tempting to think that these developments finally helped to bring work on quantum foundations into mainstream physics, making it respectable. Not so. According to Austrian physicist Anton Zeilinger, who has helped to found the science of quantum information and its promise of a quantum technology, even those working in quantum information consider foundations to be “not the right thing”. “We don’t understand the reason why. Must be psychological reasons, something like that, something very deep,” Zeilinger says. The lack of any kind of physical mechanism to explain how entanglement works does not prevent the pragmatic physicist from getting to the numbers.
Similarly, by awarding the 2022 Nobel Prize in Physics to Clauser, Aspect and Zeilinger, the Nobels as an institution have not necessarily become friendly to foundational research. Commenting on the award, the chair of the Nobel Committee for Physics, Anders Irbäck, said: “It has become increasingly clear that a new kind of quantum technology is emerging. We can see that the laureates’ work with entangled states is of great importance, even beyond the fundamental questions about the interpretation of quantum mechanics.” Or, rather, their work is of great importance because of the efforts of those few dissidents, such as Bohm and Bell, who were prepared to resist the orthodoxy of mainstream physics, which they interpreted as the enduring myth of the Copenhagen interpretation.
The lesson from Bohr–Einstein and the riddle of entanglement is this. Even if we are prepared to acknowledge the myth, we still need to exercise care. Heilbron warned against wanton slaying: “The myth you slay today may contain a truth you need tomorrow.”
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Las Borinqueñas explores how women sought control of their reproductive lives in the 1950s.Credit: Valerie Terranova
Las Borinqueñas Directed by Rebecca Aparicio Ensemble Studio Theatre, New York City 3 April – 5 May 2024
It’s the 1950s and two US scientists are looking for somewhere to test the first birth-control pill. Where better than Puerto Rico? The territory had an established network of family-planning clinics, and the use of contraception had been legal there since 1937. That wasn’t the case in much of the United States, including Massachusetts, where biologist Gregory Pincus and obstetrician-gynaecologist John Rock were developing the oral contraceptive.
Puerto Rican women were interested in a pill that could give them more control over their reproductive lives. But as they lined up outside a clinic in the outskirts of San Juan to receive the medication, many were unaware that it was an experimental drug and they were part of a clinical trial. When some of them started reporting debilitating side effects, these were dismissed as psychosomatic.
The play Las Borinqueñas, whose title means ‘the Puerto Rican women’, revisits the complicated history of the world’s first oral contraceptive. Mixing the excitement of scientific breakthrough with the shock of flawed research ethics and shadows of colonialism and exploitation, it puts the spotlight on the women who, after playing a key part in the pill’s development, were quickly forgotten.
Reboot contraceptives research — it has been stuck for decades
It’s a long-overdue tribute and, most importantly, a reminder to remain vigilant against abuse and disrespect in studies involving human participants. In a world where the fight for access to birth control is ongoing, it is bold and commendable to recognize that this significant advance was built on ethically problematic studies that harmed some of the very women they aimed to serve and empower.
Written by Nelson Diaz-Marcano, a Puerto Rican theatre-maker based in New York City, the show was developed by the Ensemble Studio Theatre and the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation, a research funder also based in the city. It had its world premiere on 3 April and is playing until 5 May at the Ensemble Studio Theatre in New York City.
The play follows the intertwined lives of five women — Chavela, Yolanda, Fernanda, Maria and Rosa — as they cross paths with the researchers testing the pill. As the audience witnesses their love stories, aspirations, struggles and loyal friendships, the protagonists open a window on the lives of hundreds of Puerto Rican women who enrolled in the tests, and how the experience changed them.
Each character is affected in a different way. Chavela sees the trial as chance to slow down the growth of her family while maintaining a passionate marriage. Yolanda envisions it as the lifeline that might save other women from the fate of her sister, Fernanda, who dies as a result of an illegal abortion. For Maria, it’s about avoiding pregnancy to advance her dream of becoming a writer — and about honouring Fernanda, her soulmate, with whom she could never openly have a relationship because of societal norms. But the hope brought on by the pill slowly fades when the women start feeling unwell.
The play shows how researchers and trial facilitators played down side effects because of the pill’s ground-breaking implications.Credit: Valerie Terranova
Rosa, who was suspicious of the pill from the start, urges the others to stop taking it, while boasting about the benefits of the sterilization that she underwent after giving birth. The doctors who suggested the procedure, however, never told her it was irreversible. The heartbreaking scene when she learns she will never be able to have another baby signals that the clinical trial wasn’t the first instance of medical abuse these women endured. By 1953, a eugenics-based programme in Puerto Rico had led to the sterilization of nearly one-fifth of women on the island to address concerns about ‘surplus population’.
The birth-control pill was the result of the encounter of Pincus and Rock, who were both studying the effects of synthetic progesterone, but in different contexts. Pincus was looking into the anti-ovulatory effect of the hormone in rabbits, and Rock was exploring it as a means to treat his patients’ infertility. The play focuses on Pincus, portrayed as an ambitious scientist determined to carve his name into history by creating a revolutionary product.
I wouldn’t be a scientist without my abortion
When someone becomes pregnant, their levels of progesterone go up, signalling to the body to shut down the ovaries and not release new eggs. Whereas Pincus wanted to mimic this process for the purpose of contraception, Rock hoped that a pause in ovulation would allow his patients’ reproductive systems to reset, increasing their chances of pregnancy after the treatment.
The scientists came together to test the pill in humans. The play briefly refers to a couple of small trials done in the United States, but to get the pill approved, it had to be tested on a larger scale. Pincus sets his sights on Puerto Rico and seeks to partner with Edris Rice-Wray, who was then the medical director of the Family Planning Association of Puerto Rico.
Rice-Wray expresses her concerns about negative side effects that had been observed in previous tests, but is convinced to join the project by Pincus’s wife, who highlights the potentially revolutionary implications of the pill for women around the world.
Rice-Wray is portrayed as a responsible public-health official who is nonetheless persuaded to push the boundaries of ethics for the greater good. She launches the programme with fanfare in 1956 and, at the suggestion of Pincus, does not mention the potential side effects to participants, most of whom are poor women with little access to health care. Her discomfort with the omission increases as she hears that the trial is taking a toll on participants.
Are women in research being led up the garden path?
In one scene, Chavela is taking laundry from the line when she is struck by dizziness and nausea. Her sister Rosa warns her that the pill is to blame, but she prefers to continue taking it rather than to risk becoming pregnant again. Rice-Wray reports those concerns to Pincus, who minimizes them as minor inconveniences compared with the wider benefits of the drug. Because of his disregard for the Puerto Rican study participants, the real-life Pincus was later accused of colonialism and exploitation of women of colour.
The protagonists eventually stop taking the pill and don’t experience long-term consequences. But the play mentions that three Puerto Rican women died during the trial, and that their deaths were never investigated.
In reality, of around 800 women who enrolled in the study, only 130 took the pill for a year or more, most dropping out because of the side effects. To make the results look more impressive, Pincus described them by saying that no pregnancy had been registered “in the 1,279 menstrual cycles” during which the treatment had been followed. In the play, his character brushes off the accusation of data embellishment. For him, it was simply a matter of using a different metric.
The pill, branded as Enovid, went on to be approved by the US Food and Drug Administration as a contraceptive in 1960. The participants of the clinical trial didn’t have access to the product once it reached the market: the price was prohibitive for the Puerto Rican working class.
How centuries of sexism excluded women from science — and how to redress the balance
More than six decades later, the contraceptive pills available are much safer. But access is still an issue. In the United States, until last year, people still needed a prescription to buy oral contraceptives — a significant barrier for those without health insurance.
Las Borinqueñas concludes with the women refusing to be defined by the experience of being exploited by scientists and having their right to decide about their own reproductive lives stripped away. Rosa publicly denounces the pill’s side effects and the irreversibility of sterilization on a radio show; she also conveys her resilience and hope for the future. The women will continue to take care of their families, to work and to pursue their dreams. They celebrate life and laugh at adversity.
Some would argue that their suffering was a small price to pay for the wider impacts of pill. But by giving names to the study participants and telling their stories, Las Borinqueñas serves as a powerful reminder that such disregard and injustice was never acceptable.
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Nature, Published online: 24 April 2024; doi:10.1038/d41586-024-01020-9
Genetic pedigrees spanning nine generations uncover the social organization of a nomadic empire that dominated much of central and eastern Europe from the sixth to the early ninth century.
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Nature, Published online: 23 April 2024; doi:10.1038/d41586-024-01180-8
Birds emerge as top suspects for unexplained flower mutilation, and reflections from 1974 mark the 21st anniversary of the discovery of the DNA double helix, in the weekly dip into Nature’s archive.
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Nature, Published online: 16 April 2024; doi:10.1038/d41586-024-01094-5
Paring down the astronomical complexity of the protein-folding problem, plus Isaac Newton’s ambiguous use of the word ‘axiom’, in the weekly dip into Nature’s archive.
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Nature, Published online: 09 April 2024; doi:10.1038/d41586-024-00919-7
What every biologist should know about electronics, plus a disturbing outbreak of volcanism in North Carolina, in the weekly dip into Nature’s archive.
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Much of the research on the genocide against Tutsi communities has neglected the testimonies of survivors.Credit: Chip Somodevilla/Getty
This month marks 30 years since the start of the 1994 genocide against Rwanda’s Tutsi communities. Around 800,000 Tutsi were killed by armed Hutu militia and citizens over 100 days. Members of the Hutu and Twa communities also died, in what some scholars call the worst atrocity of the late twentieth century.
This 30th anniversary is a poignant reminder of many things, but perhaps first and foremost of the international community’s failure to intervene and stop the killings. Massacres of Tutsi people had been happening for decades before 1994, but calls for help from inside Rwanda were ignored, with horrific consequences.
After the genocide: what scientists are learning from Rwanda
This week, in a News Feature commemorating the anniversary of the atrocity, Nature has spoken to researchers about what has been learnt about the genocide, the consequences for its survivors and its aftermath. Lessons from studying a specific genocide can be applicable to many events that involve conflict.
The 1948 Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, adopted after the Second World War, defines genocide as “an act committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group”. It is, the convention states, an “odious scourge” that “at all periods of history … has inflicted great losses on humanity”.
Genocide is incredibly difficult to study. The hardest question of all concerns a genocide’s origins: how wars and violence can escalate to genocidal acts. At the same time, genocide studies is not one discipline. It spans the political and social sciences, anthropology, biology, economics, history, law, medicine, sociology and more. Researchers bring individual disciplinary insights, but must also collaborate. Nature heard from researchers studying peace-building between communities affected by the genocide, and learnt about mental-health approaches that have helped survivors. We also spoke to scientists who have studied how the trauma from the event has marked the DNA of survivors and their children. Intergenerational trauma — trauma relating to the genocide that affects younger generations who did not directly experience it — remains a challenge for mental-health services in Rwanda. But this is a legacy of all atrocities, and one that societies should be prepared for.
North–south publishing data show stark inequities in global research
In Rwanda’s case, the genocide nearly wiped out the country’s academic community; until recently, the study of the atrocity had largely been done by researchers from other countries. Rwanda’s scholars have re-established themselves and must be supported so they can lead the study of genocide, political violence and beyond. The country already hosts some of Africa’s notable research institutions, including a chapter of the African Institute for Mathematical Sciences in Kigali and the African Medicines Agency, soon to be established in the capital.
Researchers in African countries face many barriers. They consistently report that international journals are too quick to reject their submissions. Some told Nature that this might be because of a perception that research from low-income nations or countries with limited academic autonomy is of low quality. One exceptional effort that is helping to overcome these barriers is the Research, Policy and Higher Education programme, focused on Rwanda. Now a decade old and launched by the UK-based charity Aegis Trust in Nottingham, this programme invites Rwandan scholars to submit research proposals; external researchers support them with advice and expertise to get the works published in international venues, such as peer-reviewed journals. The resulting works are collected in a resource called the Genocide Research Hub.
So far, more than 40 scholars have published dozens of journal articles, book chapters and working papers. Some studies have already influenced Rwandan policy relating to the genocide. For example, Rwandan scholar Munyurangabo Benda, a philosopher of religion at the Queen’s Foundation, an ecumenical college in Birmingham, UK, investigated feelings of guilt among children of Hutu perpetrators born after the genocide. A peace-building project that involved this generation of children grew into a nationwide programme on reconciliation. Benda’s academic research played a part in broadening the programme’s offerings.
Rwanda: From killing fields to technopolis
In the immediate aftermath of atrocities, focus is often put on perpetrators, as legal organizations seek to make convictions and secure justice. But, in the study of genocide, it is imperative to listen to survivors, to establish their needs and how they can be supported, and also to ensure that their testimonies and experiences are not lost.
Much of the research on the genocide against the Tutsi has neglected the testimonies of survivors, particularly women, says Noam Schimmel, a scholar of international studies and human rights at the University of California, Berkeley. Survivors need to be given opportunities to share and write about their own perspectives and experiences — whether in literature, as part of research or in journalism — which can help to overcome isolation and marginalization, and to improve their well-being and welfare.
As atrocities continue to unfold around the world, researchers can learn from Rwanda. Those in positions of responsibility must allow researchers from affected countries to lead where they can, and to elevate the voices of survivors. In doing so, they will bring a deeper level of experience that might allow us to better study and understand these heinous acts. We might still be far from answers — but greater knowledge can only help to shine more light on this darkest of places.
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Aruba’s colonial history also meant documents were spread all over the place. “Our collection was scattered,” says Edric Croes, the head of archival conservation and management at the National Archives of Aruba. There were works to be scanned across the world, including in the Netherlands, Spain, the United States, and other islands like Curaçao. Establishing a hub to find the documents online has been especially helpful, Scholing notes, for researchers located abroad, who no longer have to travel to Aruba to physically dig through archives.
It’s unusual for a country to outsource this sort of project to a foreign nonprofit. “In a dream world, every national library would have enough funds to bring on an amazing team of people,” says University of Waterloo history professor Ian Milligan, who is writing a book on the Internet Archive’s origins, and was not involved in the Aruba project. “Governments often don’t have that.”
The Internet Archive has not previously acted as custodian of a country’s whole collection, although it has worked with a number of national and regional libraries around the world. Back in 2011, it partnered with the Culture Office of Bali, an island province of Indonesia, to preserve what the office described at the time as “90 percent of Bali’s literature.” (This now makes up the Internet Archive’s Balinese Digital Library collection.)
Aruba’s archivists hope other nations will follow in its digital footsteps. “It’s a really feasible model that could be applied to a lot of small islands, developing states, even bigger countries with limited means,” Scholing says.
Partnering with the Internet Archive looks like an obvious solution for cash-strapped archivists. Potential partners do need to think, though, about what it means to rely on another country’s private organization, one with its own challenges.
“When we think about digital preservation, we often think of the technical challenges,” says Milligan of Waterloo. “But I think the biggest challenges are the social challenges, the human challenges. How can you set up an organization that will be here in 50 years?”
He credits the Internet Archive with a very “sustainable structure,” in terms of future-proofing. But that doesn’t make it wholly invulnerable. The Archive is currently facing a number of serious legal challenges, including a lawsuit from major record labels, including Universal Music Group, Capitol, and Sony, that poses an existential threat—the labels are asking for damages that could amount to over $400 million.
That’s on top of an ongoing dispute with publishing companies over a digital lending library it established during the pandemic. While its digitization capabilities are far more robust than many nation-states, the Internet Archive’s position in an increasingly vituperative battleground between copyright holders and tech companies means that its future is precarious, too.
The Internet Archive sees Aruba’s endorsement as especially timely. “It’s been really empowering to see that the nation of Aruba is continuing to add materials and upload content at the same time that we’re facing this,” Freeland says. “We’re in this for the long haul.”
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