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Cities Media Roundup (November 2015)

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[This is a monthly roundup of news articles, and other materials related to urban issues in the region, and beyond. It does not reflect the views of the Cities Page Editors or of Jadaliyya. You may send recommendations for inclusion in the Cities Media Roundup to cities@jadaliyya.com, mentioning "Roundup" in the subject line. We also welcome your submissions to the Cities Page: please check details on cities.jadaliyya.com]
 

Urban and Real Estate Development

The Ghost Town of Sharm El Sheikh Mark Duell's article on the Daily Mail Online uses photographs to document an "abandoned landscape of deserted beaches, unfinished hotels and a country in crisis."

حلم السكن الآدمى ينتهى بـ«كومباوند عشوائى» An investigative report about two planned developments in Cairo, one which became a slum area and another which remains uninhabited due to lack of infrastructure, services, and security.

City in the Sky: Dubai's Constructed Identity Set to Get Even Taller With Dubai planning to break other records for tallest structures, this article explores how the desire for spectacular buildings is inherent to the city's identity.

التحولات الصيداوية: نقل موقف ساحة النجمة إلى ساحة الشهداء Amal Khalil reports in Al-Akhbar on the relocation of Saida’s public transportation station from Najmeh square in the center of the city further away to Martyrs square, as a real-estate development project is due to replace it.

Le budget participatif: un pas vers la démocratie locale en Tunisie (l’expérience de la commune de Sfax) [in French] Municipal executive Ahmed Guidara reports about the first implementation of participative budget in Sfax, Tunisia.

La décentralisation, clé de l’essor économique des territoires libanais ? [in French] Céline Haddad reports for L’Orient-Le Jour about a recent conference on decentralization in the Mediterranean, and highlights the backward situation of Lebanese cities.

Bollywood, Legoland and Motiograte Theme Parks in Dubai now Half-CompleteThe National provides a preview into some of the amenities (and expense) of the three projects.

Cairo's Strategic Development Vision: What about Participatory Planning?Tadamun discusses the lack of transparency in Cairo's urban planning and the possibilities for more citizen involvement in the future.

Maroc, une réforme territoriale bâtie contre l’identité régionale [in French] Reda Zaireg for Orient XXI.infoanalyzes the new territorial administrative organization in Morocco as a technocratic endeavor aiming at dismantling the regional identities instead of promoting them, as the official discourse has it.


War and Cities

Syrian Refugees in German Cities This article, based on personal experience, deals with the accommodation of Syrian refugees living in Germany, including types of temporary residence and the settlement process, and the social changes this is having within the city of Cologne [Köln].

The Agony of Saada: U.S. and Saudi Bombs Target Yemen's Ancient Heritage Iona Craig writes in The Intercept about the destruction of Yemen's urban heritage as a result of the Saudi-led bombing campaign.

"مدى مصر" في صعدة: مدينة الموت والتزوح Mada Masr's report about the impact of war on the city of Sa’dah.


Urban Heritage, Past and Present

So Long, Bel
Notes on the history of Palmyra's Temple of Bel, nearly two thousand years old when it was destroyed recently by IS. This article is also available in French.

Les lieux saints de Jérusalem instrumentalisés [in French] French TV Station Public Sénat interviews historian Vincent Lemire about the struggle on the Holy Places [In French].

Brilliant Beirtu: A Chronological Journey Through Lebanon's Capital from the 50's til Today Curated by Rana Salam A photo essay with plentiful links to further information.

Comment les lieux saints ont été fabriqués à Jérusalem [in French] L’Orient-Le Jour interviews historian Vincent Lemire about his recently translated into Arabic book Jérusalem 1900.

What Remains of Beirut's Urban cake? Giovanni Pagani writes for Your Middle East arguing that the major factor in the destruction of Beirut's heritage has not been the war but the reconstruction.

1968 Metro Study for Beirut A collection of images from a Soviet study into the possiblity of constructing a metro system for Beirut.


Urban Informality 

؟هل يستحقّ المصريون وزارة للعشوائيات Omnia Khalil reflects on Mada Masr on the difficulties facing Cairo’s residents and the implications of the recent elimination of the Ministry of Urban Planning and Informal Settlements for addressing the city’s major problems, especially those facing the poor and marginalized.

Urban Gardening Could Thrive in Egypt, if State Stays Out of the Way An article in Mada Masr covers the growing popularity of urban gardening in the country as a part of the informal economy.

عن العمران والعشوائيات والتشكيل الوزاري الجديد Karim Ibrahim looks at how the government’s approach to urban planning evolved over the last four decades and the contradictions generated by different visions for handling Cairo’s infrastructure and growing population.

العشوائيات العربية Al Arabi Al Jadid has run a series of articles in Arabic on informal settlements in various Arab cities:
 - 1. تجمعات بغداد خزان بشري للأحزاب السياسية (on Baghdad)
 - 2. 5 عقود من التغيير الديموغرافي تدمّر دمشق (on Damascus)
 - 3. استقالة الدولة اللبنانية من مسؤولياتها الاجتماعية (on Beirut)
 - 4. فقراء مصر يواجهون تحالف الدولة ورجال الأعمال (on Cairo)
 - 5. أخطار بيئية وصحية تهدد التونسيين (on Tunis)
 - 6. "أحزمة الفقر" تنشر التطرف في المغرب (on Casablanca)


Cities and the Environment

Seventeen Alleged Brotherhood Members Arrested for "Drowning Alexandria"
After heavy rain caused dramatic damages, the Egyptian government cracks down on militants for alleged disrupting of infrastructure.

How to Build a City Fit for 50℃ Heatwaves Professor of Sustainable Development Adrian Pitts reflects on the technological innovations city designers will have to implement to cope with temperature increases forecast in the Gulf.

بعد "عاصفة الإسكندرية".. هل الأمطار هي ما يهدد العاصمة الثانية؟ Mada Masr reflects on the environmental challenges facing Alexandria, which was recently flooded by rain.

Egypt's Nile River Delta is Sinking into the Sea Nicholas Linn, writing for Newsweek, examines the economic and agricultural effects of a worsening environmental crisis.

Gabes Labess: All is Well in Gabes Habib Ayeb’s film on the pollution of the Gabes oasis in Tunisia and the civic struggle against it is now free online [English or French subtitles available].

The Late, Halfhearted Awakening on Water in the Gulf Dr. Mohammad Al-Saidi looks at the lack of proper water sector reforms in the GCC countries in an article for Your Middle East.

La palmeraie: une “forêt” plantée par l’homme" [in French] Geographer Keira Bachar reflects on the transformation of the interrelations between man-grown palm trees forests and cities in Saharan environment.

The Socioeconomics of Bad Climate in Jordan Blogger Nassem Tarawnah critically reflects on the socioeconomics behind the deadly rainstorm which hit Amman on 5th November 2015.

Amman's Infrastructure: Five Things Worth Fixing Before Blaming it on Climate Change Engineer Anwar Ibrahim argues from a different perspective on The Black Iris of Jordan, stating that the causes of the Amman flood are mostly infrastructural.

Jordanian Voices After The RainThe Black Iris of Jordan features five videos of people bitterly reacting after the Amman flooding.


Local Resistance and Urban Protest

Cairo Landscapes: A Battle over History
Sara Verderi argues in this essay in Open Democracy that "The reworking of urban spaces embodying the collective memory of the January 25 uprising is not a novelty, but part and parcel of the state's attempt to rewrite the history of the revolution."

A University Wades Into the Garbage CrisisAl Fanar Media reports on the involvement of a team from the American University of Beirut to try to find a solution to the Lebanese crisis.

Creative Cities: Can Downtown Accommodate The Many Visions For Its Future? Lara El Gibaly writes on Mada Masr about the struggle to keep downtown Cairo a representative and inclusive space.


Featured Resources

Survey Data: usurpation du domaine public maritime Libanais : cinq millions de mètres carrés [in French] Resource centre on local development in Lebanon Localiban publishes data from a 2014 official survey by the Minister of Transporation about illegal infringements on the shoreline.

دراسة: القاهرة من أكثر المدن المسببة للقلق وتلف والأعصاب على كوكب الأرض A German study argues that Cairo is one of the most noisy and exhausting cities in the world.

Report: Conflict Analysis Report: The Conflict Context in Beirut This report provides an analysis of the history and current situation of the conflict context, actors and dynamics in Beirut, including a focus on the social question, subsequent political and social mobilization, gender issues, the securitization of the city, as well asinteractions between the Lebanese host community and Syrian refugees.

New Journal: Revue internationale d’urbanisme The French-speaking Association of Urban Planning School (APERAU) launches the first issue of its journal, which deals with the question of the role of theory in urban planning [most articles in French, one in English].

New Journal Issue: Nouvelles luttes autour du genre en Egypte depuis 2011/New Gender-Related Struggles in Egypt since 2011 Laure Piquemal introduces the latest issue of the journal Égypte/Monde arabe [in French and English].

Tribute to Edward W Soja (1940-2015) Journals and scholars pay tribute to the inspiring urbanist; we mention this tribute by Ayona Datta, as well as the republishing of his interview with Justice Spatiale/Spatial Justice journal: Spatial Justice and the Right to the City: An Interview with Edward Soja[in English and French]

CFA: FURS Studentship and Writing Grants The Foundation for Urban and Regional Studies has issued its calls for studentship grants and writing grants for PhD candidates in urban and regional studies, from countries listed in the World Bank's B and C categories. Deadline is 31 January 2016.  


Recent Jadaliyya Articles on Cities

عن العمارة ونهايتها Yara Saqfalhait and Lana Judeh discuss what architecture and buildings have become in the modern capitalist world, and how this might be stopped.

City Talks: Timothy Mitchell on the Materialities of Political Economy and Colonial History [video] In this first installment of a new Jadaliyya initiative, Omar Jabary Salamanca and Nasser Abourahme talk to the political theorist and historian Timothy Mitchell.

Revisiting Dalieh: Open Ideas Competition and Results The Civil Campaign to Preserve the Dalieh of Beirut has run a competition to collect alternative possibilities for Raouche's Dalieh, which is under threat from construction, in order to be in a strong position for a debate with government officials. The competition is now complete, and Jadaliyya has published a number of articles relating to its process: the Jury Report, the Competition Results, the Background Report, and the Three Winning Entries.

Asad's Officer Ghetto: Why the Syrian Army Remains Loyal Kheder Khaddour approaches this often-asked question from a housing and urban perspective.

Seminaire: Mais que veut donc le peuple?Jadaliyya reports on series of talks which have taken place this semester on the question of spatial and political inequalities in the Middle East. One talk remains, on 16 December 2015, on "Social struggles through the prism of an urban political ecology – the case of energy: Lebanon, Jordan, and Tunisia", by Eric Verdeil.

Seminaire doctoral: Sociétés urbaines mediteranéennes: Histoire et antropologie Jadaliyya reports on a lecture series to be given at INALCO in Paris on the subject of urban Mediterranean societies. More details about individual sessions are given within.

New Texts Out Now: Robert Saliba, Urban Design in the Arab World: Reconceptualizing BoundariesJadaliyya interviews Robert Saliba about his new book.


Mukhtars in the Middle: Connecting State, Citizens and Refugees

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Lebanon’s political set-up differs significantly from that of the region’s monarchical and authoritarian countries. Its consociational system is both remarkably protracted in its sectarianism and distinctly volatile in its elite bargaining. Lebanese governance, consequently, is characterized by a multiplicity of (both state andnon-state) political authorities and a plurality of (both de jure and de facto) political institutions. Lebanon, in short, can be considered a “hybrid political order” in which “diverse and competing authority structures, sets of rules, logics of order, and claims to power co-exist, overlap, and intertwine.”

In such a hybrid political order, authorities that can bridge the polarized political landscape and navigate the deadlocked bureaucracy and its informal parallel institutions are particularly important to maintain some form of stability and political coherence.  Such mediating authorities are most significant in the local space of the urban neighborhood where “the street” becomes increasingly detached from “the state”—or at least from any constructive connotation with stateness. While Beirut is the seat of government power, the city is fragmented and state authority is spatially contested in many of its neighborhoods. For instance, various political parties rather than state institutions control both the access to and the perception of many of the capital’s neighbourhoods. The institution of the mukhtar, which is often attributed a connecting and consensual quality, might be particularly relevant in this context – even more so under the current pressure exerted by the flow of refugees, and the garbage crisis.

An Institution between Redundancy and Resilience

The mukhtar is an elected neighborhood- or village-level state representative. He (and in very exceptional cases, she) is responsible for issuing residence documents and personal status papers (granting birth and marriage certificates, preparing ID cards and passports, and authenticating photos). In a broader sense, he safeguards social relations in the community and represents his constituency vis-à-vis other state institutions. As such, it is the “lowest” and “localest,” but also the most proximate and spatially intimate tier of the Lebanese state structure. The institution, installed in an 1861 Ottoman administrative reform, now falls under the ministry of Interior and Municipalities. Nevertheless, it is organizationally independent from the municipality. Mukhtars directly report to the district governor (or qaimaqam). In the absence of substantial decentralization, this independence from the municipal administration enables mukhtarsto function as a counterweight to mayors (but also generates competition between them).

In a comprehensive study of the status of mukhtars and their role in strengthening civil peace, the United Nations Development Program (UNDP) highlighted the historical importance  of these leaders as community mediators. It concluded that, despite a continuous relegation of mukhtars’ tasks and responsibilities, their relevance as “reconciliation magistrates” still holds potency today. Yet, many observers argue that the post-civil war reinstallation and development of the municipal structure have reduced the relevancy of the mukhtar.

Under the Ottomans, the mukhtar primarily managed taxation and oversaw the (financial) affairs of the village or neighborhood. These responsibilities were further extended and codified in the “Mukhtar Law” issued in 1928 under the French Mandate. This law outlined the duties of the mukhtar in the realms of public administration, finance, real estate management, general security and justice as well as agriculture and public health. While the 1928 law was never amended significantly in a formal sense, the position of the mukhtar became marginalized during the civil war, and his work is currently limited to local administrative tasks, and social leadership. 

Consequently, popular references nowadays often paint mukhtars as redundant “relics,” stewards of a hollowed-out institution, which has lost much of its traditional authority, and that largely attracts political and economic opportunists. My research findings, however, contradict such assumptions. In two separate research projects I was engaged in, mukhtars surfaced as crucial figures in local governance. The first research project, conducted through expert meetings, and in-depth interviews with local governance actors in 2015, regards a scoping study exploring neighborhood-level security arrangements in the urban setting of Beirut. The second project draws on ethnographic research, and in-depth interviews conducted between 2012 and 2014, to explore processes of local ordering around informal Palestinian “gatherings” in the suburban context of South Lebanon. 

Based on these studies, this essay discusses the various roles mukhtars have played, are playing, or might play in Lebanon’s precarious governance. The spatial dimensions of mukhtars’ power and their socio-economic and political embedding in neighborhood localities are of particular importance in the following analysis. I argue that it is mukhtars’ physical presence at the local level that underlies their authority. It is their spatial proximity to, and engagement in, neighborhood events and relationships, that generates the social proximity needed for the institutional and territorial ordering of people’s most immediate environments. Although no longer involved in matters such as real estate management and local agricultural and industrial affairs, mukhtars are still tied to their locality by familial and/or property-owning ties that many other state representatives lack. Indeed, it is exactly because their ties with national orders are relatively ambiguous that mukhtars can locally play conciliatory and mediating roles. They are part of the state, but not directly associated with the dysfunctional central government by constituents. They are politicized, but arguably less so than many other state representatives. They have a formal bureaucratic position, but, in many cases, command informal types of loyalty as well.

Beirut: The Mukhtar as “State in the Neighborhood”

In exploring how security is negotiated in various urban neighborhoods, the mukhtar soon surfaced as a key stakeholder. Respondents in our interviews often mentioned mukhtars as crucial mediators in spousal or familial disputes, and street fights. Stressing the importance of spatial presence (and juxtaposing this with the alleged “absence of the state”), an elderly mukhtar from Naba’a indicated that his mere “being there” (on the streets) was often enough to diffuse escalating confrontations between youth. This ability stems from the view that mukhtars are (still) well placed to understand and recognize the interests of different parties and communities and to negotiate satisfactory compromises between them. In addition, mukhtars act as liaisons to the municipal police and the Internal Security Forces (ISF)—especially on behalf of individuals lacking substantial wasta. A mukhtar from Bourj el-Barajneh explained that a group of mukhtars from Beirut regularly meets with police commanders from their respective neighborhoods to share information. He said that when the police come to search a home, or to make an arrest, the mukhtar must be present as a witness and to ensure the respect of basic rights related to privacy and to gender seclusion. Such roles show the importance of the mukhtar for the state’s navigation of local spaces and traditions. 

This mediating function between state and neighborhood works the other way around as well. A member of Beirut’s municipal council, despite his derogatory words about the pettiness of many mukhtars, nevertheless indicated that he needed the local mukhtar’s support in convincing a particular constituency of the merits of one of his pet projects. The mukhtar, in the council member’s account, was not merely a social gatekeeper (in the sense that he had to get the people “on board”), but also a “territorial” one as it was the mukhtar, who was expected to convene meetings between residents and municipal representatives, and thus facilitate physical access of the municipal councilor to the neighborhood’s residents.

Mukhtars usually command various forms of human and institutional capital, ranging from political connections and economic clout to local networks (such as active or honorary membership in family and clan diwans, business circles, non-governmental and civil society organizations and religious associations). These institutional resources and connections enable mukhtars to play a bridging role between the community, on the one hand, and state institutions on the other hand. 

Most important of these institutional resources is the wielding of what was often dubbed “local knowledge.” Not all mukhtars wield the same social clout. Yet, a diverse range of respondents indicated that mukhtars’ closeness to the “local population,” their “knowledge of local life,” and their connections to “local politicians” are essential to their ability to regulate conflicts. One mukhtar concluded that residents’ feelings of safety stem from “social coherence,” and from “knowing each other.” Mukhtars are often at the heart of these networks in which “everyone knows everyone.” Most importantly, in this regard, is the notion of the “open house” (beit maftuh). The “open house” should be appreciated in the literal and spatial sense, as well as a social tradition. While the mukhtars encountered in the two studies had a separate office space, they all acknowledged that people were welcome to, and actually did, petition them at their private residence “24/7.” The mukhtar from Naba’a, for instance, was convinced he owed his position not so much to his political affiliations but to his families’ long-standing residence in the area and his reputation as a streetwise strongman who knew how to engage various neighborhood “thugs.”

Party affiliations undoubtedly play an important role in mukhtar elections. At the same time, the mukhtar from Bourj el-Barajneh found that parties generally do not interfere in mukhtar elections as much as they do in municipal and parliamentary elections. Residents, too, consider the political affiliation of a mukhtar important but not a defining feature of his position. Who the parties “elect to be elected” mukhtar appears to depend on social as much as political credentials. During such vetting procedures, what matters is not merely what the person has done for the party, but also his linkages to the neighborhood.  

In addition, being a mukhtar is a lucrative business: mukhtars often ask for disproportionate payments for the administrative tasks they perform. Yet, in other cases, mukhtars bring resources to the community, waive fees for particularly vulnerable individuals or organize communal events.

It is thus the mukhtars’ physical presence (on both private and public titles) in the neighborhood, their visibility and approachability, which constitutes their authority. This physical embedding in a local community coupled with the function’s institutional centrality—all mukhtars interviewed stressed that mukhtars formed the link between a citizen and the state “from birth till death”—make mukhtars unavoidable. Mukhtars often sit precisely at the intersection of all dynamics that connect the population of a neighborhood, political representatives, and state institutions. Again, this has literal and spatial implications: mukhtars indeed “sit” as often as possible in the offices, homes, street corners, coffee shops, and bars that link them to “their” villages or neighborhoods.

At the same time, it is exactly their political, economic, and institutional ties to the more central echelons of power in Beirut that make mukhtars relevant to the people. It is the formal back up of the state and the informal back up of the parties that grant mukhtars much of their local authority as mediators and liaisons in the first place. Interestingly, however, it appears that the less mukhtars openly invoke these national sources of power, the more resilient their position in the neighborhood becomes. As the mukhtar from Naba’a explained, his role is to de-escalate and contain, to keep things local, and prevent them from spilling over to other localities—an endeavor that is of interest to both neighborhood residents, and central state authorities.

The South: The Mukhtar as Bridgehead to Refugee Spaces and Communities

In local governance arrangements in and around informal Palestinian settlements in South Lebanon, mukhtars also stood out as crucial authorities. Thus mukhtars not only facilitate interactions between the Lebanese state and its citizens, but also function as an interface between the state and non-citizens, here Palestinian refugees. This is especially relevant for Lebanon’s forty-plus “gatherings” which are located on Lebanese land that lack an official UNRWA camp status. Throughout my research, in the gathering of Shabriha, it was clear that the mukhtar in the neighboring village gave vital support to the gathering’s Popular Committee.  This signifies a potentially unique role of the mukhtar in dealing with “facts on the ground,” and in extending what is officially “state governance” into “extra-state spaces,” which are characterized by a deliberate physical and institutional absence of the state. 

When, for instance, in 2011, checkpoints were installed around Shabriha to prevent the gathering from joining the wave of illegal construction during that year’s governmental vacuum, the mukhtar helped Shabriha’s residents circumvent these blockades. He thus helped lessen the territorial separation implemented by the ISF. During the waste crisis that befell the South in 2012, it was the mukhtar who brokered a deal between Shabriha and the new recycling factory (that initially did not want to treat “Palestinian waste”). When tensions between Lebanese and Palestinians escalated in the summer of 2012, with all the sectarian connotations that entailed, it was the mukhtar’s “open house” that brought the various sides together again after a period in which “no one from one side [of Shabriha] went to the other side.” In line with this, the mukhtar was often characterized as ‘the person on the ground,” “the man in the middle,” or “the consensus guy.”

The mukhtar’s constructive role was not limited to supporting Shabriha’s Popular Committee inside the gathering, but it also entailed linking the gathering with relevant authorities in the region. He facilitated the communication with a reluctant municipality and police station and hosted social and cultural events that brought together Palestinian and Lebanese communal leaders. Shabriha’s mukhtar was particularly influential due to his personal track-record, the legacy of his father and the concomitant support of his prominent family/clan, his extensive connections with the Amal party, his considerable wealth that allowed him to perform administrative services without charging fees, and his position as head of the regional mukhtar council. His bridgehead position between the Palestinian refugee community, and the region’s Lebanese authorities is strongly linked to his excellent connections to the Lebanese state apparatus, and its representatives. But it also, paradoxically, rests on his perceived independence from these institutions.

As in Beirut, then, it is the combination of national, political, and institutional power, and local proximity that grants Shabriha’s mukhtar his authority. Such local proximity, again, manifests itself in “local knowledge,” but also more physically in hosting communal events and enforcing territorial surveillance. Lebanese respondents widely credited the mukhtar in Shabriha was widely accredited for maintaining a tight watch on his village and the Palestinian gathering, occasionally installing informal checkpoints and commanding a network of informants. This spatial control, interestingly, seemed to be encouraged rather than resented by Palestinians. A communal leader from Shabriha told me that “before we refer to our leadership, he [the mukhtar] must know everything,” thus indicating how they often prioritize briefing the mukhtar over their Palestinian superiors. At the same time, the mukhtar’s constant hosting of and participation in special occasions—ranging from religious festivities to project inaugurations and funeral and weddings receptions—added a more benign side to such surveillance. This reiterates the enduring significance of the more ‘traditional’ or communal aspects of mukhtars’ legitimacy that the UNDP report describes as including a mukhtar’s “family and nobility, his good biography, his generosity and services provided to the villagers, his ‘open’ house that was considered the interface of the village and which received visitors and provided them with food, drink and accommodations in many cases.”

While the relations of Shabriha’s mukhtar with the Palestinian gathering were unusually extensive, similar dynamics surfaced for other gatherings. A mukhtar in Maashouk, for instance, proudly told me he was nicknamed the “mukhtar of the Palestinians” because of his expertise in dealing with the complicated paperwork facing Palestinian residents in Lebanon. A previous mukhtar from Burghliye was also widely known as particularly apt in helping Palestinians navigate the administrative challenges of protracted refugeeness and informal residence. As such, he used to service not merely the gathering of Burghliye, but also Palestinians living in Qasmiye, Wasta, Kfar Bedda and Jim Jim—spaces that municipal representatives routinely (and conveniently) consider outside their mandate.

Reflections: How Mukhtars Can Help Connect State, Citizen and Refugee

The studies discussed in this essay did not explicitly investigate the role of mukhtars in local governance. Rather, mukhtars surfaced as crucial stakeholders in local governance in an unsolicited fashion. This fact alone shows the significance of this figure in the political and social life of urban neighborhoods and villages. The experiences and positions of the three mukhtars interviewed in Beirut in 2015, and the seven mukhtars consulted in South Lebanon in 2012, 2013 and 2014 are not necessarily representative of all mukhtars in Lebanon. These specific cases give an insight on how mukhtars could function in Lebanon, rather than reflecting how they do function. Two implications of mukhtars’ unique potential to invigorate Lebanon’s governance structures merit specific mention here.

First, through their inherently localized presence, mukhtars can play a central role in neighborhood- and village-level governance. While Lebanon struggles with over-spilling regional wars, governmental deadlock, surging socio-economic inequality, reemerging militias, and an unprecedented influx of refugees, the country’s crime levels remain comparatively low. Mukhtars’ contribution to neighborhoods’ or villages’ social coherence might play a role in maintaining  this counter-intuitive local security. Mukhtars can also be instrumental in salvaging what is left of people’s connections with “the state.” As put by the UNDP: “mukhtars are in direct contact with their communities and are aware of their needs, challenges and aspirations. Therefore, the mukhtars are naturally placed to be effective mediators among groups in their local community and between their respected local communities and central government.” In the urban setting of Beirut, characterized by territorial segregation and political turf battles, such mediation is especially in demand.

Second, mukhtars can extend state governance to refugee communities institutionally trapped in “extra-state” spaces, and mediate contact between citizens and refugees. This has been particularly evident in the example of the gathering of Shabriha and other Palestinian settlements I studied in the South. In a series of pertinent working papers, the Common Space Initiative documented similar dynamics regarding North Lebanon’s Palestinian camps, urging the Lebanese-Palestinian Dialogue Committee, and the Lebanese government to “give more prerogatives to mukhtars of the region to play officially a mediation role between Palestinian refugees and the government to solve all issues and problems.” As was demonstrated by a mukhtar from Beirut’s Zoqaq el-Blat neighborhood, who was issuing documents that help to “regularize” the Syrian presence in the neighborhood, this role need not be restricted to the country’s Palestinian refugees, but could be extended to Syrian refugees as well—as also recognized by the Norwegian Refugee Council.

In conclusion, mukhtars are deeply embedded in Lebanon’s power relations. They are invested in, and part of the country’s hybrid political order, with all the sectarianism and clientelism this entails. Yet, the institution’s bridging social capital, and its potential to guard, and embody some rudimentary form of public space that is rare in Lebanon is evident. However modest their position, mukhtars constitute an indispensible grassroots component of the administrative, and social glue that holds Lebanon’s different urban fiefdoms, and extra-state spaces together. Considering Lebanon’s virulent governance and refugee crises, therefore, much is to be said for bolstering one of Lebanon’s oldest, and perhaps most pragmatic, state institutions.
 

[I am grateful to all the mukhtars that so graciously discussed their work and vision with us. I thank Asma and Nadia for their invaluable help during my fieldwork in the gatherings and Chris van der Borgh, Rivke Jaffe, Souhail Belhadj, Megan Price and Michael Warren for a stimulating study visit to Beirut. Fieldwork in the Palestinian gatherings was supported by Yale University’s Program on Governance and Local Development in the Arab World, the Hendrik Muller Fonds and the Lutfia Rabbani Foundation. The visit to Beirut was made possible by the Knowledge Platform Security & Rule of Law.]

The Ambiguous Encampment of the World

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Michel Agier (ed.), Un monde de camps (A World of Camps), (Paris: La Découverte, 2014).

The refugee camp is a topic of interest for many social scientists coming from different disciplines such as geography, urban studies, and anthropology. Literature on refugee camps has often been fragmented according to regions or to their particular dynamics (Palestinian refugee camps in the Middle East, refugee camps of the past decade's wars in different parts of Africa, administrative detention centres for asylum seekers or “illegal” immigrants in Europe). Edited by French anthropologist Michel Agier, the aim of this volume Un monde de camps (A world of camps) is to go beyond these specificities and regionalisms, analyzing them using the analytical framework of the “encampment” of the world. According to Agier, all these “camps” are part of a global dispositif of government of the “undesirables”, where the camp is the dominant paradigm for keeping away those who are not needed in the globalized world (11-13). The book reports an estimate of over 1,500 camps hosting, at least, twelve million refugees and displaced people. Other kinds of “camps”, such as self-settled migrants’ gatherings, migrant workers’ camps, or administrative detention centres are not included in this figure (14). The locations of some of these camps are shown on several maps included in the book. One of these maps interestingly illustrates the differential distribution of encampment forms, showing how refugee camps are concentrated in parts of the global South, while administrative detention centres are distributed in the global North.

The book comprises twenty-five different stories of “encampment”, and im/mobility situations, written in French (several are translations from English versions). The volume builds on field research conducted over the last fifteen years. The volume is the main outcome of a collaboration between an international and multidisciplinary team of researchers. The book will be of great interest to academics, and to a wider audience interested in the Arab world and in urban studies. The first, third, and fourth sections deal, respectively, with the lasting lifetime of several camps, displaced persons’ camps, and migrant workers, asylum seekers and “illegal” immigrant’ camps. The second section of the book is dedicated to the urbanization of refugee camps and places. Several case studies tackle countries of the Arab world.

This review focuses on how this volume contributes to the understanding of urban dynamics in camps, and particularly in camps located in the Arab world. It examines the tensions, explicitly or implicitly identified by the authors, inherent in the space of camps. I start by highlighting the ambiguous urbanization process of camps, moving on to shared features, and specificities of encampment forms in the Arab world. I conclude by suggesting alternative readings, and analytical tools for grasping the complex and ambiguous character of camps.

Camps and Urban Space

Many camps have become alternative urban centres. We can for example refer to Palestinian refugee camps in the Middle East that were established more than sixty years ago. They are equipped with physical infrastructure such as water, electricity, as well as services, including schools and health centres. They include commercial areas and activities. Different parts of camps evolved distinctively depending on a variety of factors such as, for example, the socio-economic profile of camp dwellers. Furthermore, some camps have also become quasi-neighbourhoods of larger cities. In the introduction to the book (11-28), which presents some of his earlier works (e.g. 2002, 2011), Agier argues that camps represent a form of centrality at the margin of the urban space and the state (26-27). While they are hors-lieux (non-places) situated at the edge of the “normal” order of things, they have nevertheless become living spaces—spaces of socialization, and/or of political action. Camps have also become nodes of urban attraction, where additional migrants and refugees arrive regularly to settle in or around them. They thus form the core of new poor, and cosmopolitan urban configurations. Even though they are transforming into “ordinary” (or banal) urban spaces, they often keep however their representation of a humanitarian exceptionality (145).

The book presents varied readings of this exceptionality of camps in relation to urban space. For example, Jansen suggests departing from the analysis of the camp as an exceptional space marked by a “naked” or emerging urbanity (164-177), and rather to consider urbanity as an idiosyncrasy—a specific form of urban installation. In his examination of Kakuma camp in Kenya—which hosts South Sudanese, Somali and Central and Eastern Africa refugees, he shows how the camp is both a symbol of inclusion and exclusion. This ambiguity is certainly constitutive of the urbanization process of many camps, as I will discuss further later on. Even though it is located in a remote semi-arid environment, Kakuma camp has become highly interconnected with surrounding cities and villages, and vastly integrated in the social and economic landscape of Kenya. And, while refugees are “politically” excluded from Kenyan society, they are benefiting from socio-economic integration. The camp is a well-equipped place, with many commercial and service areas, such as restaurants and bars. It offers job opportunities, not only for refugees, but for Kenyans living in the surroundings, as many Kenyan businesses invest in the camp. Goods coming from other cities in Kenya are brought in the camp through intermediaries. The camp thus participates to a space of circulation, as refugees move between their home country, Kenyan cities, and the camp.

The different stories of camps presented in the book are not only concerned with the organization of forced migration within bounded spaces—the camps—but also with patterns of mobility, and immobility. Agier underscores how the global dispositif of camps is also a network of circulation. It includes the movements of camp dwellers transiting between different forms of encampment (refugee camps, administrative detention centres), as well as the circulation of the employees of organizations that manage the camps, who are often regularly relocated in different “fields”. In addition, knowledge and techniques about how to manage camps are also circulating (21-23). Therefore, while some camps, such as Palestinian refugee camps, have become physically included within cities, and barely distinguishable from their urban surroundings, even remote camps are linked to the other urban spaces via these multiple circulatory processes. Thiollet analyzes this well through her study of the network of Eritreans refugee camps in east Sudan dating from the 1970s (203-217). She shows how camps and regional urban centres are intimately related. Together they constitute “crossroads” of circulation, and a social field of settlement, transit, and return.

Camps in the Arab World

Throughout the book, several contributions directly address Arab regions: Palestinian refugee camps of Shatila and Nahr al-Bared in Lebanon, as well as Dheisheh in the West Bank, the Sahrawi camp of Tindouf in Algeria, displaced person camps in Khartoum and Eritrean camps in east Sudan, Iraqi urban refugees in Damascus, migrant workers camps in Qatar, and ephemeral self-settled migrant sites in the Belyounech forest in Morocco. Several of these spaces share common features. For example, Herz discusses how camps in Tindouf (Algeria) were built instead of resolving the conflict in Western Sahara—thus architecture and planning were substituted to a political solution (111). Sahrawi have used the infrastructure of the camp to recreate a nation in exile. But, with the alleviation of the humanitarian emergency situation, this “encampment” has contributed to postpone the urgency of the political solution. This is also the case of Shatila (Abou-Zaki), Nahr al-Bared (Puig) and Dheisheh (Hilal, Petti & Weizman) Palestinian camps in the Middle East. In this region, where the presence of forced migrants is mostly materialized in urbanized camps, Doraï shows how migrants are concentrated in the peripheries of large cities, where an informal form of urbanization predominates (221-224). Moreover, Fawaz (2013) argues that informal settlements in the Middle East are often an outcome of cross border refugees’ movements, and that this represents a regional specificity of informal settlements. Therefore, these informal settlements should be added to the dispositif of encampment in the Middle East (Martin, 2015).

Alongside these contributions, case studies addressing other parts of the world open up the analysis, and bring in new frames for the study of camp situations in the Arab world—whether regarding the Palestinian case, or the more recent displacement of Syrians. Their reading helps debunking particularities of camps in the Arab world. For instance, Tassin analyzes Lampedusa as a “laboratory” of administrative detention in Europe where logics of control and assistance are intertwined (312-325). The aim of the centre is to immobilize “bodies” of migrants crossing from Africa while authorities examine their situation, awaiting a transfer to other locations in Italy. In addition, Lampedusa is a first aid and humanitarian centre for people who often have made perilous journey across the Mediterranean. The coexistence of administrative and relief objectives find striking resemblance with the earlier work of Peteet on Palestinian refugee camps (2005). The categorization of Palestinians as “refugees” allowed them to benefit from aid, but has also transformed them into governable subjects through classification and enumeration techniques. Tassin argues that rather than being contradictory, these aims represent a “constitutive ambivalence” of migrants’ confinement.

Throughout the volume, many contributions emphasize these types of tensions incorporated within the space of the camp. These tensions represent a very important entry point for the understanding of the complex nature of refugee camps, beyond regional specificities. For instance, the architecture of the Tindouf camp in Algeria reflects the tension between temporariness and permanency. Temporary clay shelters are starting to incorporate architectural features, such as pillars, arches, and parapets (105). Iyer Siddiqi shows also how the four camps of Dadaab in Kenya—often labelled the “biggest refugee camp in the world”—illustrate the tension between emergency and development (149-163). The planning history of their housing and transportation networks reveals how they were initially conceived to transcend the emergency situation that led to their creation. They were indeed envisioned as tools for long-term social control, and population management.

To grasp these tensions, Agier suggests a triadic analytical model for examining the “form of the camp” (19-20): extraterritoriality, exception, and exclusion. First, camps are extra-territorial in the sense that they are not integrated within the territory of the state. For example, they often do not appear on official maps. Second, another law governs their space, and they are thus in a “state of exception”. This concept is indirectly referring to Agamben’s work (1998), who argues that sovereign power in the camp could decide to suspend laws, and thus leave camp dwellers without a “politically qualified life”. Third, beyond this legal-political “inclusive exclusion”, camps are spaces of social exclusion, as their dwellers are marginalized, and differentiated from the wider society. However, Agier stresses that camp dwellers’ experiences vary, and that these three features are not the same everywhere and for everyone. Some camps can be impressively extraterritorial, exceptional, and exclusionary, and others, less so. Nevertheless, all dwellers of camps have to confront these constraints and, far from being mere passive victims, they often do develop two types of confrontational strategies: appropriating space using strategies of “dwelling” (habiter), and transforming space into place (une cité), where dwellers’ voices are heard and recognized—thus through politics (28).

Towards an Understanding of Camps as Spaces of Ambiguity

The volume’s identification of these processes is of great help to understand the government of camps, especially in the Arab world. As illustrated in the different contributions, they are spaces of constraint (spatially, politically, legally, and socially), and resistance. However, we are left to wonder whether camps are ambivalent, and evolving towards “living places”, only because the identified features of encampment (extraterritoriality, exception, and exclusion) are counter-balanced by the resistance of dwellers. Or, should we consider the “form of the camp” in itself as ambiguous—a place conceived according to (what appears as) contradictory mechanisms. This is the argument of a forthcoming special issue I am editing with Luigi Achilli for A Contrario: “Les camps de réfugiés palestiniens au Proche-Orient: Un provisoire qui dure” (“Palestinian refugee camps in the Middle East: A lasting temporariness”). In it, we introduce the concept of “spaces of ambiguity” as an analytical category apt to grasp the complexity of refugee camps. By referring to Palestinian refugee camps in Jordan, we demonstrate that authorities, and camp dwellers’ everyday practices fashion together the camp, both as an extraterritorial and integrated space, an exceptional and ordinary place, and a space of marginalization and inclusion. Camps have the status of temporary space, and abide by a specific management structure, but they are also integrated in the territory via urban development interventions provided by the state, and spatial practices of dwellers. Moreover, camp dwellers are registered refugees, but most of them hold Jordanian citizenship. They are marginalized, for example, regarding employment in the public sector, or political representation in Jordan, but they participate to the making of vibrant spaces including market areas in camps attracting many customers, whether of Palestinian origin or not. Conceptualizing camps as spaces of ambiguity therefore allows recognizing the mutual construction by authorities and camp dwellers of camps as paradoxical places, and to make better sense of the tensions within camps. In Jordan, for example, this ambiguity has allowed the preservation of a certain form of political stability.

This conceptual framework can also be applied beyond the Palestinian case, and the Middle East, and explain the complex character of many camps studied in Un monde de camps. For instance, in Kenya’s Kakuma, the restrictive regulations on the movement of refugees combined with their transgression by camp dwellers, and the tolerance of the camp’s management authorities created the needed conditions for the camp’s socio-economic development, and its articulation to the wider country’s economy. But, at the same time, it allowed the Kenyan government to maintain refugees under a humanitarian administration (164-177). For their part, Lampedusa, and other administrative centres, are places which serve to confine migrants at the borders of the European Union, while legitimizing their existence using humanitarian practices and discourses. In this case, the ambiguous character of Lampedusa both as an “identification centre”, and as a “humanitarian hosting centre” provides flexibility, as migrants are kept in, even after being identified. It also allows the centre to be represented either as a tool for fighting illegal immigration, or as a place embodying a hosting ideal (312-325). One could have hoped for a larger discussion of these ambiguous features of camps in the volume. However, this should not detract from underscoring the importance of this book, which is a timely contribution to the study of forced migration and urbanism in the Arab world, and beyond. At times when instability in the Middle East is forcing a lot of people to be on the move, either at regional or inter-regional scales, this work helps to better understand the functioning of the global dispositif associated to people’s displacements and mobilities.

[I thank Luigi Achilli and David Lagarde for their comments on an earlier version of this review, as well as the reviewers and editors of Jadaliyya Cities page.]


Luigi Achilli and Lucas Oesch, “Des espaces d’ambiguïté: Les camps de réfugiés palestiniens en Jordanie”, A contrario (forthcoming).
Giorgio Agamben, Homo sacer: Sovereign power and bare life (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998).
Michel Agier, “Between War and City”, Ethnography 3, no. 3 (2002), 317-341.
–––––––––– Managing the Undesirables: Refugee Camps and Humanitarian Government (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2011).
Mona Fawaz, “The Intricacies of Popular Housing in the Middle East”, Jadaliyya (Dec 21, 2013).
Diana Martin, “From Spaces of Exception to ‘Campscapes’: Palestinian Refugee Camps and Informal Settlements in Beirut”, Political Geography 44 (2015), 9-18.
Julie Peteet, Landscape of Hope and Despair: Place and Identity in Palestinian Refugee Camps (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005).

 

Cities Media Roundup (December 2015)

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[This is a monthly roundup of news articles, and other materials related to urban issues in the region, and beyond. It does not reflect the views of the Cities Page Editors or of Jadaliyya. You may send recommendations for inclusion in the Cities Media Roundup to cities@jadaliyya.com, mentioning "Roundup" in the subject line. We also welcome your submissions to the Cities Page: please check details on cities.jadaliyya.com]


Urban Development and Policies

Norman Foster’s Cairo Redevelopment Has Locals Asking: Where Do We Fit in? Jack Shenker and Ruth Michaleson report for The Guardian about the latest release of an urban project by Norman Foster for the Maspero area in Cairo which, despite smart architecture, seems to reproduce the trends of exclusive neoliberal urbanism.

More Housing or Services? Sarah Eissa writes for Al-Ahram about the struggle over a piece of land and whether it should turned into a housing project or used to provide services such as schools, a hospital, or a park for a nearby densely populated area. 

1068 اعتداء على الأملاك البحرية: هل نحتاج قانوناً أم إرادة سياسية؟ [Arabic] As-Safir covers the growing legal and illegal encroachment along Beirut’s coastline, and considers the role played by corruption.

Khartoum, capitale en mutation [French] Cet article par Alice Franck et Claude Iverné aborde le nouveau contexte de la capitale soudanaise en rapport à la frénésie immobilière, la disparition des camps de déplacés et le départ/devenir des populations "sudistes" résidentes dans la capitale soudanaise.

As European Capital Retreats from Turkey, Arab Investors Step In Foreign direct investment from the EU has dropped by 52 percent over the last year. Yet MENA investors are bullish, doubling their investment in the same period, and now accounting for a similar fraction of total foreign investment in Turkey as the EU. 


Environmental Issues

Sowing the Seeds of Gardening-Based Change at Masdar City This article reports about the concern for green public space that supposedly makes Masdar City different.

La soif du Nord [French] The Tunisian website Nawaat discusses the shortage of fresh water in remote Tunisian mountainous region and highlights the contradictions of State policy. The article includes a video.

Faute de pouvoir les traiter, le Liban va exporter ses déchets [French] Valéry Laramée de Tannenberg reports about the latest decision of the Lebanese government to export garbage instead of treating it locally.

Emergency Measures as Tehran Hit by Pollution Middle East Eye investigates how more than two weeks of heavy pollution have led Iranian officials to ban all outdoor sport, and impose new traffic restrictions as persistent cold weather exacerbated Tehran's air quality problems. 


Cities, Refugees and Conflict


Thinking of Reconstruction amid War: The Aleppo Project A newly launched online platform is encouraging inhabitants of Aleppo to think beyond war and envision a new relationship with their city. 

Seeking Shelter in Jordan’s Cities What happens when, as with the Syrians in Jordan, most refugees dwell outside of camps and simply cannot find decent and affordable accommodations? 

"Refugee Camps Are the “Cities of Tomorrow”", Says Aid Expert In the Middle East, we were building camps: storage facilities for people. But the refugees were building a city.

Trois villes kurdes de Turquie devenues zones de guerre [French] Libération's journalist Ragip Duran reports about the mostly Kurdish cities of Cizre, Silopi and Nusaybin in Turkey, which have become war zones.

Les murs en Méditerranée [French] Anthropologist Cédric Parizot reflects on the various and changing meanings of building walls that prevent migrations in the Mediterranean area, from population movements regulation to repression, and questions their efficiency.

Les réfugiés syriens au Liban s’endettent de plus en plus [French] Journalists Céline Haddad and Julien Abi Ramia report for L’Orient-Le Jour about a recent study showing how Syrian refugees become increasingly indebted as they can neither return home nor find work locally.

No jeans, no cigarettes on the bus from Beirut to Raqqa Al Jazeera English covers the trials of running a public bus service from Lebanon to the heart of IS-controlled territory.

Women’s Rights to Public Space  Since the construction of this space, the women in Fawwar [Refugee Camp, Palestine] have found, in the plaza, a space where not only can they interact but also learn from each other. 

Palmyra arch that survived Isis to be replicated in London and New York Replicas of the entranceway to the former Temple of Bel will be centrally located in the two cities as a “gesture of defiance”.


Resources

Photo Essay: Looking for Ramallah ”What I am left with after two years of photographing my hometown is a collection of images that not only expresses the anxiety and claustrophobia within me but also the feeling of chaos, occupation, and tension palpable in the atmosphere.” 

Paper: Battlefields of the Republic: Struggle for Public Space in Tunisia Charles Tripp of the LSE argues that the Tunisian revolutionary moment of 2011 and its aftermath have opened up spaces that are capable of providing a framework for the agonistic politics associated with democratic possibility. 

Essay: Saskia Sassen, Who Owns our Cities? At the current scale of acquisitions, we are seeing a systemic transformation in the pattern of land ownership in cities: one that alters the historic meaning of the city. Such a transformation has deep and significant implications for equity, democracy and rights.

New Journal Issue: REMM, Politiques urbaines et inégalités en Méditerranée [French] The reflections in this issue of Cahiers d’EMAM are the result of a workshop organised by IRMC (Institut de recherches sur le Maghreb contemporain) in Tunis on March 28 and 29, 2014, by Hend Ben Othman Bacha and Olivier Legros.

Investigating Spatial Inequality in Cairo Tadamun’s Planning [in] Justice project […] is particularly concerned with designing ways to measure and visualize the distribution of resources between urban areas to assess the minimum resources necessary for long-term survival of particular communities and increase the level of spatial justice through clear criteria that correspond to local needs.

L’agglomération oranaise (Algérie) entre instruments d’urbanisme et processus d’urbanisation [French] Youcef Kadri and Madani Mohamed, writing in EchoGéo, analyze the unsuccessful attempts initiated by the various urban policies and urban planning instruments engaged in Oran to control the urban growth and to ensure an integrated sustainable urban development. 

Mesures fractales de l’identité morphique pour des tissus urbains dans la ville algérienne de Batna [French] InCybergeo: European Journal of Geography, Abdelmalek Arrouf, Lemya Kacha, and Ahmed Mansouri propose a morphological analysis of self-built neighborhoods in Batna and define common patterns and factors of this kind of urban fabric.

Apocalyptic scenes of Damascus suburb obliterated by violent clashes [Video] RT showcases aerial footage of the Jobar region of eastern Damascus, which has largely been destroyed.


Recently on Jadaliyya Cities Page

The Ambiguous Encampment of the World Lucas Oesch reviews a new book by Michel Agiers, Un monde de camps, and its contributions to the discussion of urban refugee space across the world.

Mukhtars in the Middle: Connecting State, Citizens and Refugees Nora Stel discusses the role of the neighborhood mukhtars in Lebanon's complex political order. 

La question du patrimoine en Algérie

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Dès les débuts de la décennie 2000, le patrimoine s’impose dans le débat public. Il fait l’objet d’une rencontre annuelle organisée généralement le 16 avril ; une date qui correspond à la fête du savoir, Aïd el Ilm en arabe, que les autorités locales organisent généralement dans les grands hôtels[1], selon des dispositions particulières, comme l’inaccessibilité au grand public[2]. Le mystère pèse autour de ses rencontres qui n’ont pas l’air d’enrichir le débat sur le patrimoine. Pour les pouvoirs publics comme pour les architectes, les ingénieurs et les universitaires invités de la manière la plus énigmatique qui puisse être, ces rencontres sont l’occasion d’enchaîner des discours-déclarations d’envergure plutôt politique, des harangues soporifiques qui suintent l’odeur de l’obsolète. Le patrimoine y apparaît comme une évidence qu’il faut conserver, sans jamais préciser les perspectives de son devenir, ni les moyens de sa politique, théorique et pratique ; ce qui fait que le patrimoine demeure pour l’Algérien, plus de cinquante ans d’indépendance, amputé de sens.

Les idéologies inconvenantes du pouvoir algérien

Les logiques de la gouvernance algérienne en matière de conservation patrimoniale ont toujours été insaisissables, mais surtout culturellement incohérentes[3]. L’accès à l’indépendance a précipité l’Algérie dans des velléités de séparation totale de tout ce qui est représentatif de la domination de l’ancien colon. De l’acculturation coloniale, nous sommes passés à l’acculturation nationaliste. Cette dernière se traduisit sur le terrain sous forme d'une rupture violente, car elle ne disposait des moyens nécessaires à son élaboration dans aucun domaine. Les experts ont souvent qualifié ces acculturations de maladresses enfantines[4]. Les ruptures ont conforté le pouvoir algérien, en tout cas sur le plan officiel, dans la production des formes d’incohérence politique et économique. Elles ont permis de le reconduire aux prix de recommencements ratés qui justifient son maintien. En conséquence, la rupture est devenue une politique sans cesse renouvelée en Algérie ; elle contribue à l’égarement identitaire chez les Algériens et à l’absence de perspective. Autrement dit, la multiplicité des idéologies développées sans aboutissement, notamment celles relevant des différentes déclinaisons du socialisme ou au capitalisme, nourrit la confusion. Ces projets ont tous prouvé d’une façon ou d’une autre leur inconvenance, et plus particulièrement leur écart avec la réalité de la société algérienne. Certains ont même généré des formes de choc culturel en imposant une identité supposée aux Algériens, lesquels ne savent plus se positionner parmi les discours invoquant tour à tour le progressisme, le modernisme ou le traditionalisme.

Le patrimoine: la nécessaire désoccidentalisation de l’histoire et des concepts

Cet égarement auquel nous faisons allusion, n’a pas épargné les discours approximatifs portant sur le patrimoine. Toutefois, il faudrait commencer par s'interroger sur la légitimité de cette chose héritée de la colonisation qui s’appelle patrimoine, et questionner sa pertinence par rapport à la culture ancestrale, laquelle est fondamentalement comprise comme précoloniale[5]. Et là, force est de constater que pratiquement aucun travail de recherche, aucun ouvrage ne s'intéresse à notre connaissance à la question du patrimoine dans la culture algérienne depuis l’arrivée de l'islam au Maghreb central[6]. Comme dans la plupart des domaines, la conception occidentale du patrimoine domine et oriente la pensée algérienne. La recherche d’approches méthodologiques  s’inspirant de la culture ancestrale, précoloniale, pour réfléchir sur la notion de patrimoine algérien et ce qui devrait s'y rapporter, demeure quasiment inexistante. Nous sommes bien installés dans « l’ailleurs intellectualisant » ; et c'est bien la conscience de cette situation handicapante pour notre accès à la liberté de penserqui nous a poussé à écrire à longueur d'articles dans la presse nationale qu’il est nécessaire d’œuvrer à « algérianiser » nos références. Reprenant les mots du sociologue Rachid Boumediene, on pourrait dire que pour les questions de patrimoine également, il faut « œuvrer à désoccidentaliser notre histoire et nos concepts »[7]. C'est ainsi seulement que nous pourrons nous défaire d'une notion de patrimoine qui n'est qu’emprunt conceptuel et le ramener à notre identité, à nos racines ancestrales.

Le patrimoine devant les confusions de la modernité et de la colonisation

De nombreux algériens, particulièrement parmi la communauté universitaire, limitent le patrimoine au legs colonial. Le cas d’Oran est représentatif de ce que nous appellerons la lenteur de la décolonisation des esprits. L’intérêt que témoignent nos architectes enseignants pour ce qui est admis par les effets de l’évidence sous l’appellation d’architecture coloniale est impressionnant. En effet, rares sont ceux en dehors de Jean-Jacques Deluz, architecte-urbaniste, qui se sont interrogés sur le statut de la construction coloniale. Est-ce vraiment une forme de patrimoine algérien ? « Il s’agit en effet d’évaluer comment l’architecture coloniale s’inscrit dans le processus mondial de l’histoire de l’art, et si la connotation coloniale détermine réellement son caractère au point de la situer en dehors de ce processus. »[8] Le statut colonial -et donc local- de cette supposée architecture n’est donc pas avéré, dans la mesure où ce legs ne raconte pas « directement » l’histoire des Algériens, et que les processus d’appropriation ne sont pas précisément observés par la recherche scientifique. Ce legs concerne particulièrement le parcours des Européens en Algérie coloniale et n’admet pas l’existence des « indigènes » dans son territoire, un peu comme dans L’étranger d’Albert Camus[9].

Cette atmosphère d’absence de reconnaissance mutuelle a fini par se prolonger après l’indépendance algérienne, générant chez les Algériens une forme de reniement de soi au nom d’une incantation de la modernité qui se confond avec une forme de nostalgie non assumée de la colonisation.

Pour cette raison, il est important de réaffirmer le constat que nous faisions jadis à la suite d’une ancienne discussion avec Chris Younès, philosophe : le quartier européen et ses architectures multiples est le territoire de l’autre, selon les propos du géographe Marcel Roncayolo. Il est un héritage historique sans être pour autant un patrimoine pour l’Algérien. De fait, il raconte pour ce dernier une histoire douloureuse à tout point de vue, dont les séquelles mémorielles continuent de nourrir une foultitude de contradictions.


[1] Par exemple le Sheraton ou l'Hôtel Royal à Oran.

[2] Les autorités évitent bien sûr d'interdire l'événement à proprement parler. Le fait de ne pas diffuser l’information contribue néanmoins à la limitation de l’affluence publique.

[3] Lire les travaux de Jean-Jacques Deluz sur la question.

[4] Certains propos du géographeAbed Bendjlid portant sur l’industrialisation industrialisante dans les années 1970-1980 rejoignent les  nôtres.

[5] Il est est possible de voir à ce sujet les travaux d’Anatole Kopp,. Dans une conférence tenue en 1984, à Constantine, où il fut question pour lui de faire le parallèle entre le progressisme tel qu’il fut pratiqué en union soviétique entre les années 1910-1930, et en Algérie  à l'époque de la conférence, notamment à propos des débats portant sur la ville traditionnelle.

[6] Tout le monde se réfère à L’allégorie du patrimoine de Françoise Choay (Seuil, 1970), et semble ignorer la pertinence de savoir de quelles manières, et dans quels contextes les édifices comme les symboles ont perduré à travers les siècles dans le Maghreb.

[7] Propos tenus dans sa conférence : « Alger 1830-1954 : formation d’une ville coloniale », présentée au CEMA (Centre d’Etudes Maghrébines Algérien) le mardi 15 décembre 2015.

[8] Jean-Jacques Deluz, « Architecture coloniale ou architecture en territoire colonisé », in Le tout et le fragment, Barzakh, 2010.

[9] Editions Gallimard, 1942. Il sera aussi intéressant de lire Kamel Daoud, Meursault, contre-enquête, éditions Barzakh, 2013, où nous pouvons trouver des passages qui donnent à réfléchir comme celui-ci : « La vérité est que l’indépendance n’a fait que pousser les uns et les autres à échanger leurs rôles. Nous, nous étions les fantômes de ce pays quand les colons en abusaient et y promenaient cloches, cyprès et cigognes. Aujourd’hui ? Eh bien, c’est le contraire ! Ils y reviennent parfois, tenant la main de leurs descendants dans des voyages organisés pour pieds-noirs ou enfants de nostalgiques, essayant de retrouver qui une rue, qui une maison, qui un arbre avec un tronc gravé d’initiales. », p. 23.

اللاجئون السوريّون في المدن الألمانيّة: آليّات إعادة توطينهم وآثارها على البنى العمرانيّة في المدينة

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تتطرّق هذه المقالة إلى سكن اللاجئين السورييّن المقيمين في ألمانيا. بناءً على تجربتي في المعيشة في مخيم للّاجئين في مدينة كولن والمواد المتوفرة المتعلّقة بالموضوع تتطرق هذه المقالة بالدرجة الأولى إلى الأنماط المختلفة للمساكن المؤقّتة للّاجئين السوريين في ألمانيا و بالدرجة الثانية إلى العمليّة التي يمرّ اللاجئون السوريون من خلالها أثناء بحثهم عن مساكن دائمة. تناقش المقالة بالدرجة الثالثة و الأهم التغيّر الجاري في البنى العمرانيّة و الاجتماعيّة في ضوء العمليّة المستجدّة لإعادة توطين اللاجئين. على الرغم من وجود مستوىً معيّن من الفصل العمراني المتجلّي في البنية العمرانيّة لمدينة كولن على شكل تجمّعات للمهاجرين كالعديد من المدن الألمانيّة الأخرى (Friedrichs 1998, p.1) إلّا أنني أعتقد بالمقابل بأنّ إعادة توطين اللاجئين السوريين تأخذ شكلاً متّسقاً و متخلخلاً في آنٍ معاً. ترافق هذه المقالة مجموعة من الخرائط الإستقصائيّة التي تتناول الجانب الفراغي لتوزيع هذه المساكن.

تتميّز حالة اللاجئين السوريين بشكل خاص عن غيرها ضمن أزمة اللاجئين هذه بأن ليس لها حلّ منظور. فحال البلد في تدهور مستمرّ و من المرجّح بقاؤهم في البلاد التي تستضيفهم و منها ألمانيا بشكل رئيسي. كثيراً ما يبدي اللاجئون السوريون رغبتهم في إنهاء فترة السكن المؤقت و الإنتقال إلى سكن دائم. يمكن إرجاع ذلك إلى ظروف المساكن المؤقّتة بحدّ ذاتها إلّا أنّه يعود أساساً إلى حاجتهم للاستقرار الدائم الذي يفتقدون إليه منذ بداية الحرب في سوريا.

المعيشة في السكن المؤقّت

يتم توزيع اللاجئين إلى مساكن مؤقّتة تختلف عن بعضها البعض بحسب ظروفها كالمدينة التي يتواجدون فيها و موقعهم فيها إضافة إلى الوظيفة الأصليّة للبناء قبل تحويله إلى سكن مؤقت للاجئين. قد يكون بعضها عبارة عن مساكن اجتماعيّة أو فنادق أو صالات بالأساس و حاليّاً كل ما يمكن أن يؤمّن فراغاً لإيواء الدفق الهائل من الواصلين.

من خلال تجربتي الشخصيّة في المساكن المؤقّتة في كولن بُلّ و سؤال بعض الأصدقاء من اللاجئين توصّلت إلى أنّ الظروف تختلف في هذي المساكن المؤقّتة بشكل واسع فبعضها كافٍ تماماً حيث يعيش شخصان أو شخص واحد أحياناً في استوديو (فراغ معيشي مستقل بخدماته) في حين يكون بعضها الآخر أقلّ جودة فتتدرج الظروف فيها لدرجة أن تتم مشاركة الخدمات الصحيّة ما بين عشرة أشخاص. تحتوي بعض هذه المساكن على السوريين حصراً في حين يمتزج السوريون مع جنسيّات أخرى من المهاجرين العرب أو شرق أوروبا و البلقان و افريقيا في حالات أخرى حيث يتشارك المهاجرون السوريون و العرب الفراغ المعيشي ذاته و قد يتشاركون الخدمات كالحمامات و المطابخ. يتواجد السوريون في حالات أخرى مع مهاجرين من شرق أوروبا في البناء ذاته و لكنهم قد يتشاركون في حالات أخرى الفراغ التعايشي الشبه عام ما بين بنائين كمستوى ثالث من المزج، و يكون لكلّ من البنائين في هذه الحالة فراغه التعايشي الخاص به كما في كولن بُلّ.

تؤمّن إقامة اللاجئين في المخيمات لهم ميزات عديدة حيث تصلهم المعونات بشكل دائم أو شبه دائم كما تمنحهم فرصاً أكبر للقاء الأشخاص أو المنظمات التي تعنى بشؤون اللاجئين إضافة إلى إبقائهم على تواصل بتلك المعرفة المتداولة فيما بينهم في المخيم حول مواضيع تخصّ حياتهم الجديدة التي يعيشون. مع ذلك و بالرغم من أنّ لهذه المساكن المؤقّتة مستويات مختلفة من الراحة التي تقدّمها لا يزال جميع اللاجئين السوريين يسعون للحصول على السكن الدائم بالسرعة الممكنة بغرض الاستقرار. تمتاز حياة المواطن السوري الطبيعية فيما قبل الحرب باستقرارها و سكونها لذلك فإنّ تجربة السنين الأربع الفائتة تؤجّج حاجة ماسّة للاستقرار من جديد.

البحث عن الإقامة الدائمة المستقلّة:

تواجه اللاجئين أثناء بحثهم عن إقامة دائمة مستقلّة العديد من العقبات. بحسب مشاهدتي في المخيم فإنّ معظم الناس لا يبحثون بأنفسهم عن السكن و يعود ذلك إلى عدم قدرتهم على تغطية متطلبات اللغة و قلّة خبرتهم بآلية سير الأمور في ألمانيا. بموازاة ذلك فإنّ أصحاب البيوت يتردّدون عندما يتعلق الأمر بتعاملهم مع مكتب العمل 1. على أيّة حال هناك مغالطة كبيرة في ذلك التصرّف فالتعامل مع مكتب العمل فيما يتعلّق بدفع الإيجار هو الأكثر أماناً كونه يمثّل مؤسّسة حكوميّة. لربّما يمكننا إرجاع هذا التصرّف لميل بعض أصحاب البيوت إلى رفض التعامل مع المهاجرين. "قد يبدو توزّع المهاجرين في أحياء معيّنة عائداً إلى خيارات المهاجرين للمعيشة بقرب أولئك القادمين من بلدانهم ذاتها إلّا أن رغبة مهاجر ما للمعيشة بالقرب من عائلته تبدو عاملاً أقلّ تأثيراً من القيود المفروضة على المهاجرين. فلا يعود السبب في وجود الفصل الإثني لمجموعة ما إلى مستواها الاجتماعي-الاقتصادي المنخفض في سوق العقارات فحسب بل يتعدّى ذلك إلى التمييز العنصري من قبل مزوّدي المساكن(GdW 1998, p. 23)" (Münch 2009, p.5)

بما أن معظم اللاجئين غير قادرين على إيجاد منزل بذات الطريقة التي يتّبعها الألمان فإنهم يعتمدون على مؤسّسات متعدّدة كالكاريتاز و الصليب الأحمر و مكتب العمل و قسم السكن في دائرة الأجانب ذاتها. يقوم معظم أولئك العازمين على مغادرة المخيّم بالتسجيل في إحدى هذه المؤسّسات حيث يتمّ وضعهم على قائمة انتظار. يمكن للّاجئين إبداء خياراتهم بالنسبة للمواقع التي يفضّلونها و التي عادة ما تكون مناطقاً مأهولة بمجتمع من المهاجرين و مخدّمة بالأساسيّات مما يساعدهم على سدّ احتياجاتهم الثقافيّة الأساسيّة كالطعام الحلال و حاجتهم للتواصل إلخ. (انظر الخريطة 1) إلّا أنهم عادةً لا يقومون بإبداء خياراتهم المفضّلة هذه لخوفهم من أنّ ذلك قد يقلّل من فرصة الحصول على سكن لائق أو قد يؤجّل موعد الحصول على السكن لمدّة أطول. عندما تجد المؤسّسة السكن لّلاجئين تعرضها عليهم و لأصحاب العلاقة الحقّ في القبول أو الرفض ثم انتظار فرصة أخرى. عادةً ما يركّز صاحب العلاقة اهتمامه على ظروف السكن بحدّ ذاته أكثر من موقعه طالما أنّه لازال ضمن نطاق المدينة.

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(مناطق ذات نسب مرتفعة من السكان العرب و الأتراك في مدينة كولن)

بما أنّ اللاجئين غير قادرين على تحمّل نفقات المسكن فإنّهم يعتمدون على المعونة الماليّة المقدّمة من مكتب العمل. عند توفّر بدائل السكن يقوم مكتب العمل بالتحقق من أنّ الإيجار لا يتجاوز الحدّ الأعلى المنصوص عليه و الذي يتراوح بدوره بحسب عدد و أعمار أفراد الأسرة. يتحكم الحدّ الأعلى بإمكانيّة اختيار موقع في مركز المدينة أو في أحيائها الأعلى كلفة إضافةً إلى ذلك فإن إقرار صرف السلفة و العمولة يحتاج إلى بعض الوقت في مكتب العمل.

يميل اللاجئون إلى عدم تسجيل خيارات مفضّلة بالنسبة لمناطق السكن بل يقومون عادةً بقبول أول المساكن المناسبة التي تعرض عليهم بسبب توقهم إلى إقامة مستقرّة بالسرعة الممكنة. يعدّ هذا العامل أساسيّاً و يشكّل بالإضافة إلى خصوصيّة المؤسّسات الداعمة و صعوبات أخرى تخضع لها أحوال اللاجئين مجموعة من الآليّات المفروضة التي تحدّ من إمكانيّات اختيارهم و تشكّل هذه العوامل معاً نظاماً معقّداً يؤدّي إلى توزيع اللاجئين السوريين بشكل متناثر في مناطق المدينة المختلفة.

الظروف والنتائج العمرانيّة لعمليّة إعادة التوطين الجارية

تقتضي إعادة توطين اللاجئين في المدن الألمانيّة ضمناً توزيعاً دائماً ما بين المناطق المدينيّة المختلفة و بالتالي يساهم شكل هذا التوزيع في شكل المدينة ذاتها خصوصاً بالنظر إلى العدد الهائل المتوقّع من اللاجئين. في هذه الفترة لا يتم إعادة تشكيل الشخصيّة العمرانية للمدينة فحسب بل شبكاتها الاجتماعيّة و الاقتصاديّة و الثقافيّة على حدٍّ سواء. يفيد مصدر من التسعينات بوجود أحياء للمهاجرين مفصولة أساساً بالمعنى المديني (Friedrichs 1998, p.1) مما يدفعنا للتساؤل عن الشكل الحضري الذي تتخذه المدينة خلال هذه الفترة.

الفصل المديني – التخلخل المديني

"تقتضي إعادة توطين اللاجئين في المدن الألمانيّة ضمناً توزيعاً دائماً ما بين المناطق المدينيّة المختلفة و بالتالي قلّما يتم الحديث في الدراسات المعنيّة عن الآثار الجانبيّة الإيجابيّة لدرجات معيّنة من الأحياء المخصّصة. يدفعنا هذا إلى التساؤل فيما إن كان علينا الإهتمام (بالتجلّيات الجديدة) للفصل العمراني." (Smets/Salman 2008, p. 6)

أعتقد بأنّ التوزّع البؤري لتجمّعات المهاجرين قد يساهم في تشكيل شخصيّة ثقافيّة في مناطق محدّدة لأنّها تفرز طابعاً معيّناً من المحال التجاريّة و المطاعم و الملتقيات الثقافيّة إلخ. يمكن رصد هذا في حالة مدينة كولن في كل من مناطق الكالك و مولهايم و نيبيس حيث تتوضّع المجتمعات العربيّة و التركيّة (انظر الخريطة 1) إلّا أنّ هذا الإعتقاد يغضّ الطرف في ذات الوقت عن أنّ هذه الشخصيّة الثقافيّة تنطبق على المناطق المدينيّة الأقلّ اندماجاً:

"يرتبط الفصل المديني بجانبه الفراغي بالشروخ الاجتماعيّة فعلى سبيل المثال فإنّ سوق العمل و التعليم يزيد من الهوّة في قيمة المدخول (Ratcliffe 2002, pp. 23, 30-33; Robinson, 2002, p. 96) إذا تمت إضافة البعد العرقيّ (كما هو في حالة السوريّين) و يمكن أن يؤدّي ذلك إلى زيادة الفصل العرقي في المدارس" (Smets/Salman 2008, p. 5).

قد يعزّر هذا مستقبلاً شبكات اجتماعيّة و اقتصاديّة و ثقافيّة غير متجانسة تعمل خارج إطار المدينة: "هناك بالفعل أدلّة متزايدة على الآثار السلبيّة للمعيشة في أحياء مفصولة على الحصيلة الاجتماعيّة الاقتصاديّة لأفراد الأقلّيات" (Sager 2011, p. 3) و بالتالي إذا تم توطين اللاجئين السوريين في المناطق المفصولة أساساً سيعانون على المدى الطويل من عدم الاندماج و سيعمّقون من آثار الفصل على المدينة ذاتها. "لا تطابق المدن التي تعاني من درجات مرتفعة من الفصل المديني وضعف الإندماجيّة المقاييس الجديدة للمدن بل على العكس من ذلك ستؤدّي إلى تفاقم الفقر المديني (Massey and Denton, 1993)" (Musterd 2006, p. 5).

بالمقابل إذا كان هذا المجتمع الجديد من اللاجئين متخلخلاً في أحياء مختلفة حول المدينة فسيكون بإمكانه الإعتماد على
المجتمعات ذات الثقافة الشبيهة الموجودة مسبقاً كالعربيّة و التركيّة (انظر الخريطة 1) لسدّ بعض الحاجات. في ذات الوقت فسيكون من الملائم لو تمّ توزّع مجتمع السوريين في المناطق المختلفة حول المدينة و بالتالي حصوله على إمكانيّة أكبر للاندماج اجتماعيّاً و ثقافيّاً و اقتصاديّاً: "تعزز الأحياء الأكثر خليطاً الفرص الاجتماعيّة على المستوى الفردي فتقوم بالحاصل بتمكين الاقتصاد المديني" (Musterd 2006, p. 1)




[التوزع المتناثر للّاجئين السوريين في مساكنهم الدائمة في مدينة كولن]


تظهر الخريطة 2 توضّعات المساكن الدائمة لعيّنة منتقاة عشوائيّاً من اللاجئين السوريين في مدينة كولن و تبيّن تشتّتاً واضحاً للتوضّعات (انظر الخريطة 2). بالكاد تتراكب هذه البقع على المناطق المفصولة حاليّاً (انظر الخريطة 3) مما يعكس توزّعاً منتظماً لمواقع سكن اللاجئين الناشئة في المدينة. يمكن ملاحظة عدم وجود مواقع لسكن اللاجئين في منطقة المركز في حين أنّ هناك تركّزاً طفيفاً في الكالك بثلاثة مواقع. يمكن إرجاع ذلك إلى الكلفة المرتفعة والشحّ في المرافق السكنيّة في المركز وإلى رغبة السوريين في الاستقرار في الكالك أو مناطق أخرى ذات غالبيّة مرتفعة من المهاجرين لما تؤمّنه من ميّزات ثقافيّة. على الغالب فإن أولئك المقيمين في مناطق المهاجرين سيحظون بفرص أقلّ لزيارة المحال التجاريّة والمطاعم الألمانيّة وغيرها من المرافق بالمقارنة مع أولئك الساكنين في مناطق أخرى من المدينة حيث سيقوم حتى الجيل الأوّل من المهاجرين الناشئ حاليّاً على سبيل المثال بشراء حاجيّات من الأسواق وزيارة المرافق الألمانيّة فيكون بالتالي أكثر تواصلاً من الناحية اللّغويّة والثقافيّة مما لو كان في مناطق المهاجرين. على التوازي يحظى الأطفال بفرص أعلى للإندماج عند ذهابهم إلى المدارس حيث الأطفال الألمان كمثال بسيط على التبادل
الاجتماعي والثقافي والاقتصادي.




(الخلخلة الجارية لتجمّعات المهاجرين الناجمة عن إعادة التوطين المتناثرة للاجئين السوريين في مدينة كولن)

المخاطر والاستنتاجات

قد يؤدّي هذا التيّار من اللاجئين و الحاجة المستعجلة للمساكن التي يخلقها مستقبلاً إلى إبقاء اللاجئين في ذات المخيّمات حيث وصلوا بسبب عدم مقدرة المصادر العمرانيّة المتاحة لتغطية الحاجات الناشئة.
تحدّ المنظومة التي تحكم إعادة توطين اللاجئين السوريّين من قدرتهم على الاختيار ممّا يؤدّي إلى توزّع مكاني مبعثر لهم حول كولن. يبيّن التوضّع المكاني للمساكن الدائمة للاجئين السوريين الظاهر في الخريطة 3 حالة من الخلخلة (التبعثر) وليس التركّز العمراني إلّا أنه يمكن رصد تركّز طفيف مع ذلك في مناطق المهاجرين.

بالرّغم من وجود مستوى معين من الفصل المديني في كولن و هو في حالة تراجع (Friedrichs 1998, p. 1) فإنّ هذه المجموعة الناشئة من اللاجئين السوريين لا تعزّز الفصل المديني الحالي و إنّما تسرّع على العكس من ذلك عمليّة الخلخلة لتجمّعات المهاجرين حول المدينة مما يساهم في تحسين اندماج الأقلّيّات مع المجتمع المضيف في مناطق المدينة المختلفة و لهذا تأثير إيجابي مشترك على كلّ من المجتمع الأصلي و الأقليّات الناشئة فيه.

Decoding an Urban Myth: An Inquiry into the Socio-Economics of Van Number 4 in Beirut

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It has been called a #lifestyle on social media (#اسلوب_حياة). The van number 4 has become a social phenomenon, as well as an economic one. Here, we call it an intersection between contradicting places where strangers from different classes share the journey from the informal area of Hay el-Sellom in south Beirut to the cosmopolitan neighborhood of Hamra in the Lebanese capital, and back.

In most third world countries, informal public transit pervades the urban fabric. The need to move within the city has given rise to private “informal” services to compensate for the absence of an adequate public transportation system. In many cases, this sector is proving to be a worthy substitute for state services. Each country has its own version of informal transportation: small buses, three-wheelers, or motorcycles. They go by different names: rickshaws in India, tuk-tuks in Thailand, matatus in Kenya, and jeepneys in the Philippines. In Lebanon, privately operated buses and vans run within the Greater Beirut Area and across provinces, linking seemingly distant places for relatively cheap fees. High percentages of the population depend on such informal transport.

In this paper, we examine the specific case of van line number 4 (خط الرقم 4), as part and parcel of the monopolized privately operated common transport in Lebanon[1]. We further investigate the dynamics and specificities behind the number 4’s system, which moves 56,250 passengers per day (Figure 1). Through analyzing its socio-economic and organizational structure, we attempt to answer the following question: How did this system start and persist, considering the failure of all other attempts in the public transportation sector in Lebanon? Our fieldwork uncovered the different economic, social, geographic, and political layers underlying the system. The success and persistence of van number 4 can be attributed mainly to the monopoly, power, and reinforced organized structure that created it, and still holds it. We also find that, contrary to popular belief, van number 4 is neither chaotic, nor strictly used by lower classes. The appreciation of its passengers and drivers is also a clear indicator of its success.

Our research methodology consisted of data gathering and fieldwork conducted over a period of fifteen days in December 2014 and January 2015, during which we interviewed thirty passengers in the van during their trips, at different times of day and on different days of the week. We also visited the parking stations, or maw’af[[2]], and interviewed ten drivers as well as the bosses of the line, and two managers from the Lebanese Commuting Company (LCC), which is a private company that also operates common transport buses within Greater Beirut and its suburbs.


[Figure 1: Van number 4’s organization and turnover. Note that the total sum of expenditures per driver per day (maw’af or parking, rent, and fuel) is 100,000 LL (about $70), which makes a driver’s total gross income amount to 200,000 LL (about $135), which means a Net/Gross of 0.5. Source: Authors’ interviews, 2015.]


Overview of the System

The van’s trajectory starts from Hay el-Sellom, near the campus of the Lebanese University, and reaches Mar Mikhael Church (Chiyah) through Al Sayed Hadi Nasrallah Highway. It continues then towards Tayyouneh, Ras el-Nabeh, reaches Downtown (Beirut Central District, BCD) passing by Bechara el-Khoury avenue, and stops near the American University of Beirut Medical Center (AUBMC), in Hamra (see map in Figure 2).

Zigzagging along the green line, the van’s trajectory is one of its most important features on both social and urban levels. The van is an efficient mobility system that enables crossing long distances for a cheap fee. For 1,000 LL only ($0.7), residents of Dahiya—the dense southern suburb of Beirut—can reach Ras Beirut, and more specifically the corniche which is within walking distance from the van’s trajectory, the main open public space in the city. The bus also connects the Lebanese University in Hadath—an otherwise disconnected campus, to major destinations such as Hamra, Achrafieh,,and Downtown. Testimonies from the Lebanese University graduates confirm how the van made it easy for them to go eat pancakes late at night on Bliss Street in Hamra. By linking efficiently distant districts, and granting mobility to different socio-economic classes, van number 4 is able of tying marginalized neighborhoods to the city, thus enhancing social mixity in a highly polarized and segregated context. 
 



[Figure 2: Van number 4’s route showing the three parking stations: the yellow dots indicate the stations
managed by Hezbollah, the green dot is run by Amal movement’s representatives. The dots’ sizes are relative to the number of vans affiliated to each station. The brown zone shows the area from which people can walk to reach the van. Source: Authors, 2015]


The line was inaugurated in 2000. It currently has three parking stations (see Figure 3), and is managed by three different men who operate very much as “bosses.” Two are associated with the syndicate of drivers in Haret Hreik affiliated to Hezbollah (indicated in yellow on the map), and the third (indicated in green on the map) to an Amal affiliated syndicate (اتحاد الولاء).[[3]] All three men belong to the Z’aiter tribe, and coordinate amongst each other the organization of the vans’ work. They supervise around seven “operators”[[4]] at the three stations, and one near Mar Mikhael church to collect the coupons from the drivers and ensure that they are abiding by the norms [[5]]. These bosses are welded both by their financial interests, and their sectarian (Shi’i) bond, or assabiyya. Although the tight tribal hierarchy was somehow weakened by the interference of political parties, it still forms a significant social system of regulations and norms.

The drivers themselves generally own vehicles. Today 225 vans circulate along the line, only fourteen of which are large buses. Around four hundred men make a living working as drivers. They have the option to rent or own the vehicle they run, so two drivers can work on the same van on different shifts. The average income of a driver who rents the vehicle is 100,000 L.L. per day ($70). As for a vehicle owner, it is 150,000 L.L ($100). Detailed explanations of the organization and economic structure of the system are elaborated in the last section. Before that, we present a brief historical overview and go over the social characteristics of van number 4.



[Figure 3: The parking station of the Lebanese University. Image by Petra Samaha] 


[Figure 4: Inside view of the vans, showing their dire condition Image by Petra Samaha]


According to the founder of the Lebanese University’s parking station, the system began in 2000 with thirty-five vans, replacing the fleet of the LCC. Earlier, as of 1996, large LCC buses roamed the streets of Beirut, providing public transportation services as a replacement for the state’s transportation networks whose public buses decayed, and went out of service. The company also insured all of its fleet and passengers, and provided social security to its employees, paying regular taxes for the state, as well as required vehicle inspection fees.

According to our interviewee, the entire LCC fleet grew from ten buses in 1996 to a peak of 225, before it started regressing in 2005, when the political and security situation in the country worsened.  LCC buses not only filled the gap in the absence of public transport, but also introduced a new transportation system by conceiving their own route network, and assigning numbers to the routes (see Figure 5). After the overthrowing of LCC from the grid of public transportation in Beirut, the new operators who took over and controlled the lines separately, retained the same trajectories and their assigned numbers.

In the case of van line number 4, the replacement process was not an easy one. It was the result of years of conflict that involved violence, such as the sabotage of LCC buses and threats against their drivers. According to a manager in the LCC, arrest warrants were later issued, but no one was arrested. The Internal Security Forces personnel were either bribed to cover up or did not interfere at all to quell the violence. In 2004, only two LCC buses kept operating on the line, and remained until 2008.
 

 
[Figure 5: The LCC bus network as shown in a pocket map]


Like the case of line number 4 that was taken over by the Z’aiter family, political or territorial power groups seized most of the LCC lines.[[6]] Public authorities play a minimal role in organizing the sector. The state controls, and organizes the common transportation sector in four ways: issuing red license plates [[7]] and special drivers’ licenses, setting transportation fees (without enforcing them), as well as regulating the environmental specifications of the vehicles by prohibiting diesel engines. Moreover, the right to operate collective transportation does not require an official state license as it is actually enforced—mostly violently—by territorial, sectarian, political, and/or tribal hierarchies. This was one of the main causes behind the regression of LCC services to its current state: LCC only operates now line number 12, and a bus line that transports Beirut Arab University students from Beirut to their campus in Debbieh, a thirty-minute ride south of Beirut.


Users’ Satisfaction
The trajectory of van number 4 is one of the main reasons behind its high variety of users, in terms of gender, age, and educational levels (see Figure 6). For instance, both students from private universities such as AUB and from the public Lebanese University use it, in addition to AUBMC staff, European tourists, and migrant workers. The catchment area around the van line varies as people walk from varying distances to reach it (see Figure 2): eighty-eight percent of interviewed passengers walk to, or from their destination, for an average of three minutes.
 



[Figure 6: Diversity of users and uses of Van Number 4. Source: Authors’ survey, 2015.]


Passengers use van number 4 for diverse purposes: work, leisure, family visits, education, and so on (see Figure 6). Even unaccompanied minors ride the van to go to school, or to visit relatives. Females, especially young girls, prefer it because they consider it safe. An eighteen year-old veiled young woman insisted on explaining how she finds it safer than the taxi-service, because it is rarely empty, and has a known route avoiding abandoned and unsecure alleyways—unlike the taxi-service that she perceives as including the possibility of “being kidnapped.” Another indication to the van’s perceived sense of safety is the fact that families frequently use it. During our fieldwork, we interviewed a family of four, living in Dahiya, who were going out to spend their afternoon at Zaituna Bay in downtown Beirut. The family considered the trip in van number 4 as part of their outing. The father stated that he finds the van very safe to take his family in, and enjoys not having to drive while having conversations with his family. Drivers themselves show a lot of pride, speaking about safety, accountability, and how they “protect” young females aboard from being harassed. Drivers and passengers often call van number 4 “
andaf khat bi lebnen” i.e. the most decent bus line in Lebanon.

Looking at current transportation trends in Lebanon, the most used mode is the private car, as it reaches eighty percent, with eighteen percent for taxi-services, and 1.7 percent for vans (cf. Council of Development and Reconstruction figures). However, our fieldwork shows that of the sample we interviewed who have access to a car, forty percent prefer using van number 4, because it is cheaper, faster, and safer. They mentioned the hardships that come with driving private cars in Beirut, such as traffic, and the quasi-impossible quest of finding a (cheap) parking spot, especially in Hamra. These testimonies reveal the efficiency of van number 4 as an alternative mode of transportation, as well as the high level of users’ satisfaction and appreciation. This has allowed it to become a preferred choice of transportation, disputing the dominant use of private cars. Most importantly, this finding challenges the common perception that those who have no alternative transportation are the sole users of public transportation.

While each passenger has his or her own way of expressing their satisfaction vis-à-vis van number 4’s services, a main public source of evidence of the van’s success with people is the strong public support shown for it on social media. In addition to an Instagram account, there is also a very dynamic Facebook page, including regular testimonials shared by passengers and drivers. A father posted there the first selfie taken in the van with his two young daughters (see Figure 7).
 



[Figure 7: Screenshots of van number 4 fans’ Facebook page]

Drivers and Passengers: Common Practices
The relationship between drivers and passengers is based on practices that were incrementally developed, and negotiated to ensure a smooth trip. For instance, passengers give prior notice to the driver if they do not have change for the fee trip of 1,000 L.L. In such cases, and if the passenger is sitting among the back rows, s/he passes the money from seat to seat until it reaches the driver, and s/he will receive the change back the same way, in due time before reaching her/his destination, as not to stall the trip.

In addition, and typically of all collective transportation lines in Lebanon, there are no specific bus stops for number 4. However, a common code is to avoid asking to be dropped off on a green light. Also, to ensure a pleasant ride, passengers carefully choose their seats in the van, such as taking control over the window. Some passengers use earphones as a barrier against socialization, and for having control over the music they want to listen to, especially if they do not like the driver’s taste. Others, especially the elderly, prefer engaging in conversations, perhaps in order to kill time during the trip.

What distinguishes van number 4 is the short wait time: a passenger spends about two minutes waiting for a spot in the van at peak hours. Sometimes, several vans arrive together to pick up passengers, leading drivers to fight over clients. In other instances, they drive side-by-side, and initiate conversations if they happen to be related or good friends. A one-way ride ranges between forty-five and sixty-minutes, depending on the traffic, and the competency of the driver. Drivers also have the privilege of changing their route to avoid traffic—a practice which is much appreciated by passengers. They could also simply decide not to reach Hamra, because of blocked roads and traffic. Here, drivers strike deals between each other to exchange passengers, where one van would give his remaining passengers to another van that has more passengers heading to Hamra. Additional tricks that canny drivers also use, is intentionally slowing down their movement to increase their chances of picking up more passengers, especially if another driver has departed shortly before, and has most likely collected the potential passengers ahead—they refer to it as “nayyim,” which literally translates as “put to sleep,” and is understood as stalling. To facilitate their movement’s slow down, van drivers might choose to drive behind a taxi, which has frequent stops, faking they are as annoyed by this delay as their passengers. They may also decide, unconventionally, to respect the traffic lights, and stop at the red ones. Such negotiations form a set of codes and norms that both drivers and passengers progressively learn and practice, ensuring each other’s convenience. 
 


[Figure 8: Image showing two van drivers greeting each other, assessing each other’s number
of passengers, and agreeing on driving strategies. Image by Petra Samaha.]


Power Structure

The efficiency and success of van number 4’s system can be attributed to two interdependent elements: power structure and economics. One of the main pillars of the line’s success is “organization” (tanzeem). During our fieldwork we were able to witness how the bosses and operators manage the fleet of 225 vans and drivers, and insure a smooth and efficient operation. An employee sitting in a shack next to the Hay El-Sellom’s station holds a stopwatch. In front of him, on the table, are some papers and a pen. “It’s your turn!” he shouts, and a van departs. He re-sets the clock, and starts the countdown once again, and so on. The two to three minutes departure time is regular, yet flexible enough to adapt to demand: at peak hours, the waiting time decreases as the vans fill up quickly, and depart. This daily routine is maintained at each of the three stations. Through this organizational process, the operators are able to limit quarrels between drivers, and maintain a constant, and frequent flow of vans, thus increasing the line’s reliability and punctuality.

Although the fleet grew incrementally since 2000, the same individuals who established it still manage and operate it. Through our fieldwork, we uncovered a power structure that holds the system together, and secures its sustainability. Influential figures belonging to the same family/tribe, and sect, manage the stations. All the drivers obey, and respect them: their word is rarely contested, as they are the final arbiters in daily quarrels, and random issues. Each one of these individuals is known as the mas’oul. While interviewing the mas’oul at the Lebanese University station, he received a phone call: “Yes, I solved the problem, it’s all been taken care of, it’s done… I will see you in a bit.” Such phone calls are part of daily practices to solve problems, and mitigate conflicts. The mas’oul sometimes act as a judge settling disputes between drivers, and listening to complaints of customers, particularly females, hence gaining customers’ trust, and reinforcing the number 4’s reputation as the “most decent van line in Lebanon.”

Our visit to Hay El-Sellom also demonstrated the control, power, and respect the bosses hold. When we first arrived, we were able to interview some drivers, until the boss arrived, and wanted to know who we were. He insisted we sit in his open concrete kiosk, and have coffee. Then, he investigated the purpose of our visit, and our intentions. He was annoyed by our ignorance of who he was, and got offended when we asked if he was a driver. As more drivers started to gather around, and make jokes with him, he shouted: “Come on, everybody back to your van, go take care of your business!” clapping his hands as a gesture indicating they need to proceed quickly. In a matter of seconds, all the drivers disappeared, except for his brother, and the timekeeper, who resumed their business, while we carried on with our interview. It was clear he was attempting to control our access to information: for instance, he tried concealing the actual daily income of the drivers, before eventually loosening up, and revealing the figures we mentioned above, in Figure 1. Irrespective, the boss’ power is never challenged, for his authority enforces rules, and equality among drivers, allowing a regulated and disciplined operational environment, that is what makes passengers feel safe. All the stakeholders recognize the importance of this organization in insuring a smooth working of the system: drivers understand the advantages of commitment, and discipline, while bosses need rules to monitor the number of drivers, and limit the oversupply that might cause quarrels, and loss of profit. Hence, the power structure of van number 4 is very well respected. 

In some instances, the relationship between the drivers and operators goes beyond one of mutual business interests, and becomes dependent on respect, tribalism, and/or political and sectarian affiliations. For example, when some van owners started hiring illegal Syrian drivers, their Lebanese counterparts got annoyed, and considered them unfair competition. However, due to the social hierarchy, and common tribal origins between owners and Lebanese drivers, the latter did not protest or object. One driver told us: “I cannot say anything to the man allowing Syrians to work [the operator], he is of the same clan as mine [Z’aiter], and I am not going to start trouble with him. But of course, many drivers are not okay with this!”
 

Economics
In order for a driver to work on the van number 4 line, one must have a legal registered van, a red license plate, and the appropriate driver’s license. It is not common for informal bus lines to enforce these rules, however van number 4’s bosses insist on these conditions, perhaps to control who has access to work on the line. Then, the driver has to pay a one-time $100 fee, followed by a regular 10,000 L.L. ($7) daily subscription fee (except on Sundays) to the boss of the station he is assigned to. Based on our calculations, the total daily sum paid by all the drivers to the bosses adds up to 1,800,000 L.L. ($1,200)—assuming eighty percent of the total number of vehicles (180 out of 225 vans) is operating daily. This amount covers the salaries of the few employees that operate the stations, the land rent from the respective municipalities, and unknown fees paid to the syndicates. The basis for profit sharing between the bosses, and the different stakeholders (including bribery) remains unknown as the interviewed bosses refused to reveal the true distribution of the 10,000 L.L. daily fees. The income that the bosses earn goes most probably untaxed, since they are not an actual registered company, like the LCC is. The drivers working on the line are not registered employees; hence the bosses do not pay insurance fees, and are not responsible for the vehicles’ repair and registration.

Besides, the fee paid by the passengers has been constant at 1,000 L.L. since 2008, with one noted attempt to increase it in February 2012, that only lasted for a couple of weeks.[[8]] The fee of 1,000 L.L. covers the different driver’s expenses, and provides him with income. The driver’s expenses include the van, and license plate rental if he does not own the vehicle, the fuel, the daily station’s fee, regular repairs and oil changes, and an optional weekly charge of 3,000 L.L. ($2) to use the station’s bathroom. Usually both the van and the license plate are rented, or sold together. A van without a red plate cannot operate on the line. The plates are limited in number, and are quite expensive ($20,000 each). The plate comes with social security benefits, which can be passed on to the renter, and cover the driver and his family. If the van/plate is owned, then the net profit of the driver will increase.

Figure 9 shows the proportional distribution of daily expenditures, and gross profit with respect to the 1,000 L.L. fee. Here, the balance between supply and demand is fundamental for the efficiency of the economic model. The fee is affordable for passengers ensuring constant demand (56,250 passengers are moved daily), yet is enough for the drivers to make a living, (100,000 to 150,000 L.L. net income per day, i.e. $70-$100), thus ensuring sufficient supply for the 250 vans operating daily. High population densities that ensure the constant flow of passengers also maintain this balance between supply and demand. As the boss of the Hay El-Sellom confirms: “In the morning, people come in large groups, waiting in turn to get in a van.” 
 


[Figure 9: Distribution of daily expenditures for a van’s owner vs. a van’s renter. Source: Authors survey, 2015] 


Another component that contributes to the supply balance is the fact that not all vans operate at once. Despite the fact that drivers choose their working shifts themselves, these are directly related to demand and peak hours. The calibration of their schedules responds to the supply and demand curve to sustain sufficient revenue. The number of drivers working simultaneously varies across the day, to accommodate the demand, and prevent oversupply (which leads to the dissatisfaction of drivers), or undersupply (which leads to the dissatisfaction of passengers). The drivers’ schedules are not set by a fixed rule. This is not as easy to achieve as one might think, especially given the high number of vans. It was probably through several iterations that the current calibration was achieved.

A final note concerning the equilibrium of the van’s economic system relates to the van’s sophisticated institutional structure, which is based on several variables: vehicles size, frequency, number of drivers, drivers’ schedules, pricing, peak and off peak hours, and so on. The calibration of all these variables has made of van number 4 a successful and efficient line, reaching an optimal supply and demand curve, satisfying customers on the demand side, and keeping drivers’ profit high on the supply side, while feeding the power structure managing it financially and politically.
 

Conclusion
A first reading of van number 4 may show it as chaotic, and unorganized. However, decoding its operation reveals how it is, in fact, an incrementally constructed system that defies, and re-defines different socio-economic variables, while reinforcing socio-political hierarchies in order to persist. Van number 4 has proved to be a successful economic model, and an interesting social phenomenon in the field of urban transportation, providing a service that should be delivered by public agents. The van plays an important role in social mobility, and breaks conceived and perceived boundaries by creating a lived urban experience through a journey that blends social classes, and transcends geographic and political boundaries. Daily trips along the bus line from Dahiya to Hamra in both directions allow commuters to keep up with a city in constant flux. It contributes to the mobility of a substantive group of Beirut’s dwellers, and demonstrates the potentials of shared public transportation systems to become a viable and strong alternative, and contend the reliance on private transportation in the city.

While van number 4 reveals a noteworthy level of management, and organization, in a generally informal law-dodging sector, it does not diverge from the political, territorial, sectarian, and, in its case, tribal, control over the private/public transportation sector in Lebanon. Van number 4’s operators evade payment of taxes to the state, and the provision of social insurance, and other social benefits to workers of the line. The state does not interfere in the operation of these systems (such as designating the trajectory of the transportation routes, or selecting the private companies that operate them). As stated earlier, each line is subordinate to the local power holders of the region it operates within. In the absence of state-led public transportation, or state regulation for the privately managed transportation sector, access to this “market” remains a privilege for well-connected individuals, and influential power groups, enforcing their control through violence and/or shady deals, and bribes. Thus, in this highly unregulated sector, and within the inefficient enforcement of traffic laws by the state, the level of the provided service is strictly in the hands of the powers or stakeholders in charge.

In this paper, we argued that the decision of van number 4’s managers to provide a level of regulation, security, and convenience has provided them with the trust of passengers. Added to the political, sectarian and tribal support, we showed that the efficiency of the system is insured through the level of organization and daily drivers’ practices, as well as the vital and strategic importance of the trajectory itself, cheap fees, and high demand. All these have established a sustainable and successful franchise. Van number 4’s experience can offer many lessons to the state, whether it decides to regulate the private transportation sector, or to introduce its own public transportation services. There have been many successful case studies in which authorities regularized informal common transport, like in Bogota (Colombia).[[9]] How can this “informality” be integrated into Beirut’s transportation strategies and schemes, and how can the provision of an efficient and well-organized public transportation system proves to be a worthy replacement for private car usage?


[We would like to express our deepest gratitude to all of those who have helped us complete this research: our professors Mona Harb, Omar Abdul-Aziz Hallaj, and Charbel Nahas for their guidance, Rami Semaan for his generosity in providing the needed data, and Jadaliyya Cities Page editors for their rich comments. We would also like to thank the drivers and operators of van number 4, as well as LCC managers for their time and hospitality.]


[1] Khat (خط) indicates the whole van system, including the fleet and its operators, operating along a specific geographic route. Na’le: (نقلة) is the common word used for the roundtrip.
[2] Maw’af ( (الموقفis the parking station where a large numbers of vans gather, and wait in turn to fill in passengers before departing. It could be situated on a large empty lot, or on a roundabout.
[3] However, syndicates remain as unregulated institutions that are subordinate to political influence. They are divided according to political parties and are used occasionally to convey the demands of the drivers to the State.
[4] The mas’oul (المسؤول) is the person in charge of the parking station. He collects the daily fees from the drivers, helps in organizing the departure times, and ensures the smooth running of the process.
[5] The coupon or bon (بون) is a piece of paper given by the operators to the drivers at the departure of each trip. At Mar Mikhael church, an employee collects these coupons from the drivers. Without it, the driver cannot continue his route, and will be eventually penalized.
[6] Every now and then, drivers on many bus lines organize strikes to denounce “strangers” driving operating in “their territory.” See this article for more details.
[7] In 1996, the ministry of Public Works released a limited number of red plates into the market. The state has not issued any new red plates since, causing the emergence of a black market where red plates are traded. An official state office issues a market value approximation for these plates regularly; however these prices are not binding in any way. In addition, some drivers use the same (forged) red plate number on two or more identical vehicles, and operate on different transportation routes in different areas.
[8] The fee was 500 LL in 2000, when the fleet started operating. It gradually increased to reach 1,000 LL.
[9] In Bogota, the public transport system comprises today efficient red buses called “Transmilenio.” Before, it consisted of thousands of independently operated and uncoordinated mini-buses. A key lesson from this experience is the way the city’s government involved existing operators, and transport companies in the new system.

 

Snapshot: Amman

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I feel compelled to snap a picture of every angle, corner, and inch of whatever I lay my eyes on, especially within the urban environment. Much has changed in Amman over the years with the construction of new buildings and the introduction of new styles, structures, and patterns. I capture these, but when I take photos in the older parts of the city it’s about more than the architecture, it’s about claiming and creating my identity as an Ammani and connecting with my childhood.

Amman’s stone buildings, gardens, and streets frame even my most distant memories in a graphic way. Wherever I go I see little gems hidden between bulky apartment buildings, or veiled behind Mediterranean alignments of cypress trees. Between the hill and the valley, I always discover a new spot.

I have intimate memories of driving with my late father to downtown through the suburb where we live, to the heart of Amman. We’d visit his friends and walk through the town, meet with someone at that shop, and have a chat with people at that office, cut through those stairs, shop at this market, and so on.

Not only architecture but also people, fashion, and transportation nurtured my visual memory and shaped my identity in a spontaneous way. My mom held my hand through the same streets and markets, took me to her friends’ places, and together we ran errands all around the jabals. We were a simple, modern, middle class family.

As I explore the city now the distinguished geometry, topography, textures, and colors of the city deconstruct themselves, taking me on trips to familiar places I have never been.  Memories and the feeling of this space mix unexpectedly with a soundtrack, a hairdo, or a dress with a geometric pattern under that dry, sharp Ammani sun to create new images to resonate with others in my mind.  

Amman is not easy to comprehend as a city. Unlike Cairo or perhaps Beirut, it hasn’t had a steady process of growth, or a certain flow of people to define a particular identity. For decades the region has been in turmoil. Amman, nevertheless, has been doing things on its own, in its own bubble, away from sight. I want to capture and somehow document these unique aspects of the city before they’re replaced with yet another glass façade.

As this city struggled to define itself and gain acceptance among its peers, so was I, unconsciously, through these memories and these buildings. Amman is a place that has no single accent, no single lifestyle, and no single face. There’s something here that draws people back. It’s hard to pinpoint, maybe the city is mundane to some, but it is also peaceful and neutral. In my own bubble, Amman is a place where stereotypes are easily broken, normativity is challenged, and social standards and traditions are rendered trivial or even reconstructed and redefined.

These pictures try to highlight the most tangible and physical aspect of Ammani identity, the architecture. Behind this architecture is the human - communities, culture, politics, and society. I hope to delve into these aspects and investigate them more thoroughly in the future.


Art Dubai: The Shifting Architectures and Expedient Geographies of the Art World

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Museums have historically acted to tether artworks and artifacts to territorial conceptions of place. Meanwhile, as conduits to the flow of artworks across borders according to the imperatives of a globalized market, international contemporary art fairs might seem to obey an opposite logic, operating as deterritorializing forces that uproot works of art from their native geographies. Yet assigning museums and art fairs neatly to different sides of a binary that pits rootedness against a world of unhomed objects and convergent cultures obscures a more complex and dynamic reality. If large brick and mortar institutions are restructuring to satisfy new economic imperatives and economies of attention within a global regime of art circulation, exhibition, and consumption, as they proliferate to new locales with less-developed markets, many art fairs are becoming more substantially place-minded. In addition to shaping themselves according the context and needs of their host locations, global art fairs are finding new ways to address the geographical contexts and local aesthetic histories of works of art. As museums of modern and contemporary art dispense with fixed galleries and large, unmoving museum collections in favor of blockbuster installations and flexible holdings that can accommodate the demand for more globally attuned programming, art fairs have begun to assume some of the cultural functions conventionally belonging to museums.[i]

The art world infrastructure of the United Arab Emirates is perhaps a hyperbolic instance of the conflation of the market and older institutional modalities. This is because rapid oil-driven development and urbanization has meant the emergence of modern and contemporary art museums only subsequent to the development of both locally-serving galleries and an aggressive, internationally oriented art market. As the leading art fair in the region, Art Dubai has helped shape the landscape of Middle Eastern contemporary art since its inception in 2007. More than just a marketplace, however, the fair has cultivated its civic face, functioning—like many of the biggest contemporary art fairs—as a high quality temporary exhibition that attracts large non-collector audiences, and incorporating long rosters of non-commercial programs including lecture series, performances, commissions, and non-profit components. In dealing in art from “emerging” regions where postcolonial legacies and/or rapid urbanization have made histories of both modernism and modernity matters of active negotiation and dispute—histories hitherto largely ignored by the cannons of modernist art history forged in western institutions—Art Dubai has engaged with local aesthetic history in both its commercial and more public programming.

Yet, while these civic, discursive, and historicizing functions may harken to the traditional roles of the public museum, the expedient logic of the art fair’s programming is not difficult to decipher; state-funded community outreach, academically inclined discursive programming, and non-commercial exhibitions all serve to create different forms of legitimacy for the fair and the artworks therein. In a globalized art world in which an understanding of local context and art history is essential for participation in new markets, the production and dissemination of this information is an integral market tool. This expedient logic is not dissociable from the art fair’s dynamic architecture. Not unlike the globalized economy that thrives on geographic difference—discrepancies in the cost of labor power and goods, differently valued currencies, disparate laws, skewed urban development—Art Dubai functions as a spatialized array of different microlandscapes, each determined by a different relationship to the market. This variegated topography ranges from the adamantly public, such as the programs for school children run during the week, to the exclusively private, such as collectors’ previews or VIP lecture series. Each of these ephemeral zones strikes a different relationship to art, here accentuating art’s pedagogical value, there its commodity value. Yet these differences belie strategic relationships between the commercial and the non-commercial, the academy and the market, the “emerging” and the emerged. In what follows I explore how these entanglements relate to the realm of knowledge-production by looking at two features of Art Dubai 2014, Modern 2014, the inaugural instantiation of the fair’s section devoted to modern art from the Middle East and South Asia, and Marker, a not-for-profit program devoted to a different emerging region each year. I argue that the effects of the market’s role in helping consolidate histories of modernism in these regions are deleterious, and I identify a neo-imperialist logic in the discourse surrounding emerging markets. Lastly, I briefly examine Art Dubai’s relationship to the yet-to-open Guggenheim Abu Dhabi to show how the fair’s role in tethering artwork to conceptions of place coincides with the logic of deterritorialization at play in the museum. 
 

A themed lecture series and discussion forum accompanying each Art Dubai, the Global Art Forum (GAF) is characteristic of the intellectual programming featured by many of today’s largest fairs. The 2014 Forum attested to a concern with history among regional artists, scholars, and curators—a concern perhaps related to the desire to debunk narratives of the spontaneous emergence of Emirati cities and culture from oil-rich sands. Entitled “Meanwhile…History,” GAF 2014 prompted invitees to revise historical narratives by focusing on foundational turning points generally left out of conventional accounts. This historicizing impulse was evident in less reflective form in Modern 2014 as well. Galleries participating in Modern 2014 submitted proposals to jurists for a one or two-artist exhibition, making the case for how each artist has “proven highly influential during the twentieth century and on later generations of artists.”[ii] These selections were further substantiated in an education guide that detailed the biographies and historical importance of each artist, and lent added gravitas by galleries that strove for a classic, mid-century feel, distinguished by their tawny carpeting from the white-cube aesthetic of the contemporary galleries, with their polished concrete floors.

Debates over the conditions of cultural modernization have fueled questions about the constitution of artistic modernism in postcolonial regions. Crucial concerns have included the role of nationalism and the state in supporting modern art as well as that of colonial education and proximity to European modernism in determining aesthetic styles, and how to approach modernisms that strategically revived aspects of traditional styles. Undergirding these issues is the historiographic predicament of how to assert the originality of postcolonial modernisms without the effects of the colonizer’s language, colonial education, and aesthetic influence—or the hegemony of western art historical discourse—leading to their relegation as imitative, derivative, and secondary. One means scholars and curators use to address these problems is what art historian Prita Meier calls “the canon as strategy,” or assembling a roster of “great artists” and arguing for their parity with the canonized geniuses of western art as a means of “legitimate[ing] movements outside the West as worthy of study.” Meier argues that by foregrounding individual artistic genius as the catalyst for innovative development, those who adopt this strategy tend to ignore the influence of social and historical factors.[iii] Indeed, Modern 2014 presented a canon-like assembly of internationally renowned artists such as Sadequain, M.F. Husain, Michel Basbous, and Rasheed Araeen. These artists’ aesthetic achievements were described in short, linear, artist-centric narratives in the accompanying education guide—narratives that largely sidestepped complicated questions of migration, class, political flux, and repression.


 [Adam Henein at Art Dubai Modern 2014, Madinat Jumeirah 2014, Courtesy Karim Francis Gallery, Cairo.]
 

With Modern, Art Dubai appeared to enter the discourse on modernism in the Middle East and South Asia.The fair enlisted a jury of respected scholars and curators, aligning Modern2014 with publically oriented and pedagogical discourse. Yet it did so with distinctly commercial aims; Modern attempted to lend greater validation to the contemporary art on view elsewhere at the fair by providing historical depth, yet yielded only palatable, individualizing narratives at the expense of a deeper engagement with history. While it may seem easy to dismiss these histories as mere market contrivances, such neat delineations overlook the difficulties of disentangling marketplace, museums, and the academy in a globalized art world in which art histories are being written alongside a powerfully determinative commercial sphere. It is likely that Modern 2014 attracted not only private collectors, but also the many institutional collectors who patronize the fair—collectors working for museums looking to expand their collections of modern art from the foregrounded regions.
 

If Modern 2014 offers one strategy for consolidating regional art histories, then the fair’s Marker section, introduced in 2011, employs another. Whereas with Modern, Art Dubai cultivates its position as a forerunner of art from the Middle East and South Asia, with Marker it promotes itself as a conduit to emerging markets around the world. Marker 2014 presented contemporary galleries from Central Asia and the Caucuses curated by the artist collective Slavs and Tatars. Like the Modern section, Marker too had an education guide. However, whereas Modern’s focused on artists’ biographies at the expense of more complex questions of site, the guide for Marker focused explicitly on geographical context: alongside artist narratives were profiles of countries where presenting galleries were located, including a sidebar from the CIA World Factbook listing national statistics pertaining to population, industry, arts funding, education, and infrastructure. An officially non-commercial segment of the fair, Marker 2014 was distinguished from the cool white of the commercial galleries with inviting cushioned benches, bright green walls, and a samovar dispensing hot tea. Press material explained that the set-up strove to emulate a chaikhaneh, or Eurasian tea salon. Yet despite the cozy feel, the logic behind Marker’s alleged non-commercial status was hardly opaque; the program serves as an incubator for art from regions that have yet to cultivate a strong international buyer base—locales such as Indonesia and West Africa, to which the two preceding Markers were devoted. In addition to the section’s booths and educational guide, Terrace Talks, a series of discussions exclusively for VIPs, included two presentations on private patronage in emerging markets geared toward increasing “collector and institutional attention to art from the region.” 

               
[Art Dubai 2014 Patron’s Preview, Madinat Jumeirah 2014, Art Dubai 2014.]

In contemporary art as in the market more generally, capital has a tendency to flow into “high-growth” economies, a neoliberal inversion of the less encouraging “underdeveloped.” Yet emerging markets also present barriers to entry in the form of inadequate cultural and linguistic knowledge, as well as susceptibility to volatility generated by economic flux and geopolitical strife. Emerging markets thus require strategic campaigns in order to persuade foreign investors of their viability. However, these campaigns also seek to demonstrate the novelty of their product in order to capitalize on difference. Though Marker adopts the language of “discovery,” Art Dubai also tempers this exoticism with its sensitivity to the art world’s rhetoric of cross-cultural exchange. Yet for all its tastefulness, by strategically packaging these locales for an international audience the fair also enables a more unabashedly speculative approach, whereby art is treated as a financial investment and is subject to cycles of hype generated by dealers and auction houses. For example, immediately following Art Dubai 2014, an exhibition entitled “At the Crossroads 2: Art from Istanbul to Kabul” opened at Sotheby’s London claiming to bring “new content into this much discussed hot new territory,” which included the Caucasus and Central Asia.

While Art Dubai may constitute an art market hub steadily emerging far from the former metropoles of the west, one focused largely on regional art and on cultivating regional collectors, Marker nonetheless suggests that, for all its plurality, the globalization of the visual arts as mediated by the market is not free from neocolonialist dynamics. Rather than revealing a void of cultural context surrounding the global art object, as fantasies of globalized deterritorialization would claim, Marker suggests that the unequal distribution of resources, infrastructure, and authority grants some the power to contextualize the art of geographic Others. Indeed, the expansion of the art market into new regions is usually marked by the appearance of European and US auction houses such as Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Despite the proliferation of the contemporary art market, New York and London remain essential stations of market valorization, together accounting for over sixty percent of imports and exports in the global cross-border exchange of art.[iv] 


While Art Dubai exemplifies the manner in which the art fair engages history and place as it assumes greater institutional breadth and gravity, many museums of modern and contemporary art have moved away from both territorial and historical classifications, a curatorial shift tied to the museum’s own increasing evanescence. Museums are opting increasingly for experiential, immersive programming, culturally fluid gallery organization, and changeable collections over more conventional exhibitions, which are marked by chronological, geographical layouts and large, static holdings. These shifts in collecting are evident in museum participation in primary markets for modern and contemporary art (as opposed to secondary markets for more established art and antiquities) as driven by a desire to steer museum holdings in new directions, and in an escalation in the controversial and highly regulated museum practice of deaccessioning works of art, or permanently removing objects from collections.

Though most of its collection has not yet been publically announced, there are indications that the Guggenheim Abu Dhabi will exemplify the trend toward greater institutional fluidity both in its collecting and installation practices. In conversation, Senior Project Manager Verena Formanek expressed disdain for the antiquated nature of the permanent collection, arguing that such a model does not fit the cultural demands of today. What has been revealed suggests that the museum will deemphasize history and locality for the sake of a collection organized by transcultural and transhistorical themes. According to its curatorial charter, the Guggenheim Abu Dhabi aims to “move beyond a definition of global art premised on geography,” foregrounding generic categories such as “Popular Culture and the Mediated Image,” “System, Process, Concept,” and “History, Memory, Narrative.” While the increasingly popular approach of using transhistorical, transgeographic themes to bridge the art of disparate cultures can be culturally progressive, degrading Orientalizing binaries of “East” and “West,” center and periphery, in practice this strategy can run the risk of a dehistoricized aesthetic formalism which can end up only reinscribing hegemonic categories.[v] A greater danger is in producing categories so general and without substance that history itself is conveniently anesthetized. For example, Seeing Through Light—an exhibition of work partly from the Guggenheim Abu Dhabi’s permanent collection that opened in November 2014 in a temporary exhibition space on Saadiyat Island—cohered an international array of artists from the permanent collection around the theme of “light as a primary aesthetic principle in art.”

The Guggenheim may represent the extreme of museum neoliberalization, yet its strategies reflect those being adopted by many longstanding European and US institutions as a means of meeting the pressures of a profit-oriented, global, media-saturated world. As the outcroppings of the Louvre, the British Museum, and the Guggenheim soon to open on Abu Dhabi’s Sadiyaat Island attest, museums are transforming themselves into global franchises in which the cultivation of brand through flashy, starchitect-designed buildings often supersedes other considerations.
 

 
[Seeing Through Light: Selections for the Guggenheim Abu Dhabi Collection, Manarat Al Saadiyat Cultural District, Abu Dhabi, November 5, 2014–March 26, 2015, Photo: Erik and Petra Hesmerg, courtesy: Abu Dhabi Tourism & Cultural Authority.]

While the architecture of the global museum is often irrelevant to increasingly changeable museum content, the architecture of the art fair, with its differing microlandscapes, is integral to the fair’s dynamism. The manner in which Art Dubai coheres a heterogeneous array of actors and rhetorics suggests not only its cooperation with different kinds of institutions, nor its simple posturing as civic site, but the coordination of both the permanent and the ephemeral, the civic and the commercial, architectures of the visual arts under a new global paradigm that conjoins fast and slow, global and local, temporalities of cultural production. In this convergence and in Art Dubai’s relationship to the Guggenheim Abu Dhabi we can perhaps see what sociologist Saskia Sassen might call a tipping point: not the wane of an old order and the ascendance of a new one, but a crucial moment in which the capabilities of institutions switch between one relational system or organizing logic and another.[vi]

 



[i] My discussion of art fairs in this article is not based on any comprehensive quantitative assessment.  It is an impressionistic description based on my research and experiences.

[ii] Art Dubai Modern, http://artdubai.ae/modern, accessed 6 Jan 2016

[iii] Prita Meier, “Authenticity and its Modernist Discontents: The Colonial Encounter And African and Middle Eastern Art History”, The Arab Studies Journal 18, no. 4 (2010): 12-45, 30.

[iv] TEFAF. The International Art Market in 2011: Observations on the Art Trade Over 25 Years. Accessed 11 May 2015. https://www.tefaf.com/media/tefafmedia/TEFAF%20AMR%202012%20DEF_LR.pdf.

[v] For some discussion of this, see the Third Text issue on the 1989 show Magiciens de la terre, or Okwui Enwezor’s critique of the first Tate Modern installation in Antinomies of Art and Culture: Modernity, Postmodernity, Contemporaneity (Duke University Press, 2008)

[vi] Saskia Sassen, Territory, Authority, Rights (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006).

The Rise and Decline of a Heterotopic Space: Views from Midan al-Tahrir

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“We are fortunate—the world is fortunate—that we had the Tahrir days, that for eighteen days we lived the dream, and so we know—absolutely—that life can be that dream.” (Soueif 2012:187)


Centrally located in Cairo’s hectic landscape, strategically positioned near several national and global attractions, a busy hub that allows the mixing of different social groups, and an embodiment of the modern history of the Egyptian capital, Midan al-Tahrir became the site of massive political protests that have shaped the country’s political and social landscape. Drawing on media representations, testimonies by activists and journalists, and ethnographic research, I explore how, between 25 January 2011 and 11 February 2011, the square became a heterotopic space, a “counter arrangement,” which forcefully articulated an alternative understanding of order, citizenship, and civic responsibility that sharply contrasted with the corruption and injustice the protestors sought to transform. Tracing how Midan al-Tahrir was re-appropriated, and redefined in different ways by various social and political groups, I argue that the case of Tahrir encourages us to shift our attention from Foucault’s notion of “heterotopias” to “heterotopic spaces.” Heterotopia assumes an enduring quality inherent in specific spaces, whereas “heterotopic spaces” aims to capture the changing uses, and meanings that could be invested in a particular space during certain times but that could be redefined and appropriated by dominant groups.


Heterotopia

The notion of heterotopia is closely linked to the work of Michel Foucault. In his essay “Of Other Spaces,” first published in 1967, Foucault introduced the notion of heterotopias (from the Greek heteros to mean other, and topos to mean place) to account for different spaces, which are actualized utopias, and have the ability to mirror, subvert, and transform other spaces. According to Foucault, heterotopias are “a sort of counter-emplacements, a sort of effectively realized utopias in which… all the other real emplacements that can be found within culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted” (p.17 in Dehaene and de Cauter). Foucault argues that such “spatio-temporal units” (Daniel Defert as quoted in Johnson 2006: 78) exist in all societies, that their functions shift over time, that they “juxtapose in a single real place several spaces, several emplacements that are in themselves incompatible,” that they “presuppose a system of opening and closing that both isolates them and makes them penetrable,” and that they might serve an illusory or compensatory function (19).

This concept has found wide appeal among scholars of space, and many have used it to analyze various spaces including gated communities, gardens, museums, hotels, and shopping malls (a list of examples also can be found on the website). However, several scholars (such as Soja 1996, and others) have pointed out the ambiguous, contradictory, and confusing nature of Foucault’s use of this concept. Some have maintained that Foucault’s argument was weakened by its structuralist assumptions, and by his usage “of various absolutist phrases suggesting that heterotopias are ‘utterly’ different from ‘all’ the others (Johnson 2013: 793, see also Saldanha 2008). Scholars like David Harvey (2000: 538, 2012) questioned the value of Foucault’s notion of heterotopias, seeing it as fundamentally about “escape,” and wonder about the “liberatory” or “emancipatory” potentialities of spaces such as the cruise ship, Disneyland, and shopping malls. Indeed, Foucault’s short essay offers contradictory statements and diverse examples such as the brothel, the colony, the cemetery, and the ship, which make grasping the conceptual value of heterotopia rather challenging. However, I believe that there are some aspects of the concept that could be reworked to generate a productive tool for the study of the relationship between space, power, and resistance.

I would like to bring Foucault’s notion into a closer dialogue with Henri Lefebvre’s understanding of space and revolution. Lefebvre (1991 and 2003) differentiated between isotopy (“analogous places”), heterotopy (“contrasting places”), and utopia, or “the places of what has no place” (1991:163). While the first concept includes rationalized, ordered, homogenized, and comparable spaces and the last one refers to “the non-place, the place for that which doesn’t occur, for that which has no place of its own” (2003:129), heterotopy refers to the ambiguous “space of the other, simultaneously excluded and interwoven” (2003:128). Despite the fact that he differentiated these spaces, Lefebvre insisted that the “isotopy-heterotopy difference can only be understood dynamically” (2003:129). Central to his view of heterotopy is a broader view of urban space as always dynamic, and open for different possibilities. As argued by Harvey (2012), Lefebvre’s notion of heterotopy “delineates liminal spaces of possibility where ‘something different’ is not only possible but foundational for the defining of revolutionary trajectory. This “something different” does not necessarily arise out of conscious planning, but more simply out of what people do, feel, and come to articulate as they seek meaning in their daily lives” (2012: xvii).

Engaging Foucault and Lefebvre persuades me that there are no heterotopias per se but heterotopic spaces. If heterotopias “are not stable entities” but are “contingent qualities” (Johnson 2013:800), then we must not attach an identity to a space, and label it “heterotopia.” Rather than a permanent quality or a fixed feature, it is the use of a particular space that makes it heterotopic. In this sense, no space is inherently, continuously, or fully heterotopia. For a space to be heterotopic, it must be used, I argue, in ways that materialize an alternative vision of society (or parts of it) that contrasts with the present, and that actualize a potential substitute for an existing system, or set of relationships. The success of the protestors in materializing an image of the Egypt they aspired to see in the future was central to their ability to garner broad support that helped them challenge the political regime. Drawing on the testimonies of some journalists, activists, and intellectuals who participated in the protests, the following discussion traces how Tahrir was made and unmade as a heterotopic space.


Midan al-Tahrir

“When people recall their time in Tahrir, many describe living in a utopia where they felt freed from their own circumscribed identities as well as fear from the regime.” (Sowers 2012:5)


Like Soueif (2012), I prefer the Arabic word “midan” to refer to Tahrir because like “piazza, it does not tie you down to shape but describes an open urban space in a central position in a city” (2012:10). Indeed, Midan el-Tahrir is not a square, as often indicated by the English “Tahrir Square,” but is “more like a massive curved rectangle covering about 45,000 square meters and connecting Downtown and older Cairo to the east, with the river and Giza and the newer districts to the west” (Soueif 2012:10). Tahrir, originally named Midan al-Ismailia, after Khedive Ismail, was constructed during the last part of the nineteenth century as part of the Khedive’s interest in Europeanizing Cairo, and regulating its traffic. It became informally known as Midan al-Tahrir after the 1919 revolution against the British but officially earned the name in 1960 (Salama 2013: 130). The Arabic word Tahrir, which literally means liberation, signified freeing the country from colonial and royal rules, became strongly linked to the midan and its spatial and symbolic location in the Egyptian capital.

Over the years, Tahrir became a key part of Cairo’s landscape. Many Egyptians know Tahrir as a busy traffic circle, an open space, and the location of several important buildings. They pass through its metro station, which was until recently the nexus of the Egyptian capital’s metro system, caught a bus or a cab to different parts of Cairo, visit some of its important buildings such as the Muga’mma (a notorious building that houses many government bureaucracies), or cross its busy streets to get to the Nile Corniche for a stroll with friends or relatives on cool evenings. Over time, the midan’s spatial centrality, and historical significance made it an important site of popular gatherings to celebrate, mourn, or protest. Tahrir has been the site of several important protests, such as the 1977 bread uprising (when Egyptians protested President Sadat’s attempts to increase the prices of some basic necessities, including bread), and the 2003 protests against the war in Iraq. So it was not strange that the protestors selected it as the site for their protests on January 25, when thousands moved from different neighborhoods and managed, despite the heavy presence of the police, to march to Tahrir (Hazem Ziada offers a detailed history of the midan, and some interesting photos).

The midan was consolidated as a site with specific boundaries to be protected and maintained after the demonstrators were attacked by a group of baltagiyya (thugs, believed to have been paid or incited by Mubarak’s supporters) on February 2. The attacks were met by strong resistance, and the protestors managed to chase the aggressors away. As I argue elsewhere, these attacks had a profound impact on the feelings and views of many Egyptians, who came to condemn the acts of the government and its hired thugs, and to see the protestors as brave, decent, and reliable individuals who were fighting for the best interests of the country.

These attacks also had a significant impact on the midan, and how it was managed. Since its inception, Tahrir was linked to circulation, openness, and fluidity. Although often constricted by terrible traffic jams, which could be agonizing during the hot summer days, Tahrir has been strongly connected to the movement of peoples and vehicles. Due to its “nine major entry points” (Khalil 2012: 224), the protestors had to find ways to protect Tahrir’s entrances and regulate access to its vicinity. This was an important step in the making of Tahrir a heterotopic space. In the process, the protestors not only obstructed the flow of vehicles but they also re-appropriated downtown Cairo, and made it open for Egyptians to gather, interact, and cooperate.

Fences were erected, makeshift gates were formed, and male and female activists took turns searching bags, verifying identities, and determining who would have access to the square and who would not (see Figure 1). No weapons were allowed and individuals who had connections to the security forces, or who were suspected of being troublemakers were forbidden from entering. This process was highly celebrated by those who inhabited Tahrir. That they searched and were searched, asked for and showed IDs, and treated each other and were treated with politeness have been taken as signs of the civility, order, responsibility, and good citizenship they aspired to see materialize throughout Egypt (Khalil 2012, Soueif 2012, and Rashed 2011). According to one observer, during the last week of the revolution, “Tahrir Square was more secure than most international airports” (Khalil 2012: 248). Yet security was not the only achievement of the enclosure. In addition, it also marked the boundaries between the here and there, the present and future, the real and the imagined. Enclosure helped create a sense of unity and a shared destiny, and facilitated the actualization of a counter arrangement that critiqued existing systems of power, and that offered an alternative vision of the future.
 

 
[Figure 1: Makeshift fences like these continued to be part of Tahrir in July of 2011,
the first time I visited Tahrir after the 25 January revolution.]

 
Making a Heterotopic Space

Here, I find the notion of “heterotopias of compensation” to be a promising concept for understanding how Tahrir came to offer a model of efficiency, reliability, and order that contrasted with the incompetency, corruption, and disorder of the regime. Foucault distinguishes between heterotopias of “illusion,” and heterotopias of “compensation” (2008: 21). While the first type “exposes all real spaces, all the emplacements in the interior of which human life is enclosed and partitioned” (2008: 21), heterotopias of compensation aim to “create another real space, as perfect, as meticulous, as well arranged as ours is disorderly, ill construed, and sketchy” (2008:21).

Through their use of the midan, the protestors managed to connect, and critique multiple spaces such as the neighborhood, the city, and the nation-state, and to mediate the divide between real/not real, present/future, and presence/absence. Their efforts mirrored the ethos that structured life in urban neighborhoods, but extended these ethos beyond the spatial boundaries of the quarter, celebrated the nation, but critiqued the inefficiency of the state, and drew on global media and discourses in the articulation and circulation of their messages, while emphasizing their national belonging and attachment.

Similar to Mikhail Bakhtin’s discussion of carnivalesque, in Tahrir there was a “temporary” suspension of usual hierarchies and norms, and, for at least a while, “established order” was replaced by “a space of freedom,” and the self was “dissolved into a collective spirit” (Johnson 2006: 83). I say “temporary” because my sense is that distinctions based on gender and class were downplayed, but still structured the organization of the midan. There are indications, for example, that working class men took more of the burden of physically confronting potential attackers, while middle and upper middle class men (and women) were blogging, and communicating with national and international media. My data is limited, and does not allow me to say more about this matter. There is a clear need for a thorough exploration of these aspects of the protests, and my preliminary observations need to be verified, and thickly described. Nevertheless, most accounts by the media, protestors, and other scholars emphasize how men and women, young and old, Christians and Muslims, and religious and secular, chanted, ate, cleaned, and lived together. They shared moments of horror and despair, and moments of joy and triumph. They protected each other from the brutality of the police, and the violence of baltagiyya, the thugs who attacked or attempted to attack the midan. Unlike the authoritarian regime, protestors in Tahrir did not have one leader or one spokesperson, but decisions were improvised and implemented collectively. As described by Shokr, “Daily struggles to hold the space and feeds its inhabitants, without the disciplined mechanisms of an organized state, were exercises in democratic process. It was through these everyday practices that Tahrir became a truly radical space.” The protestors were inventive in securing electric and sanitation infrastructure and providing basic services (see BBC interactive map, and Figure 2). Stands selling different foods and drinks proliferated in Tahrir, and family members and friends brought different food and medical supplies. Doctors volunteered their time, and established makeshift clinics to treat the wounded and the sick. Musicians, singers, and actors frequented the midan to sing, play music, and show their support. Barbers volunteered their time to cut hair and trim beards. Couples came to celebrate their weddings. Children were accommodated, and offered areas to draw, and keep themselves busy with crafts.
 

 
[Figure 2: The organization of Tahrir during the protests. BBC Interactive map.]


The energy, solidarity, and determination of the protestors as well as the modality they constituted not only helped dispose of Mubarak, but also invested the midan with powerful positive meanings that could be drawn on to support, and legitimize various struggles and demands. Egyptians with different needs and aspirations have continued to show their discontent by staging demonstrations in Tahrir. At the same time, ordinary Egyptians took daily trips to the midan to gaze, consume, commemorate, memorialize, and take photos (see Figure 3). Egyptian politicians (such as the Prime Minster), and international figures (such as David Cameron, Hilary Clinton, and John Kerry) visited Tahrir to show support for the revolution, and to garner part of the legitimacy and positive energy generated in that space. On June 29, 2012, Muhammad Morsi, the candidate affiliated with the Muslim Brotherhood, was sworn president in Tahrir, and declared the midan the source of “legitimacy and power” (Ramadan 2012:145).

 


[Figure 3: Egyptians, young and old, visited Tahrir in July of 2011
to commemorate, celebrate, gaze, and take photos.]

 
While these visits were on the surface celebrating Tahrir, and the revolution, they in effect marked the beginning of its reappropriation by dominant groups, and its unmaking as a heterotopic space. As emphasized by Lefebvre, heterotopic spaces can be quickly appropriated by dominant groups and “any spontaneous alternative visionary moment is fleeting; if it is not seized at the flood, it will surely pass” (Harvey 2012: xvii). We see this trend in the case of Tahrir, which, after February 2011, became the focus of intense struggles between different competing groups, and was eventually re-appropriated by the dominant political elite. 


Unmaking Heterotopic Space

When we spoke in the summer of 2011, Maha, a twenty year-old activist from a low-income neighborhood, and who participated in the protests from the beginning until the end, was proud of their achievements in Tahrir, but she was also deeply unhappy, and disillusioned with how things were changing in the country. She commented with bitterness on how the faces of protestors in Tahrir had changed, how the unity of the revolutionaries was fragmented, how each group sought to have its day in Tahrir while excluding the others, and how many of the men and women who were the driving force behind the revolution were increasingly excluded from the political process. Some “opportunistic” figures, she emphasized, have been affiliating themselves with Tahrir just to boost their public standing and, in the process, have threatened the legitimacy of the space. She was especially worried about strong counter-revolutionary forces working to undermine the symbolic meaning of Tahrir (amailyat darb ramz), and how SCAF (Supreme Council of the Armed Forces) was actively trying to discredit the protestors in Tahrir by describing them as troublemakers and baltagiyya, working to sow discord, destabilize the country, and ruin its economic infrastructure. 

All these forces set in motion the unmaking of Tahrir as a heterotopic space. Soon after Mubarak’s fall, a split emerged between the activists. On one side were activists with Islamist leanings (including the Salafi movement and the Muslim Brotherhood, which ended up controlling the People’s Assembly, and winning the presidency), who (at least most of the time) allied themselves with SCAF. On the other side were the secular, socialist, and liberal groups, which sought to continue to protest until the realization of the key goals of the revolution. Both sides tried to claim Tahrir, and use it to articulate their demands, visions, and aspirations. When groups with religious leanings used it on Fridays for massive protests, other activists would express worries, and anxiously joke about how the square was becoming Egypt’s “Tora Bora,” the well-known stronghold of the Taliban in Afghanistan.[[1]] They would worry about the type of authoritarian, and exclusionary society the Islamists sought to constitute. When the other groups used the midan, the Islamists and their allies would claim that the `ilmaniyyin (secularists) “were trying to steal the revolution from the hands of Muslims,” and accused those protesting in Tahrir of “serving American and Western interests,” and of trying to “destroy Egypt” (al-Masry al-Youm 2011: 5). Similar to the accusations directed towards the protestors during the early days of the revolution, Islamists claimed that those in Tahrir were thugs paid 5000 Egyptian pounds a night to create instability and political discord.

Accusations flew in all directions and, over the past three years, Tahir has been viewed as: a moral space used by reliable parties to protect the moral values of the country and create a righteous Muslim community; a site of vice and criminality frequented by street children, vendors, prostitutes, drug dealers, and thugs; a site of legitimate resistance and protest geared to advocate for the good of the whole nation, and the creation of a civil and secular government; and, a space of anarchy and disorder used by political dissidents who are deliberately trying to destabilize the country, undermine its security, and ruin its economy (a discourse deployed by SCAF, supporters of Mubarak’s regime, and the Muslim Brothers when they were in power).

In addition to these competing views, widely disseminated in the media, there were debates and discussions taking place in different circles about the physical and political future of the midan. In fact, architects, planners, and politicians started debating Tahrir, and its future status while the revolution was still underway. Should it be redesigned? Should it be renamed? How to best memorialize the martyrs? Different opinions were expressed. For example, Egypt’s former Prime Minister Ahmed Shafiq, “in an effort to appease protestors in Tahrir, suggested that the square be transformed into Cairo’s Hyde Park.”

The debates continued under Morsi. Officials and newspapers emphasized the need to clear the vendors, street children, thugs, and drug dealers who frequented the midan, and were seen as tarnishing its name. The government called for transforming Tahrir into a museum that could represent the “glorious past” of the revolution. After the protests against an American movie that was viewed by many Muslims as offensive, and after the protestors managed to climb the walls of the American Embassy, the government decided to take drastic measures to control Tahrir. On 15 September 2012, the Egyptian police forcefully “cleared” Midan al-Tahrir of “the elements that caused disorder” (`anasir el-shaghab). Hundreds of security forces removed the tents and stands used to sell tea, T-shirts, flags, and much more. Newspapers published photos of a sizeable number of policemen taking charge of the midan, blocking its entrances, and ensuring the flow of traffic while workers cleaned the streets, and fixed the pavements and light poles. Morsi’s government wanted to “purify” the midan, and restore its “bright and honorable image that befits the revolution.” Tahrir, the government argued, should become a museum to document, and represent the revolution. The prime minster at the time, Hisham Kandil, announced a plan to renovate the midan, divide it into different parts designated for discussions and deliberations, build a monument and a wall to commemorate those who were killed in the Egyptian revolution, and create an exhibition to display the art work, and play the songs created during the first eighteen days of the protests. In effect, the midan was to become a celebration of the past rather than a heterotopic space for critiquing a problematic present, and imagining an alternative future.

Tahrir and its regulation became central to the attempts of Morsi’s government to establish legitimacy and control. A year of his election, the midan became the center of the massive demonstrations on 30 June 2013, calling for the end of Morsi’s presidency. Tahrir was also the site of another round of public display of support for the army on 26 July 2013, after General Sisi asked Egyptians to go out to the streets to show their support for the armed forces, and its commander in chief. Most recently, Tahrir was the center of joyous celebrations following the election of Sisi as Egypt’s president. Since the inauguration of Sisi, Tahrir has been under the control of security forces, and its entrances are protected by tanks to prevent protestors in general, and Muslim Brothers and their allies in particular, from using its vicinities. What was said about Tahrir before the revolution could be said about it now. The global significance of Tahrir as a site of resistance is interesting to explore but is beyond the scope of this discussion. In the context of Cairo, however, as Gregory shows, the midan has once again been "reduced to a space of circulation not communication, for the traffic of vehicles not ideas, and regulated by the security apparatus not the civic body". In July of 2015, the last time I visited Tahrir, the police and the army tightly controlled it, ensured the flow of the traffic, and restricted the ability of any party to use the midan for protesting. As emphasized in the media, and by several of my interlocutors in Cairo, the control and regulation of Tahrir is strongly linked to the government’s ability to govern and establish order.


Conclusion

Coupling the work of Foucault and Lefebvre offers us a robust analytical concept that can enrich our understanding of urban space, and revolutionary moments. By offering a modality, a counter arrangement, an alternative way of being and doing, heterotopic space reflects, inverts, and reconstitutes social processes. In powerful ways, Tahrir critiqued the existing system that was corrupt, violent, and inefficient, and offered a model that promised to fulfill the aspirations of many Egyptians. Yet it was quickly unmade as a heterotopic space when dominant groups managed to appropriate it, put it to different uses, and invest it with different meanings. While Lefebvre saw heterotopic spaces as providing “the seed-bed of revolutionary movement” (Harvey 2013: xvii), he also emphasized that they could be quickly appropriated by dominant forces. Thinking of heterotopic space as mediating the utopic and isotopic reveals the multiple possibilities embedded in urban encounters, and the new opportunities they offer for the reproduction of power systems, as well as their transformation and reconstitution. Exploring such spaces, and their changing meanings and uses, especially in the constitution of urban publics, is an important part of any adequate understanding of political mobilization, emerging meanings of citizenship, claims to the city, and the relationship between power, space, and resistance.

 


[1] See Ibrahim Isa, Alwan Yaniar (January’s Colors) (Cairo: Dar al-Shorouk, 2012), p.113.

إطلاق حملة بعنوان «مدينتي ومن حقي البقاء فيها» من أجل دعم قضية المستأجرين في لبنان

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جانب إدارة التحرير والصحافيين في وسيلتكم الإعلامية الموقّرة


لقد قامت مجموعات متعددة بالعمل سوياً على إطلاق حملة بعنوان «مدينتي ومن حقي البقاء فيها» من أجل دعم قضية المستأجرين وإلغاء قانون الايجارات الصادر في 1 نيسان 2014

 

 

تدعوكم الحملة الى أوسع تغطية لإعتصام وتظاهرة المستأجرين غدا الأربعاء، في ٢٧ كانون الثاني الساعة الخامسة بعد الظهر

من أمام ثكنة الحلو مروراً بشارع مار الياس، وصولاً الى منزل رئيس الحكومة

تبني هذه الحملة على حراك المستأجرين القدامى في لبنان الذين يشكلون وقود حراك مطلبي لسكن ميسّر

الحملة هي جزء من مبادرة الحق في السكن التي تعمل على إعادة حق السكن الى واجهة التشريع والخطاب العام في لبنان. هي مساحة لبلورة هذا الحق والعمل نحو تطوير سياسات وفق أسس العدالة الإجتماعية والمكانية
 
الملفات المرفقة

١. فيديو«شو ناطر لتكرّس حقك بالسكن؟» للدعوة للمظاهرة:

٢. ملف يعرّف عن الحملة وأهدافها والمشاركين فيها. 

٣. فايسبوك للمتابعة

 
مع الشكر والتقدير
الحملة الوطنية لدعم قضية المستأجرين «مدينتي ومن حقي البقاء فيها» | مبادرة الحق في السكن
 

“This Land is their Land”: Egypt’s Military and the Economy

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The Egyptian Armed Forces (EAF) is widely reputed to play an influential, even massive, role in the national economy. The EAF runs a parallel economy that produces a wide array of consumer products ranging from food products, dairies and wheat to cement, fertilizers, and fuel distribution. The military is also heavily present in infrastructure and public utility projects like roads, ports, tunnels, and bridges.

But contrary to popular thinking, the army’s share in Egypt’s Gross Domestic Product (GDP) is relatively small. Though limited, hard data shows that it is present in many sectors but does not occupy a commanding position in any, and indeed has no presence in a range of crucial economic sectors. There is little empirical evidence that the private sector has been crowded out by the military at all, with the possible exception of government contracts for new mega-projects in the post-June 2013 period.

The Egyptian military’s economic model is based on rent extraction. Through its broad legal and effective control of public assets, namely public lands that constitute around 94 per cent of Egypt’s total surface area, the military translates its regulatory mandate into an economic return. The military also wields considerable, if less formal influence through the large number of former officers who hold high level posts in the civil service, particularly in public land management.Public land is crucial for economic growth and for the development of essential sectors, including urban development, manufacturing, tourism, and agriculture—which, together, constitute the bulk of Egypt’s economy. More than any other factor, the chokehold on land use is costly for the economy. The complexity and opacity of the regulatory environment affecting access to it moreover adds to the inefficiency of the private sector. This results in significant opportunity costs for potential growth and urban expansion—in an overcrowded country that needs to expand settlement into the vast tracts of desert land to the east and west of the densely populated Nile Valley.

A Small Military Civilian Economy

Much has been made of the Egyptian military’s parallel civilian economy, which extends into agriculture, manufacturing, and services. But credible estimates reveal its share of total production in most of these sectors to be minute compared to that of the private sector, be it nationally- or foreign-owned firms. The military economy may seek market share, but it is far from being a dominant actor.

Historically, the original driver of the military’s foray into the civilian economy was the need to supply a large standing army with considerable consumption and investment needs. Also key was the need to compensate for its dwindling share in public expenditure since penning the 1979 peace treaty with Israel, which pushed the military to look for alternative sources of revenue. Because of the fiscal crises in the mid-1980s, the state attempted to offset the financial burden of financing the military by enabling it to reap certain economic benefits. The military thus began to expand into previously untapped markets, establishing partnerships with both Arab and foreign investment firms in the process.

This trend becomes evident when reviewing the economic enterprises of the military run- and -owned National Service Projects Organization (NSPO).[1] The NSPO, which was established by Presidential Decree no. 32, falls under the Ministry of Defense’s purview. The NSPO was established to provide the institutional and legal framework for partnerships between the military and foreign and Arab capital, and to find and secure independent funding sources. According to the NSPO’s official website, its mission is to achieve financial independence in the armed forces so as to minimize or alleviate its fiscal burden to the state while also providing surplus goods to local markets that exceed the military’s needs. The NSPO also aims to support the state’s economic development project through its modern industrial base. The NSPO currently owns and runs twenty-one companies that operate in a wide array of economic sectors including construction, agriculture, food production, and cement, in addition to directly managing hotels, security services, and one petrol station. 

In May 2015, the NSPO issued, for the first time ever, an official statement disclosing the volume of production activities in firms it owns and runs. The statement was issued with the aim of demonstrating the Agency’s contribution to the state’s “comprehensive development”plan. The statement’s release, of course, comes in a context where the military is the de facto, albeit indirect, ruler of the country. The legitimacy of both the Sisi-led regime and thus the NSPO hinges on the military’s ability to promote economic development, or at least to be perceived as such publicly.

The NSPO’s production and distribution statistics are the only mechanism available for determining the rough market shares of its subsidiary companies in key economic sectors. In agriculture, for instance, the NSPO has reclaimed 100,000 feddans (around 50,000 hectares) in Sharq Al-Ouaynat in the western desert, where most military-owned farms are located. In 2013, these plots yielded around 78,000 tons of wheat, 156 tons of olive oil, 25,000 tons of dairy products, 2,000 tons of red meat, 60,000 tons of fodder, and about thirty million eggs. This produce was primarily used to supply a number of NSPO-owned firms that compete in the private sector, including the military-owned mineral water brand “Safi,” which produces around thirty-seven million bottles a year. In addition to perishable goods, the NSPO owns both the Al-Arish Cement and the Al-Nasr Companies, which annually produces between 2.5 to three million tons, of cement and about 150,000 tons of cement fertilizers, respectively. 

The table below lists total production figures, according to the Central Authority for Popular Mobilization and Statistics (CAPMAS) in 2012/2013. 

Table 1: The militarys economic share in some sectors[2]

 

Two trends are discernable from the available data. First, the Egyptian military does appear to own a parallel civilian economy, yet this may indeed be justified considering the extent of materials required to supply an army of half a million service members. Second, the share of military-owned companies in none of these sectors is particularly significant—forming anywhere from a low of 0.18 to a high of 3.9 percent.

In agriculture, for instance, the vast majority of farmland mostly located in the Nile Valley and Delta is privately-owned. This has been the case since the Nasser era, despite the fact that most desert land in Egypt is owned by the state. The same is true of food production, even though the military’s limited role in that sector has traditionally boosted its popular support via subsidized handouts to the poor on national or religious holidays. And because there are low barriers to entry in the market for consumption goods, it remains difficult for any enterprise or actor—including the military—to dominate. In the case of mineral water, Nestlé holds twenty-six percent market share with Safi coming in a distant third with 3 percent.

Moreover, figures from the Central Bank of Egypt show that military-owned companies and the NSPO account for a negligible share of bank loans. Central Bank annual reports from 2002 to 2012 reveal that the state has become the largest borrower from the banking sector, but these loans are not related to military activities. Rather, the government competes with the private sector in securing loans to finance its ever-widening budget deficit. In an economy that chiefly depends on a banking-based system, the military’s tiny share of bank loans suggests that it has a limited economic role. Even if military-owned companies could do without resorting to the banking sector through some form of self-financing or earning-retention program, this itself would indicate that its firms do not require the extensive capital that only large banks can provide in the form of loans.

The military’s expansion into civilian economic activities appears to be a reaction to the state’s years-long policy of cutting back on defense and military matters. World Bank figures show that the military’s share of national expenditure has been progressively declining since the early 1990s, both as a percentage of GDP (from seven percent in 1990 to two percent in 2012) and in terms of total public spending. These figures include central government allocations, foreign military aid, and the pensions and wages of military personnel and civilian employees who do not hold military rank. The military, it appears, has simply responded to the downswing in state financing by ramping up its military economic activity as of the 1980s.

Figure 1: Military expenditure as a percentage of total public expenditure and GDP  (1990-2012)

Source: World Bank development indicators

The militarys limited economic role

The military has been virtually absent or retained a tiny share in a number of key economic sectors that grew considerably since the 1990s. This includes a wide array of manufacturing industries like cement fertilizers, glass, ceramics, aluminum, and iron and steel, as well as key service sectors such as telecom and hospitality and tourism. In the case of cement, ninety-seven percent of total annual production is attributed to privately owned enterprises—mostly multinationals—along with publicly owned firms in which the military plays no role. Similarly, the bulk of fertilizers production has remained in the hands of the private sector since publicly owned companies were sold off in 2008 and 2009. 

The same is true of significant service sectors such as tourism and construction. The minister of defense issued a decree, which was published in Al-WaqeAl-Misriya in June 2015, listing all the real estate units owned by the military in those sectors. The decree declared all of these buildings and the land on which they were built exempt from taxation. It includes facilities used for different social and economic purposes such as hotels, sporting clubs, parks, and schools. The decree makes no mention of other plots of land that are vacant.

Table 2: Military-owned facilities by use (based on author’s calculations)

Source: Minister of Defense decree issued in Al-WaqeAl-Misriya issue number 127, June 3, 2015

These figures show just how limited the military’s economic share in the hospitality and tourism sector is. Most of the military-owned facilities only serve civilian or military workers employed in the ministry (and their families). And many of these facilities are moreover to be found in remote, non-touristic areas across Egypt. In the tourism-rich North Coast region, the military owns only four of the 128 tourist villages and hotels. The remainder falls under the ownership of the private sector—which expanded its investment in tourism considerably over the last decade—or that of cooperatives established by employees in ministries, public universities, professional syndicates, or the New Urban Communities Agency. That military-owned hotels are also virtually non-existent in touristic areas in South Sinai and the Red Sea coastal area also reflects the military’s limited economic role in that sector. 

There is also little proof that the military plays a hegemonic in the construction sector, which includes infrastructure and public utilities such as bridges, roads and tunnels. Indeed, according to the Central Bank of Egypt publicly owned firms held 11.51 percent market share, with the private sector holding 88.84 percent.[3]

Since the ouster of President Mohamed Morsi in July 2013, the military has undertaken mammoth public infrastructure and utilities projects in the construction sector. According to both independent media and government-run newspapers, the total value of these projects allocated to the military between 2013 and the first half of 2014—under the interim Prime Minister Hazem Beblawi—was 5.5 billion Egyptian pounds. This investment surge occurred amid political turmoil and declining local and international assistance, which prompted the military to inject funds into economic recovery projects as a shortcut to political stabilization. But while the aggregate monetary value of these projects was significant, it constituted only about ten percent of total public investment in the 2014-2015 fiscal year. Even with these robust projects, the EGP 5.5 billion figure represents a mere 7.71 percent of all of construction activity in 2012-2013, or 8.71 percent of the private sector works done during the same period.

Nonetheless, there is anecdotal evidence that the military’s increasing involvement in megaprojects in the post July 2013 period is indeed coming at the expense of private construction companies. Major examples are the second Suez Canal, which was completed in August 2015, and the proposed one million-unit housing and New Administrative Capital projects. But while the military is crowding out the private sector in the specific case of government contracts, this is not generally true of the construction sector as a whole, where the private sector remains the dominant force. The recent presidential decree no. 466 issued in December 2015 allowed the army through its Armed Forces Land Projects Organization (AFLPO) to establish commercial enterprises, which it either owns fully or jointly with private national or foreign capital. This may provide the legal framework for future business deals in mega housing and infrastructure projects where the AFLPO-owned companies would enter ventures with their land reserve and engage in revenue-generating activities.

Securing Market Share, Not Dominance

Far from crowding out the private sector, the military’s growing economic role since the 1980s has gone hand-in-hand with the private sector’s expanding share of the national economy. Large, medium, small, and even micro enterprises grew continuously since the 1970s following President Anwar al-Sadat’s open door (infitah) policy. By the early 1990s, private sector firms accounted for over seventy percent of the non-hydrocarbon economy in Egypt. 

Table 3: Public versus private share of the non-hydrocarbon GDP. Figures exclude oil and natural gas, along with the government service sector 

Source: Central Bank of Egypt, output structure at factor cost (1991-2012)

* Data for the 1990s referred to industry including manufacturing as well as extractive industries like oil and gas and minerals. Manufacturing is now reported separately. + Transportation and communications data for the 1990s were initially combined figures before being separated in the 2000s. 1990s trade data make no distinction between wholesale or retail trade.

The private sector has retained its dominant share of the total non-hydrocarbon GDP since the early 1990s. It has particularly increased its share compared to the public sector in trade, manufacturing, hospitality, transportation, and communication where growth rates have been most pronounced. The fact that this private sector expansion occurred as the military also increasingly forayed into civilian economic activities, suggests coexistence is possible and that the notion of “crowding out” warrants greater scrutiny.

It is not clear however whether the same division of labor will continue in future given the military’s evident interest in expanding economically since becoming the de facto ruler of the country since July 2013. So far, the military has generally kept away from economic activities that have been traditionally left to the private sector, with its expansion coming in infrastructure-related megaprojects. This may suggest a quantitative rather than qualitative shift in the military’s economic focus. However, the dearth of accurate information about the actual extent of the increase in the military’s economic activity in the contemporary era—as compared to the Mubarak era—makes arriving at a definitive assessment difficult. 

Rent-seeking Rather than Crowding-out

While the military is not a dominant economic actor, it still enjoys unparalleled influence in one key respect: uncontested and broad regulatory control over the planning, allocation, and management of public lands. Therein lies the most distinctive feature of the Egyptian military’s problematic engagement on the economy. The military’s control over land considerably affects both the private sector and the broader economy’s ability to grow. The military, moreover, uses its legal and de facto regulatory sway to generate rent, particularly in uninhabited desert public land.

Indeed, the vast desert lands to both the west and east of the Nile Valley hold potential opportunities for future urban expansion or for investment in agriculture, tourism, energy generation, and manufacturing. State policy determines access to land and its price, as well as subsequent access to finance for private enterprises, given the fact that banks have high collateral requirements that usually take the form of land or buildings in order to extend credit to private investors. Moreover, houses are a crucial form of investment for the Egyptian middle and upper-middle classes who prefer to put their savings into real-estate units in the light of chronically high inflation rates.

Legal Rent

The military’s legal control over the use of state-owned land—including the allotment of desert land to private investors—is mediated through four specialized public agencies: urban development, land reclamation, industrial development, and tourism development. Separate laws apply to lands in the Nile Valley and the Delta, where the vast majority of Egyptians live. The laws governing public land are quite centralized, and no plot can be allocated without the initial approval of the Ministry of Defense, according to law no. 143/1981, which governs the use of state-owned desert land.[4] The Minister of Defense determines which desert land is to be used for military or strategic ends, rendering these lands unavailable for other public agencies or for private use. In the same vein, only the Minister has the legal right to alter lands earmarked for strategic or military purposes. He is thus the ultimate authority controlling the use of desert land. 

The military has been influential, together with other state bodies, in setting the strategies and rules governing public lands since the 1970s, when plans for economic expansion into the desert were first launched. In addition to the military’s broad mandate over land earmarked for defense and national security purposes, it also enjoys some considerable influence over the subsequent use of desert land. This is achieved through two means. The first of which is formal, and relates to the Ministry’s continuous oversight in regulating land use. In many instances, investors must secure military approval for technical issues such as building heights or land mines clearance certificates. 

The military is also entitled to compensation from the state treasury in cases wherein land used for military ends gets allocated for economic purposes, with their prior approval of course. The military’s approval is also required in allocation of lands in coastal areas—defined legally as borders—which typically attract high-value tourism investment, such as on the North Coast and the Red Sea.

According to presidential decree no. 531 issued in 1981, the military also has the right to auction off land originally used for military purposes, and to collect any proceeds for the construction of alternative military sites or facilities. This arrangement provided a formal channel for the military to convert its regulatory mandate over public lands to economic returns. In 1982, a presidential decree (no. 223) established the Armed Forces Land Projects Organization (AFLPO), vesting it with the power to manage the sale of military-owned lands, as well as the returns from building alternative military facilities. The Agency was given the mandate to receive the money and to deposit it into a special account at the National Investment Bank. A further presidential decree (no 233) in 1990 allowed the agency to deposit the returns from land sales into commercial public banks instead of the National Investment Bank. 

Recently, the law was further amended through presidential decree no. 446/2015 allowing the AFLPO to establish economic enterprises that it may fully own and run or in partnership with national or foreign private sector companies. This is a new development that may pave the way for the direct involvement of the AFLPO in construction and service projects in the near future either solely or with private partners. The new amendment provides the legal framework for military business engagement in areas where the army already owns plots of land like the Suez Canal Zone and the new Administrative Capital.

Moreover, the military regulates investment in Sinai through the Sinai Development Authority. Under law no. 14 on comprehensive development of the Sinai, issued in January 2012, the president of the republic appoints the head of that body based on an initial nomination by the minister of defense. Crucially, the law grants the Sinai Development Authority all regulatory capacities pertaining to land allocation in the peninsula for various investment purposes.

De Facto Control

The military commands another mechanism of exerting influence over land allocation, which is less formal and is a result of the large number of individuals with military backgrounds who assume senior posts in civil service, particularly in public land management. This applies to almost all of the specialized public agencies such as the New Urban Communities Agency, which falls under the Minister of Housing but is heavily staffed by military retirees, as well as the Agricultural Development Agency, the Tourism Development Agency, and the Industrial Development Agency. Similarly, there are many retired generals staffed in the governorate and municipal levels. These local authorities manage land within the boundaries of governorates.

But this rentier approach to desert land is by no means confined to the military and is prevalent throughout the state altogether, including civilian bodies such as the New Urban Communities Agency and the Ministry of Housing, which are (mostly) financially independent. This rentier approach has also sidelined and even prevented a more logical developmental plan from emerging, specifically one that would consider the broader needs of the economy instead of just focusing on potential returns to the state coffers.[5]

The military’s presence in regulatory bodies also adds an extra layer of bureaucracy in the already-inefficient land management sector. It adds to the number, complexity, and time required for obtaining necessary licenses and permits. Some of these papers are obtained directly from the military and others from civilian bodies that also adhere to the same rentier logic, which the military first institutionalized.

The military’s mandate over public land, combined with ambiguity over the legal and administrative rules governing land use, raises the private sector’s cost of accessing land. This applies to both the direct costs to investors and the indirect costs associated with complex legal procedures. The designation of land for national security and defense purposes, which is subject to vague guidelines and discretionary power, weakens landholding and property rights. The most restrictive law was Presidential Decree no. 7, issued by then-President Hosni Mubarak in 2001, ruling that “strategic areas” that fall under direct military jurisdiction cannot be appropriated or allocated by any private or public actor. The text of the decree repeatedly refers to a map showing the designated areas, but this has never been made public on grounds of “national security.”[6] Consequently, government agencies and private investors alike are unaware of the precise location of affected areas, and potentially face complex procedures should they plan to invest in an area that proves to be adjacent to a “strategic plot of land.” The military can (and perhaps does) use this informational asymmetry to generate rent by retroactively designating lands as “strategic” and altering its permitted use.

This unfair and opaque system results in opportunity costs for potential growth and urban expansion—in a overcrowded country that needs to expand settlement into the vast tracts of desert land to the east and to the west of the densely populated Nile Valley. Government policy therefore not only impedes affordable growth, but also hinders employment and investment opportunities. Public land is a significant resource for governorates overlooking desert areas, but the rentier system denies them the ability to realize the full potential of these areas. This is especially detrimental to small- and medium-sized enterprises, which face greater obstacles in this respect due to having more limited resources than their larger competitors.[7] Bureaucracy and nepotism is also inflating housing prices and blocking the expansion of developing much-needed settlements. This artificial scarcity has been a factor behind the expansion of informal settlements where people have opted for illegally building homes on agricultural or public land without securing permits or acquiring tenure, which in turn impedes their access to bank loans or other forms of credit. 

Re-modeling Public Land Management: Moving beyond Rentierism

Since the 1980s, Egypt has witnessed the simultaneous expansion of the military economy and the private sector without crowding each other out. This has most probably been achieved without much foresight, through a sectorial division of labor between the two. The real problem lies in the broad legal as well as de facto mandate that the military enjoys over public assets, namely desert land, under the pretext of defense and national security. This sweeping regulatory capacity has often raised the cost of investment for the private sector, either through adding more complex and lengthy procedures or through extracting rent, officially or unofficially, for accessing public land.

Publicly-owned desert land is of extreme importance for Egypt’s future development, since it constitutes around ninety-four percent of the country’s overall surface area. Future investment in housing, land reclamation, tourism, industry and energy generation are all dependent on accessing cheap and theoretically abundant land to the west and to the east of the Delta and the Nile valley. 

The current regulatory and legal framework and its rentier repercussions are negatively impacting the cost of investment, the social cost of housing for middle and poorer classes, and the overall question of the access to assets in Egypt. There is little room for any serious reform of Egypt’s current development model without tackling state management of public land, including the formal as well as informal roles that the military plays.


[1] This article does not tackle defense industry, which has never involved the private sector in Egypt. Nor does it address the U.S. military assistance averaging around $1.7 billion annually since 1979 and used primarily for training, modernizing, and arming the EAF.

[2] Sources: NSPO production figures obtained from official NSPO statement issued in May 2015, published in Al-Youm Al-Sabee. Total production figures taken from CAPMAS. Olive oil figures taken from the International Council for Olive Oil. Information on mineral water taken from the Euromonitor International. Information on petrol retailers is taken from Al-Ahram. The third column is based on the author’s calculations.

[3] Central Bank of Egypt, Output Structure in Egypt –by sector (2012/2013)

[4]Approval needs to be secured from the ministries of petroleum and antiquities together with defense, but the former two do not enjoy the political weight and influence of the latter.

[5] Yahia Shawkat ed. (2012) “Social Justice and Urbanity: A Map of Egypt” (In Arabic), Cairo, WezaratIsan Al-Zil.

[6]“Appeal Against the Decision of the Minister of Defense Concerning the Consideration of Al-Qorsaya Island as A strageticMiitary Zone”(In Arabic), by the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, The Egyptian Center for Social and Economic Rights, Al-Nadeem Center and Al-Hilali Institution, 2012, p. 15

[7] Rabee Wahba (ed), “The Land and Those Over it: Rights and Destiny of the Peoples of the Middle East and North Africa”(In Arabic), 2013, Cairo: Land Forum: the International Coalition for Habitat

Call for Papers: Graduate Student Conference on Social and Political Change in MENA (April 8, New York)

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Call for Papers

Avenues of Social and Political Change: 

Five Years of Contention in the Middle East and North Africa 

April 8, 2016

The Graduate Center, City University of New York

365 Fifth Avenue, New York City

Abstract Submission Deadline: February 5, 2016

Five years after the eruption of mass protests across North Africa and the Middle East, citizens of these countries now live under contrasting conditions. While some countries, such as Tunisia, have made headway on the road to freedom and social justice, others are embroiled in civil strife, like Syria, or are being crushed by the return of authoritarianism, like Egypt. Yet, despite the zigzagging trajectory that these uprisings have thus far treaded, new channels and imaginings of social, political and economic change have opened up over the past five years. This conference will explore current possibilities that have been opened up through and in the aftermath of the grassroots uprisings that have swept through the region since 2011 and the sustained struggles for these arenas as well as the counter-efforts that have attempted to constrain and constrict them. Instead of succumbing to a choice between either presenting a triumphant narrative or emphasizing the democratic setbacks facing social movements, activists, and the population at large, this conference will attempt to reframe the question to ask what actual and concrete opportunities for economic, social and political transformation have unfolded beyond and despite of the historical and structural constraints that are in place.

Graduate students are invited to submit proposals (250-400 words) to present working projects or completed research papers on the following themes:

  • (De)democratization and the limits of authoritarianism;
  • prospects for electoral politics;
  • re-imagining public space;
  • the role of labor strikes and worker unions;
  • political economy;
  • collective memory/amnesia and the production of historical narratives;
  • gender politics;
  • activism and political subjectivities;
  • Islamists and conceptions of the secular/religious;
  • resurgence of nationalism;
  • state power and representations.

Paper abstracts and inquiries about the conference are to be sent to: ascmenaconference@gmail.com

Best Regards,

Derek Ludovici, PhD student in cultural anthropology at the Graduate Center (CUNY)

Ola Galal, PhD student in cultural anthropology at the Graduate Center (CUNY)

Cities Media Roundup (January 2016)

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[This is a monthly roundup of news articles, and other materials related to urban issues in the region, and beyond. It does not reflect the views of the Cities Page Editors or of Jadaliyya. You may send recommendations for inclusion in the Cities Media Roundup to cities@jadaliyya.com, mentioning "Roundup" in the subject line. We also welcome your submissions to the Cities Page: please check details on cities.jadaliyya.com]


Special Feature: Protests in Tunisia
 

Le “prix” de la révolution en Tunisie [in French] Political sociologist Amin Allal analyses the Nobel Prize granted to Tunisian civic organizations, and underscores how this prize overlooked the issues of social justice.

Tunisie: manifestations à Sfax pour la fermeture d'une usine de transformation des phosphates [in French] Eric Verdeil, one of Jadaliyya's Cities Page editors, has put together a selection of links documenting the contradictory urban mobilizations in Sfax.

In 2015, citizen movements struggle to keep the gains of the revolution Vanessa Szakal writes for Nawaat about the development of the movement in Tunisia which preceded the current outbreak of protests.

Peaceful protests continue throughout the country Another article about Tunisia on Nawaat featuring a map of the sites of protest around the country.

Tunisia: "Nothing's changed since the revolution" A photo essay in TheGuardian by Callum Francis Hugh documents the country's continuing socioeconomic hardship.

Tunisie: "À Kasserine, on reste dans des politiques de court terme d'absorption de la colère" An interview with International Alert's director, Olfa Lamloum, in which she comments on the weakness of social policies since the revolution, and the gap between the interior and the coastal cities in Tunisia.

 
Wars and Refugees

The Strange Sectarian Peace of Syrian Refugees in Lebanon Laura Dean writes for Lawfare that the primary tension between Syrian refugees and Lebanese is based on socio-economic rather than sectarian dimensions.

Les ravages de la guerre en Syrie vus du ciel [photo essay, text in French] A collection of satellite images reveals the extent of the destruction which Syria has undergone since 2011.

À Calais, un camp des années 30 [in French]Libération discusses the environmental layout and urban space of the Calais refugee camp, discovering that it is worse than anyone could have feared.

Towards a Post-Apartheid Palestine: Atlas of Israeli Settlements What if the settlements and their architectural/urban modifications implemented to disintegrate their segregative effects were the scene of the temporary return of the refugees, while many of the villages and towns destroyed after 1948 were being rebuilt?

Planning Problems in Palestine Kashmir-based town planned Ghulam Hussain Mir discusses his impressions of the planning constraints in Israeli-occupied Palestine.

Turkey breaks new ground in southeast reconstructionAl-Monitor reports on Turkey's new construction drive in its Kurdish southeast, and how this is used as a technique of control and power.
 

Urban Development

L’architecte Bernard Khoury redresse son Liban [in French]Libération interviews Khalil Khoury’s son Bernard about the political side of construction, as well as the B018 nightclub in Beirut.

ست سنوات بلدية في صيدا.. "انجاز" ليس كل شيء [in Arabic] The continuing divisions and conflict within the Saida-Zahrani municipality (Lebanon) are stalling opportunities for development, writes Huda Habish.

En 2016, l'Île flottante voguera au large du littoral L'Orient Le Jour reports on plans to built a floating island dedicated to cruises off the coast of Lebanon.

How the historic Adloun coast is becoming "Nabih Berri Port" Journalist Habib Battah reports on his blog about the latest encroachment of a sensitive historical site on the seashore in Adloun, South Lebanon, for a port project apparently aimed at harboring luxury yatchts.

المصري اليوم ترصد معاناة أصحاب ٥٠ ألف ورشة في دمياط [in Arabic] A report in Al Masry Al Youm on the difficulties facing the Egyptian city of Damietta.

محافظ بورسعيد: تحويل المحافظة لـ«جوهرة المتوسط» وإعادة تنشيط المنطقة الحرة [in Arabic] Al Masry Al Youm interviews the new governor of Port Said province on his plans to transform the city into the "jewel of the Mediterranean."

أبرز المعالم الهندسية في أبو ظبي [in Arabic] Raseef reviews Abu Dhabi's most noteworthy architecture.

Masdar City: A Critical Retrospection Boris Brorman Jensen writes for urbanNext reflecting on the failed promises of the Masdar project in Abu Dhabi.

Dubai, Doha Remain Low Construction Cost Locations Doha and Dubai remain some of the least expensive 
cities in the world in which to build, according to the International Construction Costs Index.

Where are the world's newest cities ... and why do they all look the same? Adam Greenfield writes for The Guardian on the development of "smart cities" and global business districts, and why they seem so similar.

Alger: une éliminiation totale (et définitive?) des bidonvilles de la capitale, officiellement annoncée pour 2016 [in French] Geographer Keira Bachar discusses on his blog the latest governmental announcement aiming at removing all slums from Algiers in 2016.


Environment, Infrastructure, and Governance

Answer to UAE's water security crisis could lie in Pakistan, says head of GeowashThe National suggests that part of the solution to the lack of fresh water in the UAE could lie in importing water from Pakistan.

Exportation des déchets : les contrats pourraient être finalisés aujourd'hui [in French] Suzanne Baaklini writes for L'Orient Le Jour about the secretive processes behind exporting Lebanon's waste.

La fin programmée du mouvement des journaliers d'EDL [in French] Journalist Philippe Hage Boutros, writing inL'Orient Le Jour, predicts the end of the contractual electricity workers' movement in Lebanon. In a separate, earlier article, he also draws a bitter assessment of Electricité du Liban yearly achievement in 2015.

Transition politique et action publique locale: un colloque, un livre, une thèse [in French] Eric Verdeil analyses on his blog a series of publications concerning decentralization policies in the Arab world and their links with European policies.

Slow death of the 'mute doctor'Al Ahram Online reports on the declining usage of traditional hammams.

In Damascus, a New Student Craze: Bicycles Started by Maen Elhemmeh, a Damascus University lecturer who abandoned his car commute for a bicycle, the campaign seeks to spread the bicycle culture to combat the overcrowded streets, and to create a healthier alternative than riding in a bus or car.
 

Resources

Book Review: Bourj Hammoud as a Palimpsest of Culture In Ara Madzounian’s Birds’ Nest Talar Chahinian reviews Ara Madzounian’s book Bird’s Nest: A Photographic Essay of Bourj Hammoud.

New Book: Urban Change in Iran A new book that provides an in depth case study for understanding complexities of urban transformation in Iran, using cross disciplinary perspectives.

Interview: La modernité inachevée: Entretien avec le collectif Suspended Spaces [in French] La Vie des idées presents a collection of interviews with Suspended Spaces, a Paris-based artistic collective, about their work in cities such as Tripoli and Famagusta, in which derilect, uncompleted projects take on new meaning.

Interview: Architects Are Never Taught the Right Thing Universities are failing to give architects the training that will enable them to find solutions for an imminent global housing crisis, says 2016 Pritzker Prize laureate Alejandro Aravena.

CFP: Informal Habitat in North Africa A conference organized by the Centre Arabe des Recherches et de l’Etude des Politiques (CAREP) on informal habitat in North Africa to be held in Tunis, 24-26 November 2016. Deadline: 15 March 2016.

Paper: Understanding Lebanese Waste Zeinab Attieh authors for the Youth Economic Forum a white paper related to the garbage crisis in Lebanon.

Illustration: We Want to Live a Decent, Simple Life—Refugee Camps as Seen by Illustrator George Butler George Butler provides watercolors of refugee camps’ life in Afghanistan and Lebanon.

Website: Top Ten of 2015Planetizen lists its top ten planning websites of the year.

Video: Syrian Refugees’ Unsafe Dwellings in Lebanon A video report by Dala Mawad on the unsafe places Syrian refugees are dwelling in Lebanon.

Slideshow: Spatial Justice Maps in Greater Cairo by Tadamun [in Arabic] Tadamun presents its mapping of urban poverty across Greater Cairo neighbhorhoods, as well as access to basic services.


Recently on Jadaliyya Cities

Call for Papers: Graduate Student Conference on Social and Political Change in MENA (April 8, New York) CUNY invites papers on a variety of topics relating to the political and social upheaval of the last five years. The deadline is February 5, 2016.

إطلاق حملة بعنوان «مدينتي ومن حقي البقاء فيها» من أجل دعم قضية المستأجرين في لبنان A video by the Right to Live campaign in Lebanon highlights the issue of landlords and rental policy.

"This Land is their Land": Egypt's Military and the Economy Abdel-Fattah Barayez analyses the changing nature of the military's control over the economy, and in particular their involvement in rent extraction as a main source of revenue.

The Rise and Decline of a Heterotopic Space: Views from Midan al-Tahrir Farha Ghannam takes a look at the eighteen days of protests in Tahrir Square, using them to re-evaluate Foucault's notion of "heterotopias" into a more fragmented vision of "heterotopic spaces".

Art Dubai: The Shifting Architectures and Expedient Geographies of the Art World Nicole Demby discusses the rise of the art world in the UAE, such as the new Guggenheim, as a combination of different modes and temporalities of cultural production.

Art Dubai: The Shifting Architectures and Expedient Geographies of the Art World Nicole Demby examine the manner in which Art Dubai coheres a heterogeneous array of actors and rhetorics that coordinates architectures of the visual arts under a new global temporalities of cultural production.

Snapshot: Amman A collection of photographs of Ammani architecture by Hamza AbuHamdia, along with a short explanation of the motives behind the project.

Decoding an Urban Myth: An Inquiry into the Socio-Economics of Van Number 4 in Beirut Amer Mohtar and Petra Samaha investigate the self-imposed structures of organisation underlying informal transit networks in Beirut.

اللاجئون الشوريون في المدن الألمانية: آليات إعادة توطينهم وآثارها على البنى العمرانية في المدينة Ghiath Al Jebawi discusses the effects the influx of refugees has had on the city of Cologne, and the geography of refugee communities.

La question du patrimonie en Algérie Sidi Mohammed el Habib Benkoula questions whether European architecture and involvement in Algeria constitutes part of the country's cultural legacy.

إسرائيل في القدس الشرقية: من الحسم الجغرافي إلى الحسم الديموغرافي

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حسمت إسرائيل سيطرتها الجغرافية على القدس الشرقية، وهي تتجه الآن شيئاً فشيئاً إلى حسم سيطرتها الديموغرافية في المدينة لمصلحة أغلبيةيهودية فيها. فبحسب تقديرات رسمية إسرائيلية فإن ما يزيد على 320,000 فلسطيني في القدس الشرقية باتوا يشكلون 39% من عدد سكان القدس بشطرَيها الشرقي والغربي؛ ووسط مخاوف إسرائيلية من أن يقود النمو السكاني الفلسطيني هذه النسبة إلى مستويات أكبر في الأعوام المقبلة، فإن إسرائيل تعمل على خفض هذه النسبة، وبشكل كبير. وقد كشفت التطورات الأخيرة في مدينة القدس معالم الخطط الإسرائيلية لتحقيق هذه الغاية، والمتمثلة أساساً في سلخ أحياء فلسطينية كاملة عمّا يسمى حدود البلدية الإسرائيلية.

فطبقاً للمخطط الإسرائيلي، فإن البداية ستكون بسحب الهويات من نحو 120,000 فلسطيني يعيشون خلف الجدار الذي أقامته إسرائيل في سنة 2004، وفصل أحياء كفر عقب وسميراميس
 (كلاهما في شمالي المدينة)، ومخيم شعفاط وراس خميس وراس شحادة وضاحية السلام (شرقاً)، عن المدينة ذاتها. لكن المخطط الإسرائيلي لا يقف عند هذا الحد، إذ كُشف النقاب عن مخططات إضافية تشمل إخراج أحياء في داخل القدس الشرقية، وبينها العيسوية، شمالي شرقي المدينة، وجبل المكبّر وصور باهر وأم طوبا، جنوبي شرقي المدينة، من النطاق الإداري للقدس الكبرى.

ويقول خليل التفكجي، مدير دائرة الخرائط في "جمعية الدراسات العربية": "في العام 1973، أقرت الحكومة الإسرائيلية التي ترأستها آنذاك غولدا مئير بتقييد السكان الفلسطينيين في القدس بنسبة لا تزيد عن 22% من إجمالي عدد السكان في القدس بشطرَيها الشرقي والغربي." ووجد هذا القرار تعبيراً له في السياسات الإسرائيلية المطبقة في المدينة، إذ جرى تقنين رخص البناء الممنوحة للسكان الفلسطينيين، وهدم مئات المنازل الفلسطينية في القدس بداعي البناء غير المرخص، وقد ترافق ذلك مع تكثيف البناء الاستيطاني
على أراضي المدينة، وسحب هويات أكثر من 14,000 مقدسي منذ سنة 1967.

بيد أن التفكجي قال: "على الرغم من كل السياسات الإسرائيلية التي هدفت لتقييد أعداد السكان الفلسطينيين والحدّ منهم، فإن أعدادهم تزايدت من 70,000 إلى 350,000 كما هو الحال عليه اليوم، وسط تقديرات إسرائيلية بارتفاع هذا العدد ليصل بحلول العام 2040 إلى ما يعادل 55% من سكان القدس بشطرَيها."
ويضيف التفكجي: "إسرائيل التي حسمت القدس ديموغرافياً [لمصلحتها] من خلال مصادرة ومنع استخدام الفلسطينيين لنحو 87% من أراضي القدس الشرقية، تتجه الآن إلى حسم قضية القدس جغرافياً."

وفي هذا الصدد
قال وزير شؤون القدس ومحافظ المدينة عدنان الحسيني: "منذ الاحتلال الإسرائيلي عام 1967، وضعت الحكومة الإسرائيلية يدها على ما نسبته 35% من مساحة القدس للتوسع الاستيطاني، وأعلنت عن 30% منها مناطق تنظيمية، و22% منها مناطق خضراء لا يُسمح البناء فيها، والإبقاء على ما نسبته 13% لاستخدام المقدسيين." ويوجد حالياً في القدس الشرقية 15 مستعمرة إسرائيلية يعيش فيها 200,000 مستوطن، وفي المقابل فإن البلدية الإسرائيلية في القدس تصنّف 20,000 منزل فلسطيني في المدينة (أي ما يعادل 39% من مجمل المنازل) بأنها غير قانونية، لعدم تمكّن أصحابها من الحصول على تراخيص لإقامتها، بينما يحتاج الفلسطينيون، علاوة على ذلك، إلى 20,000 شقة فوراً لتلبية حاجات السكان.

وبعد أن شكلت المستعمرات الإسرائيلية سواراً استيطانياً حول المدينة، فإن الحكومة الإسرائيلية شجعت على الاستيطان داخل أحياء المدينة، كما يحدث في البلدة القديمة وراس العمود والصوانه، فضلاً عن تشجيع وضع اليد على منازل فلسطينية داخل الأحياء، وتحديداً البلدة القديمة وسلوان وراس العمود والطور والشيخ جرّاح.

ويقول مدير "مركز القدس للحقوق الاجتماعية والاقتصادية" زياد الحموري، إن السياسات الإسرائيلية هذه أدت إلى وضع المقدسيين أمام ثلاثة خيارات: أولاً، دفع أموال طائلة ثمن شقق، أو بدل استئجار شقق قائمة في المدينة؛ ثانياً، المجازفة بإقامة منازل من دون تراخيص؛ ثالثاً، الانتقال إلى المناطق خلف الجدار سواء
إلى منازل في الأحياء المقدسية التي عزلها الجدار، أو في الضفة الغربية.

واستناداً إلى القانون الإسرائيلي، فإن الفلسطينيين في القدس مقيمون وليسوا مواطنين، الأمر الذي يجعلهم عرضة لفقدان إقامتهم في المدينة في حال اعتبرت الحكومة الإسرائيلية أنهم غيروا مركز حياتهم.
ومركز الحياة يعني أن يملك الفلسطيني المقدسي من الإثباتات ما يؤكد أنه أقام في المدينة سبعة أعوام متواصلة، وهي ضريبة الأملاك "الأرنونا"، وفواتير كهرباء ومياه وهاتف وعقد إيجار أو شهادة ملكية، فضلاً عن شهادات تعليم للأبناء في مدارس القدس.

ويضيف الحموري: "وحيث إن السكان يرغبون بامتلاك ما يثبت إقامتهم في المدينة، فقد فضلوا الإقامة في منازل أقيمت من دون ترخيص في الأحياء المقدسية خلف الجدار، ولكن البلدية تصدر لأصحابها أو المقيمين فيها ضريبة الأرنونا." وعلى الرغم من أن البلدية الإسرائيلية لا تقدم خدمات في هذه الأحياء التي تحولت إلى عشوائيات مهملة بكل ما تحمله الكلمة من معنى، فإنها، في مقابل تحصيلها الضرائب من السكان في هذه الأحياء، تقبل بهم كمقيمين
في القدس. ويبدأ ثمن الشقة البالغة مساحتها نحو 100 متر مربع في أحياء القدس خارج الجدار من 350,000 دولار، إلاّ إنها، وبمساحة أكبر، تصل إلى أقل من 100,000 دولار في الأحياء المقدسية داخل الجدار، أمّا الإيجارات فهي نحو 1000 دولار شهرياً خارج الجدار، وقرابة النصف داخله. ويُقدّر التفكجي أعداد المقدسيين في الأحياء داخل الجدار بما يتراوح بين 120,000 و150,000 مقدسي.

وترافق نزوح عشرات الآلاف من المقدسيين إلى الأحياء المقدسية خارج الجدار مع تعهدات حكومية إسرائيلية بعدم المس بمكانتهم القانونية باعتبارهم مقيمين في المدينة. وتقول "جمعية حقوق المواطن في إسرائيل": "قامت إسرائيل بتشييد جدار الفصل العنصري قبل عشرة أعوام بعد أن التزمت حكومتها أمام المحكمة الإسرائيلية العليا، وأصدرت قرارات حكومية تعهدت من خلالها باستمرار سير الحياة السويّ لدى سكان الأحياء المقدسية الذين ظلّوا وراء الجدار، إلى جانب الحفاظ على نسيج الحياة المشترك لمجمل السكان الفلسطينيين عبر جهتَي الجدار."

وتضيف الجمعية أنه وفقاً للتعهدات الحكومية الإسرائيلية فإن "تشييد الجدار لا يعني المسّ بحقوق سكان الأحياء الذين يعيشون في المنطقة التي احتلتها إسرائيل عام 1967، ويحملون بطاقات هوية إسرائيلية."
وتتابع: "تشييد الجدار وعدم تنفيذ التعهدات الإسرائيلية، حوّل الأحياء الفلسطينية في القدس إلى مناطق عشوائية، وعزل ثلث سكانها، ويُقدّر عددهم بـ 120,000، عن مركز حياتهم في القدس، والذين باتوا يعانون من حياة قوامها الإهمال المخزي." غير أن تصريحات المسؤولين الإسرائيليين، بدءاً من رئيس الحكومة بنيامين نتنياهو، وصولاً إلى رئيس بلدية القدس نير بركات، تشير إلى أن هذه التعهدات لم تكن سوى تكتيك لبعث حالة من الارتياح لدى عشرات الآلاف من السكان كي ينتقلوا إلى الأحياء خارج الجدار من دون خشية من العواقب.

كيف تبدو الخريطة الديموغرافية في القدس؟

ترسم إسرائيل خططها بشأن التعامل مع السكان الفلسطينيين في القدس وفقاً للكثافة السكانية، ومدى قرب الأحياء من المناطق المصنفة على أنها ضفة غربية. ويقول التفكجي: "استناداً إلى تصريحات المسؤولين الإسرائيليين، فإن الحكومة الإسرائيلية تتجه إلى إخراج العديد من الأحياء من حدود ما يسمى ببلدية القدس، بحيث تُبقي فقط البلدة القديمة، وما يسمى الحوض المقدس في محيطها، والذي يشمل في أفضل الأحوال سلوان، راس العمود، والطور، ووادي الجوز، والشيخ جرّاح."

ويقول مفاوض فلسطيني كبير في حديث خاص إن طاقم المبعوث الأميركي السابق لعملية السلام مارتن أنديك طرح في سنة 2013 أن تكون بيت حنينا عاصمة للدولة الفلسطينية، وأن يتم ضم أحياء في المدينة إلى مناطق السلطة الفلسطينية. واستناداً إلى "مركز القدس لدراسات إسرائيل"، والذي يستند إلى معلومات وزارة الداخلية الإسرائيلية، فإن الخريطة الديموغرافية في القدس الشرقية في نهاية سنة 2013، كانت كما يلي:

كفر عقب (
18,830 مواطناً)؛ بيت حنينا (35,810)؛ شعفاط (22,760)؛ مخيم شعفاط (16,330)؛ عناتا (6800)؛ العيسوية (14,830)؛ الطور (24,320)؛ وادي الجوز والشيخ جرّاح (17,120)؛ باب الساهرة (2300)؛ الحي الإسلاميفي البلدة القديمة (28,180)؛ الحيالأرمني في البلدة القديمة (2260)؛ الحي المسيحي في البلدة القديمة (4450)؛ سلوان(19,080)؛ الثوري (13,010)؛ راس العامود (24,640)؛ جبل المكبّر (22,570)؛ صور باهر (15,550)؛ أم طوبا (3780)؛ بيت صفافا (12,070).

ويتفق التفكجي والحموري على أن الحكومة الإسرائيلية بدأت بالتمهيد لإخراج أحياء فلسطينية ممّا يسمى حدود بلدية القدس، لإيجاد أغلبية يهودية في المدينة. ويقول مستشار شؤون القدس في ديوان الرئاسة الفلسطينية المحامي أحمد الرويضي: "إسرائيل تريد من خلال هذه المخططات تحويل المدينة من مدينة عربية إسلامية ـ مسيحية إلى مدينة يهودية." ويضيف: "حكومة إسرائيل تمهد لشطب أحياء فلسطينية كاملة بهدف الإخلال في التوازن الديموغرافي لصالح اليهود، ليصبحوا أغلبية في المدينة، في حين تتحول بعض الأحياء الفلسطينية إلى جزر أقليات في بحر من المستعمرات اليهودية."

وفي هذا الصدد يقول مقدسيون إن وزارة الداخلية الإسرائيلية باتت تصر على أنه في حال امتلك الفلسطيني بطاقة شخصية تشير إلى أنه من سكان البلدة القديمة ومحيطها، بينما هو يقيم خارجها، فإن عليه تغيير مكان إقامته.
ويقول مراد الذي كان يقيم حتى فترة قريبة في الحي المسيحي في البلدة القديمة: "عندما توجهت إلى وزارة الداخلية، أصروا على عدم إتمام أي معاملة لي إلاّ في حال غيرت مكان إقامتي في الهوية إلى بيت حنينا حيث أقيم الآن، رغم أن عائلتي تمتلك منزلاً في البلدة القديمة حتى الآن." ويقول الحموري: "في المقابل ترفض وزارة الداخلية طلبات تغيير مكان الإقامة من خارج البلدة القديمة إلى داخلها."

هل إخراج أحياء فلسطينية من القدس ممكن؟

طبقاً لنتائج استطلاع للرأي العام الإسرائيلي أجرته صحيفة "معاريف" الإسرائيلية في مطلع تشرين الأول / أكتوبر الماضي، فإن 66% من الإسرائيليين اليهود يؤيدون انسحاباً إسرائيلياً من أحياء
فلسطينية في القدس الشرقية. وقد أثار حديث رئيس الحكومة الإسرائيلية نتنياهو، في اجتماع للمجلس الوزاري الإسرائيلي المصغر للشؤونالأمنية والسياسية فيتشرين الأول / أكتوبر، عن سحب الهويات ممّا يزيد على 120,000 فلسطيني في الأحياء الفلسطينية داخل الجدار، حفيظة حزب "ميرتس" اليساري الإسرائيلي الذي قال في بيان: "إن إخراج أحياء مقدسية [من النطاق الإداري للقدس الكبرى] يتطلب موافقة الكنيست الإسرائيلي." واعتبرت "جمعية حقوق المواطن في إسرائيل" أن حديث نتنياهو "عبثي"، وقالت: "لا يمكن وفق القانون سحب وإلغاء مكانة قانونية لمواطن، أو لمقيم بشكل عشوائي، أو بشكل جماعي."
غير أن الحموري قال: "من الناحية النظرية، فإن الأمر يحتاج إلى موافقة الكنيست الإسرائيلي، ولكن عملياً لا أرى أغلبية يهودية في الكنيست الإسرائيلي ضد مثل هكذا قرار، وعليه، فإنه قد يمر في حال اتُّخذ القرار السياسي الإسرائيلي، وهذا ليس مستبعداً في ظل المعطيات الحالية وما نسمعه من تصريحات."

[يعاد نشره ضمن اتفاقية تعاون بين "جدلية" و "مجلة الدراسات الفلسطينية"]


Report: The Welfare of Syrian Refugees: Evidence from Jordan and Lebanon

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The World Bank and the UNHCR released a new report entitled The Welfare of Syrian Refugees Evidence from Jordan and Lebanon, co-authored by Paolo Verme, Chiara Gigliarano, Christina Wieser, Kerren Hedlund, Marc Petzoldt, and Marco Santacroce, available for download through the Open Knowledge Repository. 

This report is the result of a mainly quantitative joint study by the World Bank and the UNHCR, using survey and registry data about Syrian refugees in Lebanon and Syria, in order to assess their financial and social status, and to evaluate existing policies towards the refugee situation.

The results reveal a complicated situation in which high levels of impoverishment, and financial hardship are not adequately alleviated by existing policies. Taking a longer-term perspective of the potential damage the crisis may cause to the region, the report recommends a framework which takes economic growth of areas with high numbers of refugees as its goal. The study suggests some practical solutions for assisting refugees to prevent the irreversible loss of social and human capital typically associated with prolonged refugee crises.

A PDF copy of the report can be downloaded here. A summary of the report is also available in French, Spanish, and Arabic.

(Auto)-Mobility in the Global Middle East

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They believe, O Tramway, that we are powerless against you and that we cannot do without you – MISTAKE – the automobiles are there and the oil too.
Listen to me, O Tramway; it’s too much even when you come and go empty. You’ve given the world a headache with your hooting and ringing.

You’d be better off giving in, or else it’s bankruptcy. 

Popular tram boycott song by Assad Hatta, sung during the Beirut tram boycott of 1931.[1]

 

Moving Towards (Auto)-Mobility?

The workshop “(Auto)-Mobility in the Global Middle East” was held at the Centre for Modern and Contemporary History at the University of Birmingham (UK) on Friday 6 November 2015. Driven by a varied set of premises, it aimed to survey the state of this emerging field of study, and evaluate future directions, in anticipation of a major conference, gathering original research, to be held in June 2016 in Birmingham. What follows below is an analytical summary of the workshop, placed into the context of the literature. It is written to equip interested readers with the main elements of the discussion that took place, and furnish an overview of some of the most exciting work currently being done in this field. In closing (in the second part of this essay to be published later), there is a set of provisional conclusions, and paths for further research, which it is hoped will stimulate further debate and act as an invitation to other researchers.

Among the premises for the workshop were the successive spatial and temporal turns in modern Middle Eastern history in recent years. These might be represented in the first instance by a work such as Jens Hanssen’s Fin-de-Siècle Beirut, written under the sign of Henri Lefebvre, and in the second by Vanessa Ogle’s book on the global history of time and temporal regimes, with its emphasis on the Middle East and South Asia as the “core of modern globality.” (Auto)-mobility as a field of study, we felt, might draw on the insights of these successive turns while developing a more synthetic spatio-temporal approach that seeks to account for the production of space in contexts of temporal heterogeneity.

A second premise was the recent efforts to move past an analytic focus in Middle East Studies on national states. Studies of individual countries have proved exceptionally enduring, in part due to the resilience of organizing metropole-colony binaries in studies of the colonial era, and in part due to the influence on the field of policy-oriented disciplines that pre-suppose (and fail to problematize) national country units. Work such as Cyrus Schayegh’s on cross-border narcotics smuggling, or Andrew Arsan’s on Lebanese diaspora political culture in West Africa have helped to pave the way in this respect, identifying the uneven layering of sovereigntyin border and urban zones, or its networked articulation along migratory pathways. Indeed forms of migratory and cross-border mobility offer a productive means of interrogating national-state focused analysis, and of thinking more regionally and even globally, while still acknowledging the rising force of nationalist political logics in the twentieth century. The establishment of new journals such as Mashriq and Mahjar: Journal of Middle East Migration Studies, or one university press’s recent decision to launch a series of books on the “Global Middle East” are symptomatic of the appeal of such approaches.

But, notwithstanding the merit of these advances, a third premise emerged precisely from a critique of approaches to Middle Eastern migratory and diaspora mobility. Rarely, we felt, have such studies devoted attention to the apparatuses of mobility themselves—what Cotten Seiler has called, drawing on Foucault, a ‘“multilinear ensemble” of commodities, bodies of knowledge, laws, techniques, institutions, environments, nodes of capital, sensibilities and modes of perception.” Studies of migratory and regional mobility have in this sense remained wedded to a largely spatial and networked interpretive framework, in which what Sudhir Chella Rajan calls the ‘”mammoth social institution”’ of (auto)-mobility has remained largely submerged.[2]

This is not to say that sociological and historical studies of (auto)-mobility have not flourished, produced both by scholars of the Middle East writing in Arabic, Turkish etc., and by urban historians, historical sociologists, and anthropologists writing in many languages on various areas around the world. A fourth premise of the workshop was therefore simply to take stock, to evaluate these diverse approaches to (auto)-mobility, and to discover which ones a study of Middle Eastern (auto)-mobility might profitably work with or contest. The tradition of Saudi Arabian criminology focused on road violence is just one example of work done in the region. And, the growing literature devoted to the “car system” and its urban, social and cultural history, exemplified by Simon Gunn, Emma Rothschild, John Urry and Joel Wolfe, is just one sub-section of an increasingly global field. Indeed, historians of economic development, of capitalism and of colonial rule have all recently contributed important studies of (auto)-mobility, as attested by the varied work done by Josh Grace on cars and the politics of development in Tanzania, Jennifer Hart’s investigation of Ghanaian motorization and labor politics, Saima Akhtar’s work on Ford’s corporate perceptions of the Middle East, and Stephanie Ponsavady’s work on aspects of auto-mobility in colonial Indochina. 

Meanwhile, literary and cultural scholars such as Enda Duffy and Ricarda Vidal have continued to engage with the quintessential modernist experience of motorized speed, while Lee Jared Vinsel is brilliantly examining speed’s constant familiar, the car crash, and its haunting cast of extras, including (male) test dummies and laboratory animals. These diverse and proliferating efforts, anchored in various disciplinary frameworks, have found one expression in the development of (auto)-mobility studies as a distinct sub-discipline, with its own journals and conferences, one formalised by Gijs Mom, Mimi Sheller and others through the critique of more traditional modes of transport history and indeed economic history.

The workshop therefore combined a core of Middle East Studies scholars, primarily in history and anthropology, with others working on Britain, the US and elsewhere. We explicitly favoured an “inter-modal” approach, with concurrent, antagonistic and segregated forms of mobility assessed together. Walkers, (motor)-cyclists, loiterers, town planners, the road beneath the rubber, and even the juxtaposed portraits of saints and offspring bobbling on taxi dashboards—all found roles in the discussion.

Overall, we aimed to grasp and start to build on the state of the art, and to dispense with older narratives of the motorcar’s Whiggish rise from aristocrat’s “toy” to popular “tool.” We also sought to retain a sociologically and anthropologically informed focus on dynamics of legitimation and domination, rather than succumb to complacent metaphors of circulation and networked arterial proliferation, or merely rehearse the Middle East’s established strategic role in maintaining oil scarcity and contributing to carbon-democraticpolitics.
 

Beyond Diffusionism and Domination by Machines?

Framing comments by Simon Jacksonset out the points above. He also emphasized the influence of Heideggerian perspectives on the sociology of mobility, and the longstanding preoccupation in studies of (auto)-mobility with the domination and discipline exercised by machines over people. Historians have systematically contrasted the illusions and utopias the car system has fostered with the realities of anomie, indebtedness, pollution, checkpoints, tolls and all-purpose subjection that it has instead entrenched. As Cotton Seiler neatly encapsulates the Frankfurt strand of this analytic tradition: “need it be said that by all evidence Adorno refused to learn to drive?” [3]

But more recently scholars such as Shane Hamilton and Seiler himself have stepped away from these binaries by looking at the ways (auto)-mobility as a dispositif fostered and built new subjectivities and ideologies of aggressive freedom. In Hamilton’s account these emerged through the rise of neo-liberal, de-unionized economy and big box retail as permitted by long distance truck haulage, but in this vein we might equally investigate comprador capitalism focused on automobile imports as a flexible, mediating juridical-political system.

One way to historicize and develop this promising critique, Jackson suggested, is to pay attention to the reality of ‘roads not taken’ in the past, such as the late 1970s perception that China was on the brink of becoming the first post-automobile and post-oil country in history.[4]

A second might be to disaggregate the standard binary of personal and collective vehicle ownership and to attend instead to types of shared and improvised (auto)-mobility, and the way different life-worlds form around the same technological artefacts. Such disaggregation could be synchronic, for instance in the case of Cairo parking entrepreneurs, or diachronic, for example in the case of the trans-Mediterranean car recycling networks currently studied by Yann-Philippe Tastevin or the Fordist circulations between the US and Persia currently studied by Nile Green.[5]

A third possibility is to attend to forms of mobility in times of emergency and transformed norms—military occupation, armed attack, states of emergency, natural disaster, and even civil war as in Hady Zaccak’s film Marcedes. How do such scenarios alter practices of (auto)-mobility and the affective, sensorial dynamics intermeshed with them? 

Lucie Ryzova underlined these opening speculations with the salutary reminder that a critical approach to Middle Eastern (auto)-mobility ought to seek ways to counter and upend conventional diffusionist accounts of the spread of motorized transport outwards from the North Atlantic world to gradually encompass the globe. Rather than a model of liberal pluralism in which various regions contribute “their” (auto)-mobility stories to a global mosaic, or in which pioneering drivers—often royal, as in Alaa al Aswany’s recent novel on the automobile club of Egypt—tackle ‘new terrain’ in the Middle East at the wheel of a Ford or Rolls, we must look at the dynamic interplay of multiple (auto)-mobilities and vernacular modernities.
 

Private Cars on National Roads?

The first panel navigated between a trio of regional cases from Morocco, Egypt and Saudi Arabia, interrogating the connections—or lack thereof—between very different histories of (auto)-mobility, and thereby encouraging reflection on the uses of “Middle East” as an analytical category and pre-supposed descriptive term. All three papers, in different ways, posed the question of the relationship between the power and spatial imaginaries of colonial or national states as they engaged with and worked to legitimate (auto)-mobility, and the complex social appropriations of the car system from below. Pascal Ménoret gave the opening paper, titled “Learning from Riyadh: Joyriding, Infrastructure, and Politics.” Speaking precisely twenty-five years after forty-seven women drove down ‘Ulaya Avenue in Riyadh, prompting an ongoing ban on women driving, Ménoret emphasized the wealth of knowledge Saudi scholars have produced on this topic over several decades, partly in response to the regulatory and coercive measures governing Saudi mobility. He gave a history of utopian and neoliberal urban planning in the Middle East and South Asia after World War Two, with its pretention to create legible, vehicle-based Islamic cities of the future, and in which the main destinations were to be mall and mosque. He then described the dynamics of joyriding (tafheet) in Riyadh, with its predominantly young, unemployed men operating forms of “demonstrative escape” at the wheel of ordinary Hyundais. Extraordinary control of the vehicle and ordinary contestation of police authority are performed in nascent suburban carscapes—and mediated, he added, by internet videos made in genres including aestheticized instances of ‘crash porn’.

Working with a concept of “abuse value” Ménoret noted that for the joyriders he studied, speed did not correlate with power and that comparison to other joyriding “carscapes,” such as the streets of Belfast in Northern Ireland, was a promising avenue of further research. Importantly, against a liberal-diffusionist model of automobility featuring more or less early/late adopting countries or regions, Ménoret instead proposed a convincing spatial interrelationship: the interplay of empire, capitalism and expertise in an interconnected global “carscape,” a term with Appaduraian connotations. He also advanced a heuristic chronological distinction between colonial (auto)-mobility, in which cars could become an aspect of anti-colonial activism in the Middle East (during tram boycotts for instance), and imperial (auto)-mobility, in the era of the Cold War, when the region became an “Empire of Drivers.” 

In a second paper Frédéric Abécassis discussed “The Creation of the Moroccan Road Network: A History.” But, prefacing his remarks on Morocco, and recalling Ménoret’s comparative efforts, he explained the genesis of his research in a prior comparative project on traffic safety in Egypt and in France. Here he drew on his own observations as a cyclist in Cairo, during the growing state effort in the early 1990s to segregate urban transport and sponsor suburbanization. In this period highways spread, flanked by billboards that subsidized road construction and that showed glossy images of fantasy lifestyles in the new suburbs. Abécassis noted the way Cairo's roads refused to align with these plans; instead they became a sphere of intensifying social conflict and of the bricolage of access points and local modifications to rework spatial segregation. Importantly, he offered a heuristic distinction between three successive but also (at times) parallel modes of social domination on the roads: a traditional form based on inertia and social precedence in which (auto)-mobility was hedged in by the performance of class status (vehicles preceded by servants for instance); a charismatic mode in which the motorist acts as pasha, skilled pilot, and middle class effendiyya engineer; and finally a bureaucratic mode of domination based on surveillance, internalization of norms and moralizing governmentality. Abécassis observed that his research had frequently been obstructed by official concern, against the backdrop of rising levels of mortality on Egypt’s roads in the 1990s, that he was blackening the country’s international reputation. 

Pivoting to Morocco here, he argued persuasively against metaphors of organic circulation in the analysis of road traffic, preferring to focus on the contested legitimation of social hierarchy through a study of decisions to expand the Moroccan network across the twentieth century. Here again state plans met contestation and appropriation. Abécassis noted the pre-colonial distinction that existed between triq as-sultan roads, protected by the Makhzen, and local mule roads—triq al-hammara—on which a local escort—ztata—was a constitutive aspect of travel. Citing important work by Moroccan scholars including Mohamed Sijelmassi and Abdelahad Sebti, Abécassis noted the colonial effort to expand imperial control and foster settler agriculture through road building, in the quest to constitute a “useful Morocco.”[6] Indeed the road network launched by Lyautey fashioned a landscape newly available to the touristic gaze in the interwar period, and helped assert a paradigmatic colonial dualism of archaic, indigenous stillness and high speed European modernity. Trans-regional connections between the Atlantic port cities of Rabat and Casablanca and the imperial military bastion of Algeria proved equally important in determining French road-building decisions in the Protectorate. Indeed, increasingly in this period the only “passenger” taking the train in the Protectorate was phosphate rock, traveling to the ports from mines at Khouribga and elsewhere.

Crucially, aspects of these colonial strategies were continued by the national authorities after independence. As in Saudi Arabia and Egypt, where royal families acted as cheerleaders for and advertisers of automobile use as part of national orders, in Morocco royal authority was lent to trans-Rif road-building in the period after 1956, as part of an effort to expand the road network so as to secure the national territory or even, as in the case of Western Sahara, expand it. By the 1990s and the time of IMF-led retrenchment, Abécassis noted, motorways with private concessions for toll-collection had made their appearance, creating parallel and relatively sealed highways, even as rural villages often failed to obtain tarmac local roads, finding themselves disconnected from the wider network.

In the final paper of the session David Sims turned back to Egypt with a paper on “The Private Car in Greater Cairo.” Sims documented the triumphant rise of the private car on the roads of Cairo, despite its obvious inefficiency and reservation for the wealthier classes inspired by Gulf and American lifestyles. Sims also noted the role of law in arbitrating formality and informality on Cairo roads and the “battle” between dedicated “car roads” and multi-use “general roads” in and around the metropolis. He further emphasized the relationship to law as crucially constitutive of everyday mobility practices and attendant hierarchies—woe betide the policeman who stops the son of a powerful government official for speeding. He also underlined the intimate knowledge required to navigate informal space, including parking spaces, which are an important commodity operated by the sayes parking guards: veritable entrepreneurs of (im)mobility. 

Drawing on his cross-disciplinary experience as urbanist, economist and consultant, Sims explained the successive general plans to alter Cairo’s layout and reduce density, and dwelt on the role of software-generated imagery in the subtending imaginaries of such plans. Explaining the political hegemony of car-based suburbanization, even as the Cairo metro network expands at snail’s pace, he noted the power of the car firms, banks, import agents (e.g. Ghabour Autos) and construction businesses that make up the compradorial car lobby, pointing out that the easily repossessed car made it a preferred loan vehicle for banks chary of mortgage lending but keen to capitalize on urban living.

Though integrated national vehicle production did take place in the nationalizing economic space of Nasser’s Egypt, at Al-Nasr automotive, contemporary production is instead organized around the massive arrival of cheap Chinese motorbikes and, in a return of 1920s practice, of Egyptian quasi-manufacturing (assembly) of pre-fabricated car kits by foreign brands, thus allowing for the avoidance of import duty. Sims also explored the class politics of driving for women in Cairo—in Sims’ shorthand “the hannem factor”—for whom the private car is both a performative stage and an instrument of class privilege, as well as a means of avoiding public transport that is considered disrespectable. He closed by noting that cycling in Cairo had become a polarized activity in class-terms, engaged in either by working class delivery boys or by middle class enthusiasts militating to reclaim road space. 

Responding to the panel, Shane Hamilton raised some key conceptual questions, asking whether Ménoret’s idea of “abuse value” was a type of de-fetishization and de-abstraction of the automobile, or simply an alternative form of use value. More generally he wondered to what extent an analysis of automobility as a means of depoliticization must still seek out and describe politics—for instance, in Egypt should the ability of the state to impose the preferences of the five percent of households that own private cars be seen as dysfunction or as a type of “effective” if highly unjust action? In addition, meditating on the trope of the “open road,” he made the first of several comparisons to emerge in the day between (auto)-mobility and its subjectivity in the US and in the Middle East, taking the two as commensurable and delimited geographical and analytical units with distinct if related histories. The politics of comparison, and the categories of analysis required to critique standard diffusionist accounts of the rise of (auto)-mobility were thereby placed on the table, and would recur in the second part of the workshop.

 


[1]Centre des Archives Diplomatiques (Nantes, France), Fonds Beyrouth, Premier Versement-Cabinet Politique, Dossiers de Principe 1920-1941, Carton 378, Sociétés Concessionaires, Sureté Report, No. 1387, 11 April 1931. Popular boycott song by Assad Hatta. See Simon Jackson, Mandatory Development: the Global Politics of Economic Development in the Colonial Middle East, manuscript in progress.
[2] Cotton Seiler, Republic of Drivers. A Cultural History of Automobility in America (Chicao: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 5-6.
[3] Ibid, 143.
[4] Atle Midttun and Nina Witoszek, eds., Energy and Transport in Green Transition: Perspectives on Ecomodernity (London: Routledge, 2015), 143.
[5] Nile Green, "Fordist Connections: The Automotive Integration of the United States and Persia", Comparative Studies in Society and History (forthcoming).
[6] Mohamed Sijelmassi, La C.T.M., Epopée des transports au Maroc (Casabanca: éditions Oum, 1999); Abdelahad Sebti, Bayn al ztât wa qâta‘ al tariq, amn al turuq fe Maghrab ma qabl al isti‘mâr (Casablanca, éditions Dar al Toubkal, 2009). 

New Texts Out Now: Ward Vloeberghs, Architecture, Power, and Religion in Lebanon

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Ward Vloeberghs, Architecture, Power, and Religion in Lebanon: Rafiq Hariri and the Politics of Sacred Space in Beirut. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2015.

Jadaliyya (J): What made you write this book?

Ward Vloeberghs (WV): While studying in Beirut in the early 2000s, I witnessed a construction site on the corner of Martyrs’ Square. Back then, contrasting rumors circulated as to what exactly was emerging on this central location, and who was in charge of the project. I became intrigued by this saga, and decided to trace the origins of the construction process once I received funding for my PhD project. By then, the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque had been almost completed, and it had become clear that Rafiq al-Hariri had commissioned the edifice. As a result, this book reads as a monograph with a clear protagonist—Hariri—and one main case-study—the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque.

Aside from this personal note, I felt that many Lebanese were interested in the history of this particular mosque. Some of the mosque’s initial criticasters dropped their opposition after Hariri’s assassination and his burial just next to the mosque. Moreover, it seemed to me that, at least among peers, there was a genuine interest in the ways religious architecture is made subservient to political statements in contemporary Lebanon. Thus, analyzing how politics, religion, and architecture interact offered me an interesting approach to visualize societal struggles, and to observe urban politics in action.

J: What particular topics, issues, and literatures does the book address?

WV: The book intends to show how religious architecture serves as an important tool for political actors in Lebanon. To illustrate this, I investigate how Hariri took hold of the pre-existing project of the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque to realize his long-coveted desire to lodge a major mosque in Beirut and then had it built in the way he did. This leads me to examine how politics are accomplished in fluid relationship to a specific context (all politics is local!) and how built fabric or physical space can express forms of belonging and ambition.

To do so, I have structured the book in three main parts. The first part provides a comprehensive introduction to Rafiq Hariri, and his emergence as a political actor in Lebanon. Though such portrayals have appeared before (most notably Emmanuel Bonne’s Vie publique, patronage et clientèle. Rafic Hariri à Saïda), I believe this political personality profiling exercise sheds new light on some key periods of his life (for example, the sparsely-documented period in Saudi Arabia), and serves as a necessary preliminary to understand Hariri’s dedication to the construction of this specific prayer hall at this particular location. Perhaps most importantly, this first part of the book also critically discusses Hariri’s posthumous legacy as a victim, as a martyr, and as a dynast who continues to inspire a political coalition ten years after his assassination.

Secondly, the book provides an in-depth overview of the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque’s construction history—both from an architectural, and from a political perspective. This second part is more than a description, though, as it offers a view into the project’s genealogy. As such, it features insights into the tribulations of the Sunni community in Lebanon over the past 150 years, and shows how the actual origins of the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque date back to the Ottoman Sultan Abdul Mejid. By relying on process tracing, content analysis, and first-hand material (mostly interviews and observation), I go on by situating the mosque and its various designers within the context of Beirut’s heritage of Islamic architecture.

In the third part of the book, I examine how the politician Rafiq Hariri used this prestigious piece of religious architecture to boost his legitimacy. This dynamic started during his lifetime, but was considerably expanded after his death. Thus, I investigate the conversion of sacred space into political territory. I discuss the mosque’s outspoken design to address issues of class, confessional identity, and citizenship. To take the analysis one step further, I then move away from my case study to encompass other instances of religious architecture, both within and beyond Lebanon—mostly by drawing on literature from art history, anthropology, and international politics.

In the final chapter, substantial attention is given to Hariri’s posthumous influence. At this point, I illustrate how commemoration practices devoted to Hariri redefined the mosque, and its surroundings, including his gravesite. That process was accomplished both by visual and by discursive means, through slogans (‘allam, ‘ammar, harrar or dammak ghali, sawtak ‘ali) and by various artefacts, many of them offered at special occasions (such as the annual anniversaries of Hariri’s assassination or the establishment of the Special Tribunal for Lebanon).

 
[In 2006, Liban Post issued this series of stamps to commemorate the first anniversary of Hariri’s
assassination. The Muhammad al-Amin Mosque is featured bottom left. Image via the author.]

Throughout, the book seeks to adopt a balanced stance towards Hariri’s policies and activities. This chapter, therefore, also examines how other actors lost out to (for example, archaeologists), contested (for example, occupy activists during an eighteen months sit-in), or retaliated against (for example, a neighboring cathedral) his initiatives. Thus, I argue that, in urban terms as much as in public finance, Hariri’s accomplishments have certainly come at a price. For example, by installing a monumental mosque, Hariri de facto opted to pour a layer of concrete on top of his city’s ancient remnants.

J: How does this book connect to and/or depart from your previous research?

WV: While studying Arab and Islamic studies, I was attracted to the Middle East’s numerous minorities and decided to explore the situation of the Copts in Egypt (who reject the notion of minority being applied to them). In doing so, I became fascinated by the difficulty of obtaining reliable statistical data about Arab populations.

Thus, during an MA program in political science, I conducted some research on Lebanese demographers because I wondered how, in the absence of a national census, population scientists manage to do their job. Besides, I wanted to know how public policy makers set out about planning for schools, hospitals, or housing facilities given this census sensitivity. In the end, I discovered that Lebanese demographers have devised tools and surveys to analyze population growth indirectly. These instruments are perhaps more efficient than the techniques used in many neighboring states that do conduct a regular headcount, resulting in most Lebanese having a sharp awareness of the country’s demographic balances.

All of this highlights the fact that I possessed no prior knowledge of architecture when I started the work that led to this book. Rather, I wanted to find out the story behind this building, and was motivated by applying a particular approach to this case. The fact that I broadened my knowledge about architecture at the same time was a cherished side effect, a bit like I had previously coincidentally gained familiarity with Arab demography.

In fact, at the onset of this research, I had been asked to elaborate a project about politics and Islam in the Arab world. I had taken this quite literally, and had not been able to think of anything better than to connect a prime minister with a mosque. Eventually, however, I learned a precious lot about urban design, and how architecture, like art, is indexical of politics in any given society.

J: Who do you hope will read this book, and what sort of impact would you like it to have?

WV: In addition to urban scientists, this book is intended for all those interested in Lebanese politics, and anyone (students, scholars, journalists, professionals) concerned with the contemporary Middle East. I am convinced that regardless of disciplinary background, be it in (art) history, anthropology, architectural engineering, or economics, this book can help to understand how built fabric serves as a depository of aesthetic preferences, political ambitions, and commemoration practices.

Therefore, social scientists who pay attention to material expressions of power may want to purchase a copy, as will institutional libraries. I am confident old-fashioned bibliophiles, like I am, will acknowledge the efforts made by the series editors and the publisher (in editing, illustrating, printing, and binding quality) to offer value for money.

In terms of impact, my hope is that this book can foster scholarly interest in material culture from a social science perspective. In particular, I am convinced there are promising opportunities for students in adopting such an approach towards Beirut’s impressive heritage of religious architecture. As a matter of fact, religious buildings have been given more prominence in the cityscape of Beirut than was the case say fifty years ago. This interplay between aesthetics and politics attracts me, and has not, in my view, been adequately addressed in the literature on Beirut’s reconstruction. Last but not least, it seems likely that such a research program can also be transferred to other cities, and to other socio-religious contexts.

J: What other projects are you working on now?

WV: First of all, I remain, of course, committed to researching political dimensions of sacred space in the Arab world. As indicated, there is plenty of opportunity to develop this theme further. Besides, on the long term, I continue to be fascinated by political elites in the Arab world. I am particularly zooming in on cases where public office is handed down within the family, from one generation onto the next. Such “political dynasties” (not limited to the realm of politics, though) offer concrete glimpses into the specific structures of individual families and societies. The renewal of political elites—not only at the top tier levels of government and business but also those at less visible, sub-top echelons—is a crucial aspect that I want to underline, as it helps to understand the interconnectedness of interests and decisions, thus affecting overall political stability.

Apart from these research topics, I am currently setting up a curriculum in political science within an exciting new institution: the Erasmus University College in Rotterdam. Here, emphasis is on a resolutely multidisciplinary approach (students can combine molecular cell biology with courses on conflict resolution) that also comprises an urban studies track. Liberal arts colleges are quite new in Europe, although The Netherlands has played a pioneering role. Since I was involved in the start-up of a similar project in Rabat between 2010 and 2014, I am eager to continue on this track in a city with a remarkable, raw pulse and spectacular diversity.

J: How do you see this book contributing to the field of Urban Studies? Why do you think it is special?

WV: I believe this book offers a prism to witness the longstanding, ongoing struggle for the city of Beirut. This political struggle is being waged by a variety of actors with eminently urban means, like the physical rearrangement of certain neighborhoods, the installation of statues, or the crafting of sacred space. As such, the book can inform anyone interested in urban studies on how processes of urban design, reconstruction, and framing practices concur to project an image of the city that is passionately formulated and reformulated, time and again. My hope is that the book contributes to urban studies by encouraging social and political scientists to explore religious architecture, a theme often confined to the realms of art history, archaeology, or anthropology.

Spatial expressions of politics, as well as material manifestations of power and identity, are key components for understanding social reality, and not only in the Middle East. It is my conviction that focusing on such (often apparently ordinary) acts and artifacts helps us to better understand how people accomplish power, religion, and architecture on a daily basis, often through simple gestures inspired by positive intentions. The overall result of these accumulated activities, however, is not always harmonious and can, occasionally, lead to fierce antagonism. In this sense, the nearly solipsistic attitude of certain political actors in Lebanon finds itself reflected in its capital’s architecture, in spite of the lip service sometimes paid to diversity, tolerance, and coexistence.

I hope the excerpts below can convey the book’s argument, namely that one can analyze politics of a society through a careful reading of that society’s architecture. In the case of Beirut, sacred space has become an important component of the city’s urban development.

Excerpts from Architecture, Power and Religion in Lebanon: Rafiq Hariri and the Politics of Sacred Space in Beirut

From the Introduction

When Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri and Mufti Qabbani laid the first stone for the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque on the first of Ramadan 1423 (6 November 2002), Hariri declared that the construction of this mosque “cherished by the Muslims of Lebanon in general and Beirut in particular” had been awaited “during the past five decades”. He praised Allah for having “shaped the suitable circumstances for the start, today, of the setting up of this sublime religious edifice (as-sarh ad-dīnī al-jalīl).” Everyone knew that Hariri himself had contributed a good deal in bringing about the suitable circumstances and none of the attendees failed to notice the subtle choice of vocabulary. Next to thanking Allah for his favors, Hariri went on to say how fortunate it was to be able to erect the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque “on this particular site in the heart of the capital, where religions embrace each other in order to form a national corner welcoming faith as a shared area for national harmony that confirms the message of Lebanon.”

Taken at face value, these words are no more than the humble reflections of the solemn scenes that come with such circumstances, replete with authentic inclusiveness towards all fellow citizens. In this light, one assumes, Hariri's speech was a paragon of religious tolerance and epitomized his spirit of national, trans-confessional cohesiveness. Rafiq Hariri’s statement can, indeed, most profitably be understood as an anticipated self-fulfilling prophecy; i.e. as the message that Hariri wished for “his” favored mosque to transmit. In such a reading, one assumes that Hariri intended the mosque to stand next to several cathedrals in a show of national unity, deliberately inclusive of other religions, especially Christianity. Certain arrangements on the premises of the mosque—such as the trees “of national understanding” planted between the mosque and the gravesite—hint at such an image. Without taking aim at Hariri’s sincerity, I want to suggest here that, in addition to this first layer of meaning, there is another way to read Hariri's statement. Namely to take these utterances as expressions of Hariri's power. Such an alternative view would conceive of Hariri’s speech in itself, just as much as his construction of a monumental mosque, as a skillful manifestation of his authority.

Years ago, Gilsenan has documented a number of practices of power, i.e. dynamics and processes used in Lebanese contexts to express authority and command respect. Among them he counts the display of boasting (fashr), mockery (bahdala) or news (akhbār) but also joking (mazah), nobility (karāma) and social standing (markaz). One could argue that Hariri's speech about the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque illustrated more than one of these techniques, to various degrees. In this view, Hariri's inaugural statement becomes part of what Gilsenan calls the “operations of power.” We can then understand his speech as being part of those practices of public power which require “many processes less immediate to sight.” In other words, Hariri’s speech is marked by such suggestive formulas, that it can be understood as a moderate and genuinely inclusive discourse but at the same time can come across as a forceful expression of communal leadership. This is not only true for his speech, it applies to the building itself as well. Exactly that communal identity and the leadership shown by Hariri through the construction of this major mosque is the object of my investigation in this book. More precisely, I want to examine how such communal leadership can be expressed architecturally.

In monographic format, I analyze how the Lebanese political actor Rafiq Hariri conducted one of his most significant political projects, namely his patronage of the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque in central Beirut. Tellingly, Hariri did so on top of the ruins of the civil war—literally and symbolically. He installed a congregational mosque in the middle of a sector reconstructed at his impetus—and often perceived as an exponent of capitalist power. By the 2010’s, however, several guidebooks on Beirut bore the mosque’s silhouette on their cover as the edifice had become the new image of the Lebanese capital. Nevertheless, the trajectory of this long-awaited prayer hall and its relationship to one of Lebanon’s best-known politicians often remains either ignored or distorted.

[…]

From Chapter Five, Section Two: Communal Monuments, Monumental Communities

[T]he recent drive to mark urban space in central Beirut sustainably with identity claims features two main characteristics: to display confessional belonging and class status in an assertive way. This quest for visibility, preferably as close as possible to the core of the city, is shared by many communities as virtually all of Lebanon’s confessional communities have developed monumental policies, at one time or another, over the past few centuries. In several ways, then, we can say that the community edifies a monument while at the same time, the monument also serves to establish the community, be it a social or a confessional one.

Making buildings matter politically and investing them with specific, easily-recognizable identity claims has been a phenomenon that accompanied the campaigns of urban reconstruction that emerged in the 1990’s and characterized Lebanon during the 2000’s. As has been amply documented, these urban reconstruction policies were largely inspired by a neoliberal discourse and a way of life that caters primarily to the needs of the wealthy. BCD has indeed become a shop sign for globalized luxury from which the pre-war urban tissue composed of small-scale traders and craftsmen has been entirely detached. The consequence of this dynamic has been the obliteration of informal structures that characterized the city center previously and the advent of a platform for powerful brands—commercial ones but also socio-political and religious ones—to nestle themselves in the resulting vacuum. Not only have the social and commercial roots been erased, the cultural roots of the city have had to give way too: archaeological remains, cinemas and theatres have disappeared and education facilities have been banned to secondary zones.

By contrast, religious architecture has been brought to the fore, perhaps in a gesture to galvanize the cooperation of religious authorities to the reconstruction project. Indeed it would appear as if the role of religious actors in the urban reality of Beirut has increased during the post-war period. Whereas religious buildings were more or less hidden and integrated into the urban fabric of pre-war Beirut they have been made more apparent and monumental after the reconstruction. It is the choice in favor of this type of urban development that allows the Muhammad al-Amin Mosque to erect and impose itself in the heart of BCD.

Bringing such religious architecture into the prominence of the urban landscape reveals a lot about the underlying modes of governance and the balance of power that has structured urban space in Beirut over the past decades. In particular does this race towards supreme visibility risk over-emphasizing certain facets of an identity while at the same time minimizing other factors of belonging. For example, does not the wish of monumental edification bear with it the risk of occulting other criteria of citizenship? Perhaps we must see in this manifestation of confessional monumentalism not so much an act of might and faith but rather an expression of the powerlessness of forces in society to promote alternative aspects of participation. What is certain is that this deliberate choice has major consequences for what is being shown and what remains hidden in Beirut.

For one thing, it seems that the very notion of a tolerant citizenship for all is being threatened by the ardent will to impose a socio-economic or a confessional format against any other odds. The self-affirmation of one single community, i.e. the Sunni and/one or the affluent one, risks pushing other communities (non-Sunni and/or less well-off) aside into the margins. By putting excessive importance on purchasing power and confessional identity the city center risks to ignore the shared experience of a human condition and joint membership in Lebanese society as a valid basis for structuring daily life. In this sense, the opulence and the towering dominance of the mosque come across as features of an edifice that, in spite of its ostentation, occults the impotence of a nation to promote civil rights and mutual aspirations as a common denominator to which a vast majority can subscribe by trying, instead, to impose its own, flawed ideal onto fellow citizens.

[…]

From Chapter Five, Section Three: Religious Architecture as Sites of Political Struggle

Political power in Lebanon can be analyzed through the prism of urban space. When examining the dialectic relationship of power through built fabric it is important to look into how power can be accomplished. Thus, exploring political dimensions of religious architecture requires more than a mere glance at the sum of the commissioner and the building. It entails a discussion about power and influence, about claims of identity and about balance and dominance, in short: about political power and how to express it. Conceiving of the mosque as a locus for power and politics supposes a setting where these practices of exchange and engagement take place. Urban space provides such a, often intensely negotiated field where all actors converge in confrontation within arenas as diverse as the particular parameters of a specific context.

Means of communication are multiple and go far beyond the uttering of words and phrases. They include several forms of non-verbal communication and often rely heavily upon visual recognition in order to convey a message. Architecture can be seen as one such way of expression. It has the potentiality to formulate values and tastes in a most tangible way. Unsurprisingly, all over the world and since time immemorial, religious buildings have been used and produced by rulers to express their devotion, to protect themselves as well as their followers from evil and/or to position themselves in relation to potential rivals.

Visual culture has become an essential part of political dynamics as image management and visual expression have gained unprecedented importance in politics. Therefore, we must familiarize ourselves with the idea of looking at power in novel and perhaps unexpected ways even though this may entail that we have to relocate power, i.e. we may have to reconsider the ways we think of and about power, in particular how and where it can be observed. Haugaard and Malesevic urge us to look at political power as being omnipresent and part of everyday life.

Power is all around us, part of the everyday, and hence invisible to the taken-for-granted natural attitude of social practice....Understanding power is about seeing in ways that are counter-intuitive.          

[Excerpted from Ward Vloeberghs, Architecture, Power, and Religion in Lebanon. Rafiq Hariri and the Politics of Sacred Space in Beirut, by permission of the author and publisher. © 2016 by Koninklijke Brill NV. For more information, or to purchase this book, click here.] 

Conference: AUB City Debates 2016: March 2-4

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The yearly City Debates conference is organized by the graduate programs in Urban Planning, Policy and Design (MUPP-MUD) at the American University of Beirut. This year's City Debates stems from a relational and multi-scalar understanding of urban policy as an assemblage of ideas and tools that circulate and transform. It seeks to examine how international aid promotes the mobility of urban policy ideas, and mobilizes a range of stakeholders, and technologies in the process. City Debates 2016 explores these questions by investigating two sets of urban policies: regional planning, and refugee policies. How is international aid promoting state rescaling, and an approach to urban planning which is decentralized, territorial, or regional? How is humanitarian aid conceiving refugee policies, and to what extent is it able to conceive them in dialogue with the local and urban scales, rather than generically? By analyzing case studies from across the world, with a focus on the Middle East region, City Debates contributes to critical reflection, and informed practice related to regional planning, and refugee-ness. The Debates also highlight the social and political opportunities that international aid may produce, when conceived in relation to inclusive urban and local governance dynamics, and when embedded in flexible institutional configurations that prioritize livability. 

City Debates 2016 program can be found below. For more information on speakers and topics of discussion, check City Debates website, and Facebook page

[City Debates 2016 is generously supported by a grant from the Middle East Centre at the LSE, as well as by the Faculty of Engineering and Architecture at AUB, the Institut Francais du Proche-Orient (IFPO), and The Embassy of Canada in Lebanon. City Debates 2016 is also an AUB 150th anniversary event] 

  


[Poster Design by Jana Traboulsi]



City Debates 2016: Urban Policy Mobilities and International Aid

Lessons from Regional Planning and Refugee Policies
2-4 March

Program:

Wednesday 2 March: Urban Policy Mobilities
5:15-5:45 Welcome Reception
5:45-6:00 Opening
Fadlo Khuri, President, American University of Beirut
Makram Suidan, Dean, Faculty of Engineering and Architecture
Mona Harb, Professor of Urban Studies and Politics, AUB

6:00-7:15 Keynote 1
Eugene McCann, Simon Fraser University: Crisis, Policy-Making, and ‘Crisis Urbanism’: A Policy Mobilities Perspective
> Discussant: Patrick Le Galès, Science Po Paris 


Thursday 3 March: Regional Planning Policies

9:30-10:00 Coffee
10:00-11:15 Keynote 2
Susan Parnell, University of Cape Town: Post-2015 Urban and Regional Planning Challenges for International Aid
> Discussant: Jihad Farah, Lebanese University

11:15-11:30 Coffee
11:30-1:00 Panel 1: Regionalization as a Policy Panacea?
Sylvia Bergh, Erasmus University: Advanced Regionalization and Local Governance Reforms in Morocco: What Role for International Donors?
Mona Harb and Yara Najem, American University of Beirut: Donors, Policy Mobilities, and Urban Politics: How is the European Union Transforming Planning (and Politics?) in Lebanon
Sami Yassine Turki, University of Carthage, and Ecole Nationale des Ingénieurs de Tunis: The Regional Issue in Post-Revolutionary Tunisia: Between People’s Aspirations, Impotency of the State, and International Cooperation Agencies’ Interventions
> Discussant: Antonio-Martin Porras Gomez, AUB

1:00-4:30 Lunch Break
4:30-6:00 Panel 2: Rescaling and Counter-Hegemonies
Seth Schindler, University of Sheffield: Urban Metabolic Conflicts in the Time of “Big Data”
Mustafa Kemal Bayirbag,
Middle-East Technical University: The Governance of Mobility: Contested Territoriality, Political Vacuum, and State Rescaling
Aude Signoles, IREMAM, Aix-en-Provence: States and Spaces of Politics: A Brief Presentation of the Debates on Decentralization after the Arab Uprisings
> Discussant: Serge Yazigi, ALBA

6:00-6:30 Coffee
6:30-8:00 Roundtable: Regional Planning and International Donors in Lebanon
This roundtable discusses prospects and challenges for regional planning in Lebanon, in light of plural initiatives to rescale spatial planning at the local and regional levels.
Aziz Hallaj and Giulia Guadagnoli (AUB); Ibrahim Chahrour (Council for Development and Reconstruction, Lebanon); Dima Sader (Economic and Social Fund for Development, Lebanon); Tarek Osseiran (UN-Habitat); Ramzi Naaman (World Bank); Jihad Farah (Lebanese University)
> Moderator: Sami Atallah, Lebanese Center for Policy Studies (LCPS)


Friday 4 March: Refugee Policies
9:30-10:00 Coffee
10:00-11:15 Keynote 3
Jennifer Hyndman
, York University/Harvard University: From War Zone to Safe City: Humanitarianism, Militarization, and Displacement
> Discussant: Nikolas Kosmatopoulos, AUB 

11:15-11:30 Coffee
11:30-1:00 Panel 3: Refugee Policies Paradigms and Limitations
Romola Sanyal and Jessy Nassar, London School of Economics & AUB: From Crisis to Opportunity: Collaboration and Planning for Syrian refugees and Lebanese Host Communities
Erica Harper, WANA, Jordan:  Towards Economic Resilience for Host Communities and Refugees: A Case Study Example of Industrial Development Planning from Jordan
Loren Landau and Caroline Kihato, Wits University: Stealth Humanitarianism? Politics, Precarity, and Performance Management in Protecting the Displaced in Urban Africa
> Discussant: Aline Rahbany, World Vision

1:00-2:30 Lunch Break
2:30-3:30 Panel 4: Living Refuge
Anita Fabos,
Clark University: Refugee NGOs, Social Networks and Urban Homemaking: Ethnographic Observations from Cairo
Kamel Dorai, IFPO-Amman: From Tents to Temporary Shelters: Coping Strategies with and Forms of Resistance to Constraining Settlement Policies of Refugees from Syria
> Discussant: Mona Kheshen, Independent Consultant

3:30-3:45 Coffee
3:45-4:45 Panel 5: From Humanitarian Global Strategy to Engaging the Local Context
Cathrine Brun, Oxford Brookes: There is No Future in Humanitarianism. Crisis, Ethics, and Temporality in Protracted Displacement
Mona Fawaz, American University of Beirut: Learning from Informal Settlements: Relief Strategies and Urban Resiliency
> Discussant: Giuliano Martiniello, AUB

4:45-5:00 Coffee
5:00-6:30 Roundtable: Refugee Policies in Lebanon
This roundtable discusses the multiple ongoing initiatives addressing the Syrian refugee crisis in Lebanon, focusing on attempts that seek to empower local and regional governments through providing services to host communities.
Rita Abou-Jaoudeh (MoSA/UNDP); Haneen El Sayyed (World Bank); Synne Bergby (UN-Habitat); Nasser Yassin and Yara Mrad (AUB-IFI); Filippo Ortolani (NRC); Daniel Delati (Care International); Rabih Shibli and Karim Najjar (AUB-CCECS, ArD)
> Moderator: Maha Shuayb, Center for Lebanese Studies 

6:30-6:45 Coffee
6:45-7:30 Closing Session: Reflections on Urban Policy Mobilities and International Aid
Jennifer Hyndman, Susan Parnell, Eugene McCann
> Closing comments: Mona Harb, Mona Fawaz, Romola Sanyal

 

(Auto)-Mobility in the Global Middle East (Part 1)

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They believe, O Tramway, that we are powerless against you and that we cannot do without you – MISTAKE – the automobiles are there and the oil too.
Listen to me, O Tramway; it’s too much even when you come and go empty. You’ve given the world a headache with your hooting and ringing.

You’d be better off giving in, or else it’s bankruptcy. 

Popular tram boycott song by Assad Hatta, sung during the Beirut tram boycott of 1931.[1]

 

Moving Towards (Auto)-Mobility?

The workshop “(Auto)-Mobility in the Global Middle East” was held at the Centre for Modern and Contemporary History at the University of Birmingham (UK) on Friday 6 November 2015. Driven by a varied set of premises, it aimed to survey the state of this emerging field of study, and evaluate future directions, in anticipation of a major conference, gathering original research, to be held in June 2016 in Birmingham. What follows below is an analytical summary of the workshop, placed into the context of the literature. It is written to equip interested readers with the main elements of the discussion that took place, and furnish an overview of some of the most exciting work currently being done in this field. In closing (in the second part of this essay to be published later), there is a set of provisional conclusions, and paths for further research, which it is hoped will stimulate further debate and act as an invitation to other researchers.

Among the premises for the workshop were the successive spatial and temporal turns in modern Middle Eastern history in recent years. These might be represented in the first instance by a work such as Jens Hanssen’s Fin-de-Siècle Beirut, written under the sign of Henri Lefebvre, and in the second by Vanessa Ogle’s book on the global history of time and temporal regimes, with its emphasis on the Middle East and South Asia as the “core of modern globality.” (Auto)-mobility as a field of study, we felt, might draw on the insights of these successive turns while developing a more synthetic spatio-temporal approach that seeks to account for the production of space in contexts of temporal heterogeneity.

A second premise was the recent efforts to move past an analytic focus in Middle East Studies on national states. Studies of individual countries have proved exceptionally enduring, in part due to the resilience of organizing metropole-colony binaries in studies of the colonial era, and in part due to the influence on the field of policy-oriented disciplines that pre-suppose (and fail to problematize) national country units. Work such as Cyrus Schayegh’s on cross-border narcotics smuggling, or Andrew Arsan’s on Lebanese diaspora political culture in West Africa have helped to pave the way in this respect, identifying the uneven layering of sovereigntyin border and urban zones, or its networked articulation along migratory pathways. Indeed forms of migratory and cross-border mobility offer a productive means of interrogating national-state focused analysis, and of thinking more regionally and even globally, while still acknowledging the rising force of nationalist political logics in the twentieth century. The establishment of new journals such as Mashriq and Mahjar: Journal of Middle East Migration Studies, or one university press’s recent decision to launch a series of books on the “Global Middle East” are symptomatic of the appeal of such approaches.

But, notwithstanding the merit of these advances, a third premise emerged precisely from a critique of approaches to Middle Eastern migratory and diaspora mobility. Rarely, we felt, have such studies devoted attention to the apparatuses of mobility themselves—what Cotten Seiler has called, drawing on Foucault, a ‘“multilinear ensemble” of commodities, bodies of knowledge, laws, techniques, institutions, environments, nodes of capital, sensibilities and modes of perception.” Studies of migratory and regional mobility have in this sense remained wedded to a largely spatial and networked interpretive framework, in which what Sudhir Chella Rajan calls the ‘”mammoth social institution”’ of (auto)-mobility has remained largely submerged.[2]

This is not to say that sociological and historical studies of (auto)-mobility have not flourished, produced both by scholars of the Middle East writing in Arabic, Turkish etc., and by urban historians, historical sociologists, and anthropologists writing in many languages on various areas around the world. A fourth premise of the workshop was therefore simply to take stock, to evaluate these diverse approaches to (auto)-mobility, and to discover which ones a study of Middle Eastern (auto)-mobility might profitably work with or contest. The tradition of Saudi Arabian criminology focused on road violence is just one example of work done in the region. And, the growing literature devoted to the “car system” and its urban, social and cultural history, exemplified by Simon Gunn, Emma Rothschild, John Urry and Joel Wolfe, is just one sub-section of an increasingly global field. Indeed, historians of economic development, of capitalism and of colonial rule have all recently contributed important studies of (auto)-mobility, as attested by the varied work done by Josh Grace on cars and the politics of development in Tanzania, Jennifer Hart’s investigation of Ghanaian motorization and labor politics, Saima Akhtar’s work on Ford’s corporate perceptions of the Middle East, and Stephanie Ponsavady’s work on aspects of auto-mobility in colonial Indochina. 

Meanwhile, literary and cultural scholars such as Enda Duffy and Ricarda Vidal have continued to engage with the quintessential modernist experience of motorized speed, while Lee Jared Vinsel is brilliantly examining speed’s constant familiar, the car crash, and its haunting cast of extras, including (male) test dummies and laboratory animals. These diverse and proliferating efforts, anchored in various disciplinary frameworks, have found one expression in the development of (auto)-mobility studies as a distinct sub-discipline, with its own journals and conferences, one formalised by Gijs Mom, Mimi Sheller and others through the critique of more traditional modes of transport history and indeed economic history.

The workshop therefore combined a core of Middle East Studies scholars, primarily in history and anthropology, with others working on Britain, the US and elsewhere. We explicitly favoured an “inter-modal” approach, with concurrent, antagonistic and segregated forms of mobility assessed together. Walkers, (motor)-cyclists, loiterers, town planners, the road beneath the rubber, and even the juxtaposed portraits of saints and offspring bobbling on taxi dashboards—all found roles in the discussion.

Overall, we aimed to grasp and start to build on the state of the art, and to dispense with older narratives of the motorcar’s Whiggish rise from aristocrat’s “toy” to popular “tool.” We also sought to retain a sociologically and anthropologically informed focus on dynamics of legitimation and domination, rather than succumb to complacent metaphors of circulation and networked arterial proliferation, or merely rehearse the Middle East’s established strategic role in maintaining oil scarcity and contributing to carbon-democraticpolitics.
 

Beyond Diffusionism and Domination by Machines?

Framing comments by Simon Jacksonset out the points above. He also emphasized the influence of Heideggerian perspectives on the sociology of mobility, and the longstanding preoccupation in studies of (auto)-mobility with the domination and discipline exercised by machines over people. Historians have systematically contrasted the illusions and utopias the car system has fostered with the realities of anomie, indebtedness, pollution, checkpoints, tolls and all-purpose subjection that it has instead entrenched. As Cotton Seiler neatly encapsulates the Frankfurt strand of this analytic tradition: “need it be said that by all evidence Adorno refused to learn to drive?” [3]

But more recently scholars such as Shane Hamilton and Seiler himself have stepped away from these binaries by looking at the ways (auto)-mobility as a dispositif fostered and built new subjectivities and ideologies of aggressive freedom. In Hamilton’s account these emerged through the rise of neo-liberal, de-unionized economy and big box retail as permitted by long distance truck haulage, but in this vein we might equally investigate comprador capitalism focused on automobile imports as a flexible, mediating juridical-political system.

One way to historicize and develop this promising critique, Jackson suggested, is to pay attention to the reality of ‘roads not taken’ in the past, such as the late 1970s perception that China was on the brink of becoming the first post-automobile and post-oil country in history.[4]

A second might be to disaggregate the standard binary of personal and collective vehicle ownership and to attend instead to types of shared and improvised (auto)-mobility, and the way different life-worlds form around the same technological artefacts. Such disaggregation could be synchronic, for instance in the case of Cairo parking entrepreneurs, or diachronic, for example in the case of the trans-Mediterranean car recycling networks currently studied by Yann-Philippe Tastevin or the Fordist circulations between the US and Persia currently studied by Nile Green.[5]

A third possibility is to attend to forms of mobility in times of emergency and transformed norms—military occupation, armed attack, states of emergency, natural disaster, and even civil war as in Hady Zaccak’s film Marcedes. How do such scenarios alter practices of (auto)-mobility and the affective, sensorial dynamics intermeshed with them? 

Lucie Ryzova underlined these opening speculations with the salutary reminder that a critical approach to Middle Eastern (auto)-mobility ought to seek ways to counter and upend conventional diffusionist accounts of the spread of motorized transport outwards from the North Atlantic world to gradually encompass the globe. Rather than a model of liberal pluralism in which various regions contribute “their” (auto)-mobility stories to a global mosaic, or in which pioneering drivers—often royal, as in Alaa al Aswany’s recent novel on the automobile club of Egypt—tackle ‘new terrain’ in the Middle East at the wheel of a Ford or Rolls, we must look at the dynamic interplay of multiple (auto)-mobilities and vernacular modernities.
 

Private Cars on National Roads?

The first panel navigated between a trio of regional cases from Morocco, Egypt and Saudi Arabia, interrogating the connections—or lack thereof—between very different histories of (auto)-mobility, and thereby encouraging reflection on the uses of “Middle East” as an analytical category and pre-supposed descriptive term. All three papers, in different ways, posed the question of the relationship between the power and spatial imaginaries of colonial or national states as they engaged with and worked to legitimate (auto)-mobility, and the complex social appropriations of the car system from below. Pascal Ménoret gave the opening paper, titled “Learning from Riyadh: Joyriding, Infrastructure, and Politics.” Speaking precisely twenty-five years after forty-seven women drove down ‘Ulaya Avenue in Riyadh, prompting an ongoing ban on women driving, Ménoret emphasized the wealth of knowledge Saudi scholars have produced on this topic over several decades, partly in response to the regulatory and coercive measures governing Saudi mobility. He gave a history of utopian and neoliberal urban planning in the Middle East and South Asia after World War Two, with its pretention to create legible, vehicle-based Islamic cities of the future, and in which the main destinations were to be mall and mosque. He then described the dynamics of joyriding (tafheet) in Riyadh, with its predominantly young, unemployed men operating forms of “demonstrative escape” at the wheel of ordinary Hyundais. Extraordinary control of the vehicle and ordinary contestation of police authority are performed in nascent suburban carscapes—and mediated, he added, by internet videos made in genres including aestheticized instances of ‘crash porn’.

Working with a concept of “abuse value” Ménoret noted that for the joyriders he studied, speed did not correlate with power and that comparison to other joyriding “carscapes,” such as the streets of Belfast in Northern Ireland, was a promising avenue of further research. Importantly, against a liberal-diffusionist model of automobility featuring more or less early/late adopting countries or regions, Ménoret instead proposed a convincing spatial interrelationship: the interplay of empire, capitalism and expertise in an interconnected global “carscape,” a term with Appaduraian connotations. He also advanced a heuristic chronological distinction between colonial (auto)-mobility, in which cars could become an aspect of anti-colonial activism in the Middle East (during tram boycotts for instance), and imperial (auto)-mobility, in the era of the Cold War, when the region became an “Empire of Drivers.” 

In a second paper Frédéric Abécassis discussed “The Creation of the Moroccan Road Network: A History.” But, prefacing his remarks on Morocco, and recalling Ménoret’s comparative efforts, he explained the genesis of his research in a prior comparative project on traffic safety in Egypt and in France. Here he drew on his own observations as a cyclist in Cairo, during the growing state effort in the early 1990s to segregate urban transport and sponsor suburbanization. In this period highways spread, flanked by billboards that subsidized road construction and that showed glossy images of fantasy lifestyles in the new suburbs. Abécassis noted the way Cairo's roads refused to align with these plans; instead they became a sphere of intensifying social conflict and of the bricolage of access points and local modifications to rework spatial segregation. Importantly, he offered a heuristic distinction between three successive but also (at times) parallel modes of social domination on the roads: a traditional form based on inertia and social precedence in which (auto)-mobility was hedged in by the performance of class status (vehicles preceded by servants for instance); a charismatic mode in which the motorist acts as pasha, skilled pilot, and middle class effendiyya engineer; and finally a bureaucratic mode of domination based on surveillance, internalization of norms and moralizing governmentality. Abécassis observed that his research had frequently been obstructed by official concern, against the backdrop of rising levels of mortality on Egypt’s roads in the 1990s, that he was blackening the country’s international reputation. 

Pivoting to Morocco here, he argued persuasively against metaphors of organic circulation in the analysis of road traffic, preferring to focus on the contested legitimation of social hierarchy through a study of decisions to expand the Moroccan network across the twentieth century. Here again state plans met contestation and appropriation. Abécassis noted the pre-colonial distinction that existed between triq as-sultan roads, protected by the Makhzen, and local mule roads—triq al-hammara—on which a local escort—ztata—was a constitutive aspect of travel. Citing important work by Moroccan scholars including Mohamed Sijelmassi and Abdelahad Sebti, Abécassis noted the colonial effort to expand imperial control and foster settler agriculture through road building, in the quest to constitute a “useful Morocco.”[6] Indeed the road network launched by Lyautey fashioned a landscape newly available to the touristic gaze in the interwar period, and helped assert a paradigmatic colonial dualism of archaic, indigenous stillness and high speed European modernity. Trans-regional connections between the Atlantic port cities of Rabat and Casablanca and the imperial military bastion of Algeria proved equally important in determining French road-building decisions in the Protectorate. Indeed, increasingly in this period the only “passenger” taking the train in the Protectorate was phosphate rock, traveling to the ports from mines at Khouribga and elsewhere.

Crucially, aspects of these colonial strategies were continued by the national authorities after independence. As in Saudi Arabia and Egypt, where royal families acted as cheerleaders for and advertisers of automobile use as part of national orders, in Morocco royal authority was lent to trans-Rif road-building in the period after 1956, as part of an effort to expand the road network so as to secure the national territory or even, as in the case of Western Sahara, expand it. By the 1990s and the time of IMF-led retrenchment, Abécassis noted, motorways with private concessions for toll-collection had made their appearance, creating parallel and relatively sealed highways, even as rural villages often failed to obtain tarmac local roads, finding themselves disconnected from the wider network.

In the final paper of the session David Sims turned back to Egypt with a paper on “The Private Car in Greater Cairo.” Sims documented the triumphant rise of the private car on the roads of Cairo, despite its obvious inefficiency and reservation for the wealthier classes inspired by Gulf and American lifestyles. Sims also noted the role of law in arbitrating formality and informality on Cairo roads and the “battle” between dedicated “car roads” and multi-use “general roads” in and around the metropolis. He further emphasized the relationship to law as crucially constitutive of everyday mobility practices and attendant hierarchies—woe betide the policeman who stops the son of a powerful government official for speeding. He also underlined the intimate knowledge required to navigate informal space, including parking spaces, which are an important commodity operated by the sayes parking guards: veritable entrepreneurs of (im)mobility. 

Drawing on his cross-disciplinary experience as urbanist, economist and consultant, Sims explained the successive general plans to alter Cairo’s layout and reduce density, and dwelt on the role of software-generated imagery in the subtending imaginaries of such plans. Explaining the political hegemony of car-based suburbanization, even as the Cairo metro network expands at snail’s pace, he noted the power of the car firms, banks, import agents (e.g. Ghabour Autos) and construction businesses that make up the compradorial car lobby, pointing out that the easily repossessed car made it a preferred loan vehicle for banks chary of mortgage lending but keen to capitalize on urban living.

Though integrated national vehicle production did take place in the nationalizing economic space of Nasser’s Egypt, at Al-Nasr automotive, contemporary production is instead organized around the massive arrival of cheap Chinese motorbikes and, in a return of 1920s practice, of Egyptian quasi-manufacturing (assembly) of pre-fabricated car kits by foreign brands, thus allowing for the avoidance of import duty. Sims also explored the class politics of driving for women in Cairo—in Sims’ shorthand “the hannem factor”—for whom the private car is both a performative stage and an instrument of class privilege, as well as a means of avoiding public transport that is considered disrespectable. He closed by noting that cycling in Cairo had become a polarized activity in class-terms, engaged in either by working class delivery boys or by middle class enthusiasts militating to reclaim road space. 

Responding to the panel, Shane Hamilton raised some key conceptual questions, asking whether Ménoret’s idea of “abuse value” was a type of de-fetishization and de-abstraction of the automobile, or simply an alternative form of use value. More generally he wondered to what extent an analysis of automobility as a means of depoliticization must still seek out and describe politics—for instance, in Egypt should the ability of the state to impose the preferences of the five percent of households that own private cars be seen as dysfunction or as a type of “effective” if highly unjust action? In addition, meditating on the trope of the “open road,” he made the first of several comparisons to emerge in the day between (auto)-mobility and its subjectivity in the US and in the Middle East, taking the two as commensurable and delimited geographical and analytical units with distinct if related histories. The politics of comparison, and the categories of analysis required to critique standard diffusionist accounts of the rise of (auto)-mobility were thereby placed on the table, and would recur in the second part of the workshop.

[This is Part 1 of a two-part article. To access Part 2, click here.] 


[1]Centre des Archives Diplomatiques (Nantes, France), Fonds Beyrouth, Premier Versement-Cabinet Politique, Dossiers de Principe 1920-1941, Carton 378, Sociétés Concessionaires, Sureté Report, No. 1387, 11 April 1931. Popular boycott song by Assad Hatta. See Simon Jackson, Mandatory Development: the Global Politics of Economic Development in the Colonial Middle East, manuscript in progress.
[2] Cotton Seiler, Republic of Drivers. A Cultural History of Automobility in America (Chicao: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 5-6.
[3] Ibid, 143.
[4] Atle Midttun and Nina Witoszek, eds., Energy and Transport in Green Transition: Perspectives on Ecomodernity (London: Routledge, 2015), 143.
[5] Nile Green, "Fordist Connections: The Automotive Integration of the United States and Persia", Comparative Studies in Society and History (forthcoming).
[6] Mohamed Sijelmassi, La C.T.M., Epopée des transports au Maroc (Casabanca: éditions Oum, 1999); Abdelahad Sebti, Bayn al ztât wa qâta‘ al tariq, amn al turuq fe Maghrab ma qabl al isti‘mâr (Casablanca, éditions Dar al Toubkal, 2009). 

 

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