Olivewood Ties - Graduate Thesis Report

OLIVEWOOD TIES

Rooting peace and healing in the divided landscape of Israel/Palestine

Samantha Miller

LARC 598 / GP2

2022-2023

Supervisor: Fionn Byrne

Committee Members: Izzeddin Hawamda, Justin-Benjamin Taylor, Nada Awadi

Submitted in partial fulfillment for the Master of Landscape Architecture, School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture, University of British Columbia.

Olivewood Ties

Rooting peace and healing in the divided landscape of Israel/Palestine.

By: Samantha Miller

Bachelor

of

Environmental Design (Landscape and Urbanism), University of Manitoba, 2020.

Submitted in partial fulfillment for the Master of Landscape Architecture, School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture, University of British Columbia.

Supervisor: Fionn Byrne

The University of British Columbia May 2022 ©

* Trigger Warning *: This content deals with matters relating to traumas such as genocide and displacement, as well as war/conflict, and mourning/loss.

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ABSTRACT

Past and present peace negotiations have failed to propel Israelis and Palestinians to coexistence and liberation. These nations have conflicting collective narratives that make it challenging to accept the legitimacy of the other’s right to exist. Furthermore, physical barriers to peace, such as the nearly 800-kilometre separation barrier, erode possibilities for interaction and human connection. This academic endeavour challenges the myth that peace and war are binary and cannot exist simultaneously. Upon the acceptance that the consequences of war are sociocultural and spatial, we can begin navigating a spatial strategy for peacebuilding. Both groups share a deep-rooted love and respect for the land they call home or dream of one day returning to. Because of this, these communities have enmeshed realities, and their futures are both tied to each other and the land.

Olivewood Ties investigates how landscape can be a peacebuilding mechanism in the divided context of Israel/Palestine. Presently and historically, trees in Israel/Palestine were proxy soldiers, employed in warfighting, land acquisition, and nation-building. If trees and flora were instead proxy peacebuilders, what implications do different landscape design strategies possess and moreover, what opportunities do they offer as a mechanism toward healing and unity? This project aims to reveal the faces of perseverance, the activist groups who unite Israelis and Palestinians, and the trees who bore witness to the tears of suffering and celebration of liberation.

Front Matter

Abstract

Contents

List of Figures

Acknowledgments

Positionality + Disclaimer

Introduction

Part 1: Diaspora & Manifestations of Rootedness

Diaspora

The Wall

The Pine and the Olive

Literature Review and Methods

Literature Review

Landscapes are Peacebuilding Mechanisms Methods Precedent Studies

and Counter Stories Story 01: Displacement / Mourn

02: Disruption / Unity

03: Uproot / Root

Fig. 1. Olive Trees outside of Al-Aqsa Mosque, Jerusalem, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 2. Two Cupressus sempervirens in Jerusalem, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 3. Hebron, the home of Abraham, Issac and Jacob, 1899, Israeli Archives. Public Domain.

Fig. 4. Map of current legal/de facto borders in Israel/Palestine using Google Earth imagery as a base, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 5. Overlooking Masada, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 6. Concept diagram, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 7. Map of wall and checkpoints, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 8. A section of the West Bank separation barrier in Bethlehem, April 2009, Daniel Case, Public Domain.

Fig. 9. Israeli West Bank barrier near Jerusalem, September 2010, Antoine Taveneaux, Public Domain.

Fig. 10. Diagram of the Green Line and the Wall, Samantha Miller.

Map of Separation Barrier, surrounding political and ecological contexts, and land use index chart, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 11. Map of Separation Barrier and surrounding political and ecological contexts, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 12. JNF blue boxes, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 13. View from Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 14. Drawing of sample 101 from land use index showing pine habitat and relationships, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 15. Olive trees near Nablus, 2022, Izzeddin Hawamda.

Fig. 16. Drawing of sample 20 from land use index showing olive habitat and relationships, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 17. Planting scheme axo sketches, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 18. Planting scheme axo sketches, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 19. Location of precedents, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 20. Freedom Park in Salvokop, Pretoria, September 2013, Leo za1. Public Domain.

Fig. 21. Isivivani - Freedom Park. Pretoria, South Africa, June 2011, Shosholoza. Public Domain.

Fig. 22. Freedom Park, Salvokop, Pretoria , September 2013, Leo za1. Public Domain.

Fig. 23. The Walled Off Hotel by Banksy in Bethlehem, West Bank, March 2017, Addy Cameron-Huff. Public Domain.

Fig. 24. The segregation wall in front of the walled off hotel, May 2017, no author. Public Domain.

Fig. 25. Banksy mural of Palestinian and Israeli solider having a pillow fight painted in one of the hotel rooms (by Walled Off Hotel, n.d.)

Fig. 26. Stepped amphitheatre using marble retrieved from nearby doorsteps, 2007, Karl Linn.

Fig. 27. Community members actively engaging in collecting and preparing salvaged materials, post construction, and making music while construction occurred, 2007, Karl Linn.

Fig. 28. Completed project with stepped amphitheatre and play area, 2013, Anna Goodman.

Fig. 29. Map of three intervention sites atop locations of forests and olive groves, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 30. Map of location of olive groves and pine forests, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 31. Khirbet Zakariyya before the Nakba, Palestine Remembered.

Fig. 32. Attack on Khirbet Zakariyya, Israeli Archives. Public Domain.

Fig. 33. Hill where Khirbet Zakariyya was, Hasan Hawari.

Fig. 34. Officer from 1948 drinking from well, Israeli Archives. Public Domain.

Fig. 35. Stones left behind, 2007, Noga Kadman.

Fig. 36. Map of destroyed villages and forests, with story 01, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 37. Context and access map for Story 01, using Google Earth Imagery as a base, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 38. Full site plan showing clearly marked gardens in the footprints of destroyed homes, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 39. Full site section, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 40. Zoomed-in plan of one of the footprint gardens, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 41. A place to witness the mourning of others, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 42. Moving rubble to make gardens becomes an act of acknowledging and making space for mourning, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 43. Perspective of one of the marked home gardens in Ben Shemen Forest, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 44. Files on no man’s land, 1948, Israeli Archives. Public Domain.

Fig. 45. Files on Oasis of Peace, 1993, Israeli Archives. Public Domain.

Fig. 46. Greek aircraft helping in firefighting efforts, 2016, Avi Ben Zaken. Public Domain.

Fig. 47. Firefighting plane near Nataf, 2016, Ronen Zvulun.

Fig. 48. Palestinian firefighters aid in firefighting, 2016, Lior Mizrahi/Getty Images. Public Domain.

Fig. 49. Map of national burning index and forests, with story 02, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 50. Context and access map for Story 02, using Google Earth Imagery as a base, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 51. Full site plan of story 02, showing program spaces for community building in No man’s land, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 52. Gathering space with dense conifers on edge for privacy, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 53. Prayer area facing Mecca and the Western Wall, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 54. Community garden for growing food together, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 55. Cutting burnt trees to build infrastructure or clearing them for space, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 56. Space to eat and gather facilitates cross cultural celebration and dialogue, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 57. Beit Jala residents protest wall, 2016, Ryan Beiler/Activestills.

Fig. 58. Uprooting olives, 2015, Sarit Michaeli.

Fig. 59. Map of violence rings and olive groves, with story 03, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 60. Context and access map for Story 03, using Google Earth Imagery as a base, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 61. List of protected species under Israeli Law that are suitable for the site, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 62. Full site plan of story 03 showing planted terraces through the plans for the wall, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 63. Section through site showing existing olive groves and proposed terraces, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 64. Planting plan of protected species, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 65. Section through terraces, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 66. Moving plants as a guerrilla planting effort to protect Palestinian land sovereignty, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 67. Perspective of story 03, to maintain a sense of rootedness for occupied Palestinians in Beit Jala, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 68. Connection to olive tree you cannot reach, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 1. Olive Trees outside of Al-Aqsa Mosque, Jerusalem, Samantha Miller.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I was born and raised in Treaty 1 territory in what is now known as Winnipeg, Manitoba. These lands are the traditional and ancestral territories of the Anishinaabeg, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene Peoples and the homeland of the Métis Nation. I recognize that the lands in which I grew up were shaped by these Nations.

Now, I live in so-called Vancouver, on the traditional and unsurrendered territories of the xʷməθkʷəyəm (Musqueam), Sḵwxwú7mesh (Squamish), and Selílwitulh (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations. I am studying at the University of British Columbia, which is a colonial institution sitting on the traditional and unsurrendered territory of the xʷməθkʷəyəm (Musqueam) Nation. These Nations have experienced and continue to experience active colonization, genocide, and dispossession. I recognize that I have personally benefitted from this dispossession. I am committed not to simply acknowledging the Nations of these territories but to understanding, that acknowledgment is an active dedication to decolonization.

Thank you to my friends and family for supporting me in any way possible throughout my academic journey. I appreciate your open-mindedness and sensitivity to this difficult topic. Nick, thank you for being my rock and for teaching me something new every day. Thank you to my friends at رسج/Bridge/ רׁשג, to whom I owe the inspiration for this project. Izzeddin, Sam, Karen, Micaela, Zhila, Leah, Muhammed, Berrigan, Ademola, Frances, Allan, Joanna, Loraine, and Tali – your honesty, empathy, and compassion lifted me and changed my world. A special thanks to my committee members: Izzeddin (Izzy) Hawamda for your encouragement, support, and ability to make beautiful words out of an ugly conflict. It is an honour to work with you. JB and Nada, your encouragement and patience as we worked through best practices and approaches to narrative and design thinking were paramount in the success of this project. To my advisor, Fionn, thank you for pushing me to be rigorous and attentive, but allowing me to express myself in this project. Your knowledge, passion for landscape architecture, and dedication to this project inspired me to test the limits of this work.

For Saba

This project is dedicated to my late Saba, Yoram. A beloved family man, carpenter/ builder/fixer of all things, and soldier. With every word I write, I think of you.

Fig. 2. Two Cupressus sempervirens in Jerusalem, Samantha Miller.

POSITIONALITY & DISCLAIMER

A large portion of my identity is shaped by my heritage– my roots stemming from a land filled with conflict, displacement, and intergenerational trauma. Half of my ancestors did not survive the atrocities of the Holocaust; those who survived struggled to make a place in the world that didn’t accept them. One who immigrated to Canada, and my first cousin is named for, lived his life as a hoarder, afraid that he would lose everything again. Antisemitism is very much alive and on the rise worldwide.

I have privileges as an Israeli citizen that Palestinians do not, such as the ability to visit, move, and speak freely. While I cannot access certain zones under Palestinian jurisdiction, my access to Israel is expedited. My friends and family in Israel and Palestine endlessly fear for their lives, in and out of bomb shelters, while I only worry from the comfort of my own home, never having feared being displaced. I am a member of a small dialogue group called Bridge, comprised partly of Jews and Palestinians. In that space, I have learned the importance of dialogue, understanding, and listening to each other’s stories and narratives. I learned that there is more that unites us than divides us. It is a privilege to have those conversations, engage in activism, and write this graduate project in Canada without fear of persecution.

As I write this graduate project, a constant existential battle occurs in my mind. Professors and classmates have told me I am somewhat optimistic. I am not naive or overly optimistic. I understand my family, my friends, and my own reality. I have seen peace, and I have felt the consequences of war. I know my words are universalist messages of hope. The conflict is internationalized, and I am playing a part. I know I am suitable to play a part, even if it is just optimism. I do not pretend to understand the lived experience of those who are occupied, but through this project I will listen.

I want to be clear that this project is a love letter to my country. The land that many people and myself feel deeply connected to. The olive groves, the fruit trees, rolling hills, and valleys are part of me. It is because of my connection and love for this land that I wish to see it progress. I think of my family, my friends, and my friend’s family who do not deserve to live in fear or occupation. I think of future generations who deserve peace and liberation.

Fig. 3. Hebron, the home of Abraham, Issac and Jacob, 1899, Israeli Archives. Public Domain.

Introduction

In the contested landscape of Israel and Palestine, populated by communities with conflicting narratives, storytelling and placemaking plays a critical role in peacebuilding and mediating political tension. This project will study methods in landscape architecture that may reveal connections, stories, differences, and similarities embedded in the fabric of the landscape. While the Israeli-Palestinian situation is immensely complicated, this project takes a land-based approach to mediating what is ultimately a conflict rooted in the land. We are perpetually disappointed when we put our faith in politicians to facilitate conflict resolution. These past and present attempts at peace have created a landscape of estrangement through the construction of a ‘separation barrier,’ checkpoints, separate roads, and by using trees to fight wars or root oneself in the landscape. These divisive strategies not only divide the land but also divides those who inhabit it. Attempts at political peace to date are keeping everyone in a zero-sum game. No community’s freedom, liberation, and safety should come at the expense of another’s.

Israelis and Palestinians experience intergenerational trauma caused by centuries of persecution, displacement, islamophobia and antisemitism. Past social trauma, such as the experience of diaspora, fosters a distrust of others, a collective identity formed around victimhood, and bolsters us-versus-them thinking.1 A drastic mind shift happens when community members engage in humanizing dialogue and begin listening to each other’s narratives. We start to realize that our grief is the same grief. Storytelling and prioritizing discussion of personal, present experiences of the conflict increases empathy and intergroup acceptance in Israeli-Palestinian dialogues.2 These communities deserve a safe physical space that invites conversation, reflection, and storytelling. The manipulation of physical space can tell a story of deep love for the land, whether you live

there now or dream of returning one day. In Peacebuilding and Spatial Transformation: Peace, Space and Place (2017), Annika Björkdahl and Stefanie Kappler affirm:

“Spaces of war can be transformed into spaces of peace– and vice versa. Places therefore always hold the possibility of hosting spaces that reinforce division or that challenge and overcome the latter. It is the forms of agency that develop around a particular place that determine its social meanings and functions.”3

-Annika Björkdahl and Stefanie Kappler

Moreover, this project is a dialogue in and of itself. By approaching this topic with empathy at the forefront, we start to see the conflict through a new lens. We open the floor for discussions on the cultural symbolism of trees, the landscape manifestations of rootedness after diaspora, being willing to open oneself to new and challenging narratives, and the landscape practices of warfighting or peacebuilding.

Traumatic experiences of diaspora that both Israelis and Palestinians experience fosters a desire for rootedness. To feel safe, secure, and liberated in the land. Our futures are threads that are now and forever entangled with one another. Perhaps the strongest thread is the one that runs deep into the landscape and ties us to it. In this way, the landscape is common ground. While it may be politicized and divided, the landscape is unprejudiced. The air we breathe is the same air, the water’s flow is unrestricted by borders, and the olive trees that grow on both sides are symbols of peace, truth, steadfastness, and perseverance. Olive trees take decades to produce fruit and can only be cultivated after enduring long-lasting stability, making their designation as a peace symbol properly ironic in this land.4 Olive cultivation and the use of charred olivewood in construction are traced back in this land likely to the Early Bronze Age.5 In Apeirogon: A Novel, author Colum McCann writes:

“In his first century B.C. treatise De Architectura, Vitruvius Pollio said that all walls which require a deep foundation- from barriers to huge wooden defence towers- should be joined together with charred olive ties. Olive wood does not decay even if buried in the earth or placed deep in water.”6

- Colum McCann

The olive tree, representing steadfastness for Palestinians and their territorial claim to Israel/Palestine, is paralleled with the symbolic importance of the pine tree for Israelis. The pine tree came to symbolize Jewish rootedness in the landscape because of the Jewish National Fund: Israel’s intermediary for land acquisition and prime afforestation agency. It is precisely because of the pine and the olive’s metaphorical rootedness in the landscape that they were natural proxy-soldiers, proxy-nation-builders, and easy targets. Pine forests are often located atop destroyed Palestinian villages and are often victims of arson attacks. Olive trees have been uprooted to make way for watchtowers, checkpoints, and the separation barrier.

The 708-kilometer built separation barrier that divides Israel and the West Bank is the physical manifestation of tension, division, and a desire for rootedness and security. The construction of borders is often used to keep unjust systems frozen in space and time and to maintain power imbalances.7 The wall has tattered opportunities and destroyed physical spaces for human connection and dialogue between both groups, and “exacerbated the conflict and contributed to the emergence of a segregated landscape.”8 Traversing agricultural land and desert, pine forests and olive groves, dividing cities and surrounding settlements, the wall epitomizes Israel’s endeavour to exert power and territoriality and practice the act of enclosure.

For Israelis, the wall symbolizes security, strength, and defence. For Palestinians, the wall symbolizes

theft, occupation, and an unreachable statehood. Symbolism, however, does not change the fact that children grow up in these landscapes shaped by conflict in a home shadowed by a concrete wall. The construction of the separation wall uprooted hundreds of hectares of olive trees9 and made many olive groves inaccessible for cultivation and care. Three sites for intervention at the separation wall will study relationships in a divided landscape and the roles trees and spacemaking play in peacebuilding. The olive tree will guide the design process as a statue of strength, a symbol of peace, and reinforce ties to each other and the land.

“The world I was born into, the one I grew up in, made no sense. Surrounded by such beauty: the land full of rolling hills, green pastures, clear streams, and strong olive trees, the community full of welcoming neighbours who became extended family, the sun, the rain, the animals on the farm. That is home. Also surrounded by: armed soldiers, giant military tanks, stolen land, homes destroyed, a 25-foot wall preventing the freedom to travel, daily checkpoints, ID checks on the way to school, death, sadness, anger. That, too, is home. In reflecting back I am acutely aware of my desire to make sense of the dichotomy in which I existed.”10

– Izzeddin Hawamda

Fig. 4. Map of current legal/de facto borders in Israel/Palestine using Google Earth imagery as a base, Samantha Miller.

Endnotes

1. Julia Chaitin and Shoshana Steinberg, “”You should Know Better”: Expressions of Empathy and Disregard among Victims of Massive Social Trauma,” Journal of Aggression, Maltreatment & Trauma 17, no. 2 (2008): 205.

2. Ella Ben Hagai, Phillip L. Hammack, Andrew Pilecki, and Carissa Aresta, “Shifting Away from a Monolithic Narrative on Conflict: Israelis, Palestinians, and Americans in Conversation,” Peace and Conflict 19, no. 3 (2013): 298.

3. Annika Björkdahl and Stefanie Kappler, Peacebuilding and Spatial Transformation: Peace, Space and Place, 1st ed, London: Routledge, 2017, 138.

4. Rami Sarafa, “Roots of Conflict: Felling Palestine’s Olive Trees,” Harvard International Review 26, no. 1 (2004): 13.

5. Nili Liphschitz et al, “The Beginning of Olive (Olea Europaea) Cultivation in the Old World: A Reassessment,” Journal of Archaeological Science 18, no. 4 (1991): 450.

6. Colum McCann, Apeirogon: A Novel, First ed, New York: Random House, 2020, 170-171.

7. Björkdahl and Kappler, 143.

8. Silvia Hassouna, “Spaces for Dialogue in a Segregated Landscape: A Study on the Current Joint Efforts for Peace in the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict,” Conflict Resolution Quarterly, vol. 34, no. 1, 2016, pp. 57-82.

9. Gary Fields, “Landscaping Palestine: Reflections of Enclosure in a Historical Mirror,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 42, no. 1, 2010, 75.

10. Izzeddin Hawamda. Quote derived from a text exchange in September 2022, with permission granted for this purpose. Izzeddin is a teacher, activist, Ph.D. candidate, poet, storyteller, and dear friend of mine. He co-founded the IsraeliPalestinian Dialogue group, Bridge, of which I am a part. Growing up in a rural village near Nablus in the West Bank, Izzy offers an invaluable perspective that he manages to put into words in eloquent poetry and stories.

Part 1: Diaspora & Manifestations of Rootedness

“Individual members of groups in conflict with one another are in fact profoundly defined by the conflict itself, meaning that resolution of the conflict means removing a — if not the — definitive aspect of group members’ shared identity.”1 –

Ingrid Anderson

I am a Jewish person with Israeli citizenship who grew up in a very one-sided milieu, view of history, and education on the conflict. While I have expanded my worldview to become as neutral as possible, I am still biased. In this section, I attempt to summarize some of the histories and narratives that set the context for this project. I will not try to pretend like I completely understand both sides and can, therefore, adequately speak for either. I especially leave room for personal Palestinian experiences and narratives to be heard and told by those who truly know them. The history of Israel/Palestine, its lands, and its peoples is a complex set of narratives on ownership, control, and competing national identities. I have included a timeline of key narratives in this section. However, it is critical to begin with an understanding of the primary narratives that make coexistence and peace more difficult to achieve.

Trauma, Belonging, Displacement

Whether or not as a Jew, you are religiously observant or what many call ‘culturally Jewish,’ having a connection to Eretz Israel (the Land of Israel) is one of the primary pillars of Judaism. Most Jews see ancient history as a story of exodus, genocide, and triumph. This very deeprooted cultural tale of one day returning to Israel prevents many Jews from being willing to part with this sense of belonging in any capacity. It is also why many Jews reject terms like ‘settler’ or ‘colonizer,’ as Israel is the land they feel a sense of belonging and indigeneity. The Zionist movement that brought Jews back to Israel is contested among the Jewish community. Still, the primary principle that Jews belong in Israel

and always have is less disputed. The many holy and sacred places in Israel/Palestine (the terms I use to describe the land as it is today) further connect Jews with their ancient history, such as the Western Wall in Jerusalem, the last standing wall of the Second Temple from the 2nd century BCE. Overlooking the Dead Sea, Masada houses ancient remains of a Jewish fortification built to resist Roman troops and is also where I had my Bat Mitzvah at age thirteen. While Jews existed in Israel/Palestine long before the birth of Islam, Arab presence in the land is also ancient. The Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque, built by the Umayyads after the Muslim Conquest, is a holy site for Muslims worldwide. Arab tribes fought against Byzantine and Roman invasions, just as Jews did if not alongside them. But these two communities and countless foreign powers wrestled for control of Palestine. It must also be acknowledged that the most recent foreign entity to control the land, the British, played a critical role in dividing Arabs and Jews and kickstarting the current conflict as it exists today.

Fig. 5. Overlooking Masada, Samantha Miller.

The Holocaust and the Nakba

Israelis and Palestinians both experienced and continue to experience trauma relating to displacement. The two primary events contributing to this collective feeling are the Holocaust and the Nakba. The growing wave of violence against Jews worldwide, especially in Europe, stimulated desperate immigration to Palestine. The Holocaust resulted in the systematic genocide of over 6 million Jews at the hands of the Nazis. Research has shown that traumas of massive social violence, such as the Holocaust, haunt victims and their decedents for many years as the trauma is biological, sociocultural, psychodynamic and familial.2 Holocaust studies are hyper-prevalent in Jewish schools and programs worldwide. Delegate groups like March of the Living sends groups of students to death camps across Poland, strengthening the notion of needing a safeguard that would protect Jews from another genocide. It certainly does not help matters that millions of people deny the factuality of the Holocaust, and white-nationalist Nazi groups worldwide terrorize the memory of this trauma.

The aftermath of the Shoah saw the immigration of deeply traumatized and displaced Jews who became beneficiaries of the traumatic displacement and forceful removal of the Palestinian people. This mass exodus and displacement of approximately 750,000 Palestinian people from the land is referred to as al-Nakba (the catastrophe). The Nakba occurred in 1948, beginning the morning after Israel declared its independence and ended the British Mandate for Palestine. That morning, Jordan, Egypt, Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen joined forces to enter the newly formed state and attack. Israel won the war after ten months of fighting and occupied even more territory than they held during their Declaration of Independence. Almost every Palestinian has

been affected by the Nakba, regardless of age or location. Similarly to the Jewish collective trauma, victims and their decedents continue to suffer.

According to most Israeli narratives, the hundreds of thousands of Palestinians who left during the war did so voluntarily as they expected and were told that they may eventually return to their homes after an Arab victory, which ended up not happening.3 The trauma of the Nakba became the essence of the Palestinian cause post-1948, and the narrative of an uprooted nation of refugees emerged.4 The Palestinian narrative claims that Palestinians have lived in this region for 1500 years and made up 90% of the population at the time when the British issued the Balfour Declaration.5 Mourid Barghouti describes this feeling of displacement and diaspora in I Saw Ramallah, writing:

“Because of the many places that the circumstances of the Diaspora made us live in, and because we so often had to leave them, our places lost their meaning and their concreteness.”6

-Mourid Barghouti

The argument about which group has suffered more as a collective is a typical proponent in many discussions of national belonging. Even Jewish Israelis who are critical of the Zionist movement and actions that have been taken on their behalf by the Israeli government often rely on this very comparison that views them as ‘inheritors of Jewish fate and tragedy’ as having greater victimhood than the Palestinians and their suffering.7 The fact of the matter is that both groups have suffered at the hands of the other and the hands of external foreign forces. For Israelis, omnipresent existential fear and memories of trauma and victimhood make it difficult to acknowledge their oppression of the Palestinians. Palestinians’ demand for dignity, justice, and liberation is fueled by “seemingly permanent humiliation, indignity, dispossession

and disrespect.”8 They are constantly reminded of the unbalanced power dynamics and feel that Israel (with the United States at their side) is to be blamed for their suffering and Israel’s destruction is necessary if they are to see an end to occupation and achieve just independence.9

At the heart of it, neither group accepts the other’s legitimacy, narrative, or right to exist. Both experience distrust and intergenerational trauma and believe they would be safer and happier if the other found somewhere else to live (which, of course, will never happen). One-state, two-state, or no-state, there is no future where either will be satisfied so long as no one speaks to each other or acknowledges the other’s right to exist. Facts can be disputed, and the history of this land is so ancient that texts and discoveries have been revisited and retranslated countless times.

It is not up to one person to say that someone else’s entire belief system and one group’s entire collective narrative is wrong. It is imperative at this point that we move toward a place where we can acknowledge that two truths can exist at once, and the future holds the possibility for a new collective identity, one that is not based on the delegitimization of the other.

While suffering and displacement are a pillar of both narratives, it is paramount to remember that these stories are also tales of resilience. Palestinians have continued to persevere under consistent occupation, and Israelis have been resilient to continuous external threats made against them by their many enemies. They will continue to make a home for themselves in the land they love and care for.

Fig. 6. Concept diagram, Samantha Miller.

LANDSCAPE MANIFESTATIONS OF ROOTEDNESS 01: THE WALL

“You cannot be a complete person alone... For that you must be part of, and rooted in, an olive grove... Because without a sense of home and belonging, life becomes barren and rootless. And life as a tumbleweed is no life at all.”10 –

Thomas Friedman

A land flowing with milk and honey, the ‘Holy Land.’ A piece of land that is roughly the same size as Lake Winnipeg, where I spent much of my time growing up. It connects three continents, bridging flora and fauna, climates, and conditions of Africa, Asia, and Europe. Snow and bears exist in the north, while camels and sand dunes live in the south.11 Rivers, mountains, seas, swamps, valleys, and riverbanks. Vegetables, fruit trees, wheat fields, grape vineyards, and olive tree groves. These are more than ecological conditions; they represent a greater desire for rootedness. There are many environmental factors to this conflict that characterize both Israeli’s and Palestinians’ desires to find stability and rootedness in the land to counter their experience of diaspora. The calculated use of trees and walls in this conflict highlights how the landscape reflects the existing political and social context.

The Wall: Strongholding

Hamas, a widely recognized terrorist organization, launched a series of suicide bombings and attacks in Israel starting around 1993.12 These perpetrators detonated explosive devices on their bodies in very public areas in Israel. These terrorists’ signature bombing locations were public buses. I remember family members being anxious about public buses and being sensitive to this subject when I was growing up. In the same year, Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, Israeli Defence Minister Shimon Peres, and Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) Chairman Yasser Arafat met with United States President Bill Clinton to negotiate peace processes and agreements. The resulting signed

‘Oslo Accords’ are notoriously disappointing as many grave issues were left unresolved, and most parties felt unfulfilled. Hopes were high as people worldwide witnessed a historic handshake on the White House lawn. To the world, the Oslo Accords appeared somewhat successful, even earning Rabin, Peres, and Arafat the Nobel Peace Prize in 1994.13 However, these signed arrangements were just the beginning of continued violence and failures on all sides to implement any agreements. Individuals suffering in this conflict felt that they were either no closer to reaching security or no closer to independence and statehood; this process “progressively eroded confidence on both sides.”14 A second Oslo Accord was signed in 1995, which saw Israel relinquish control of some of Gaza and the West Bank to the Palestinian Authority (PA) (formerly PLO.)15 Shortly after, a twenty-seven-year-old student assassinated Rabin in opposition to his negotiations with Palestinian leaders. Ehud Barak was elected Prime Minister of Israel and continued negotiations and withdrawal processes. Clinton hosted another meeting at Camp David, which saw fourteen days of negotiations in which no deals were made, and no issues resolved.16 Lack of progression to peace was fueled by Palestinian refusal to take responsibility for terrorism, security, and diplomacy, and Israeli refusal to let go of land annexed.17

Shortly after Camp David in 2000, Israeli opposition leader, and later Prime Minister, Ariel Sharon made the injudicious decision to visit the temple mount with hundreds of armed guards. Some scholars suggest that his visit intended to strengthen Israel’s entitlement to a united Jerusalem, and to undermine Ehud Barak, his political rival.18 The substantial military presence at the sensitive site provoked riots and violence. While Sharon’s visit triggered the uprising, it was not the cause. The cause was pent-up frustration with the peace process, seeing no change in everyday life, and anger.19 This event threw

Israelis and Palestinians into an unimaginable wave of violence known as the Second Intifada. The First Intifada, while slightly less violent, ended around 1991. Stone-throwing, rioting, suicide bombings, and killings were met by the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) with even more violence, including but not limited to tear gas, rubber bullets, tanks, and rockets. Instances of suicide bombings increased and continued to occur in public places such as malls, buses, street corners, and restaurants. The number of suicide bombings reached around 120, and death tolls were in the thousands.20 Violence, negotiations, mass murders, elections, and assassinations continued. Israel launched ‘Operation Defensive Shield’ in 2002. The operation commenced a military occupation of much of the West Bank and its major cities and towns, which saw the arrest of thousands of Palestinians. Israel began the construction of the separation barrier in June 2003.21 At the time, this decision was the latest strategy employed to dominate and progress Israel nationalist intentions and to keep the unwanted ‘others’ out.

While the Israeli population sees the wall as a security measure to prevent terrorist attacks, International Law sees closures as a method of collective punishment.22 The current occupation has divided Palestinians into different levels of residency, whether it be Jerusalem residents, West Bank residents, Gaza identity, or even those holding Jordanian passports. Each group holds a definite hierarchy that determines how much freedom or access that person is entitled to.23 However, Jews worldwide are given automatic citizenship should they return to Israel according to the Israeli Law of Return and are provided easy access anywhere in the country. The checkpoints allow the IDF to decide who gets to pass through and who doesn’t. Closure and checkpoints restrict Palestinian’s access to employment, healthcare, and farming practices. In the resulting landscape “social networks and community are disrupted, and memories of place and familiar routes begin

to recede, replaced by a circumscribed space of everyday life.”24 Thousands of Palestinians funnel through unsanitary and overcrowded checkpoints every day. Checkpoints are embarrassing, discriminating, and unpredictable. The wall, checkpoints, and watchtowers allow Israel to assert visual dominance over the Palestinian territories. While Israelis and Palestinians live in close proximity as neighbours, the wall renders them distant. Author of Apeirogon: A Novel, Colum McCann writes:

“For him, everything still came back around to the Occupation. It was a common enemy. It was destroying both sides. He didn’t hate Jews, he said, he didn’t hate Israel. What he hated was being occupied, the humiliation of it, the strangulation, the daily degradation, the abasement. Nothing would be secure until it ended. Try a checkpoint for just one day. Try a wall down the middle of your schoolyard. Try your olive trees ripped up by a bulldozer. Try your food rotting in a truck at a checkpoint. Try the occupation of your imagination. Go ahead. Try it.”25

-Colum McCann

Fig. 7. Map of wall and checkpoints, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 8. A section of the West Bank separation barrier in Bethlehem, April 2009, Daniel Case, Public Domain.

Fig. 9. Israeli West Bank barrier near Jerusalem, September 2010, Antoine Taveneaux, Public Domain.

The wall is now almost 800 kilometres long. Some sections are made of prefabricated concrete slabs, and some sections are made of metal fencing and razor wire. It is punctuated by watchtowers and firing posts around every 300 meters. Beside the wall, a gravel road makes up the ‘buffer zone’ where military patrols travel and set up remote sensors, cameras, and barbed wire.26 The wall roughly follows the green line, although it is roughly double its length due to its tendency to include Israeli towns built inside the west bank and surround important land assets like forests and scrublands. The wall separates farmers from

their lands and families from one another. It prevents the flow of not just people but of flora, fauna, and ecological processes.

Sampling the wall every 5 kilometres illuminated that the wall traverses many different land types and, most importantly to this project, two very distinct physical manifestations of national rootedness in the landscape - the pine tree and the olive tree. The wall uprooted thousands of acres of agricultural land and tens of thousands of trees.27

Fig.

Diagram of the Green Line and the Wall, Samantha Miller.

Map

Fig. 11. Map of Separation Barrier and surrounding political and ecological contexts, Samantha Miller.

LANDSCAPE MANIFESTATIONS OF ROOTEDNESS 02: THE PINE AND THE OLIVE

In Israel/Palestine, the pine and olive trees have come to represent nationhood through the direct use of these trees as proxy-soldiers and proxynation-builders. The pine and the olive became cultural counterparts and, in a sense, are perfect opposites. The pine roots deeply, fast-growing, and shorter-lived, whereas the olive roots slowly but is long-living and slow growing. They also represent different cultural landscapes, the forest and the field, or even different ideas of human labour.28 Irus Braverman, author of Planted Flags: Trees, Land, and Law in Israel/Palestine, summarizes these cultural counterparts by saying: “The pitting of pine tree/people against olive tree/people reflects the discursive and material split constructed with much fervency and determinacy by the two national ideologies that compete in and over Israel/Palestine.”29 The history of these two trees becoming the symbols they are today likely begins with an analysis of the Ottoman Empire and the land practices and systems they employed in this land when they occupied it. This analysis is outside this project’s scope but a worthy investigation for future research. This section will briefly explain the primary agencies and processes that created these two symbols of nationalism and rootedness.

Pine Tree / ربونصلا ةرجش / ןרוא ץע

Jewish tradition and biblical teachings stress the importance of caring for the land and preserve natural resources. The annual festival in Israel of Tu Bishvat celebrates trees and the mitzvah of planting trees. Throughout recent history, many Zionist projects involved settling recently immigrated Jews in agriculturally fertile land, asking them to land reclamation and cultivation. The Jewish National Fund (JNF) is Israel’s intermediary for land acquisition and their prime afforestation agency, two roles which are co-productive and co-dependent. The JNF has successfully persuaded Jews worldwide to contribute to and become involved in land

cultivation and transformation. The signature JNF blue tin boxes are entrenched in my memory as they sat in the halls of my school, synagogue and youth organization growing up. By putting money in the blue tin box, you could sponsor the planting of a tree and feel rooted in Eretz Israel. The JNF created a widespread perception of the tree as a personal symbol of identity, as described by Simon Schama:

“What we did know was that a rooted forest was the opposite landscape to the place of drifting sand… The diaspora was sand. So what should Israel be if not a forest, fixed and tall.”30 – Simon Schama

Since 1901, the JNF has planted over 240 million trees in Israel, mostly pine trees that became the signature Zionist tree as they ‘re-forested’ the Holy Land.31 Tree planting in masses was a way of rooting outside the physical act. It helped people to fill the hole in their lives caused by recurring social traumas of displacement.32 The state of Israel, hand in hand with the JNF, was able to cloak their political agendas in green, as trees appear neutral but simultaneously claim and occupy the land. Today, the pine tree, among other species, are “icons of national revival, symbolizing the Zionist success in “striking roots” in the ancient homeland.”33 Irus Braverman, author of “Planting the Promised Landscape” writes:

“In the Israeli context, the pine tree has become almost synonymous with the Jewish National Fund (JNF). JNF is probably the major Zionist organization of all time. It is also the most powerful single organized entity to have shaped the modern Israeli/Palestinian landscape.”34

-Irus Braverman

Fig. 12. JNF blue boxes, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 13. View from Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 14. Drawing of sample 101 from land use index showing pine habitat and relationships, Samantha Miller.

Olive Tree / نوتيز ةرجش / תיז ץע

The olive tree has been a signature symbol of Arab Palestine and a distinctive feature of the cultural and physical landscape. Olive orchards have been the centre of many land and lawrelated disputes between Palestinians and Israeli settlers since the 1980s and prior.35 For Palestinians, the olive tree represents resistance and Sumud (steadfastness) and has been one of the primary roots of their economy. The olive tree has helped them to strengthen their territorial claims over land and, over time, came to symbolize the Palestinian people as a wholetheir durability, longevity, and strength through the struggle for independence. The olive tree has become a living memory of the Palestinian village and its people and is a silent witness of their suffering36 and their beauty and strength.

While the first few Prime Ministers acknowledged that there were olive groves around most Arab towns, they maintained that the olive trees had been planted by Alexander the Great, and during the Arab conquest, no trees were planted; this created the misconception that Palestinians were neglectful and unproductive.37 Regardless, olives remain integral to Palestinian culture. As of 2008, 50% of the Palestinian population in this region participate in annual olive harvests, and there were around 9 million olive trees in occupied territories.38 Before the Second Intifada in 2000, many rural farmers in the West Bank were employed in Israel. However, since the Intifada resulted in Israel tightening their restrictions on movement in and out of the West Bank, many farmers lost their jobs in Israel. As such, the agricultural sector and the local olive industry in Palestinian culture have increased dramatically since the start of the Second Intifada. In I Saw Ramallah, Mourid Barghouti describes the Palestinian connection to olives and olive oil. He writes:

“After ‘67 my discovery that I had to buy olive oil was truly painful. From the day we knew anything we knew that olives and oil were there in our houses.... For the Palestinian, olive oil is the gift of the traveler, the comfort of the bride, the reward of autumn, the boast of the storeroom, the wealth of the family across centuries... In Cairo I would not let olive oil into my house because I refused to buy it by the kilogram.”39

-Mourid Barghouti

Olive branches have also been a symbol of peace for Jews and Israelis and are wrapped around a sword in the emblem of the Israeli Defense Forces. The decision to use the olive tree in these state emblems came from the consensus that the olive was a concrete symbol of peace and abundant fruit of the land.40 Ultimately, this idea of rootedness is clearly carried through for both peoples and both trees. The Palestinian draws a connection to their ancient presence in the land with the olive tree rooted for thousands of years. The Israeli sees the afforestation task as a method of finally feeling stable in their ancient homeland from which they were displaced. Braveman summarizes this notion in Planted Flags, saying:

“The olive speaks for the uprooted person. The interplay between the olive’s absence and presence in Palestinian narratives could be seen as a mirror image of the pine’s absence and presence with relation to the diaspora Jew, who’s absence from the Promised Land is embodied in the presence of the pine donated in her or his name.”41

-Irus Braverman

Fig. 15. Olive trees near Nablus, 2022, Izzeddin Hawamda.

Fig. 16. Drawing of sample 20 from land use index showing olive habitat and relationships, Samantha Miller.

Endnotes

1. Ingrid Anderson, “Surviving the Story: The Narrative Trap in Israel and Palestine by Rosemary Hollis (Review),” The Middle East Journal 74, no. 2 (2020): 323.

2. Julia Chaitin, “Co-creating peace: Confronting psychosocial-economic injustices in the IsraeliPalestinian context,” In Peacebuilding, Memory and Reconciliation, edited by Charbonneau, Bruno and Genevieve Parent, Routledge, 2012, 147.

3. Michael Rubner, “The Two-State Delusion: Israel and Palestine - A Tale of Two Narratives,” Middle East Policy 23, no. 1 (2016): 164.

4. Omer Bartov, Israel-Palestine: Lands and Peoples, edited by Omer Bartov, 1st ed. New York: Berghahn, 2021, 4.

5. Rubner, “The Two-State Delusion,” 164.

6. Mourid Barghouti, I Saw Ramallah, 1st ed. New York: Anchor Books, 2003, 88.

7. Bartov, Israel-Palestine: Lands and Peoples, 6.

8. Rubner, 164.

9. Rubner, 164-165.

10. Thomas L. Friedman, The Lexus and the Olive Tree, 1st ed. New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1999.

11. Rachel Gottesman, Tamar Novick, Iddo Ginat, Dan Hasson, and Yonatan Cohen, Land, Milk, Honey: Animal Stories in Imagined Landscapes, Tel Aviv; Zurich, Switzerland; Park Books, 2021, 34-35.

12. “Historical Timeline: 1900-Present,” Britannica | ProCon, June 14, 2021.

13. “Historical Timeline,” Britannica.

14. Kirsten E. Schulze, “Camp David and the Al-Aqsa Intifada: An Assessment of the State of the IsraeliPalestinian Peace Process, July-December 2000,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 24, no. 3 (2000): 215.

15. “Historical Timeline,” Britannica.

16. “Historical Timeline,” Britannica.

17. Schulze, “Camp David and the Al-Aqsa Intifada,” 217.

18. Schulze, 216.

19. Schulze, 220.

20. “Historical Timeline,” Britannica.

21. “Historical Timeline,” Britannica.

22. Julie Marie Peteet, “Permission to Breathe: Closure and the Wall” in Space and Mobility in Palestine,

Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana University Press, 2017, 35.

23. Peteet, “Permission to Breathe”, 37-38.

24. Peteet, 40.

25. Colum McCann, Apeirogon: A Novel, First ed, New York: Random House, 2020, 123.

26. Peteet, 42.

27. Peteet, 42.

28. Irus Braverman, Planted Flags: Trees, Land, and Law in Israel/Palestine, Cambridge University Press, 2014, 31.

29. Braverman, “The Tree is the Enemy Soldier,” 450.

30. Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory, Toronto: Random House of Canada, 1995, 5-6.

31. Irus Braverman, “”The Tree is the Enemy Soldier”: A Sociolegal Making of War Landscapes in the Occupied West Bank,” Law & Society Review 42, no. 3 (2008): 450.

32. Braverman, Planted Flags, 95.

33. Yael Zerubavel, “The Forest as a National Icon: Literature, Politics, and the Archeology of Memory,” Israel Studies (Bloomington, Ind.) 1, no. 1 (1996): 60.

34. Irus Braverman, “Planting the Promised Landscape: Zionism, Nature, and Resistance in Israel/Palestine.”

Natural Resources Journal 49, no. 2 (2009): 318.

35. Sheffi and First, “Land of Milk and Honey,” 203.

36. Braverman, Planted Flags, 128.

37. Gorney, “Roots of Identity, Canopy of Collision: Re-Visioning Trees as an Evolving National Symbol within the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict,” 331.

38. Saree Makdisi, Palestine Inside Out: An Everyday Occupation, 1st ed, New York: W. W. Norton & Co, 2008, 24.

39. Mourid Barghouti, I Saw Ramallah. 1st ed. New York: Anchor Books, 2003, 58.

40. Sheffi and First, 203.

41. Braverman, Planted Flags, 129.

Part 2: Literature Review and Methods

This project sits at three key intersections: landscape as a device of war and peace, storytelling and dialogue as an approach to peace, and reading and telling those stories with landscape design. This literature review will examine some of the bodies of work that span these fields, such as political science, planning and landscape, conflict resolution, and design.

Spatial Transformations: War + Landscape

Assistant Professor of Landscape Architecture

Fionn Byrne’s research builds upon the emerging research on the relationship between landscape, well-being, and conflict. Byrne’s article “Verdant Persuasion” (2022) frames this relationship in the context of furthering military agendas through a three-stage framework: preparation for war, active combat, and postwar activities. The postwar activities stage is often the focus of related work, where landscape researchers and ecologists analyze the influence of war on the landscape and how inhabitants feel these changes.1 Byrne’s work focuses on the second stage,- active combat, and how landscape design is used as a tool during wartime to advance military goals.2 He presents Operation Enduring Freedom to illustrate how some US Military-funded projects employed landscape elements, like tree planting, to meet military goals. In other words, his analysis centres around landscape design as an active, rather than reactive, warfighting tool.3 He argues that the manipulation of landscape, be it from active combat or landscape-related intervention during wartime, has lasting impacts on the well-being of residents beyond active combat.4 He calls the use of landscape in this context ‘soft power.’

Planner and Professor Gary Fields argues that landscapes reflect the communities that inhabit them and represent the powers that govern them.5 In “Landscaping Palestine” (2010), Fields highlights the built environment’s capacity

to advance territorial agendas and maintain political control, especially in Israel and Palestine. Fields references the Israeli government’s uprooting of olive trees and how that disrupts not only Palestinian economic life but also the cultural life that maintains Palestinian’s place in the landscape.6 His discussion on the direct and indirect effects landscape or built elements have in furthering military goals parallels Byrne’s writing. While Byrne presents these concepts relating to the US Military and counterinsurgencies in Afghanistan, the notion of landscape as a soft power tactic to the conflict in Israel and Palestine is supported by Fields’ writing. Both scholars are concerned with how the landscape is affected by active conflict, control, resistance or a marker of societal wellbeing. These topics are critical in understanding the relationship between landscape, conflict, and people. This project aims to fill a gap in this scholarship regarding how landscape design can be used during an active conflict as a peacebuilding mechanism rather than as a warfighting, control, or resistance tool. It would be impossible to move forward in this project without a foundational understanding of how the landscape is used to divide, control, influence, or resist colonial and military agendas. Not only does this understanding help us grasp the historical use of landscape in war, but also how the interventions we propose may change over time both physically and socially.

Storytelling + Dialogue in a Divided Landscape

This project establishes that dialogue and storytelling are critical in studying peacebuilding and are approaches that are innately interwoven in the context of the landscape. A large body of research has investigated the effectiveness of dialogue and storytelling both in the context of Israel and Palestine and in general conflict studies. A group from UC Santa Cruz, including

Ella Ben Hagai, Phillip Hammack, Andrew Pilecki, and Carissa Aresta studied Israeli/ Palestinian dialogues by analyzing recorded sessions to pull out the root narratives and illuminate the tactics that led to more acceptance and progress. The article “Shifting Away from a Monolithic Narrative on Conflict” (2013) is a fantastic investigation of root narratives and power dynamics across different scales. Most importantly, their research revealed that when groups shared personal experiences and stories, they noticed an increase in acknowledgment, perspective-taking and empathy.7 Emphasizing the personal nature of the narratives we chose to tell and their power in building inter-group empathy is an especially key takeaway moving forward. As part of this study, participants partook in group-building exercises such as visiting tourist spots and playing outdoor games which likely helped increase comfortability and companionship with the participants. However, this article lacks an explicit discussion on spatial barriers to successful dialogue, as these studies took place in the United States. The article also fails to mention the quality of space that hosted the dialogue sessions and why or why not that might have contributed to the success of conversations.

Economic and Social Research

Council

Postdoctoral Fellow Silvia Hassouna argues that literature relating to dialogue and conflict resolution neglects the importance of spatial planning in contested landscapes.8 Hassouna studies storytelling in this political context, documents joint efforts for peace, and highlights creative and imagined futures. Her article “Spaces for Dialogue in a Segregated Landscape” (2016) asks imperative questions about the feasibility of spaces for dialogue and barriers to such practices, emphasizing the separation wall in Israel/ Palestine as having exacerbated these problems and hindered opportunity for dialogue. Her findings concluded that there are numerous

barriers to human interactions, such as travelling logistics, isolation, and dehumanization, and offers strategies to overcome such barriers. The previous authors’ findings set the foundation that dialogue-based approaches are indeed effective in increasing empathy in Israeli/Palestinian groups, underpinning Hassouna’s argument that more specifically stresses the capacity dialogue carries in renegotiating collective narratives. Hassouna states that this conflict is an intractable struggle of identity where recognizing the legitimacy of one side means denying the legitimacy of the other.9 Additionally, she maintains that one of the most significant barriers to peace negotiations and dialogue-based initiatives is an antinormalization drive rooted in many community members who see those who engage in such initiatives as unpatriotic or traitors.10

I heard these misconceptions in my own community and discussed these notions about competing narratives in my dialogue group. Lessening the anti-normalization drive and acknowledging each other’s narrative through dialogue-based initiatives propels us to “recognize the common sense of belonging to the land.”11 Both articles emphasize storytelling as one method that breaks through these barriers and even saw epiphanies regarding the need for nonviolent approaches to ending the conflict. Numerous other highly inspirational tales of such epiphanies and moments of reflection exist.12 Both articles examined in this section illustrate the weight of personal and collective narratives and how space creates either a barrier or an opportunity. This project echoes Hassouna’s argument that while dialogue may be an effective conflict-resolution method, space must be created to facilitate it, especially in a divided landscape. This position is best summarized in her writing:

“Space can be used as both a force for conflict when urban planning becomes the manifestation of division and as a force for peace when used to facilitate

contracts and dialogues in contested spaces.”13

-Silvia Hassouna

Memory and Stories in the Landscape

We have established that storytelling and dialogue are effective peacebuilding strategies that must now be translated into physical spacemaking. What does space-making mean in this context and what are the legitimate strategies for making space in such a contested landscape? Many of the methods designers employ when designing for post-war or active conflict involve commemoration or memorialization. Such strategies are exhaustively written about across numerous fields.14 However, in Topographies of Memory (2017), Instructor of Landscape Architecture and researcher Anita Bakshi challenges some approaches to commemoration, saying they are problematic, especially in contested cities, as they often seek to freeze time in place and tell sanitized versions of collective memories. Controlling collective memory through memorials or museums doesn’t often leave room for alternative meanings and is “rooted in Western and colonial understandings of heritage, which prioritize the nation state as the arbitrator of the past despite competing claims by minority groups.”15 She does, however, recognize that landscape architecture is a vehicle through which the ephemeral phenomenon of memory can be expressed16 and offers some strategies for new forms of commemoration.

The strategies outlined in the book often involve active participation, which helps participants process the dynamism of events and their perceived effects on physical places.17 This process often involves layering individual memories through map-making or sketching to create a dynamic display of collective history. These activities help the participants process the dynamism of events and their perceived effects on physical places.18 The fieldwork summarized

in this chapter illustrates the importance of establishing new connections with place and allowing community members to engage in the process: critical aspects to consider as I approach this project. In the following chapter, Bakshi discusses physical and material interventions that may more equitably highlight memory. It is evident that spaces associated with contested or traumatic memories require a thoughtful approach to narrativization and memorialization. Such approaches should involve design considerations for the body’s physical, emotional, mental, and social aspects.19 Bakshi presents a short discussion on a child survivor of the Holocaust to make the central point that these spaces may not just share the story of a collective or personal experience (in this case, the horrors of the Holocaust) but that the space may help individuals come to know and process the experience. In these cases, abstraction and ambiguous forms may be ineffective compared to designs that engage the body more wholly.20 Bakshi emphasizes the importance environments conducive to sharing and the subsequent strengthening or re-understanding of narratives.

Landscape architect, author, and Distinguished Professor Anne Whiston Spirn details design approaches to reading and writing meaning into landscapes in the chapter “A Rose is Rarely Just a Rose: Poetics of Landscape” in her 1998 book The Language of Landscape. These techniques, including emphasis, exaggeration, contrast, distortion, and metaphor, are certainly options to consider as methods in this project and have been used by world-renowned landscape architects like Martha Schwartz. In other chapters, she discusses theories relating to stories and the reading of meaning in the landscape. Whiston Spirn proposes that landscape forms, materials, and processes are innately analogical, poetic, and enveloped with meaning.21 She argues that landscape designers often fail to recognize the potential power landscapes hold to evoke meaning, both intended

and unintended, surface level and profound.22 However, the critical notion of landscape literacy is missing in Whiston Spirn’s book but present in Bakshi’s book. Additionally, while Bakshi positions interactive map-making and active participation as key to establishing connections to memory and place23, Whiston Spirn places the most emphasis on the designer as the key driver in creating meaning in the landscape.

Landscapes are Peacebuilding Mechanisms

It would be a shame not to introduce Professor of Political Science Annika Björkdahl briefly. Her research studies peacebuilding and space, but primarily the article “Urban Peacebuilding” (2013) offers seminal insights and arguments to consider. She frames the concept of urban peacebuilding as an attempt to transform ethnonationally contested and divided spaces to mitigate conflict, strengthen interdependencies, and weaken division.24 She contends that placebased processes are equally as crucial as peoplerelated processes in achieving self-sustaining peace.25 She and I share a similar viewpoint that research is lacking around the legitimate production of space and peacebuilding practices. I found that this article, some of her other writing, and the key works cited still lack specific methodological approaches to peacebuilding as a landscape intervention. These and other pieces of literature reaffirm my position that this conflict is, in part, a landscape problem to which a landscape solution is applicable and possible. An approach forward will entangle numerous strategies (such as those mentioned by Whiston Spirn) and considerations across fields.

LANDSCAPES ARE PEACEBUILDING MECHANISMS

To demonstrate that landscapes are peacebuilding mechanisms and building upon the discussion of the symbolic and cultural importance of the pine and the olive, planting strategies using the pine and the olive were rapidly iterated upon. The sites were chosen from the land use index shown in the previous section, each with a varying condition of wall construction. Strategies tested included creating shared space, deconstructing the physicality or visual dominance of the wall, creating ecologically diverse and rich spaces on both sides of the wall, or using the pine and olive as narrative and teaching tools to tell the stories of collective narratives.

Fig. 17. Planting scheme axo sketches, Samantha Miller.

The following set of planting schemes looked to activist groups such as Tent of Nations, Combatants for Peace, the Parents Circle Family Forum, Oasis of Peace/Neve Shalom/Wahat al-Salam, and EcoPeace, as well as Israeli and Palestinian biodiversity reports to see if we could begin healing both the landscape and these two nations simultaneously.

Fig. 18. Planting scheme axo sketches, Samantha Miller.

METHODS

Attitude and Approach to Design

Needless to say, this is a complex topic to tackle and a polarizing subject for many people at the individual and national levels. There are many different possible approaches, and it will take several tries before landing on one that will serve the communities well. New research on healing and psychosocial pathology highlights communities’ invaluable role in mediating conflicts, aside from relying on the institutional level.26 One of the primary attitudes necessary for this project is to suppress the white saviour complex to avoid Western ethnocentricity that may conduct oppressive post-colonial proposals that would not truly respect the cultural nuances of this region.

Throughout this project, I have look closely at my methods and approaches, and stay selfcritical. I will need to make explicit what is in my control and what is not. Power imbalances exist that make interconnected public space difficult to achieve. But, just as gardens can thrive in seemingly extreme or difficult environmental conditions, so can peace.

Shaping Public Space

Much of the literature regarding sharing space in divided places revolves around urban planning schemes.27 This body of work most often acknowledges that public space parallels the enmity and asymmetrical power dynamics within it. However, there is potential to increase instances of encounters between divided communities and break spatial and cultural barriers. In this regard, the principal starting point is to re-think what ‘space’ is and understand that it is socially and physically grounded.28 Secondly, allowing the irregular, improvisation, and messiness to exist in whatever designed space we propose is critical. A space that allows itself to evolve and change dynamically alongside the

urban context is far more complex and offers investigation and happenstance.29 While more urban planning related, Gaffikin, Mceldowney, and Sterrett (2010) present a few key considerations to shaping public space in divided cities. First, to ensure that public space should have qualities of identity and inclusivity that all citizens feel they can use and identify with. Secondly, the designer should see themselves as having a role of influence rather than power or control. Thirdly, consider the design strategies that inadvertently encourage surveillance, such as ‘overlooking’ and creating distinct edges to space and borders.30

Education: Storytelling Over Textbooks

In post-war or active-war landscapes, education is a primary practice that influences public discourse and develops individual or societal perceptions and beliefs. However, history textbooks focus on times of war and suffering, painting someone as the enemy and someone as the ally. They tell a curated story of events, choosing which perspectives are shared and which are silenced. Education is essential, especially as more and more people worldwide deny the events of the Holocaust or believe that the separation barrier is simply a security measure and nothing more. The reading and writing of history are especially challenging in a context such as Israel and Palestine where numerous viewpoints and collective narratives are disputed and contradictory. History education should prioritize acknowledging memory and long-lasting trauma to prevent continued aggression and hostility.31 This may involve teaching “acknowledgment, truth-telling, apology, repair, and democratization” and “recognize the victims of violence and repression, as well as their suffering and need for justice.”32 Israel and Palestinian co-founders of the Shared History Project, Sami Adwan and Dan Bar-On, offered a space for both sides’ narratives to be presented

and shared. It is the goal of the Shared History Project to bridge narratives and communities.33 While I am not proposing the creation of a new textbook, it is imperative that through the design of a proposal, physical space emerges that educates visitors on the narrative of the other. As mentioned, dialogue and space to tell stories are two way to educate. However, education is a larger theme that should be explored through landscape intervention. To do this, time must be dedicated to collecting first-hand accounts and the understanding of both side’s recollections of history. This has partially been achieved through the process of writing this proposal, but more work is to be done in collecting a database of narratives.

Conclusion

This project recognizes the emerging literature and existing body of work and methods contributing to studies on conflict and spatial relationships. Several questions regarding active conflict and creating spaces of peace still remain to be addressed because previous studies have almost exclusively focused on post-war landscapes, memorialization/commemoration of a past event, or active-war fighting. Other pieces to the puzzle concerning memory, storytelling, dialogue and narratives are disjointed in the body of literature surrounding this context. A new approach is therefore needed to pull these tenets together to share stories and bring empathy to the forefront.

Endnotes

1. Some of the scholarship involving the relationship between war and landscapes includes Björkdahl and Buckley-Zistel (2016), Braverman (2008), Helphand (2006), Mostafavi (2017), and Pearson (2012).

2. Fionn Byrne, “Verdant Persuasion: The Use of Landscape as a Warfighting Tool During Operation Enduring Freedom,” Journal of Architectural Education 76, no. 1 (2022), 37-38.

3. Byrne, “Verdant Persuasion,” 39.

4. Byrne, 43.

5. Gary Fields, “Landscaping Palestine: Reflections of Enclosure in a Historical Mirror,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 42, no. 1 (2010), 64.

6. Fields, “Landscaping Palestine,” 75.

7. Ella Ben Hagai, Phillip L. Hammack, Andrew Pilecki, and Carissa Aresta. “Shifting Away from a Monolithic Narrative on Conflict: Israelis, Palestinians, and Americans in Conversation,” Peace and Conflict 19, no. 3 (2013), 298.

8. Silvia Hassouna, “Spaces for Dialogue in a Segregated Landscape: A Study on the Current Joint Efforts for Peace in the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict,” Conflict Resolution Quarterly, vol. 34, no. 1, 2016, 58.

9. Hassouna, “Spaces for Dialogue in a Segregated Landscape,” 59-60.

10. Hassouna, 61.

11. Hassouna, 60.

12. Such tales of epiphanies include that of Rami Elhanan and Bassam Aramin. Their stories are ever-so-poetically detailed in Apeirogon, A Novel (2020) by Colum McCann, a book that has greatly inspired this project. Additionally, similar themes are highlighted in Letters to My Palestinian Neighbour (2019) by Yossi Klein Halevi, I Saw Ramallah (2003) by Mourid Barghouti, and in the work of Peace Heroes, Just Vision, Ali Abu Awwad, and more.

13. Hassouna, 63.

14. Some written works that discuss

memorialization and commemoration strategies include Pirker, Rode and Lichtenwagner (2019), Stevens and Franck (2016), Stevens (2013), Björkdahl and Buckley-Zistel (2016), and Mohammad (2017).

15. Anita Bakshi, “Modes of Engagement” in Topographies of Memories: A New Poetics of Commemoration. Secaucus; New York: Palgrave Macmillan (2017), 213.

16. Anita Bakshi, “Introduction” in Topographies of Memories: A New Poetics of Commemoration. Secaucus; New York: Palgrave Macmillan (2017), 12.

17. Bakshi, “Modes of Engagement,” 237.

18. Bakshi, “Modes of Engagement,” .

19. Anita Bakshi, “Chapter 7: Materializing Metaphor” in Topographies of Memories: A New Poetics of Commemoration, Secaucus; New York: Palgrave Macmillan (2017), 272-275.

20. Bakshi, “Materializing Metaphor,” 281.

21. Anne Whiston Spirn, “A Rose is Rarely Just a Rose: Poetics of Landscape” in The Language of Landscape, New Haven, Conn: Yale University Press (1998), 216.

22. Whiston Spirn, “A Rose is Rarely Just a Rose: Poetics of Landscape,” 216-217.

23. Bakshi, “Modes of Engagement,” 237.

24. Annika Björkdahl, “Urban Peacebuilding,” Peacebuilding 1, no. 2 (2013): 208.

25. Björkdahl, “Urban Peacebuilding,” 211.

26. David Senesh, “Restorative Moments: From First Nations People in Canada to Conflicts in an Israeli–Palestinian Dialogue Group,” In Peacebuilding, Memory and Reconciliation, edited by Charbonneau, Bruno and Genevieve Parent, Routledge, 2012, 163.

27. The literature surrounding shared public space in divided contexts include Björkdahl (2013), Bollins (2021), Brand-Jacobsen and Frithjof (2009), Calame and Charlesworth (2011), Gaffikin, Mceldowney, and Sterrett (2010), and more.

28. Frank Gaffikin, Malachy Mceldowney, and Ken Sterrett, “Creating Shared Public Space

in the Contested City: The Role of Urban Design,” Journal of Urban Design 15, no. 4 (2010): 497.

29. Gaffikin, Mceldowney, and Sterrett, “Creating Shared Public Space in the Contested City,” 498.

30. Gaffikin, Mceldowney, and Sterrett, 499-500.

31. Karina V. Korostelina, “Can history heal trauma? The role of history education in reconciliation processes,” in Peacebuilding, Memory and Reconciliation, edited by Charbonneau, Bruno and Genevieve Parent, Routledge, 2012, 196.

32. Korostelina, “Can history heal trauma?,” 197.

33. Korostelina, 202.

Part 3: Precedent Studies

PRECEDENT STUDIES

Introduction

This precedent study examines three projects and dissects the strategies engaged in creating meaningful landscapes within complicated or divided contexts. There are countless approaches to embedding meaning into landscape design. Some methodologies reviewed within these projects include symbolic or metaphoric exemplification, satirical or ironic art, harvesting local materials, and community engagement. The Freedom Park, the Walled Off Hotel, and the Melon Neighbourhood Commons demonstrate

that creating connections and new memories with place does not need to involve western modes of memorialization. Western, top-down commemoration strategies often include national museums and memorials that often highlight the names of victims engraved on some structure. This notion is especially critical in the lens of this graduate project, in which there is a desperate need for approaches rooted in community, narrative, and collective struggle.

01. Freedom Park

02. Walled Off Hotel

03. Melon Commons

Fig. 19. Location of precedents, Samantha Miller.

The Freedom Park

Location: Pretoria, South Africa

Landscape Architect: GREENinc Landscape Architecture Year: 2007

Institutionalized racism and racial segregation had existed in South Africa under colonial rule (although less formally) and under the apartheid system established by the National Party. Apartheid created incomprehensible brutality in every aspect of life for Black South Africans, from healthcare to civil and political rights. After the fall of apartheid in South Africa, the Government of National Unity assembled the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) to investigate human rights violations and serve restorative justice. The TRC report included recommendations for necessary reparations, including financial, community, and symbolic reparations.1 One of the outcomes of the TRC Report, as mandated by President Nelson Mandela, was The Freedom Park. A park project offered a form of symbolic reparation to begin the process of cleansing and healing at a national level. The park design process began with adopting the notion of ubuntu, the African philosophical tradition stressing the existence of common humanity and the need for forgiveness as a precondition to reconciliation.2

Freedom Park intends to address the collective trauma of colonialism and apartheid. The design includes the use of metaphorical exemplification, symbolism, and draws on Indigenous knowledge systems to inform the designed components.3 Firstly, the park’s construction demolished colonial ruins of Fort Tullichewan, dating back to the late 1800s and the first Anglo-Boer War (between the British and the self-governing Afrikaner). This initial act intended to sever the link between memory and place to create and enforce a new symbolism.4 The park is situated on a quartz ridge, rich in biodiversity, obliging the designers to undertake a level of sensitive planning to conserve as much of its natural state as possible. Those plants that were removed were transferred to a nursery until they could be returned to the landscape.5 Nestled into the slopes of the landscape, the park and connected museum are to reveal themselves more subtly than the surrounding monuments do.

Fig. 20. Freedom Park in Salvokop, Pretoria, September 2013, Leo za1. Public Domain.

Many of the symbols and metaphors derive from nature’s core elements of earth, water, fire, and air. Each design component is named in a different official language, seeking to unite different cultural groups by giving them each equal stake and recognition in the park.6 For example, an Nguni word, Isivivane, was used to name the space of ceremonial trees and boulders, symbolizing the resting place of those who died in the struggle for freedom. Each boulder underwent ritual healing and cleansing before being brought to its final resting site.7 The siSwati word, S’kumbuto, is the name given to the memorial wall commemorating those who died in major South African conflicts and a Sanctuary for quiet contemplation and reflection near the lake.8 The winding path, with stops to rest and reflect leading to and from the museum, is named after the Tshivenda word for success or progress, Mveledzo. 9

The materiality assists the narrative and delivers symbolic meaning throughout the entire park. Water is one key element carried in many forms throughout different park spaces. The symbolism of water is consistent across tribes and plays a role in healing and traditional cleansing rituals. The use of red clay brick intended to create a symbolic material connection with the boulders, reflect the red soils of the hill and set the stage to emphasize vertical elements of steel and timber.10 Some of these vertical elements derive from the African philosophy of creation and symbolize the progress in the struggle for freedom. Or, in the case of the line of reeds, the vertical element represents communication between heaven and earth as reeds are used to communicate to higher powers through ancestors in Swazi and Zulu cultures.11

Fig. 21. Isivivani - Freedom Park. Pretoria, South Africa, June 2011, Shosholoza. Public Domain.

Evaluation

The politics of memory and memorialization often do not accurately acknowledge cultural discourses and are influenced by Western methods of commemoration. In this case, the project aimed to tell a new story- correct narratives about pre-apartheid Africa and reclaim that Africa’s significance is pre-colonial. There is no shortage of successful integration of tradition, Indigenous knowledge, and cultural symbolism. While the argument can be made that not all visitors will understand or appreciate these metaphors or symbols, I argue that is precisely the point, that it is not for them. Instead, this project aims to heal, reconcile, and address the

psychological damage of colonialism and apartheid by incorporating meaningful symbols to oppressed groups. Of course, one of the museum’s main goals is to increase tourism; however, it goes further than that. Those who wish to learn may learn from the signage and descriptions, but this project represents a progression forward in history for local communities. The extensive consultation process with youth, women, traditional healers, labour groups, veterans, nationwide surveys, and more12 maintains that the overall concept evolved in democratic and transparent means into a symbol of national identity. Some criticism suggests

Fig. 22. Freedom Park, Salvokop, Pretoria , September 2013, Leo za1. Public Domain.

that still, some of the design components are eurocentric, such as The Wall of Names or the Eternal Flame, and that some (mostly white conservatives, but some not) did not identify with the themes of the park and felt some perspectives on history were left out or skewed.13 Strategies of commemoration will always be controversial and not without challenges, especially ones that deal with a national identity. Perhaps there is not enough left to interpretation, or is there too much? It must be accepted among the design community that monumental spaces will be interpreted and re-interpreted in conjunction with culture and memory.

Takeaways

This project employed strategies worth considering moving forward into this graduate project’s conceptual and design phase. Symbolic representation is difficult to achieve and even more so in a divided community for whom symbols might have different connotations or whose collective narratives are competing. However, shared symbols and widely accepted feelings of trauma, loss, and the struggle for liberation may increase empathy and acceptance. However, one of the key takeaways is the

recognition and welcoming of flux in interpreting symbols. This project did not explicitly acknowledge that the park’s embedded meaning may change over time, but this notion should be worked into the design intervention. The naming of different programmatic elements in the park with different official languages was a clever way to make each group see themselves in the park. Additionally, the extensive consultation process and integration of traditions and traditional ways of knowing makes new connections between people and place. While a consultation with the public is not within the scope of this graduate project, understanding tradition and connecting the commonalities between two peoples’ traditional ways of being will be critical to shaping long-lasting memories to place.

The Walled Off Hotel

Location: Bethlehem, Palestine

Designer: Banksy

Year: 2017

“The Walled Off, an art hotel set within slingshot distance of Checkpoint 300, was opened by the graffiti artist Banksy in 2017. It stands within yards of the high concrete barriers. Even the most expensive rooms only get a few minutes of direct winter sunlight each day: the shadow of the Wall is cast down into the rooms and can be tracked as it crosses the carpet. The maids can tell the time of day by how much of the carpet is shadowed.”14

– Colum McCann

World-renowned British street artist under the pseudonym Banksy opened the Walled Off Hotel for tourists, Israelis, Palestinians, and vandals alike. This project is rather controversial, located just five meters from the separation barrier in the Palestinian town of Bethlehem. Banksy is known for his politically charged street artworks, some of which are painted on the Separation Barrier in numerous locations. The hotel boasts of offering the “worst view in the world”15, that of the contested wall, which to some is a security measure and to others a symbol of oppression and dispossession. The hotel is called an ‘art hotel’ as it contains a museum and displays an

extensive collection of street art and ironic or symbolic materials. Banksy created the museum precisely 100 years after the British took control and occupied Palestine, saying, “I don’t know why, but it felt like a good time to reflect on what happens when the United Kingdom makes a huge political decision without fully comprehending the consequences.”16

The hotel comprises several hotel rooms for overnight stays, a bookshop, a gallery featuring works created by exclusively local artists, a piano bar decorated like an English gentleman’s club, referencing Britain’s colonial rule, and a museum ‘dedicated solely to the biography of the wall.’17 One of the most under-acknowledged facets of the conflict today is the influence of the British in the region, both past and present. Banksy’s choice to decorate the piano bar in the way he did reveals the underpinning of the conflict’s geopolitical roots. Hotel staff serve tea and scones as visitors sit on leather couches beside a wall covered with security cameras affixed to wooden plaques as if they were dead animal heads in a hunting lodge. Being directly adjacent

Fig. 23. The Walled Off Hotel by Banksy in Bethlehem, West Bank, March 2017, Addy Cameron-Huff. Public Domain.

to the separation barrier, guests may sit and enjoy the ugly stain on the landscape in all its stateliness with a beverage in hand. Something is intriguing about the dichotomy of the site and the informality of this program. The wall in Bethlehem and around the hotel is covered in graffiti, the associated store next-door, ‘WallMart,’

even offers stencils and spray paint. The hotel then becomes an engagement with the wall. Allowing and encouraging street art as an active form of resistance is precisely Banksy’s vision with this project and in his works both locally in this land and internationally.

As previously mentioned, this project is controversial. For the local community who are unironically facing the realities of the conflict, some feel that the hotel and Banksy’s works trivialize the conflict18 and hide in the safe confines of humour. It remains unclear how Banksy developed his collection of culturally

specific artwork and whether or not he consulted with folks with true life experiences of oppression. For example, one of the rooms boasts a large mural of an Israeli soldier and a Palestinian freedom fighter having a pillow fight. Some Palestinian locals feel that the hotel fetishizes and normalizes occupation,19 feeding

Fig. 24. The segregation wall in front of the walled off hotel, May 2017, no author. Public Domain.

Fig. 25. Banksy mural of Palestinian and Israeli solider having a pillow fight painted in one of the hotel rooms (by Walled Off Hotel, n.d.)

the anti-normalization drive mentioned in the literature review section. Others appreciate that the hotel brings international awareness of the conflict and that its profits go directly to the city of Bethlehem.20 The Walled Off Hotel has positively influenced the economy of Bethlehem as numerous new shops and restaurants have taken over abandoned residences since the hotel’s opening.21 While the hotel claims to host anyone and everyone and have equal access regardless of political or national identity, a friend of mine who visited told me that when they went, the Rabbis had to travel to the hotel in the trunks of cars. In contrast, another friend told me she went with a group of Israelis, and they had no issues. This varying set of conditions relating to access highlights the inconsistencies on the ground and tangible barriers to shared space and dialogue.

Evaluation

The aspects of this hotel that make it fascinating in the context of this graduate project are the unique sarcastic and ironic discourses Banksy engages through the art and décor of the hotel and with the adjacent Separation Barrier. Walls like this one represent a nation’s desire or ability to control land and its edges. Graffiti and engagement with the wall directly confront the nation’s ability to control- visually debating and arguing back.22 Author of Conflict Graffiti (2022), John Lennon suggests that projects like this one created by international artists with no regionspecific lived experience often erase the realities of colonized peoples and lands that their work set out to highlight.23 Taking a satirical approach to this hotel was certainly a valid mechanism for encouraging dialogue, reflection, and

engagement with the conflict on a different level. Its associated site, art, and décor reveal ideological keystones that challenge notions we think we understand and shine a new light on perspectives of the conflict that are necessary. In a sense, this project is a form of non-violent activism: holding value and principal commentary under the guise of irony and shield of humour.

Takeaways

I have always been intrigued by projects with ironic underpinnings, questioning what makes something art or landscape. Who makes those decisions? World-renowned landscape architect Martha Schwartz frequently addresses these questions, especially with her Bagel Garden. Landscapes may harness form-making and aesthetics to achieve restorative qualities, but they may hold meaning and prompt visitors to leave with new perspectives. As seen with the Walled Off Hotel, locals and tourists alike are immersed in dissonance. A space of cheeky jokes juxtaposed with one of the most severe manifestations of cultural division. Friends of mine who have visited describe it as fascinating in its site and approach to putting the many complicated facets of the conflict into words and art. However, Lennon (2022) makes the excellent point that despite good intentions, Western bias seeps into the work of artists and landscape architects alike. This bias may undermine the difficult issues facing local communities of which they are not a part and which they do not fully understand.24 This bias must be acknowledged, and there should be space in a project such as this for the local communities to actively engage with the concepts and sites the project seeks to address.

Melon Neighbourhood Commons

Location: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Designers: Karl Linn with Students + Community Members

Year: 1960

While the prospects of Urban Renewal sought to clear American cities of ‘blight’ and promised ‘slum clearance,’ designers like Karl Linn saw potential in the therapeutic properties of landscapes and their capabilities to heal relationships between communities and the urban city. Urban renewal affected most cities in North America, including so-called Vancouver, where white supremacist and segregationist planners like Harland Bartholomew began redlining marginalized neighbourhoods to ‘clear’ urban cities of the ‘cancer’ of ‘slums.’25 Similar stories of racist urban policies imposed by urban renewal were well underway in Philadelphia, where Karl Linn had been appointed a faculty position under Ian McHarg at the University of Philadelphia in 1959.26

Fearing Nazi persecution in Germany, Karl Linn’s family fled to Palestine in the 1930s where he helped found a Kibbutz.27 Being very familiar with Kibbutzim myself, as my grandparents met and were married on a Kibbutz, and many family members still live on Kibbutzim in Israel, I understand the sense of community and land stewardship that these places support. Karl Linn moved on to study psychology, but his background in agriculture on the Kibbutz led him to appreciate nature’s role in peacebuilding and healing.28 Linn saw empathy and emotion as potential pathways through which designers could unite and heal broken, segregated, or alienated communities.29 Melon Neighbourhood Commons became Linn’s pilot project in his journey to present an alternative to urban renewal focused on participatory engagement. He re-framed the view of the Melon site from ‘park’ to ‘Commons.’ He imagined that the site would serve as a hub for political activism and social life and strengthen collective identity.30 These goals, he hoped, would be achieved through the careful use and re-use of materials and thoughtful design.

The conceptual design process began by

observing neighbourhood residents and how they operated in their current public spaces. He and his design students began observing how residents created spaces for themselves as extensions of their homes and community. They saw a need for safe and accessible play areas for children and accessible open spaces for youth and adults alike.31 After receiving funding and permission to re-envision the site, Linn arranged a meeting between his students and the residents of this primarily Black neighbourhood in hopes that it would support deepened compassion and empathy in his majority white and privileged students.32 Setting the foundation of respect and compassion propelled them into the construction phase, a cooperation effort between community members and students. The team salvaged as much material as possible as Linn believed this strategy would reaffirm community identity.33 In his book Building Commons and Community (2007), he writes:

“In human habitat, as in coral reefs, the incremental historical deposits of a place imbue the physical environment with a feeling of timelessness. Residues of former buildings, trees, and landscape features create an air of familiarity.”34

-Karl Linn

The overall design of Melon Commons was a ‘hybrid urban-naturalist scheme’35 with its amphitheatre embedded among rolling hills. The team saw potential in the existing rolling topography for play and gathering. Flagstones recovered from nearby demolished sidewalks, found boxes of mosaic tiles, and marble salvaged from doorsteps36 instilled a familiar sensitivity on site. Many local craftspeople, servicepeople, and elected officials kindly donated support, time, expertise, and materials, including trees and mechanical augers. As soon as the play equipment had been installed, children flocked to the site and families were relieved when Linn informed them that there would be no limited

play hours or access like other parks.37 After completing the commons, the team established the Neighbourhood Renewal Corps (NRC) to rally local volunteers and guide them in other neighbourhood grassroots efforts.38 Moreover, the NRC engaged in many emerging civil rights efforts and imagined futures far beyond Melon Commons. Unfortunately, the felt effects of urban renewal racist schemes and redlining trickled deeper into the Melon Neighbourhood, forcing many homeowners to set their own

homes aflame to collect insurance money as they were denied loans for home improvements and conditions deteriorated. This exodus of residents left the Commons’ state to depreciate to the point where it was designated to be demolished. Eventually, the empty lot gave way to fenced-in high-rise construction. In his book, Linn expresses guilt for what happened at the site, wishing maybe he had been there to stand in front of the bulldozer himself.39

Fig. 26. Stepped amphitheatre using marble retrieved from nearby doorsteps, 2007, Karl Linn.

Fig. 27. Community members actively engaging in collecting and preparing salvaged materials, post construction, and making music while construction occurred, 2007, Karl Linn.

Evaluation

Karl Linn set out to oppose the racist prospects of urban renewal at a time when many designers were busy responding to contemporary modernist challenges with new technologies or trying to have dominion over nature. His ethos is unparalleled. He valued community engagement and participation far beyond what many designers now consider engagement or outreach. Melon Commons showed marginalized community members that they can and should see themselves in their public spaces and that they have a stake in such places. While the commons’ design isn’t the most extravagant or outstanding creative expression, it radiates beauty in its cooperation efforts and legacy. Its demise and eventual demolition underscores the evolutionary nature of culture and the impacts of large-scale urban planning failures.

Takeaways

After reading about Karl Linn and his philosophies on design and his works, I saw many parallels between his intentions and mine. I also

can understand how his life experiences shaped his viewpoints. Linn and my late Saba both grew up on tree farms and kibbutzim and placed extraordinary value on community participation in shaping the land we live on. In Linn’s design work, one of the primary strategies he employed was using salvaged materials to kindle a sense of belonging and familiarity with the designed space. Moreover, he engaged local community members in the design and construction process so they could feel included in shaping their own public space and make new connections with place. These are strategies that would be wise to adapt to this graduate project. While I cannot physically visit the community and have them aid me in design and construction, there is still room for intended community input and participation on all levels. Additionally, I think there is a lot to learn from this project’s influence following its construction as it attempted to propel civil-rights efforts forward and be a model for equitable urban space.

Fig. 28. Completed project with stepped amphitheatre and play area, 2013, Anna Goodman.

Conclusion

The three projects outlined in these precedent studies feature a range of approaches to engaging community members, telling stories, and coping with conflict on various scales. While the Freedom Park and the Melon Neighbourhood Commons are not located in the region of Israel/ Palestine, they both offer valuable approaches that ultimately led their communities to feel heard, understood, and respected. The use of irony and humour in Banksy’s Walled Off Hotel may not be as applicable to this project, but it is nevertheless exciting to study its reception by the public and light-hearted take on such a tense site. In conclusion, the projects selected exhibited a need for culture-specific design processes with true intentions to progress forward and reflect on the past or present.

Endnotes

1. “Truth Commission: South Africa,” United States Institute of Peace, December 1, 1995.

2. Michele Jacobs, “Contested Monuments in a Changing Heritage Landscape: //hapo Museum, Freedom Park, Pretoria,” De Arte 51, no. 1 (2016): 89.

3. Jacobs, “Contested Monuments in a Changing Heritage Landscape,” 90.

4. Jacobs, 90.

5. “The Freedom Park,” Landezine, September 4, 2012.

6. Jacobs, 90.

7. Jacobs, 90.

8. Jacobs, 90.

9. Jacobs, 92.

10. “The Freedom Park //Hapo (Museum),” GREENinc Landscape Architecture + Urbanism.

11. “The Freedom Park,” Landezine.

12. Sabine Marschall, “Chapter 7. Freedom Park As National Site Of Identification,” In Landscape of Memory. 2010, 216.

13. Marschall, “Freedom Park As National Site Of Identification,” 231.

14. Colum McCann, Apeirogon: A Novel, First ed, New York: Random House, 2020, 308.

15. Ian Fisher, “Banksy Hotel in the West Bank: Small, but Plenty of Wall Space,” The New York Times. April 16, 2017.

16. Tommaso M. Milani, “Banksy’s Walled Off Hotel and the Mediatization of Street Art,” Social Semiotics, no. ahead-of-print (2022): 1.

17. “Facilities,” The Walled Off Hotel.

18. Milani, “Banksy’s Walled Off Hotel and the Mediatization of Street Art,” 2.

19. Jamil Khader, “Architectural Parallax, Neoliberal Politics and the Universality of the Palestinian Struggle: Banksy’s Walled Off Hotel,” European Journal of Cultural Studies 23, no. 3 (2020): 477.

20. Tristan Davis, “Welcome to the Walled Off: A Visit to Banksy’s Hotel in Bethlehem,” The Jerusalem Post, March 17, 2018.

21. Davis, “Welcome to the Walled Off,” 2018.

22. John Lennon, “Erasing People and Land,” In Conflict Graffiti: University of Chicago Press, 2022, 101.

23. Lennon, “Erasing People and Land,” 102.

24. Lennon, 105.

25. Nicole Dulong, Samantha Miller, and Reece Milton, Hogan’s Alley Site Guidelines (Vancouver: University of British Columbia, 2021), 71.

26. Alison Bick Hirsch, “From “Open Space” to “Public Space”: Activist Landscape Architects of the 1960s,” Landscape Journal 33, no. 2 (2015): 187.

27. Anna Goodman, “Karl Linn and the Foundations of Community Design: From Progressive Models to the War on Poverty,” Journal of Urban History 46, no. 4 (2020): 796.

28. Goodman, “Karl Linn and the Foundations of Community Design,” 796.

29. Goodman, 796.

30. Goodman, 797.

31. Karl Linn, Building Commons and Community, Oakland, CA: New Village Press, 2007, 81-82.

32. Linn, Building Commons and Community, 83.

33. Goodman, 798.

34. Linn, 84.

35. Goodman, 798.

36. Linn, 87-89.

37. Linn, 89.

38. Linn, 90.

39. Linn, 96-97.

Part 3: Stories and Counter Stories

Looking to the olive, the pine, and other landscape architectural practices, the following three design proposals are framed as stories/ counter stories. Each story is chosen due to its proximity to the wall, its exemplification qualities of being used as a weapon or nation-building tool, and its opportunity for peacebuilding or healing at different scales. They begin with a

description and example of a specific site and strategy in which the olive or the pine has been used as a proxy-soldier or proxy-nation-builder. Then, a counter-story (the design proposal) is offered to begin healing lands and nations simultaneously. In this way, we can acknowledge facts on the ground, power imbalances, and traumas and respond to them with empathy.

Fig. 29. Map of three intervention sites atop locations of forests and olive groves, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 30. Map of location of olive groves and pine forests, Samantha Miller.

Displacement

The site of this intervention is what is now known as the Ben Shemen Forest, located near Ramallah. The forest is primarily comprised of pines planted by the JNF. The vast forest lands sit on the sites of destroyed Palestinian villages, depopulated during the Nakba in 1948 or in the Six-Day War of 1967. A practice of erasure that is far too common amongst the sites of JNF forests. Of the 418 Palestinian villages displaced during the Nakba, almost half are now the locations of nature parks, forests, or nature reserves.1 This fact is often a prominent proponent of debates surrounding the heart of the JNF’s intentions, some arguing that their afforestation policies were meant to prevent Palestinians from returning home, forcing them to find a new

home elsewhere in the surrounding Arab countries.2 The sites of these destroyed villages are left in varying conditions under these pine trees. The focus of this story is the remains of Khirbat Zakariyya. According to Palestine Remembered, the 4500+ inhabitants of Khirbat Zakariyya/ ةبرخ ةيركز were completely displaced from their lands and homes in 1948.3 Palestinian historian Walid Khalidi describes the remains of the village today by writing:

“From a distance, the village appears as a bare hill overgrown with thorns and other wild vegetation. The remains of village wells and the cut stones that were used to cover them are visible.”4

-Walid Khalidi

Fig. 31. Khirbet Zakariyya before the Nakba, Palestine Remembered.

Fig. 32. Attack on Khirbet Zakariyya, Israeli Archives. Public Domain.

Fig. 33. Hill where Khirbet Zakariyya was, Hasan Hawari.

Fig. 34. Officer from 1948 drinking from well, Israeli Archives. Public Domain.

Fig. 35. Stones left behind, 2007, Noga Kadman.

Fig. 36. Map of destroyed villages and forests, with Story 01, Samantha Miller.

Political violence blurs the boundaries between the “war front” and the “home front.”5 One study on Palestinian women’s mental well-being found that anxiety and grief were consistent as there is agony in being unable to derive comfort within their environment.6 There are numerous tales of incredible internal breakthroughs occurring through seeing the ‘other’ grieve. Palestinian activist Ali Abu Awwad grew up in a politically active family, participating in resistance efforts which got him arrested. After being released from prison, he found was shot in the leg during the Second Intifada, and later, his brother was killed by a soldier at a checkpoint. He was chockfull of anger, grief, and pain. Eventually, he joined the Parents Circle Families Forum. In his 2015 Ted Talk, he expressed his shock after realizing Jews had emotion and could cry. Now, he works to spread a message of non-violent activism and reconciliation.7 A similar tale is told in Apeirogon: A Novel by Colum McCann, based on the true-life friendship of two grieving fathers, one Palestinian and one Israeli. McCann describes the Israeli father attending his first meeting at the Parents Circle Families Forum (an organization created to gather grieving people who want peace), writing:

“On and on they came, so many of them… And I remember seeing this lady in this black, traditional dress, with a headscarf- you know, the sort of woman who I might have thought could be the mother of one of the bombers who took my child. She was slow and elegant, stepping down from the bus, walking in my direction. And then I saw it, she had a picture of her daughter clutched to her chest. She walked past me. I couldn’t move. And this was like an earthquake inside me: this woman had lost her child. It maybe sounds

simple. but it was not. I had been in a sort of coffin. This lifted the lid from my eyes. My grief and her grief, the same grief.”8

-Rami Elhanan via Colum McCann

When a person dies, the most common Jewish practice, regardless of the degree of religiousness, is to sit Shiva. Shiva is a seven-day mourning period in which the bereaved receive visitors to pray, eat, and be comforted at their homes. There is a powerful notion here of having friends, family, community members, and even acquaintances all come to the aid of the bereaved so they are not alone and are fed and cared for. Having space to grieve and be comforted is critical in healing on an individual and community level.

Unfortunately, being someone or knowing someone who has lost a loved one due to this ongoing conflict is almost a right of passage in this land. But this idea of grieving does not strictly apply to people grieving the loss of a loved one. We can grieve the loss of a home, a sense of community, of land, or an olive tree. There are stages of grief that require unique conditions to meet the needs of each stage. Grief is a universal human experience and feeling. It can be shared and recognized if there is space and time.

Fig. 37. Context and access map for Story 01, using Google Earth Imagery as a base, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 38. Full site plan of Story 01 showing clearly marked gardens in the footprints of destroyed homes, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 39. Full site section, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 40. Zoomed-in plan of one of the footprint gardens, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 41. A place to witness the mourning of others, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 42. Moving rubble to make gardens becomes an act of acknowledging and making space for mourning, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 43. Perspective of one of the marked home gardens in Ben Shemen Forest, Samantha Miller.

Disruption

Due to many of these pine forests being close to walls and therefore close to Palestinian towns shadowed by the wall, the exceptionally flammable nature of the tree’s resin, and their potent symbol of Jewish rootedness, they have become a frequent victim of arson attacks. Since the beginning of the First Intifada, over 900 fires have been started in JNF forests, most of which have been deliberately set by Palestinians.9 A Jerusalem-based newspaper even published a cartoon illustrating “tree burning certificates” being handed out by the Palestinian Authority, referring to the “tree planting certificates” offered by the JNF after donating into the blue tins.10 Underground Palestinian terror organizations often set out calls to commit terror and instructions on how to start forest fires.11 After

a large forest fire incident in 2010, forest fires became recognized as deliberate and premeditated strategic terror tools.12 The site of this intervention is the HaHamisha forest located in ‘No-Man’s Land.’ Set ablaze in 2016, the fire started near Oasis of Peace/Neve Shalom/ Wahat al-Salam, a coexistence community near the intervention site and the recipient of several peace-related awards. Fires quickly spread across forests outside of Jerusalem, and fires were spontaneously started in other areas of the country. However, unity and community showed its face in this devastating form of disruption. Firefighting aircraft and aid arrived from Bulgaria, Cyprus, Croatia, France, Greece, Italy, Romania, Spain, Turkey, and even the Palestinian Authority.13

Fig. 47. Firefighting plane near Nataf, 2016, Ronen Zvulun.

Fig. 46. Greek aircraft helping in firefighting efforts, 2016, Avi Ben Zaken. Public Domain.

Fig. 48. Palestinian firefighters aid in firefighting, 2016, Lior Mizrahi/Getty Images. Public Domain.

Fig. 44. Files on No-Man’s Land, 1948, Israeli Archives. Public Domain. Fig. 45. Files on Oasis of Peace, 1993, Israeli Archives. Public Domain.

Fig. 49. Map of national burning index and forests, with Story 02, Samantha Miller.

Unity

There is demonstrated need for gathering and coexistence space, with Oasis of Peace/Neve Shalom/Wahat al-Salam nearby and gatherings of activist groups around the country in the thousands. No-Man’s Land is a promising contender for facilitating this space, as expressed in the writing of political geographers, Noam Lesehm and Alasdair Pinkerton:

“Contrary to the absence assumed in its name, we demonstrate that no-man’s land is a highly active space: it is constantly produced and transformed by a multitude of actors, and in turn, is itself a transformative and generative space, opening new horizons of political action and social interaction.”14

-Noam Lesehm and Alasdair Pinkerton

Healing processes are most likely to occur when the individuals in conflict sit down in dialogue and are actively engaged in managing conflict15, rather than formal leaders or agencies making decisions around a boardroom table. Documentation and research examining the successes and failures of Israeli Palestinian dialogues have shown that more powerful sessions involved the practice of deep listening, best achieved in person. This means that one must suppress their sub-vocal objections and tendencies to be contrary to the person speaking to ensure they feel understood and heard.16 In recent years, testimonial stories of the horrors of war and its long-lasting personal consequences are a necessary therapeutic process and imperative to healing.17 In situations like these, participants often felt personally involved in the other’s narrative. As a result, they began feeling apologetic even though they were not the ones

who directly inflicted the terror on the other. Most importantly, as examined in the literature review, space must be created to facilitate dialogue and peacebuilding in divided communities. This notion rings true in my own experiences within my Israeli/Palestinian dialogue group, رسج/Bridge/רׁשג. The first time we met in person, it was outdoors at a park. The big maple tree sheltered us, and the picnic tables hosted the traditional foods the members had brought to share. From that day on, after having that space to gather and meet in person, whether our meetings were online or not, we felt comfortable with each other and trusted each other with our tears and stories.

Fig. 50. Context and access map for Story 02, using Google Earth Imagery as a base, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 51. Full site plan of Story 02, showing program spaces for community building in No-Man’s Land, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 52. Gathering space with dense conifers on edge for privacy, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 53. Prayer area facing Mecca and the Western Wall, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 54. Community garden for growing food together, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 55. Cutting burnt trees to build infrastructure or clearing them for space, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 56. Space to eat and gather facilitates cross cultural celebration and dialogue, Samantha Miller.

Uproot

The olive tree is not just a cultural symbol or a facet of Palestinian life and economy; it is also a political entity. It is slow-growing but long-living, drought resistant, and easy to grow in poor soil conditions, which is why it has transcended the eras of varying colonial forces and conquests in Israel/Palestine. It represents rootedness, history, and identity fixed in place. Increasingly in the last two decades, the State of Israel has been uprooting Palestinian-owned olive trees by the thousands. Olive trees have a history of being uprooted in this land since the Ottoman rulers uprooted them as punishment for tax avoidance, and the British Mandatory administration continued implementing these practices. However, Israel claims these uprooting practices are essential for national security.18 Olive trees are being uprooted to make way for the separation barrier, watchtowers and checkpoints, roads, and to increase visibility by removing hiding ground for terrorists.19 In a sense, the State of Israel has bestowed the olive with even more immense power because of its place in the conflict and through the indirect and direct acts of uprooting.20 In one documented dialogue group, the researcher found that many participants

were stubborn to accept the causes of human rights violations as other members frequently attempted to justify them. In this dialogue session, participants were shown a photograph of an older woman holding onto the trunk of an uprooted olive tree. Scholar David Senesh describes this moment, writing:

“The interconnectedness of that woman, the land and the tree… This was a most pervasive visual demonstration of interconnectedness in an all-ornothing irreversible situation, where an uprooted tree symbolized death and despair… When Israelis can apologize for the uprooted tree, the Palestinians can invite them to sit in its shade and feel safe from threats of extermination.”21

-David Senesh

In 2015, in Beit Jala, right outside of Bethlehem, Israeli machinery began the construction of the wall, uprooting olive trees as it went. The proposed plan for the wall (while it remains unfinished) will make privately owned farmland in the Cremisan Valley inaccessible to Palestinian farmers in Beit Jala.

Fig. 57. Beit Jala residents protest wall, 2016, Ryan Beiler/Activestills.

Fig. 58. Uprooting olives in Beit Jala, 2015, Sarit Michaeli.

Fig. 59. Map of violence rings and olive groves, with Story 03, Samantha Miller.

Root

It would be naive to propose planting olive trees or transplant uprooted olive trees and call it ‘rooting.’ Olive trees, and pine trees for that matter, are not protected under Israeli Law and thus subject to continuous uprooting. However, in 1964, Israel published the “Protected Natural Values” Law, which includes a list of protected species that has since been continually revised.22 By planting these rare and protected species in the land where the wall has not yet been

constructed and by using traditional land practices to do so, this proposal hopes to reinforce rootedness in the landscape and protect Palestinian land sovereignty and livelihood. While this intervention is less so about increasing interrelations between Palestinians and Israelis, it’s important to recognize that the Palestinians are the ones who are occupied and oppressed today, and this effort focuses on their security and maintaining their livelihood.

Fig. 60. Context and access map for Story 03, using Google Earth Imagery as a base, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 61. List of protected species under Israeli Law that are suitable for the site, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 62.

Fig. 63. Full site plan of Story 03 showing planted terraces through the plans for the wall, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 64. Section through site showing existing olive groves and proposed terraces, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 65. Planting plan of protected species, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 66. Section through terraces, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 67. Moving plants as a guerrilla planting effort to protect Palestinian land sovereignty, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 68. Perspective of Story 03, to maintain a sense of rootedness for occupied Palestinians in Beit Jala, Samantha Miller.

Fig. 69. Connection to olive tree you cannot reach, Samantha Miller.

Endnotes

1. Irus Braverman, Planted Flags: Trees, Land, and Law in Israel/Palestine, Cambridge University Press, 2014, 99.

2. Braverman, Planted Flags, 99.

3. “Zakariyya, Khirbat - Al-Ramla,” Palestine Remembered, Accessed April 30, 2023, https:// www.palestineremembered.com/al-Ramla/ Zakariyya,-Khirbat/index.html.

4. “Zakariyya, Khirbat,” Palestine Remembered.

5. Cindy A Sousa, Susan Kemp, and Mona ElZuhairi, “Dwelling within Political Violence: Palestinian women’s Narratives of Home, Mental Health, and Resilience,” Health & Place 30, (2014): 205.

6. Sousa, Kemp, and El-Zuhairi, “Dwelling within Political Violence,” 211.

7. TedX Talks, “Painful Hope | Ali Abu Awwad,” Youtube, 7 May 2015.

8. Colum McCann, Apeirogon: A Novel, First ed, New York: Random House, 2020, 223.

9. Braverman, Planted Flags, 105.

10. Braverman, 105.

11. Jonathan Fighel, “The “Forest Jihad”,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 32, no. 9 (2009): 803-804..

12. János Besenyő, “Inferno Terror: Forest Fires as the New Form of Terrorism,” Terrorism and Political Violence 31, no. 6 (2019): 1234.

13. Besenyő, “Inferno Terror,” 1234.

14. Noam Leshem and Alasdair Pinkerton, “ReInhabiting no-Man’s Land: Genealogies, Political Life and Critical Agendas,” Transactions - Institute of British Geographers (1965) 41, no. 1 (2016): 42.

15. David Senesh, “Restorative Moments: From First Nations People in Canada to Conflicts in an Israeli–Palestinian Dialogue Group,” In Peacebuilding, Memory and Reconciliation, edited by Charbonneau, Bruno and Genevieve Parent,

Routledge, 2012, 167.

16. Senesh, 169.

17. Senesh, 169.

18. Braverman, 129-130.

19. Braverman, 130.

20. Irus Braverman, “Uprooting Identities: The Regulation of Olive Trees in the Occupied West Bank,” Political and Legal Anthropology Review 32, no. 2 (2009): 238.

21. Senesh, 172.

22. Avi Shmida, Ori Fragman, Ran Nathan, Zvi Shamir, and Yuval Sapir, “The Red Plants of Israel: A Proposal of Updated and Revised List of Plant Species Protected by the Law,” Ecologia Mediterranea 28, no. 1 (2002): 56.

Conclusion

CONCLUSION

The landscape is the basket that carries stories of love, trauma, displacement, and resilience. If we can uncover and listen to the tales the land and its inhabitants tell us, empathy moves to the forefront. The land reflects the political powers that put barriers on it, stopping the movement of people, flora, and fauna. But the land also speaks for itself, it continues to evolve in the face of an ever-changing climate, both politically and environmentally. The profound healing of the wounds of war and trauma will not come from political leaders.

This conflict is complex, deep rooted, and emotional. This project is my own. While I do my best to share the perspectives contrary to the narrative I grew up with, I cannot cover it all. Both Israelis and Palestinians deserve the right to express and receive love. Anyone who tells you that one must come at the expense of another, is not a human rights activist.

End Matter

DEFINITIONS

Click here to go back to where you left off!

Al-Nakba = ‘the Catastrophe’ = The Nakba was the max expulsion and exodus of over 750,000 Palestinians during the 1948 war that followed the declaration of Israel’s independence.

Annex = the forcible acquisition of territory or proclaiming sovereignty over a territory by another state, usually following war or conquest.

Antisemitism = prejudice toward, hostility to, or discrimination against Jewish people.

Balfour Declaration = the public statement issued in 1917 by the British government that announced their support for the establishment of a national home for the Jewish people in Palestine.

Bar Mitzvah/Bat Mitzvah = “son/daughter of the commandment” = the Jewish coming-of-age ritual in which Jewish children (at age 12 or 13) read from the Torah (Hebrew Bible) for the first time and become accountable to themselves and the laws of Judaism.

Checkpoint = barrier most often manned by the military that controls which travelers are permitted entrance or exit to a place.

Diaspora = the dispersion or spread of a group of people from their original homeland.

Dunam = the Ottoman unit of area equivalent to the acre, representing the amount of land that could be ploughed by a team of oxen in one day.

Eretz (Eretz Israel) = Eretz means land in Hebrew. Many Jews refer to this land as Eretz Israel. It is well-known among the Jewish community that if one says the ‘Eretz’ they are referring to Israel.

Green Line = the demarcation line set out in the 1949 Armistice Agreements made between Israeli commander, Moshe Dayan and his Jordanian counterpart, Abdullah a-Tal. They met to mark out a ceasefire line to end the war. They used thick crayons and drew on a dirty table, making any lines they drew quite bumpy and irregular. These lines became the de-facto borders of Israel until the 1967 SixDay War.

Judea and Samaria = some refer to this land as being called Judea and Samaria prior to it being called Palestine or Israel. The region of Judea and Samaria are biblical names tied to the ancient Israelite kingdoms.

Kibbutz = a community in Israel traditionally based on agriculture, where folks live in accordance with a specific social contract based on mutual aid and democracy.

Intifada = “shaking off” = An intifada is a civil uprising and resistance movement involving both violent and nonviolent Palestinian demonstrations. There have been two large intifadas in Israel/ Palestine: the First Intifada was from 1987 – 1993, and the Second Intifada was from 2000 - 2005.

Islamophobia = prejudice toward, hostility to, or discrimination against Muslim people.

Israeli Settlements = refers to any of the communities built by Israeli Jews after the Six-Day War (in 1967) located primarily in the West Bank, but also in the Gaza Strip, the Golan Heights, and the Sinai Peninsula. These settlements are in violation of the Fourth Geneva Convention, which prohibits a country from transferring its population into occupied territory. Israel maintains that the settlements are not illegal because the West Bank was ‘not a country’ when they annexed it.

Mitzvah = literally translates to ‘commandment’ in Hebrew, but generally used to mean a ‘good deed.’

No-Man’s Land = No-Man’s Land is a sliver of land where the Israeli and Jordanian commander’s crayons didn’t overlap when drawing the armistice line of 1949 (The Green Line). The area between the two Green Lines drawn became called No-Man’s Land.

Oslo Accords = a Declaration of Principles signed by Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin and Palestine Liberation Organization leader Mahmoud Abbas. The agreements included that the PLO would renounce terrorism and recognize Israel’s right to exist, that Israel would recognize the PLO as the representative body of the Palestinians, and that a Palestinian Authority would be established to govern the West Bank and Gaza for the next five years. Topics of borders, refugees and Jerusalem were unresolved. United States president Bill Clinton played a role in bringing these accords to the table and the leaders shook hands on national television on the White House lawn. Two years later, Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated by a right-wing extremist Israeli who opposed Rabin’s efforts making peace with Palestinians.

Qur’an = the central religious text of Islam. Muslim people believe the text is a transcription of God’s speech revealed by an angel to the Prophet Muhammad.

Saba = Hebrew for Grandfather.

Safta = Hebrew for Grandmother.

Separation Barrier = the wall built by Israel (somewhat following the Green Line) that divides Israel and the West Bank. Israelis describe the wall as being a security measure and Palestinians describe the wall as being an element of apartheid and segregation.

Shoah = Hebrew for “catastrophe” and is synonymous with the word Holocaust.

Torah = the central religious text of Judaism. Jewish people believe that the Torah was revealed to Moses by God on Mount Sinai.

Zionist Movement/Zionism = Jewish national movement that saw the creation of a Jewish state in Palestine/supports the self-determination of Jews in their ancestral homeland. Zionism is a nationalist movement created in reaction to increasing antisemitism in Europe. Anti-Zionists see the movement as colonial, racist, and exceptionalist.

Week 1

Collection

Collect stories of personal experiences in Israel/ Palestine from books, journals, and archives.

Week 2

Wall Analysis

Spatial data collection, mapping, understanding spatial and political context of the wall.

Weeks 3 - 5

Schematic Design

Testing peacebuilding strategies, translating peacebuilding into uses of planting, schematically organizing potential design elements.

Week 6

Midterm Review

Continue testing spatial program and create first set of drawings that should reflect a culturally specific style and method.

Week 7

Check Self

After receiving review feedback, reexamine work thus far and check for any possible culturally insensitive decisions and reconsider best approaches.

Week 8

Formal Design Stage

Move into critical design thinking using drawing as a thinking tool to flush out program elements.

Week 9

Silent Review

Create the first draft of drawing set with a semi-finalized design scheme.

Weeks 10 - 11

Details

Work on materiality, planting plan, and focus on ephemeral and sensorial qualities of all proposed designed spaces.

Week 12

Substantial Review

Create an 80% complete set of drawings that convey the narrative, intention, and scheme of the design.

Weeks 13 - 14

Revisions

Finesse designed elements and revise drawings based on feedback from substantial review.

Week 15

Final Graduate Project Review!

Present a full set of completed drawings.

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Dulong, Nicole, Samantha Miller, and Reece Milton. Hogan’s Alley Site Guidelines. Vancouver: University of British Columbia, 2021.

“Facilities.” The Walled Off Hotel. Accessed November 10, 2022. https://walledoffhotel.com/facilities.html.

Fields, Gary. “Landscaping Palestine: Reflections of Enclosure in a Historical Mirror.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 42, no. 1 (2010): 63-82.

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