Just before entering the US, you are asked to fill out a customs form that includes a curious question that still puzzles me: “Are you bringing soil?”—as if soil were something dangerous or precious, something that must be declared.1 But yes, soils have long traveled across borders.2 Perhaps the most famous of all was the earth of the north Aegean island of Lemnos, which circulated widely across the Levant and Europe for centuries. This was, of course, not an ordinary earth. Known in antiquity as terra Lemnia or terra sigillata, meaning “sealed earth,” Greek and Roman authors thought it possessed healing and miraculous powers.3 Arab physicians referred to it as ṭīn al-buḥayra, meaning “earth of the little marsh,”4 and stretching back to antiquity, some later manuscript copies of Dioscorides’ De materia medica (1st century CE) mentioned a “marshy spot” when talking about the Lemnian earth.5 Were they referring to the island’s salt marsh-type wetlands6 in the northeastern part (like the Aliki salt lagoon) or to shallow lakes (like Chortarolimni), where the earth might have been dug up during elutriation?7 Hard to know. But following the Ottoman seizure of the island in 1456, new distributions of power reshaped both extraction and circulation.8 Referred to in Ottoman sources as ṭīn-i maḫtūm (or ṭıyn-ı maḫtūm), Lemnian earth came to embody the inextricable ties between knowledge and hybrid sacred-bureaucratic economy in which ritual, medicine, and state authority intersected.9
Artists contributed to this, too. In French cosmographer André Thévet’s 1575 La Cosmographie universelle, an engraving of Lemnos illustrates the ceremony and extraction practices in Ottoman times.10 The scene depicts the Orthodox Feast of the Transfiguration, with a procession beginning at the church of the Saviour (Sotira) shown above Mount Vtran and descending toward a crowd arranged along terraced embankments. Poles topped with cross-like finials mark the gathering and direct attention toward a figure down in a small, shallow pit. Numerous figures carry baskets and sacks, work the ground, and lead pack animals, while a turbaned rider on horseback—likely representing the local administrative or military governor (ṣubāşı) charged with overseeing the extraction—stands nearby. Slightly to the center, a timber building with narrow openings and a steep pitched roof is shown in use, most likely a storehouse or processing facility. Worn-out paths register what might be called “the accumulated imprint of countless journeys,” as camels, carts, and boats carry off the sacks of sealed earth through sparsely vegetated, marshy lowlands toward the port in the foreground. The image thus reinforces what terra Lemnia is all about. The ceremonial digging, alternations of shaping the ground year after year, shipment, and human labor together appear to weave deep-time processes into everyday life.

Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France
However, there was also a scarcity in the markets and a cost burden.11 Arthur MacGregor, former curator at the Ashmolean Museum, has vividly described how other deposits and patches of clay were identified and exploited across Central and Western Europe during the late 16th and 17th centuries.12 With competition came validation and new sorts of knowledge claims. Like the segregation of clay within soil, the segregation of places of origin, veins, strata, and the virtues of certain earths led to the emergence of counterfeits, making credentials necessary.13 Differentiated and renewed claims consigned those laborers who extracted the earth into anonymity; images drove the lucrative trade.14 These dynamics are evident in the cabinet of curiosities of the 17th-century Danish physician, linguist, and natural philosopher Ole Worm.


Source: Wellcome Collection
In Worm’s catalogue, alongside Lemnian examples bearing Ottoman inscriptions are troches stamped with a double-headed eagle (Erlach, Switzerland), a fleur-de-lis on the base (Blois, France), and another depicting a hermit kneeling in adoration of a crucifix in a cave (from Malta, perhaps intended to evoke the sacred earth of the cave believed to have sheltered the Holy Family in Bethlehem).15 The patches of clay are, in a sense, “migrants.”16 What appears as a static, permanent geological container proves to be contingent and in motion, shaped by the silent desire of survival and security as much as divergent practices of extraction and sovereignty imposed upon it. This process reminds me of a recent roundtable discussion on extractivism, stating that “conceptualizing ‘supply’ as a provision filling a void or lack produces a chain of extractivism.”17