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The Dutch government has reported that the total costs of the ISAF operation will run between 480 and 510 million euro, not including additional expenditures for the deployment of F-16s which is estimated at another 30 million euro. This sum includes a million euro for Quick and Visible Projects (QVPs). Seven contracts totaling more than € 650,000 have been signed to date with local NGOs and deals another € 200,000 will be signed soon. These projects are designed to restore small roads and irrigations canals and for the improvement and expansion of health services.
Map: F.A.S.T.
Safety + Construction = 510 million euros
T RAT INGS LOVE KYRGY YZST TAN A KYRGYZSTAN
(Source: Letter Nr. 237 from the Dutch Ministers of Foreign U TAN A UZBEKISTAN Affairs, Defense and Developmental CooperationUZBEKIST to the Lower House of Parliament, The Hague, 20 October 2006.)
T AJIKIST A TA AN TAJIKISTAN
NLY S HE JO HE JO
Badakhshan
ISAF
Jawzjan
KonduzISAF
e Mazar e-Sharif
TURKMENISTAN
Faizabad
Kunduz
Balkh lkh kh
Takhar ISAF
ISAF
ISAF
CHINA
Baghlan Samangan
h Meymanah
ISA ISAF AF
Faryab
ISLAMIC REPUBLI REPUBLIC OF IRAN
Sari Pul
ISAF
ISAF
AF ISA ISAF
ISAF
Nuristan
Panjsher
Bamyan
Badghis
Kapisa
ISAF
Qal’eh-ye Now
ISAF
Parwan
ISAF
ISAF
ISAF
Chaghcharan
ISAFF
Kabull
ISAF
Heratt
Laghman L
Kabul Ka a
J l l Jalalabad
Wardak
Ghor
Nangarhar N Na
ISAF
L Lo Logar
Herat
Kunar
ISAF
HEALI HOP EMBR
ISAF
Day Kundi
G zn Ghazni ISAF
Ghazni
Khost st
Paktya Pa Pa
os Khost
Uruzgan Paktika Farah
Farah
ISAF
Zabul
ISSAF ISAF
ISAF
ISAF
Nimroz
Lashkar Gah h
ISAF Kandahar
ISAF
ISAF
Hilmand Kandahar
PAKISTAN
WHO H E WHO THEM Capital Cities Notes Air Bases Permanent US U Airbase Ground Gro ound Bases Permanent Permanen nt US Base Air base used by NA NATO/ISAF AT TO/ISAF (long (lon ng runway) Airbase Used by NA NATO AT TO (short (sho ort runway) International Secu Security urity Assistance Force - Reconstru Reconstruction ction T Team eam e Dutch D Base Regional Command Capital Kabul Kab bul (NA (NATO) ATO) T
3
VING M ISAF
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Haliburton’s ‘Slave Labor Camp’ Third Country Nationals (TCNs) make up 35,000 of KBR’s 48,000 workers in Iraq employed under sweeping contract for military support. Known as the Logistics Civilian Augmentation Program (LOGCAP), this contract – by far the largest in Iraq – is now approaching the $15 billion mark.
F Tradin
US Workers US$50/hour
US Workers 13,000
TCN Workers US$2/hour
TCN Workers 35,000
Khazakhstan Mongolia
eor
Uzbekistan
Kyrgystan
erbai i erbaijan
r Turkeyy
Turkmenistan
Total Workforce 58,000
Tajikistan
China
Syria Lebanon
Afghanistan Iraq
Israel
Iran
Jordan Pakistan
Kuwait
Nepal Bhutan
Saudi Arabia Bangladesh U.A.E. Burma
India
Oman
Yemen
‘The TCNs are everywhere, almost beneath our notice. They do all manner of work – cleaning latrines, serving food, installing guard rails or policing up rubbish around camp. It’s easy to forget they’re people. I discovered this when the Pakistani worker who folded my laundry came to say goodbye as I was getting ready to leave my last duty station. Despite a poor command of English, he bade me farewell and good luck. I shook his hand, perhaps the only time in ten months here that I actually touched a TCN.‘ Maj. Patrick Chaisson, Deputy Personnel Officer of the 42d Infantry Division
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Sri Lanka
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Map: F.A.S.T.
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US GOVERNMENT $24 billion in contracts
HALIBURTON
First Kuwaiti Trading & Contracting
PPI
BECHTEL
Alargan Trading of Kuwait
Gulf Catering
Saudi Trading & Construction Company of Saudi Arabia
Mongolia
North Korea
Japan
South Korea
a
sh Burma
Vietnam Laos
Thailand
Philippines
Cambodia
TCN Recruitment TCN Transfer Percentage of the population living on less than $2 per day. Malaysia
1% to 24% 25% to 49% 50% to 74%
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Indonesia
0
31
75% to 90% No Data Salaries of Haliburton laborers recruited from the United States: US$40 to 50 / hour
East Timor
Salaries of TCN’s: US$1 to 2/hour
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Barda’s Boundaries Temporary homes and the politics of displacement Malkit Shoshan, Christian Ernsten
‘To lose all that is familiar – the destruction of one’s environment – can mean a disorienting exile from the memories they have invoked. It is the threat of a loss to one’s collective identity and the secure continuity of those identities.’ Robert Bevan1
with local oil funds. Each of these new forms symbolizes a specific kind of politics and an accompanying problem-solving strategy. Schools and new towns
Barda has 73 school buildings, of which 55 are currently in use as temporary housing. The smallest school hosts approximately 50 families, the largest about 100. These buildings were designed and constructed in the Soviet period, so their architecture is very similar; they have, for example, ten classrooms of approximately 30 square meters on each floor. The classrooms form the basic grid of the transformation of the schools into a residential block. The cubic rooms have been divided several times among the new inhabitants of the school: sometimes ten classrooms have been made into 50 or 100 ‘housing units’. The rigid Soviet grid is altered in flexible ways. The interior is transformed by using thin cardboard walls to divide the rooms into separate spaces, one per family and as many as necessary. By doing this, the new improvised style changed the building’s character drastically. The severe communist exterior and structure have been replaced by a more organic and humane usage. The downside of the new design is obvious: over-crowding. Besides the lack of privacy, the biggest problem is the absence of a proper plumbing infrastructure. The schools function as highly concentrated city blocks, while the playgrounds are used as parking space, storage area and fields for chickens, cows and sheep. Hygiene and fresh water are a constant concern. Nevertheless, the organization of these settlements is incredibly efficient. The elderly, for example, have separate living areas. Displaced people have a clear image of the possibilities of their environment. A process which incorporates their vision of their home could prove to be an important contribution to the further development of alternative housing solutions. Temporary housing in school buildings has had an impact on a broader scale as well. The influx of people from Karabakh meant an immediate suspension of normality in Barda. Since more than 70 percent of the schools were occupied by refugees, education in the Barda region has collapsed. The authorities’ response was to change the layout of the city: they
Volume 11
Populations are on the move everywhere, yet we give them different names: refugees, displaced persons, asylum seekers, working migrants. It is not movement which characterizes these people, but the space they enter into. The word, however, immediately implies the status of the newcomer and their social standing. Just as the word is a matter of choice, subject to ideology and political view, so is the structure that accommodates these people. There is a politics to it, which results in a specific type of housing and spatial planning. In Barda, a small village about a four-hour drive from the Azerbaijani capital of Baku, a disenchanting example of such political architecture can be found. The population of this village consists mainly of Azeris who were forcibly removed from nearby Nagorno-Karabakh. The Azerbaijani regime, which lost a third of its territory in the war, purposely appropriated the fate of these individuals to use as a wedge in the international political debate on Karabakh and in so doing feeding their hopes and desperation. In addition, not only has the uncertain political status of these individuals and their fragile economic situation become a crucial element in the process of Azeri nation-building, the memories of their homeland have as well. The evolution of settlements in Barda points to an institutionalizing of their fate and detonates a strengthening official grip on their vision of their new home, new environment and its possibilities. For a long time, the Azeri exodus from Karabakh formed an unmet challenge to Azeri society. Therefore, the initial housing of the displaced depended on their own inventiveness and survival strategies. Most of these refugees improvised shelters for themselves. In addition to squatting in old train wagons, people created huts by digging holes in the ground and covering them with mud or with sticks, plastic and cardboard. In this way, the landscape of Barda was remolded: thousands of self-made mud huts created an endless, warty landscape. In the years after the conflict, the supposedly temporary housing situation started to slowly mutate into different forms of spatial configurations. Contemporary Barda presents various survival typologies, such as squatted public buildings (mostly schools and hotels) and new towns financed by the World Bank or
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separate the ‘indigenous’ inhabitants from the newcomers. As a result, new towns have been constructed in the middle of nowhere and the refugees were displaced once again. These new housing units were built on a rigid grid in an open, flat area. All homes are the same. The interior consists of a kitchen (3m2), a dining room (3-4 m2) and the main room (15-17 m2), which is used as a living room during the day and a bedroom for the whole family at night. These houses symbolize a new political stage in dealing with the fate of the refugees. The international aid system takes care of them now. Yet, the humanitarianism of the World Bank and the oil funds reproduce a reality of conflict, as their approach to the problem of displacement in Barda does not relieve the disorientation of living in exile.2 Indeed, not only were the inhabitants of the new towns forcibly removed from Karabakh, integration into Azeri society was also made impossible by the very location of their homes. In contrast to the organic appearance of the schools, the new towns look disciplined, as if built by force. The displaced are separated from normal society and their dignity and independence remains in the hands of others. Their lack of economic sustainability and self-worth, as well as the impossibility of reconciliation, are closely related to the fact that food, water, electricity and medicine are being supplied to them. A real set of alternatives and solutions needs to address the daily living conditions of this community in relation to an analysis of the politics of displacement.
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Politics of displacement
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The evolution in the settlements of the Azeris from Karabakh is paralleled by changing political attitudes. It points to the further institutionalization of the resolution in the South Caucasus in general and the problem of displaced individuals in particular. Indeed, the presence of international governmental and non-governmental organizations in Barda is not only evidence of a more hands-on approach to the lack of housing, it also exposes the strategy to resolve this community’s fate as a neo-liberal form of humanitarianism. Whereas aid and reconstruction should contribute to reducing conflict, the political and military struggle for Karabakh has merely been transformed into an economic conflict.3 As a result, the problem of displacement in Barda is not linked to the undemocratic nature of the Azeri regime or discussed in terms of the right to return, regional reconciliation and the traumas of those forcibly removed. A critical design approach is needed as a response to temporary housing solutions, one which relieves the needs of the displaced, but also takes the politics of displacement into account, its types of settlements and the ways it appropriates memory. When thinking about a different approach for housing in Barda, one should consider the home and its sustainable development. Living in a refugee camp is not necessarily experienced as a temporary solution. Interestingly enough, in
Western cities people move every 5 years on average, yet still regard each one as their home. Moreover, some refugee camps in the world have existed for more than half a century now, during which time people’s living conditions have been constantly manipulated by politicians and national leaders. Turning people into refugees was a choice made by belligerents. Denying these same people a home now is equally a matter of choice. In order to make the right choice, a different set of tools is presented here. Focusing on the human scale of the home – taking as a starting point the time frame of five years as a non-temporary solution – will create a totally different set of typologies of settlements and opportunities. Moreover, it will provide a new way to deal with the trauma of displacement.
1. Robert Bevan, The destruction of memory. Architecture at war, London (Reaktion) 2006. 2. Bevan, The destruction of memory, p. 13. 3. www.partizanpublik.nl/index.php?page_id=55: Andrew Herscher on neoliberal humanitarianism in: Arthur Huizinga, ‘How to materialize peace? A report of the Factory at Planet Peace’ (accessed 14-12-2006).
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Entrance to Barda region
Photos: F.A.S.T. (1, 2, 3, 4, 8), D.J. Visser (5, 6, 7)
DIY Camps
Community house
Barda
Train wagons
Az
Mud houses
erb aija n
Na go
rno
Ag
da m
Ka ra
ba kh
Bo
rde
r
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Showers
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Photos: F.A.S.T. (1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 11, 14), D.J. Visser (4, 7, 12, 13)
School
4
1 2
3
Before
After
units for elderly
14
5
New housing units
First floor Storage
Playground
13
6 Sport facilities
Square Animals
Ground floor
7
12
9
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0
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New Towns‌
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Photos: D.J. Visser
…after three years
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Post Soviet migration and displacement of population in the South Caucasus
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Post Soviet ethnic divisions in the South Caucasus
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Maps: F.A.S.T.
Infrastructures and the oil pipeline route
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Distribution of refugee camps in the South Caucasus
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Extreme Make-over in the South Caucasus The reconstruction of post-Soviet Karabakh Malkit Shoshan, Christian Ernsten
‘The old is dying, the new is struggling to be born, and in the interregnum, there arise many morbid symptoms.’ A. Gramsci1
Since 1994 the Karabakh-Armenians have strengthened the borders of their new nation, but they have also reconstructed Nagorno-Karabakh internally. Below we introduce a reading of the reconstruction of Karabakh’s landscape since the start of the conflict. Churches
In contrast to the sites of destruction, a new kind of imaginary landscape can be observed: places are stripped of specific histories and repackaged to meet new cultural tastes. In Shushi, formerly a diverse, multicultural capital, most cultural buildings and institutions were destroyed during the war. Only two glossy Armenian cathedrals have been reconstructed. According to locals, God spared these religious buildings. Yet, the plaster is fresh and the rubble of recent construction still visible. The reconstruction of cultural heritage appears to be happening in a one-dimensional way. Instead of presenting the complexity of Shushi’s heritage, the political leadership seems to be focused on managing historical discourses. Clearly, their efforts are not directed to creating places designed to facilitate discussion, but instead are motivated by an urge for historical disconnection. Titanic
Much of the Karabakh’s new design also represents a cynical annihilation of history. On the roadway to the reconstructed Gandzasar Monastery,3 a giant replica of the Titanic has been erected. An investor intended to strengthen local morale with a restaurant in the shape of the legendary ocean liner. An artificial river and a cat-walk to present local beauty queens make up the balance of this bizarre spectacle. Inside the ship, under the dining tables, the village’s local history is conserved via a puppet show in small glass cabinets. Yet, every association between the landscape and its recent past seems to have been extracted and replaced by the romantic theme of a global blockbuster. Tanks
Another prevalent element in Karabakh’s new landscape is the tank. The celebration of this military object has to be understood in the context of the dominant narrative of the new nation. This narrative counts heroic stories of Karabakh-Armenian fortitude in war. Whereas the Azeri tanks are burned and rusty, the Armenian vehicles are polished, sometimes still functional.
Volume 11
In Kurban Said’s novel Ali and Nino, Karabakh, the highlands of the South Caucasus, figured as the paradisiacal setting for a beautiful romance in the early 20th century. In the lush green forests of this mountainous area, Ali and Nino lay in each other arms and made love for the first time. For a moment, the couple escaped from the regional political tensions between Azerbaijan, Georgia and Armenia. More recently, though, Karabakh has become the territory of a rather different set of desires. From the late 1980s onwards this province in the former Soviet republic of Azerbaijan became a place of nationalistic mobilization, religious and ethnic violence, forced removals, border changes and the destruction of homes and cultural heritage. Today, the image of Karabakh is that of a historical theme park, a timeless zone redirected according to the spirit of a new local geography of power. Megalomaniac architectural designs stand next to zones of utter urban destruction. Nagorno-Karabakh, an area of 4,400 square kilometers covering the hill tops and valleys of the South Caucasus mountains, is an unrecognized state in the republic of Azerbaijan. Nowadays, the only way to reach Karabakh is by a 6-hour drive from the Armenian capital of Yerevan, passing through the Meghry region and the Lachin corridor. The curling road winding up towards the capital city of Stepanakert leads through the gorgeous scenery of Karabakh. Yet, the region’s natural beauty is studded with sites of destruction, with demolished villages and houses. The remnants of these violent episodes in Karabakh’s contemporary history are still visibly present. To be able to read the layering of this landscape, it is necessary to understand the stories of its recent past. In 1988, after the start of perestroika in the Soviet Union, the conflict between Azeris and Armenians in Karabakh gradually escalated. Before a ceasefire was imposed in 1994, some 600,000 Azeri people had been displaced.2 The devastation of old Karabakh is very visible. Broken walls, wrecked columns, rooflesshomes, empty streets, neglected fruit gardens, abandoned schools, the shell of an opera building, the façade of a vacant city hall. Pieces of furniture lie randomly about on the side of the road, or elsewhere on piles of sand, plastic bags, stones and garbage – it is an atoll of destruction. The landscape of this pseudo-nation is a painful reminder of war and the questionable character of the Karabakh-Armenian victory.
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Throughout the country, places associated with acts of extraordinary bravery are decorated with tanks. As a result they have become public places, where teenagers and young couples hang out in the evening. Yet, the tank also symbolizes the prevalence of conflict in Karabakh society. The heroic narrative is accompanied by a high degree of militarization of society and its cultural roots. Lottery homes
The Lottery, an Armenian Diaspora company, is a fourth force in Karabakh’s reconstruction. The company has sponsored a new residential area in Shushi. According to their plan, the new area is being built on the ruins of a mixed-use area. Along the main road of the quarter, remnants of walls, isolated arches and an old school are clearly visible, giving the new villas back yards full of urban skeletons. The Lottery wishes to promote Shushi as a livable environment and attempts to brush away its ghost town image. The new situation, however, is an immediate reminder of recent forced removals. Playground
The same phenomena can be seen in newly created public spaces. Local politicians have made a gesture to the inhabitants of Shushi by creating a playground. The appointed site for its construction is a destroyed housing area. The designers have encapsulated the memory of the former function of the place by making remnants of the walls of the former homes part of the new design. The park includes a full-scale drawing of the floor plan of these old homes at a 1:1 scale. The playground produces a complex set of associations – one wonders whether it is a place for celebrating the present or for remembering past destruction.
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Swatch
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Finally, the restyled Republic Square in the heart of Stepanakert has lost its old Soviet character. The square is now defined by a new House of Parliament, a new High Court, the new Central Bank and a new hotel. These buildings, which are all under construction at the moment, affirm Karabakh-Armenian national fervor and have completely eclipsed the tolerance prevalent in Soviet times. Interestingly, the majority of these national buildings have been sponsored by Frank Müller, the owner of the Swiss company Swatch. His intervention strengthens current Karabakh-Armenian rule in the area without addressing its controversial origins. In response to this extreme makeover of Karabakh, which has deliberately neglected the fate of former Karabakhians who where displaced from Azerbaijan more than ten years ago, the necessity of alternative solutions cannot be stressed enough. The symmetry between the reconstruction in Karabakh and the human devastation of the refugee camps is a harsh feature of its new landscape. The full complexity of the image of Karabakh’s transformation is one of hope, fear, sorrow, as well as anger, nostalgia and amnesia and their subsequent morbid
symptoms. Due to recent reconstruction, specific elements of Karabakh’s history have been deliberately marginalized. The perception of the area is of a timeless zone in which romanticization dominates critical reflection. Alternative ways of planning spaces and telling histories are needed if the experiences of displacement are to be included. If they are, the reconstruction of post-Soviet Karabakh will be complemented by spaces where differences and debate are tolerated.
1. A. Gramsci, Selections from the Prison Notebooks. London (Lawrence & Wishart) 1998. 2. In 1988 the local assembly (dominated by Armenians) in Stepanakert passed a resolution calling for unification with Armenia. Violence against local Azeris was reported on Soviet television, which triggered massacres of Armenians in the Karabakh-Azerbaijani city of Sumgait. Azerbaijani-Soviet troops besieged Stepanakert in 1991 and occupied most of Karabakh. In 1993 Armenian ‘freedom fighters’ counter-attacked and by 1994 they had seized almost the entire territory. A Russian-brokered ceasefire was imposed in May 1994. 3. This Armenian cathedral, constructed in the 13th century, survived the civil war of the 1990s and has become a pivotal element in Armenian war memory.
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Photos: F.A.S.T.
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New churches.
The Titanic.
The tank.
The Republic Square in Stepanakert.
Photo impressions from Shushi.
Playground Shushi.
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Lottery homes in Shushi.
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Nagorno Karabakh Boundaries and distribution of localities
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Photos: F.A.S.T.
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Nagorno Karabakh War destruction
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Nagorno Karabakh Migration and displacement
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Volume 11
Dynamics of the South Caucasus borders
Territorial claims of Azerbaijan, Georgia and Armenia during the last millennium.
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Landscape of destruction in the South Caucasus
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Distribution of UNESCO sites in the world ARCTIC OCEAN
ARCTIC OCEAN
Greenland Sea Baffin Bay
Beaufort Sea
Norwegian Sea Arctic Circle (66째33') Great Bear Lake
Denmark Strait
Davis Strait
Great Slave Lake
Gulf G of Bothnia
Hudson Bay
Gulf of Alaska
North Sea
Labrador Sea
Balti B Sea
Lake Winnipeg Celtic Sea Gulf of St. Lawrence
Lake Superior
Lake Huron Bay of Biscay
Lake Michigan
NORTH
Lake Ontario Lake Erie
NORTH
PACIFIC
ATLANTIC
OCEAN
OCEAN
Mediter
Gulf of Mexico Tropic of Cancer (23째27')
Caribbean Sea
Gulf of Guinea
Equator
SOUTH
Lago La Titicaca Titic
ATLANTIC OCEAN Tropic of Capricorn
(23째27')
SOUTH PACIFIC OCEAN
Scotia Sea Drake Passage
Antarctic Circle (66째33')
SOUTHERN
Bellingshausen Sea Amundsen Sea
60%
SOUTHERN
OCEAN Weddell Sea
Ross Sea Ronne Ice Shelf Ross Ice Shelf
50%
40%
30%
10%
0
UNESCO Distribution of sites Population Area Africa
Asia
Europe
North America
Latin Oceanian Middle America and Australia East
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20%
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RCTIC OCEAN
ARCTIC OCEAN
Kara Sea
and Sea
Laptev Sea
Barents Sea
East Siberian Sea
Norwegian Sea
Chukchi Sea
Arctic Circle (66째33') White Sea
Gulf G of Bothnia
Bering Sea North Sea
Baltic B Sea
Lake Baikal
Sea of Okhotsk
Lake Balkhash Aral Sea
Sea of Azov
Black Sea
Caspian Sea
NORTH
Sea of Japan
PACIFIC OCEAN
Yellow Sea
Mediterranean Sea
East China Sea Persian Gulf G
Tropic of Cancer (23째27') Red Sea
Luzon Strait
Philippine
Gulf of Tonkin
Sea Bay of Bengal
Arabian Sea
Gulf of Aden
South China Sea Andaman Sea
Gulf of Thailand
Laccadive Sea
Celebes Sea
of Guinea
Java Sea
Lake Tanganyika
Banda Sea
Arafura Sea
Lake e Nyasa
Timor Sea
I N D I A N
Gulf of Carpentaria
t Grea
Barrier
34
Equator Lake La Lak Victoria Victo ict
O C E A N
Coral Sea
Re ef
Mozambique Channel
Tropic of Capricorn (23째27')
SOUTH PACIFIC OCEAN
Great Australian Bight
Tasman Sea
SOUTHERN
SOUTHERN
OCEAN
OCEAN Antarctic Circle (66째33')
Amery Ice Shelf
Ross Sea
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Map: F.A.S.T. (Reconstruction of Memory project)
Ross Ice Shelf
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Distribution and qualification of UNESCO sites in Africa Our qualitative categorisation of the UNESCO world heritage list shows the disciplinary lens through which sites and objects in Africa are looked at. The selections made by professionals of different disciplines ‘produce’ certain types of heritage. As such, this map shows the subjectivity of preservation or the politics of UNESCO. Natural: nature reserve, game park and gardens, Colonial: structures from different periods of colonialization (Roman, Arab and European), Religious: churches and mosques, Political: sites related to histories of political repression or struggle, Tribal: heritage resources appointed to tribal histories, Human artefact: sites of archaeological importance in terms of human remains or craft objects, Ancient urban area: sites of archaeological importance in terms of build up environment.
AZORES (PORT.) (SP.)) Ceuta (SP
Oran
Melilla
MADEIRA ISLANDS (PORT.)
Casablanca n
(SP.) ((S
Rabat Rab R aba ba att
Marrakech Marrake M a ke h
MOROCCO ORO OC CANARY R ISLANDS (SP.)
ALG
Laayoune y (El Aaiún)
Western Sahara
Nouakchott
MAURITANIA T
MALI
T Tombouc tou CAPE VERDE
Natural Colonial Religious (Christian, Muslim) Political Tribal Human artefact Ancient urban area
Dakar karr
AL N Banjul BURKINA Bamako FASO THE GAMBIA Ouagadougou Bissau GUINEA GUINEA-BIS B Conakry CÔ C ÔTE E Freetown D'IVOIRE D VOIRE OI GHA SIERRA Y moussoukro Ya LEONE Accr Acc A cr Mon Abidjan A LIBERIA A
Praia
EQUAT A ORIAL PENEDOS DE PEDRO E SÃO PA P ULO (BRAZIL)
Gulf of
Equator
SAO TOME AND
(
Ascension (St. Helena)
Distribution of sites in percentages 100
SOUTH
St. Helena (St. Helena)
ATLANTIC artin Vaz V RAZIL)
OCEAN
St. Helena
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Ancient urban area
Human artefact
Tribal
Political
Religious (Christian, Muslim)
Colonial
0%
Nature
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Violence, Destruction and International Law An interview with Andrew Herscher Christian Ernsten and Malkit Shoshan Christian Ernsten: What is the connection between the destruction of people and the destruction of buildings in legal terms? Andrew Herscher: Violence against buildings is violence against the people who inhabit, use and identify with those buildings. This insight was recognized by the Hague Tribunal, which has prosecuted defendants for such things as the shelling of the Old City of Dubrovnik or, in the Milosevic trial, for the destruction of religious heritage in Kosovo. The Hague Tribunal prosecuted the destruction of buildings in several different forms, however: as the destruction of civic institutions dedicated to such things as religion or education, as the destruction of civilian property, and as the persecution of a people on religious grounds. CE: How did buildings come to mean the
same as people? AH: I wouldn’t say that they mean the same; rather, there is an awareness that communities cannot remain intact if their architectural or urban setting is damaged or destroyed. This idea was already suggested in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, in the article stating that all human beings have the right to participate in the cultural life of their community. With an awareness that cultural and other forms of life are physically situated, there is a blurring of the distinction between violence against people and violence against the buildings where vital parts of people’s lives take place. The Hague and Geneva Conventions deal specifically with violence against buildings. The Hague Tribunal’s statute refers to those conventions, but the Tribunal’s understanding of persecution is particularly interesting because persecution has previously been understood as directed against human bodies, as manifested in such things as discriminatory laws, forced deportation or mass murder. What emerged at the Hague Tribunal was that the destruction of religious buildings, as took place in Bosnia, Croatia and Kosovo, could also comprise a form of religious persecution.
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Milosevic trial, and you described hundreds of examples of destruction. It seems the description of this destruction can function as a methodology which lays out the way how destruction is implemented. The trial profiled the way destruction was inflicted and linked the destruction of buildings to either NATO or the Yugoslav army’s warfare. AH: What we were trying to do was show that the destruction of cultural and religious heritage during the Kosovo War was systematic and deliberate, and thus an important aspect of the violence inflicted on Kosovar Albanian communities. For example, we showed that
in some municipalities Serb forces destroyed all Islamic buildings, and that in some villages and towns they destroyed only Islamic buildings; these kinds of testified to the of targeted violence that was directed against architecture associated with Kosovar Albanians. Milosevic argued that much of this architecture was destroyed by NATO, but we also showed that, although NATO’s bombing campaign against Serbia resulted in a great deal of destruction, only a tiny part of that destruction – a few buildings – was inflicted on Albanian religious or cultural heritage. At the same time, of course, that bombing campaign posed other sorts of humanitarian issues, but those issues were not taken up at the Hague Tribunal. CE: I imagine international conventions frame cultural heritage in a Western way, right? AH: I would say that the notion of cultural heritage as universal, as the property of ‘all mankind’, is a distinctly European notion. The legal instruments we are talking about are all based on such a notion and all make the problematic assumption that heritage, or what is usually termed ‘cultural property’, refers to a stable and universal set of objects. In fact, violence not only destroys existing heritage but also produces new heritage. The architectural targets of violence often are subsumed as heritage by the communities that identify with or claim those targets; they become evidence of a community’s victimization by a violent Other. In post-conflict settings this historicization of destruction is a focus of much cultural labor. For example, in Kosovo, in both Serbian and Albanian contexts, brochures and books about heritage are published that include buildings destroyed in the recent war or its aftermath, even though some of these buildings were built quite recently or were even under construction when they were destroyed. MS: So violence produces cultural symbols? AH: Yes, violence can render its target as
a symbol or can transform the meanings with which an existing symbol is endowed. In this sense, it’s important to understand that violence against architecture often does not eliminate its target, but rather transforms it. This transformation is intended to be seen, to produce a new social text, a new cultural symbol; thus in Kosovo, for example, damaged or destroyed mosques or churches were often graffitied by those who inflicted that damage or destruction. This is an important indication that their destructive handiwork was meant to be visible. Of course, once there is a symbol there can also be negotiations about that symbol’s meaning. The perpetrators of destruction obviously interpret destruction very differently
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than do its victims; along with war crimes tribunals, the post-war narration of topics like cultural heritage allows victims to provide counter-interpretations of the violence that was inflicted on them. MS: If the question of whether destruction is criminal depends on cultural codes, then how can we define human rights violations? AH: I think we can define human rights violations tactically; I think we can recognize the fictive universality expressed and reproduced in international conventions and treaties, but at the same time we can use those conventions and treaties in specific contexts to help us withstand and respond to violence. The supposed universality of human rights makes their violation also universal, an issue that transcends the state, and this creates a space for non-state actors like NGOs to intervene in problems that states create or ignore. MS: I think those treaties generate a different form of violence. You could see it in the warfare in Lebanon – the way the attacks were organized was like literal translations of the convention. AH: Yes, conventions not only define what violence is criminal, but also what violence is appropriate. In so doing, they provide instruments for states to legitimize the violence they inflict. In Lebanon, the Israeli Defense Forces explained how the destruction they inflicted was a ‘military necessity,’ and thus legal according to the relevant conventions. You could even take extreme cases like Hiroshima and Nagasaki or the Japanese and German cities that were fire-bombed during the Second World War: arguments were made for the legitimacy of the destruction of all these cities according to the laws of war in force at the time. MS: If the conventions don’t work properly in reality, is it possible to really reorganizse the typologies of destruction? AH: I would say that the conventions do perform work, although that work is significantly limited, and that they can and are being reorganized to work more effectively. The Hague Tribunal, for example, included the first prosecutions of rape as a war crime in the history of international law, because rape was previously understood to be a crime carried out merely by individual soldiers. There were also the first prosecutions, as I’ve said, of the destruction of religious architecture as a war crime. These reorganizations are making conventions, and the indictments that follow from them, more relevant, and more responsive to what is happening on the ground during war. MS: Do we need to add categories to the convention to define, for example, the relation between destruction and neoliberalism? AH: Neoliberal economic programs and policies certainly yield economic violence, such as institutionalized poverty and underdevelopment. And much of this violence takes place during ‘peace- time,’ when it is not regarded as violence
at all, but rather as an aspect of development, modernization, or progress. Whether the destructive forms of economic violence should be included in conventions dealing with architecture is, I think, a strategic political question. Does it make sense to expand crimes against humanity, which economic violence could certainly be, to peace-time, when we are still unable to adequately respond to crimes against humanity during war? Perhaps it does in certain contexts, where war is not a pressing concern. CE: Does cultural resource management, a product of neoliberal capitalism, cause economic violence? AH: It certainly can. When something becomes recognized as a ‘cultural resource’, for example, as ‘heritage’, its meanings, functions and ownership all radically shift. In the case of architecture, when a building is termed heritage it can become the responsibility of the state or an international organization to protect that building, with protection sometimes meaning that the building cannot be used or can only be used in a limited number of ways. ‘Protection’, in the context of cultural resource management, often involves wresting architecture away from local communities and reserving it for the appreciation of local elites and international audiences. When that architecture is used by local communities for their livelihood, its management as a cultural resource can thus entail economic violence. CE: Could we say that new forms of abstract violence are emerging as a result of globalizsation and new differences between local elites and local communities? AH: Yes, and not just abstract forms of violence. With regard to heritage, local elites, local communities and donors have uneven access to globalized processes and resources, and these inequities can yield the violent destruction of heritage as much as its therapeutic reconstruction. In Kosovo, for example, the interests of international donors and aid organizations were often at odds with those of local communities. In some cases, aid organizations from the Gulf States opted against the conservation or reconstruction of war-damaged mosques because those mosques were built according to a form of Islam, characteristic of the Balkans, which those organizations did not recognize. In other cases, international donors opted for the conservation and reconstruction of wardamaged mosques because they were ‘cultural heritage’, while the congregations of those mosques saw in the damage an opportunity to replace small and old-fashioned mosques with larger and more modern ones. The problem, in both of these sorts of cases, is the supposed universality of a particular cultural form, whether it is a concept of Islam or a concept of heritage. CE: Can we think of aesthetic forms that can have a certain social impact, which can enable people to retrieve something that they lost? AH: Aesthetic forms certainly have social impacts, but those impacts emerge in complicated
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and unpredictable ways. The relation between an aesthetic intention and a social impact is not linear or continuous; we do not always know what we are doing and others always regard what we do in other ways. For me this does not mean abandoning social aspirations and engagements, but trying to accommodate the open-ended way in which aesthetic forms work. Perhaps one way to understand the social capacity of aesthetic forms is to remember what the Russian Formalists taught: that life can imitate art just as much as art can imitate life.
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Amsterdam, September 22, 2006.
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Lifta after Zionist planning Malkit Shoshan
In its present derelict, largely abandoned state, Lifta, a village just outside of Jerusalem, captures the moment of destruction of Palestinian life in 1948, when Israeli forces conquered it. Lifta’s 2,000 villagers fled – mostly to East Jerusalem and the Ramallah area. However, unlike many of the 530 Palestinian villages and towns also conquered and usually bulldozed during the war, many of Lifta’s 450 houses remained untouched; yet the village was never ‘officially’ resettled. This does not mean that all the original houses remained vacant. Several Jewish families did move (illegally) into former Palestinian homes. Some of these families have lived there for a number of decades, and seem to have become permanent residents. In another part of the village, people from the fringes of society have settled: drug addicts and dealers, run-away teenagers, as well as nature freaks. Even so, several dozen houses, some now falling apart, have remained empty. They stand as monuments marking the events that took place here during the 1948 War. Over the years, Lifta has remained a different and unique place, for several reasons. Geographically, it is part of the ‘new’ West Jerusalem; however, it represents and symbolizes the architecture and the topography of Palestinian towns. Lifta stayed put, as if frozen in time. Topographically, it is located lower than its surroundings; this gives the feeling that Lifta somehow exists beneath the surface of the city, it seems to occupy a different level of history, geography and society. Those who have inhabited Lifta since 1948 are the ’others’, in the context of the larger Israeli public. They live outside the borders of law and order, and even outside our vision, since they usually go about their shady business down below, near the village’s fountain. Many of Lifta’s refugees live today in East Jerusalem, not far from their village. Now, a new development plan intends to turn Lifta into exclusive real estate. The plan would transform the village into an expensive residential area, with shops, a hotel and open green areas, while at the same time maintaining its village atmosphere and keeping some of its original buildings and structures. The plan as submitted to the Jerusalem Municipality Planning Committee in 2004 was approved by a regional committee. Upon perusal, this plan, together with an earlier development plan from the 1980s reveals consistent attitudes for reshaping the abandoned
Palestinian village. It is of great significance that the plan does not ignore the many village remains; on the contrary, these are deconstructed and become a central element of the new design, with dozens of them marked for preservation. In addition, the natural scenery of the place – the spring, trees, and terraces – is a major component of the plan, which strives to preserve the authentic surroundings of Lifta. Israeli authorities took part in creating the plan, and also gave it official approval, and for this reason it is informative to observe the connection between state ideology and planning. Lifta has been partially in ruins since it was conquered in 1948. The concomitant lands were confiscated by the State. However, the center of the village was never rebuilt. Today, there are some 55 Palestinian houses remaining from the original 450, some standing intact while others are almost entirely derelict. Several houses – those closest to the road leading to Jerusalem – were occupied decades ago, by Jewish families who still live there. These families apparently will not be evacuated when the new construction plan is implemented. The plan’s goal, as stated in the document, is to build residential areas, some of them preserving the original houses that still exist in the village center. It includes plans to build areas for commerce, shops, public buildings, a hotel, and passages. In addition, some of the scenery will remain untouched for the public to enjoy. The trees, spring, terraces, natural stone, remaining houses (complete and incomplete), and the olive oil processing plant are all originally from Lifta. They even have character, like ‘distinctive texture’ and a unique ‘architectural nature.’ The plans are thus not in denial concerning the Palestinian space of the village. On the contrary, they are aware of its advantages and use them, through the practices of preservation, to elevate the touristic and commercial realestate value of the project. This comes across clearly in the earlier master plan (plan 2351), which stresses that ‘the area which is subject to directives of preservation and renovation is to remain open to the public.’ Those who will visit the place, and not Lifta’s residents alone, will be able to enjoy the remains of the renovated village, and access to it will not be denied in any way. The aesthetics and the architecture of the Palestinian ruins raise the value of this space, and therefore will be professionally
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What to all appearances resembles a preservation and development project, is in fact a rewrite of history. A short survey of the life and times of a Palestinian village.
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1. More then 500 Palestinian villages destroyed and/or appropriated since 1948
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Lifta is an example of how planning tools are being abused by the Israeli government to conduct a territorial and demographical war against Palestine. Lifta
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4. The previous renovation plan for Lifta, based on plan n. 2351 Renovation for public institutions Public buildings Planned nature reserve Planned road Archeologic site
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The location of destroyed Palestinian village
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2. The area of Lifta’s renovation plan
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‘A friend of my mother used to live in this house. Hanging from the windowsills of her lovely house were the most beautiful flowerpots. As children we often secretly tried to pick the flowers, but she always saw us and said, ‘Carry these bags upstairs for me and you can pick a few flowers’. Once upstairs, she explained to us that the picked flowers would wilt quickly in the heat. And so we went home empty-handed.’ We go for picnics in Lifta, and I tell my kids all the village stories – about their grandfather, the neighbors, the animals. I sometimes think Lifta memories are even more vivid for them than for myself. And my own memories seem to get fresher it’s as if the place reveals more and more of itself to me. There are 37 Lifta refugees in East Jerusalem and Ramallah, and we have a Lifta Association; and now the internet makes it possible to keep in touch with those that have moved further away. We all want to return to our village. I’m sure we can achieve our dream through peaceful means. There’s a study by Sleman Abu Sitar that shows that all the Palestinians can go back, and there’s enough room for us all to live together with the Israelis. We will never give in. They say that every human being is born in the land, but for us Palestinians, our land is born in us.
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Since the Israeli army drove out the last of its Palestinian inhabitants in 1948, Lifta is a ghost town; its former villagers live mainly in East Jerusalem and Ramallah.
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‘from your entry to Jerusalem through Lifta-Romema,through Mohane Yehuda, King Goerge street and Mea Shearim- there are no strangers [i.e. Arabs]. One hundred percents of Jews. Since Jerusalem’s destruction in the days of Romans – it hasn’t been so Jewish as it is now.I do not assume that this will change‌what had happened in Jerusalem‌could well happen in great parts of the country – if we hold on‌its very possible that in the coming six or eight or ten months of the war there will take place great changes‌ in the composition of the population of the country.’ David Ben-Gurion (7 February 1948) Benny Morris, Victims
‘Heritage is our legacy from the past, what we live with today, and what we pass on to future generations. Our cultural and natural heritage are both irreplaceable sources of life and inspiration’ UNESCO
Old building are being appropriated to build a national narrative.
28.4% Palestinian 71.6% Israeli
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27.9% Palestinian 72.1% Israeli
29.5% Palestinian 70.5% Israeli
31.7% Palestinian 68.3% Israeli
32.6% Palestinian 67.4% Israeli
In a situation where state ideology is rooted in each plan and masterplan, creating an alternative to the governmental plans is not enough. To save Lifta, we need to engage professionals, general public and decision makers to take a stand and to help us stopping the redevelopment plan made by the Israeli government for Lifta. The fate of Israel and the fate of Palestine are bound together. The destruction of the country’s genuine cultural heritage is a threat to future sustainability, not just of Palestine and Israel but also of the region and of the world. At FAST, we truly believe that a just solution for Lifta will form a vital step in reconciliation process between the nations, between Israel and Palestine.
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safeguarded. The ‘natural’ stone – and not ‘smooth, chiseled stone’ – is the permitted building material in that area, so the nature of the materials used is preserved. The terraced landscape will be preserved, as will the trees. Those trees that will have to be uprooted will be re-rooted within the area included in the construction plan. The approach to this space treats it as though it were almost sacred. It amounts to an effort to revive the village after 56 years of destruction, negligence, and natural decay. Lifta is to be reconstructed from its old materials. It is to be rebuilt around its historic core, as if the center can somehow radiate the authentic spirit of the place. It seems that in the eyes of the planners, the larger, newer Lifta will be a kind of duplication of the preserved kernel of Lifta’s original houses. Therefore, all of the area included in the plan will be built in the original architectural manner. You could say that Lifta is to be not only preserved, but also replicated – many times over. The wasteland that now exists in most of the area slated for renovation will bloom and be filled with the housing of a new and successful real estate project. The nucleus that stood ashamed and battered will be renovated on all its sides. Here the greater Lifta will be established, a neighborhood that will provide a great quality of life for the country’s wealthy people. Here, we can see not only the familiar ‘making the desert bloom’ typology, of building where nothing once stood, but also the expansion of constructed Israeli areas: an expansion that does not overlook the history of this place, the terraces, trees, houses, spring, etc. Not only is one Lifta being rebuilt, but from now on several duplicated Liftas will exist down in the wadi, right below the western entrances to the capital. And that’s that. The original Palestinian inhabitants of Lifta are nowhere to be found in the plans. Those who created and cultivated this space, their memories of the village, their exile and longing to return are not mentioned at all. Lifta shows how Zionist ideology is rooted in Israeli state planning.
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