In We Want What's Ours: Learning from South Africa's Land Restitution Program, I introduced the concept of “dignity takings,” which I defined as property confiscation that involves the dehumanization or infantilization of the dispossessed. I argued that the appropriate remedy for a dignity taking is “dignity restoration”: material compensation to dispossessed populations through processes that affirm their humanity and reinforce their agency. For this symposium, contributors were invited to examine these paired concepts through case studies beyond the South African context. This introductory essay summarizes the central arguments of We Want What's Ours and considers how the symposium contributions confirm, extend, or revise the concepts of dignity takings and dignity restoration.

Bernadette Atuahene's We Want What's Ours focuses on deprivations that go beyond property losses. Her focus is on the dignity harms to South Africans over centuries, such as denial of citizenship, that accompanied the theft of their land. I focus here on one grotesque episode of violence, the Tulsa race riot of 1921, to gauge dignity takings in a US context. Thousands were, in the parlance of the times, run out of town in a “negro drive.” They lost property, but also their community, and they could not assert their rights after the riot. This article turns to the ways in which African Americans in Oklahoma obtained rights through the courts that should have been protected around the time of the riot. This expands our sense of the range of responses, from apologies and compensation, to additional judicial process and substantive rights, that are needed for past racial crimes.

This short comment challenges efforts to expand the notion of a dignity taking to traditional legal structures, like those identified with “coverture.” It suggests that the inequalities of gender oppression are better understood as forms of “slow violence.” It also suggests how difficult it is to imagine and to institute remedies for wrongs rooted in long histories and in powerful structures of socialization.

Taking a cue from Bernadette Atuahene's concept of “dignity takings” and her insight that government expropriation inflicts more than economic injury, this essay analyzes how American revolutionaries defined political membership, penalized and expropriated British loyalists, and then allowed some to join the American polity in the decade after the Revolution. Many recovered their property, professions, and legal privileges. However, because most loyalists could choose to remain loyal or join the Revolution, they did not lose human dignity as Atuahene defines it. Case studies of two reintegrating lawyers, Richard Harison and William Rawle, explore loyalism, the loss of dignities that loyalists suffered, and some paths toward reintegration. Their appointment as federal attorneys helped make the government conversant in the common law, British statutes, and the law of nations, which in turn supported the Federalist goal of reintegrating the United States into the Atlantic World: achieving, in other words, national dignity.

This article examines the concept of dignity takings, as developed by Bernadette Atuahene, and its applicability to the Israeli situation, focusing on takings from the Arab-Palestinian minority in Israel. Although I find dignity takings a valuable concept, as it emphasizes the interconnections between land dispossession and the denial of human dignity, I offer some qualifications and suggestions. I then examine the applicability of the concept to the dispossession of Arabs/Palestinians in Israel through two case studies: one, a close reading of the (in)famous Ikrit villagers' dispossession; the other, an examination of the dispossession of Negev (southern Israel) Bedouin citizens of Israel, which takes place, not unlike terra nullius, simultaneously with a denial of this very taking. The article concludes that with some modifications, the concept of dignity taking applies to the situation of Arab/Palestinian citizens of Israel.

In the course of urbanization in the People's Republic of China, tens of millions of citizens have experienced expropriations of collectively owned land, expropriations of privately owned buildings, and evictions from urban land in state ownership. Summarily characterizing these measures as takings, I argue, first, that some takings observed have denied evictees dignity, understood as respect for their intrinsic moral worth and moral autonomy, in addition to dispossessing them of their land and homes. Second, in dignity takings, monetary compensation and resettlement schemes may fail to reflect the harm done to evictees by framing disputes over takings as (forced) economic bargains. Third, some victims unable to seek redress through judicial avenues have been driven into extrajudicial protest and resistance. In some cases, resistance can be restorative of dignity, but where repressive state responses to resistance prevent this potential from being realized, the injustice of dignity takings can be further aggravated.

In 2013, the Arizona Snowbowl Ski Resort began spraying artificial snow made from reclaimed wastewater on Arizona's highest peak, a place the Hopi people call Nuvatukya'ovi, “Snow-on-top-of-it.” As one of the Hopis' most sacred places, the home of the katsinam and the southwestern boundary marker of their aboriginal territory, the Hopi have fought for decades to stop development of the ski resort, which today sits on US Forest Service land. Viewing the history of this dispute through the lens of Atuahene's notion of a “dignity taking,” this article argues that despite never having been relocated, the indignities that the Hopi have suffered by US dispossessions of much of their aboriginal territory are the product of a series of bureaucratic sleights of hand that only bear the mark of legality if one ignores history and denies the enduring right to self-determination and sovereignty that Hopi have continuously claimed with regard to the totality of their aboriginal land.

Racially restrictive covenants—subdivision rules or neighborhood agreements that “run with the land” to bar sales of rentals by minority members—were common and legally enforceable in the United States in the first half of the twentieth century. In spite of their demeaning character, these racial covenants took away opportunities from excluded minorities, rather than things, and thus they amounted to something less than the dramatic “dignity takings” that Bernadette Atuahene (2014) describes in her new book on dignity takings in South Africa. In this article, I explore some significant ways in which racially restrictive covenants differed from dignity takings as Atuahene defines them, as well as the shadowy similarities between racial covenants and Atuahene's dignity takings; I focus here on the dimensions of dehumanization, state involvement, and property takings. I conclude with a discussion of remedies, particularly considering measures that restore dignity through both public policies and private actions.

The looting and systematic deprivation of the property rights of the Jewish population in the Netherlands and France during the years of occupation brought about a deprivation of dignity, since these measures were intended to hit these people in their capacities as legal subjects, destroying their abilities to take part in economic and social life. In the immediate postwar period, the restitution of property rights in both countries was closely connected and limited to an abstract conception of dignity restoration, understood as the renewed recognition of the dispossessed owners as free and equal citizen before the law. In the late 1990s, a new phase in the restoration of property rights took place on a much more collective and political level. In this second round of restitution, dignity restoration was directly connected with an explicit recognition of the particular, concrete suffering of the groups of victims involved.

Two separate Israeli Supreme Court cases permitted a Christian school in Nazareth to exclude a Muslim student who insisted on coming to school with her headscarf, and denied an Ashkenazi ultra-Orthodox school in Immanuel permission to exclude Sephardic students. Intriguingly, the Israeli Supreme Court reached these apparently contradictory holdings using the same liberal ideals of equality and commonality. The article analyzes both holdings to show that the Court's resolutions cannot stand on their own terms. To reconcile these outcomes, we must locate the groups involved within the religious and ethnic power structure in Israel and determine the legal and social significance of defining the group as a minority or a majority. In general, we should be more tolerant of exclusionary measures practiced by a minority than those practiced by the majority. Ultimately, a constitutional evaluation committed to basic individual freedoms cannot refer to the individual without her or his group.

In colonial America, land acquired new liquidity when it became liable for debts. Though English property law maintained a firm distinction between land and chattel for centuries, in the American colonies, the boundary between the categories of real and personal property began to disintegrate. There, the novelty of easy foreclosure and consequent easy alienation of land made it possible for colonists to obtain credit, using land as a security. However, scholars have neglected the first instances in which a newly unconstrained practice of mortgage foreclosure appeared—the transactions through which colonists acquired land from indigenous people in the first place. In this article, I explore these early transactions for land, which took place across fundamental differences between colonists' and native communities' conceptions of money, land, and exchange itself. I describe how difference and dependence propelled the growth of the early American contact economy to make land into real estate, or the fungible commodity on the speculative market that it remains today.

Atkins v. Virginia (2002) categorically exempts intellectually disabled defendants from execution, yet some constitutionally suspect punishments suggest a gap between law and practice. This article moves beyond critiquing Atkins' formal implementation to provide a decentered analysis of the Atkins gap focused on the category of intellectual disability. It explores how drawing boundaries around intellectual disability in capital cases requires law to grapple with fluid scientific and social constructs through a study of how courts operationalize intellectual disability in capital cases. It draws from literatures considering the construction of intellectual disability and law's relationship to the scientific and the social and finds that this intersection first enables a conceptual disconnect between scientific and legal constructions of intellectual disability and, second, invites the use of stereotypes to inform the category. These processes undermine Atkins'—and other categorical exemptions'—ability to functionally limit extreme punishments and also reveal law as mutually constitutive.

Osagie K. Obasogie's Blinded by Sight: Seeing Race through the Eyes of the Blind (2014) makes important contributions to both to the sociology of law and to critical race studies. The book challenges “colorblind” racial ideology by showing empirically that people who are blind from birth nevertheless “see” race, grasping it as a nearly omnipresent feature of social interaction and social organization. These insights, however, do not diminish the importance of the racial body. Beyond refuting colorblindness, Obasogie's book points to a neverending tension, embedded in what we call racial formation, between the social construction of race and the corporeality of race. This tension has been present since the dawn of empire and African slavery. Obasogie's achievement of falsifying colorblindness should not lead us to neglect the importance of the racial body.

Sociologist and legal scholar Osagie Obasogie's study of how blind people “see” race reveals the usually invisible, taken-for-granted mechanisms that reproduce racism. In Blinded by Sight, he distinguishes racial consciousness from legal consciousness, though he notes their common emphases on studying how cumulative social practices and interactions produce commonsense understandings. I argue that there is much to be gained from connecting these two fields, one emanating primarily out of critical race theory and the other out of law and society scholarship. Legal consciousness offers an important avenue for bridging macro studies of race making with micro studies such as Obasogie's, which focus on individuals' experiences and practices of constructing race and learning racism.

Laura Gómez and Michael Omi and Howard Winant offer thoughtful commentaries on Blinded by Sight: Seeing Race Through the Eyes of the Blind that expand an important discussion on the constructed and constitutive aspects of race. This response attempts to continue this conversation by putting the book's substantive innovations in dialogue with its methodological contributions.

This essay offers a critical examination of use of the term “long civil rights movement” as a framework for understanding the legal history of the battle against racial inequality in twentieth-century America. Proponents of the long movement argue that expanding the chronological boundaries of the movement beyond the 1950s and 1960s allows scholars to better capture the diverse social mobilization efforts and ideas that fueled the black freedom struggle. While not questioning the long framework's usefulness for studying the social movement dynamics of racial justice activism, I suggest that the long framework is of more limited value for those who seek to understand the development of civil rights, as a legal claim, particularly in the first half of the twentieth century. The tendency of long movement scholars to treat civil rights as a pliable category into which they can put any and all racial justice claims is in tension with historical understandings of the term. Susan Carle's Defining the Struggle: National Organizing for Racial Justice, 1880–1915 suggests an alternative approach. Her detailed and nuanced account of a period in American history when racial justice activists understood civil rights as a relatively narrow subset of legal remedies within a much broader struggle for racial equality indicates the need for an alternate history of civil rights—one that places the evolving, contested, and historically particularized concept of civil rights at the center of inquiry.