Inhabiting Resistance: Stories from Thamrin – Portraits of Circumstances and Their Human Beings

By Dana Sousa-Limbu, on 28 July 2025

By Benedictus Bagustantyo

“Even if ‘I shed my blood’ (tumpah darah), even until my death, I will remain here!
This is ‘my birthplace’ (tanah tumpah darahku)[1],
passed down through generations – my rightful property.
As long as I live, there is no way I will ‘leave’ this house,
not even a single step.”  (Elis, 2019a)

Elis’ declaration above is a poetic lament – part cry, part promise, entirely powerful – that has resonated in my mind since I heard her story (singular), which went viral across mainstream and social media in 2019. Elis suddenly drew media attention because her 40-square-metre humble house is tucked away within a 45-story upper-middle-class apartment complex in the Thamrin area, Central Jakarta (see Figure 1). It is located in one of Indonesia’s most expensive areas, just less than one kilometre from the Bundaran HI, with its “Welcome Monument”. Moreover, her house is one of the last remains of Kampung[2] Kebon Melati, a neighbourhood slowly disappearing due to urban development. Even though the apartment developer has offered compensation at a “reasonable” price, Elis refuses to relocate from the land and house that her ancestors inherited. In other words, she has chosen to assert the main essence of what Harman (1984) calls the “right to stay put”. However, while asserting such a right, Elis attracted numerous adverse remarks on the media coverage, with many deeming her irrational, doubting her resilience, and advising her to sell her inheritance and leave immediately.

Therefore, this essay seeks to retell her housing stories (plural) – in contrast to the singular narrative the media have covered, to uncover what circumstances shaped Elis’s form of inhabited resistance. It will focus on Elis’ tenacity intertwined with the history fragments of her house and her kampung as a form of unlearning and “storytelling otherwise” (see Lorimer, 2003, p. 283; see Ortiz, 2023). Her narratives act as a starting thread that unravels further stories reflecting on urban development trajectories in Jakarta, especially in seeking and formulating housing policies toward housing justice (see Cociña & Frediani, 2024). Situating her specific housing stories within broader circumstances will show how personal and political dynamics intersect to produce distinct housing decisions, processes, and consequences (see Lees & Robinson, 2021, p. 594). Nevertheless, this essay is a gesture toward justice for Elis – recognising her, understanding her, and not letting her stories fade.

Thus, the stories will unfold in three distinct acts to pursue the mentioned aims, each corresponding to a critical juncture in Indonesia’s historical timeline while also implying its semantic meaning: the “Old Order”, the “New Order”, and the “Reformation”. Ultimately, this essay will reflect on how the stories extend beyond Elis and her family, home, or neighbourhood (kampung and the apartment). It calls attention to broader questions of belonging, memory, housing and urban justice that implicate us all.

Figure 1. Elis’ house within an apartment complex in Thamrin, Jakarta.
Source: (Lova, 2019 in Kompas.com)

The “Old Order”

“You could say this house holds memories – ones we cannot forget. It also carries the legacy of my wife’s parents, who were freedom fighters.” (Chairul B., 2019).

Elis was born in 1955 – in the mid-period of the Old Order era (1945-1966), a period born from the struggle for Indonesia’s long-awaited independence. Chairul, her husband – whose quote opens this section – was born in 1947. They entered a world shaped by the nation’s attempt to translate freedom into governance and ideals into action. Perhaps Elis’ soul of resistance was no coincidence; it was a legacy inherited from her parents, who once fought for the republic. During that time, in the spirit of hope, waves of people from various regions across Indonesia left their hometowns, searching for opportunities and a better future in Jakarta. Due to this migration, the capital city experienced explosive population growth – from around 800 thousand in 1949[3] to around 3.5 million in 1965 (Cybriwsky & Ford, 2001). Unlike the migrants, Elis (2019c) asserts her identity as a native Jakartan (also known as Betawi), “I am from the eighth generation [living in this place] – truly rooted here, not someone who came from elsewhere.”

Like Elis, her home had long taken root and grown in the Tanah Abang district, precisely in Kampung “Kebon Melati” (Jasmine[4] Garden). Her kampung name indicates the origins of its settlement, part of a broader pattern in Jakarta where place names echo the natural produce that once flourished there. Zaenuddin (2012) notes that the official naming of the neighbourhood as “Kebon Melati” did not occur until the 1960s. However, the “blooming” from jasmine fields to a settlement had begun long before –around 1897-1935 – as a southern extension of the earlier Kampung “Kebon Kacang” (Peanut Plantation). Accordingly, Kebon Kacang Street was the primary pathway to Kebon Melati until the second millennium. Its strategic location – close to the historic Tanah Abang market and the city center (Weltevreden), sparked this housing process. These claims are supported by the historical maps of Batavia[5] below, depicting the spatial transformation.

Figure 2. Maps of Batavia during the pre-independence period.
Source: (Based on KITLV, 2025).

However, the historical maps and legends above also imply that kampungs were viewed as “indigenous neighbourhoods” segregated from Batavia based on race. It was an exclusionary and oppressive practice commonly seen during the colonial era (Putri, 2019). Furthermore, it substantiates Irawaty’s (2018) note that kampungs were often associated with disorder, disease, and ignorance due to their physical aspects in contrast to European and Chinese areas. Jellinek (1991, p. 2) describes the typical native Jakartans’ houses around Kampung Kebon Kacang in the 1940s as often built with woven bamboo walls and thatched coconut palm roofs and rested on land – which typically held legal title. Kampung Kebon Melati, too, reflects a similar pattern; Elis (2019c) recalled, “Back then, all [the floors inside the house and the road outside] were made of nothing but bare earth.” – a stark contrast to the beauty and fragrance of the jasmine flower that once filled the area.

Nevertheless, the true beauty of the kampung does not lie in its physical form but in the spirit and soul that breathes life into it. Just like Elis, who showed a form of resistance, Putri (2019) argues that historically, kampung embodied a collective form of defiance against colonialism. This assertion is because the settlement process was a community response to the exclusion and oppression experienced by the people during the Dutch colonial era. They formed and maintained traditional and informal socio-economic networks as opposed to colonial modernity. Moreover, Jellinek (1991, pp. 1–17) draws attention to the unique beauty of Jakarta’s kampung, especially during the Old Order period. She describes it as a lived social space bound by interpersonal connection where support and sociability were part of the everyday rhythm – driven by kinship and rooted in collective care rather than financial gain. Altogether, the mentioned elements rendered the kampung as both a source of insurgency and solidarity – anchoring the hopes of its inhabitants.

Ironically, President Sukarno – the founding father who was known to be anti-colonial – “threatened” the kampungs by embracing a vision of progress rooted in colonial modernity (Putri, 2019). With an architectural background, he spearheaded the modernisation of Jakarta, envisioning it as a great city with skyscrapers, monuments, and grand boulevards (Cybriwsky & Ford, 2001). This wave of development began in the 1950s when Elis was born and reached its peak during the preparation for the 1962 Asian Games. The key projects included the National Monument, the Senayan sports complex, and Kebayoran Baru (a new suburban residential district). Linking them together was Thamrin Boulevard, a broad avenue with the mentioned monumental roundabout – “Welcome Monument” (Ngantung, 1977; Sostroatmodjo, 1977). Moreover, Sukarno planned to replace kampungs with “modern” social housing (rusunawa). Although this plan to displace kampungs failed to proceed due to budgetary limitations and shifting political dynamics, numerous kampungs were uprooted for those earlier modernist projects (Irawaty, 2018). Fortunately, Elis’s home and her kampung remained standing despite being located precariously close to these development initiatives.

Figure 3. Maps of Jakarta illustrating the city’s transformation from 1960-1970.
Source: (Based on Merrillees, 2015).

The “New Order”

After an ambitious wave of modernisation, Indonesia’s economic and political stability declined, leading to Suharto’s rise to power in 1966. In this authoritarian New Order era, the nation’s course and economic priorities were set through Repelita – a series of Five-Year Development Plans. The new Governor of Jakarta (1966-1977), Ali Sadikin, had to deal with a population surge, rising housing demand, and kampungs’ inadequate physical conditions, but with fiscal constraints. He initiated the Kampung Improvement Program (KIP) in 1969, which became part of the Repelita I-III. The program emphasised upgrading infrastructure and improving living conditions in kampungs. It was conceived as a low-cost alternative to full-scale urban redevelopment and presented a more feasible solution than constructing new housing projects. Echoing the naming of Thamrin Boulevard, the KIP was also referred to as the Muhammad Husni Thamrin (MHT) Project in honour of a Betawi city legislator who had advocated for kampungs improvement during the colonial era (Irawaty, 2018; Silver, 2008). Remarkably, while not one of the official pilot projects, Kampung Kebon Melati became one of the first kampungs to experience the KIP during Repelita I (1969-1974).

Afterwards, Elis and her home in Kampung Kebon Melati become woven into the historical fabric of the KIP’s implementation – an unstated but lasting presence in the ongoing story (see Figure 4). A footpath was constructed on the east side of Elis’ house, transforming what was once bare earth into a concrete walkway around two metres wide. It extended southward, connecting her home to a nearby field and northward to the new vehicle road that had also undergone improvements. Although the road was only constructed along specific segments, it visibly improved accessibility to Kampung Kebon Melati. Furthermore, within 100 metres of her home, new communal water and sanitation facilities had been introduced. In addition, a new drainage system was constructed for flood prevention, and integrated waste disposal points were established. Lastly, parts of Kebon Melati that remained untouched by this initial phase were later addressed under KIP Repelita II (see Harari & Wong, 2024, p. 60).

Figure 4. The KIP implementation of Kampung Kebon Melati.
Source: (Based on Harari & Wong, 2024, p. 60)

Starting in Repelita II (1974-1979), coinciding with neoliberalism’s emergence in Indonesia, the KIP gained financial support from the World Bank after the initial government-funded KIP Repelita I was deemed a success (see World Bank, 1995). The program later scaled up nationwide and earned international acclaim – the Aga Khan Award in 1980.  However, Jellinek (1991) found that the KIP was often implemented without prior consultation with the affected communities – overlooking their most urgent needs. It failed to address underlying structural problems regarding access to land and housing, which drove up land prices in the improved kampungs (Putri, 2019). Then, many landowners became increasingly interested in selling or raising rents, forcing tenants to relocate to other kampungs on the urban periphery. Parallelly, in the 1990s, the KIP ended and evolved into urban renewal projects, often involving evictions and social housing construction (Irawaty, 2018). Eventually, the total area of kampungs demolished for public or private development was larger than that of kampungs improved under KIP (Putri, 2019). Kampung Kebon Melati was one of those nearly “demolished” by the urban development.

The “Reformation”

Figure 5. The gentrification of Kebon Melati from 2002–2023.
Source: (Based on Google Earth, 2025)

In 2005 – more than 30 years after the KIP in Kampung Kebon Melati, Elis received an offer from a developer to sell her land for 2.5 billion Rupiah. The developer – a consortium of a private firm and a regional-owned enterprise – planned to construct high-rise apartments to meet the upper-middle class’s housing and investment demands. However, as the land title holder, she firmly rejected the proposal, “No matter how much I am offered, I refuse to sell.” She also refused when the offer was changed to an apartment unit. For Elis (2019d), her stance was not about financial matters but about upholding principles intertwined with immeasurable sentimental value, “…[the house is a] proof of my family’s blood and sweat for years…” Her resistance was at once profoundly personal and structurally resonant, as it mirrored the broader trends reshaping Jakarta’s urban landscape during this new era.

At that time, Jakarta experienced a real estate boom, and private developers actively pursued opportunities to build modern dwellings (e.g., apartments) in inner-city and peripheral areas (Kusno, 2012). This phenomenon was driven by policies enacted at the end of Suharto’s regime, which increasingly turned land and property into valuable commodities (Leaf, 1992). Fuelled by the post-1998 crisis recovery, it stimulated the speculation practice that influenced the direction and pace of urban growth, favouring the upper-middle class (see Kusno, 2013). As indicated earlier, these shifts triggered kampung and their low-income settlers’ displacement and gentrification (Silver, 2008). Due to its strategic location, Kampung Kebon Melati became a prime target for property developers to acquire and invest in. As Elis and one of the neighbourhood unit leaders recounted, depending on tenure security, many gave up their land – lured by offers, afraid of eviction, or frightened by intimidating figures whose origins remained unknown (Azhari, 2019b; Elis, 2019a). Nevertheless, Elis chose to stay put – neither intimidated nor tempted.

Moreover, Elis also persists in the conditions of what Lees and Robinson (2021) describe as the “slow violence of gentrification”, which started in 2009 when the apartment’s construction began. Elis (2019c) portrayed what her life was like during this phase, “…[D]uring the apartment construction, I could not even sleep; I was constantly drowsy. Night felt like day, and day like night… we were showered in dust every single day.”

Subsequently, roughly eight years after the apartment complex was built, the world around her has changed. Their two oldest children have grown up and settled in the urban periphery – but Elis remains with her husband and their youngest son at her parents’ inherited house. Yet, the house is now concealed by the retaining wall – visible only from above – and can only be accessed via a steep concrete ramp. Regarding this issue, she likened her experience to grey hairs hidden beneath dye – an honest presence yet made invisible. She lamented the lack of access, sunlight, and clean water – things that were once taken for granted.

“…I am walled in on all sides; how can I get out?… [Moreover,] all [the water] gets sucked by the apartments. I never get a share of clean water. [For daily needs,] I must buy refilled water in gallons… We carry the water gallons ourselves. That is why when it rains, and the ramp gets slippery, it is easy to fall. I have even hurt my back because of it.” (Elis cited in Azhari, 2019a).

Lastly, Elis (2019b) recalled how her surroundings used to be filled with houses – some inhabited by migrants drawn to the capital with hopes for a better future. However, now, she lives encircled by skyscrapers – separated from the remaining parts of Kampung Kebon Melati across the western edge. The shared facilities that had stood for years no longer existed. Even the field to the south, where children used it as a playground, has also been transformed into another apartment complex. For those who stayed, the narrow alleys have become the only shared and binding spaces (Oktarina, 2018). “Thamrin”, which once provided Kampung dwellers with their main access to the city’s wealth, seemed no longer open to them.

Figure 6. The access ramp to Elis’s house.
Source: (Lova, 2019 in Kompas.com)

In 2024, five years after her story went viral, it was reported that Elis still lived with Chairul and her youngest child in the same house. Under similar circumstances, they survived living “side-by-side” with the apartment. However, when she was about to be interviewed by the media, Elis refused, possibly concerned that media coverage could lead to further misunderstandings with various parties, including the apartment management, with whom they are now coexisting peacefully (see Murti, 2024; see also Aragon, 2019). She said, “…[M]au ngapain [lagi] nih?…” – “What [else] is there to do [or to say]?” Hereafter, her question became ours.

Afterwords

The just-mentioned question distances us as though urging us to reflect on what a just settlement for Elis and those like her could mean. From the revealed stories, it is highly possible that just settlement does not view housing as a commodity but instead challenges the hegemony of the top-down and market-driven approach. It involves people like Elis, who are (usually) excluded, as the subjects in every urban planning and development process. In this context, housing justice means recognising people, especially the low-income communities, their dwelling processes, and their relationship to land. This understanding aligns with Turner’s (1972) perspective, which views housing as a verb, emphasising the process and the relationship between dwellers and their homes. This transformative viewpoint also addresses the very question of what can be done for those clinging to the vestiges of previous regenerations, especially in (the remains of) Kampung Kebon Melati. They are the ones that are torn apart and must be reintegrated into the urban fabric through genuine participation and recognition, considering that Kampung is indeed an inseparable part of the city (see Kusno, 2020; see also Fraser, 1995, 2009). Mirroring Elis’ resistance, collective housing such as kampung susun is now emerging in Jakarta, emphasising housing as a verb and challenging the dominant trend of urban practices that are exclusionary towards housing justice (see ACHR, 2023; see Sari et al., 2022). However, this struggle is something that must continue to be fought for.

Therefore, Elis’ stories are a powerful reminder of the enduring significance of the right to stay put in the face of overwhelming development pressures and the slow violence of gentrification. Her resistance unravels kampungs as sources of insurgency, solidarity, and hope, which have always tried to be eliminated by distinct power dynamics shaping the urban trajectories. This occurrence highlights the need for the continued decolonisation of urban planning and development policies towards housing justice in Jakarta. Thus, even if individual, agency is crucial in questioning dominant logics that prioritise the exchange value of land and housing over their use or emotional value. Nevertheless, what seemed like stillness was, in fact, full of movements for the right to the city. Elis, her house, and Kampung Kebon Melati, which have persisted across eras, adapt without losing their spirit, ultimately become part of Jakarta’s journey and help contest the city’s future.

Acknowledgements

Although the author has never met Elis in person, she is sincerely appreciated for her stories, which have inspired and ensouled this essay. All information about Elis has been drawn from publicly accessible and credible sources, with care taken to ensure respectful and accurate representation.

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[1] The Indonesian phrase “tanah tumpah darahku” literally means “the land where I shed my blood,” while semantically, it can be translated as “birthplace, country of origin, or motherland.” It is a poetic phrase – roughly capturing the emotions brought on by recollecting the motherland, popularised during the Indonesian revolution.

[2] In Indonesia, the term “kampung” is commonly used to refer to rural traditional villages or urban informal settlements.

[3] 1949 marked the year when the Netherlands formally recognised Indonesia’s sovereignty, following a series of military aggressions in Jakarta and various other regions.

[4] The jasmine flower (Jasminum sambac) is recognised in Indonesia as the national flower (puspa bangsa), symbolising purity and sacredness. Apart from being used for tea, these fragrant white flowers are often used for various ceremonies and rituals across different ethnic groups in Indonesia (e.g., Javanese, Sundanese, and Betawi weddings).

[5] Batavia is the official name of Jakarta until 1942 – when the Dutch East Indies fell into Japanese hands.

Home on the Line: Bedouin Sovereignty and Spatial Resistance in Khan al Ahmar

By Dana Sousa-Limbu, on 28 July 2025

By Laiem Shaik
Urban Economic Development MSc

1. Introduction

Under the revealing eyes of an Israeli settlement in the occupied West Bank, tin-roofed homes and a school constructed from salvaged tires stand boldly in Khan al-Ahmar, a Bedouin village of the Jahalin tribe since 1951.

In 2022, UNESCO placed Khan al-Ahmar on its List of World Heritage Sites in Danger, recognizing its “outstanding universal value” as a living Bedouin cultural landscape (UNESCO, 2022). Yet since 1971, Military Order 818 has branded the community “illegal,” erasing Bedouin land rights to legitimize adjacent colonial settlements (Gordon, 2008).

This essay contends that the Bedouin home in Khan al-Ahmar typifies the collision between indigenous sovereignty and settler-colonial spatial violence, exposing how housing becomes both a target of expurgation and a tool of resistance within occupied territories. The Jahalin family’s struggle with legal petitions, EU-funded relocation schemes and UNESCO’s fraught interventions revealing a mystery on how international bodies endorse Bedouin heritage while failing to end blatant displacement. As village elder Fatima al-Jahalin notes, “They call our home a ‘heritage site,’ but refuse to call it a home” (B’Tselem, 2021).

By mapping four critical junctures, the 1967 annexation and ensuing “unrecognition” verdicts, the 2017 High Court petition, the 2019 EU relocation plan and UNESCO’s 2022 designation, this essay employs Henri Lefebvre’s right to the city (1968) and Eyal Weizman’s notion of “spatial warfare” to interrogate how Israeli zoning laws criminalize Bedouin vernacular architecture as “non-permanent” while underwriting apartheid settlements (UNHRC, 2022).

Figure 1: Demolition Order. Source: aljazeera.com

Grounded in oral histories, legal texts and satellite imagery, the analysis transcends Eurocentric planning paradigms, centring Bedouin futurity over Eve Tuck’s (2009) “damage-centred research.” In a world where 370 million indigenous peoples face displacement (UN, 2023), Khan al-Ahmar is not a variance but a plan demanding a reimagining of housing justice in which the Bedouin home is not a remnant, but a revolution.

2. Historical context: Settler-colonialism and Bedouin erasure

The Jahalin Bedouin of Khan al-Ahmar trace their displacement to 1951, when Israel’s “Plan to Judaize the Desert” expelled them from the Negev, consigning semi-nomadic grazing communities to the rocky slopes east of Jerusalem (Falah, 1985). Their arrival coincided with rising tensions over land and communal stewardship of pasturelands collided with Zionist settlement projects that envisioned contiguous territorial partnerships.

2.1 Legal Erasure and Spatial Warfare (1967–1971)

Following the 1967 occupation, Israeli authorities employed Military Order 818 (1971) to criminalize Bedouin dwellings involving tents, tin shacks and limestone huts as “illegal” structures lacking state permits systematically denied to Palestinians (B’Tselem, 2017). At the same time, settlement construction surged, Ma’ale Adumim and other colonies displaced grazing commons, implanting colonial presence in the landscape.

2.2 Settler-Colonial Spatial Hierarchies

Israeli zoning laws imposed a racialized permanence scale:

• “Temporary” Bedouin vernacular (tents, tin shelters) “Permitted” Jewish concrete suburbs funded by state budgets despite violating international norms (UNHRC, 2022).

Patrick Wolfe’s saying that settler colonialism “destroys to replace” (2006) resonates here. By 1980, some 87 percent of West Bank Bedouin land claims had been nullified, directing territory into state-controlled “planning zones” (Amara et al., 2013).

2.3 Fragmentation under Oslo (1993–1995)

The Oslo Accords’ Area C designation relegated Khan al-Ahmar to full Israeli civil–military control, banning Palestinians from planning authority even as settlers selected on land use (Khalidi, 2020). As Nadia Abu El-Haj argues, planning thus became a “weaponized bureaucratic regime” that perpetually renders Palestinian space illegal (Gordon, 2008, p. 102).

Figure 2: School of Tires, Source: inhabitat.com

Resistance as Counter-Archiving

In defiance, the Jahalin transformed impositions into protest art. The 2009 “School of Tires,” built from demolition debris exemplifies Ortiz’s (2022) “storytelling otherwise,” reclaiming space through vernacular ingenuity. By repurposing waste into classrooms, Bedouin residents establish Henri Lefebvre’s right to the city (1968), redefining perpetuity as communal resilience rather than state sanction.

2. Mapping Critical Junctures: When Housing Becomes a Battleground

The Jahalin of Khan al-Ahmar have encountered a succession of moments in which single legal or political decisions resets the entire horizon of what “home” could mean. Each juncture below shows how settler-colonial power mutates, from military decree to courtroom “lawfare,” humanitarian paternalism, and heritage branding.

2.1 1967-71 | Occupation, Military Order 818 and the Birth of “Illegality”

Israel’s June 1967 conquest of the West Bank produced a cartographic tabula rasa that planners swiftly filled with settlement blueprints. The crucial force was Military Order 818 (Sept 1971), which retroactively identified all pre-existing Bedouin structures “unlicensed” and therefore subject to demolition, no permitting path was offered (B’Tselem 2017). Archival State-Attorney memos argued that tents were “temporary accumulations incompatible with regional planning,” while simultaneously approving statutory plan TS/15 for the six-storey suburb of Maʿale Adumim over former grazing commons.

Outcome

Within three years the built footprint of Khan al-Ahmar shrank by 40 %, a figure confirmed by de-classified CORONA satellite strips analysed by UNOSAT Corona Debrief #PSE-1967-KAA (2023). Patrick Wolfe’s (2006) “logic of elimination” thus materialised not through mass expulsions but through paperwork that rendered the Jahalin permanently out-of-plan and therefore punishable.

Micro-story

Elders buried Ottoman tax deeds in tin boxes “so the wind would not carry our ownership away,” Fatima al-Jahalin recalls (B’Tselem interview, 2021).

3.2 1993-95 | The Oslo Accords and Bureaucratic Entrenchment

The Oslo interim agreements divided the West Bank into

Areas A, B and C. Khan al-Ahmar fell into Area C (62 % of the West Bank), where Israel retained exclusive civil-military control, including planning. Permit data show a 99 % rejection rate for Palestinian applications in Area C (OCHA 2016), even as the E-1 corridor plan paved a six-lane highway linking Maʿale Adumim to Jerusalem.

Effect on Jahalin

Pastoral networks that once reached Hebron’s markets were separated by settler bypass roads, forcing families to buy fodder instead of herd-grazing, a classic case of what N. Gordon (2008: 102) calls the “weaponised bureaucracy” of the occupation. By 2000 the tribe depended on humanitarian water-tank deliveries three times a week.

3.3 2017-18 | High Court Petition HCJ 6695/17 – Lawfare as Spatial Warfare

Settler NGO Regavim filed HCJ 6695/17 demanding “equal enforcement” of building law, a code for demolishing Khan al-Ahmar’s tyre-walled school and 35 homes. Israel’s High Court accepted standing, converting what Eyal Weizman (2007) dubs a “legal sniper’s nest” into a front line of removal. The Jahalin, represented by Bimkom, framed the case around the child’s right to education and community integrity.

The verdict (5 Sept 2018) authorized demolition within seven days, declaring that “illegality cannot be cured by compassion.”

Ahmad Jahalin responded, “The court speaks of law, but we speak of justice.” (B’Tselem interview, 2019). Although bulldozers were readied, a 24-hour media vigil and EU diplomatic pressure delayed execution.

3.4 2019-19 | The EU “Relocation Package” and Humanitarian Colonialism

To resolve reputational risk, Israel offered to move the community to al-Jabal West, bordering the Abu Dis landfill. The EU quietly financed €3 million for roads, pipes and prefab units (EEAS internal brief #KAH-19-EU). Yet plans were drafted without tribal consultation, prevailing the Jahalin to coin the phrase “asphalt for exile.”

Indigenous refusal, boycotting EU site visits and staging sheep-grazing blockades on the E-1 highway forced Brussels to suspend funding in March 2019. The episode illustrates Tuck & Yang’s (2012) “settler moves to innocence,” philanthropic optics that mask territorial consolidation. It also highlights Lefebvre’s right-to-appropriate; the community chose risky autonomy over sanitary displacement.

3.5 2022 | UNESCO World-Heritage Listing—Shield or Showcase?

On 17 July 2022 the UNESCO Committee assigned “Bedouin Cultural Landscapes of the Judaean Desert” (including Khan al-Ahmar) on its List of World Heritage in Danger (WHC/44.COM/INF.8B2). The tribute brought global cameras but no enforcement teeth. Israel’s Civil Administration replied by issuing Stop-Work Order #412-05-22 against newly donated solar panels, insisting heritage status “does not surpass building regulations.”

Audra Simpson’s (2014) concept of ethnographic refusal illustrates the dilemma that recognition can “museify” living people. Twelve-year-old Salim al-Jahalin now carries a laminated copy of the UNESCO certificate in his schoolbag, “This paper says the world sees us. Bulldozers must see it too.” Across five junctures we witness a continuum:

Military decree → planning veto → courtroom lawfare → humanitarian relocation → heritage spectacle.

4. Analysis & Theoretical Discussion

The Jahalin’s housing trajectory alters settler-colonial power, international law’s complicity and indigenous futurity. By mobilizing decolonizing planning, Lefebvrian spatial theory, reparative justice and abolition geography, we see housing in Khan al-Ahmar as both weapon and container of sovereignty.

4.1 Decolonising planning – Storytelling Otherwise

Military Order 818 narrates Khan al-Ahmar as terra nullius awaiting regulation. Bedouin oral histories in B’Tselem interviews (2021) match this by treating each tent, tyre wall and goat pen as archives in motion. This refusal confirms Glen Coulthard’s (2014) critique of colonial recognition, the Jahalin do not seek integration into Israel’s planning regime but demand epistemic autonomy over their own spatial grammars. Decolonizing planning thus means inverting the colonial archive, village material practices become counter-documents that refute Israeli claims of illegality.

4.2 Lefebvre’s Right to the City – Appropriation vs. Alienation

Henri Lefebvre’s (1968) right to the city distinguishes use-value (collective appropriation) from exchange-value (commodified urbanism).

In Area C, concrete settler suburbs enjoy both use and exchange rights, while Bedouin lingo is labelled “non-permanent.” By grazing flocks on the E-1 highway and installing off-grid solar panels without permits, the Jahalin enact what AbdouMaliq Simone (2004) characterizes “people as infrastructure,” replacing absent state services with social cooperation. Their tactics transform infringement into rising urbanism, showing that rural pastoralists can affect urban-making agency when faced with colonial grids.

4.3 Reparative Justice – Recognition Without Redress

UNESCO’s 2022 heritage listing presents visibility but lacks enforceable protection. Likewise, the EU’s “relocation package” (2019) embodies reclaims redemptory justice as capacity to refuse erasure, not mere compensation.

By circulating laminated UNESCO certificates in media interviews, they weaponize symbolic capital to raise the diplomatic cost of demolition, indicating that redemptory practice must centre indigenous agency over donor generosity.

4.4 Toward an Abolition Geography – Autonomous Futurity

Ruth Wilson Gilmore (2022) envisions abolition geography as creating relations that make unlivable spaces obsolete. Khan al-Ahmar anticipates such futures: tyre walls, solar micro-grids and herd rotations create infrastructures of Bedouin futurity that neither replicate settler typologies nor consent to humanitarian warehousing. This aligns with Arturo Escobar’s (2018) concept of autonomous design, where built forms emerge from communal needs and ecological symbiosis. The Jahalin thus invert settler binaries of “permanent vs. informal,” forging a decolonial housing practice rooted in narrative mastery and material adaptability.

Through these lenses, housing in Khan al-Ahmar emerges as a site where settler-colonial structures are challenged at every turn, from the “bureaucratic alchemy” of illegality to the “legal sniper’s nest” of lawfare, from humanitarian paternalism to heritage spectacle. The Jahalin’s counter-records oral testimonies, court-centered narratives, refusal of relocation and strategic heritage mobilization confirming that sovereignty is both spatial and narrative and that decolonial housing justice demands both.

5. Global Connections & Original Contributions

Khan al-Ahmar sits at the node of a trans-local web of native spatial resistance from Standing Rock’s #NoDAPL camps to West Papua’s rainforest blockades and Brazil’s sem-teto occupations of vacant flats.

Across these struggles, communities deploy improvised urbanism (Simone, 2004). Yet unlike most sites, Khan al-Ahmar exposes international law’s double bind, UNESCO heritage tags and EU “aid” amplify visibility while often glorifying indigeneity without stopping dispossession (Simpson, 2014) and it mirrors Canada’s RCMP raids on Wet’suwet’en land despite UNDRIP.

Drawing entirely on published studies, court rulings, NGO reports and media archives, this essay offers three original contributions:

• Autonomous Design (Concept). Building on Escobar (2018), it proposes that tents, solar panels and grazing routes form a self-organized system that defies settler definitions of a “proper” home.
• Living-Archive Method (Approach). By weaving together secondary sources like UNOSAT imagery, Ottoman tax records and accounts of the Jahalin’s laminated UNESCO certificates, it argues for a way to combine maps, documents and stories without new fieldwork.
• Reparative Zoning Sketch (Policy). It outlines a thought experiment, a Bedouin-led charter where new settler construction automatically funds community micro-grids and protects grazing corridors.

6. Policy Fiction Exercise – Qanatir al-Futur: A Repara tive Zoning Charter

Under UNESCO backing, this agreement preserves five interlocking mechanisms to reverse “bureaucratic alchemy”:

• Communal Land Trust: Perpetual, non-transferable titles resolved via oral memoirs and Ottoman tax records, replacing individual permits with Bedouin independence.
• Dynamic Permanence: Tents, tyre walls and solar micro-grids classified as “mobile heritage structures,” recognized for sustaining ecological balance. Concrete sprawl requires clan consent and heritage review.
• Heritage Impact Veto: Any infrastructure project (e.g. E-1 corridor) must pass a Bedouin-UNESCO council review as veto triggers binding ICJ arbitration.
• Ecological Easements: Drone-mapped grazing routes and wadis, co-drafted by Jahalin elders, are inscribed on UNESCO’s Living Heritage register as protected infrastructure.
• Restorative Levy: Funded by EU reparations for displacement, mandates Israel furnish micro-grids, water tanks and pasture corridors proportional to new settler construction.

Adopted by Lakota water protectors and West Papuan tribes, Qanatir al-Futur redefines zoning as decolonial practice via autonomous design and communal agency

Figure 3: UNISAT IMAGERY OF DAMAGED AREA

7. Conclusion

Khan al-Ahmar shows how a few tents and a school of tyres can expose a global system of settler power. Military orders, court petitions, aid packages and heritage labels all try to make Bedouin life either illegal or attractive but never sovereign. By refusing relocation, teaching in tyre classrooms and turning a UNESCO certificate into a shield, the Jahalin proved that housing is not only shelter but also a frontline where stories, laws and bodies

meet. Using ideas from Wolfe, Lefebvre, Ortiz and Gilmore, this essay has argued that “illegality” is a bureaucratic trick and that true permanence lies in ecological care and that zoning can be rewritten from below.

References:

• B’Tselem (2017) Expel and Exploit: The Israeli Practice of Taking Over Rural Palestinian Land. Jerusalem: B’Tselem.
• Bimkom – Planners for Planning Rights (2012) The Prohibited Zone: Israeli Planning Policy in Area C of the West Bank. Jerusalem:
• Escobar, A. (2018) Designs for the Pluriverse: Radical Interdependence, Autonomy, and the Making of Worlds. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.
• Falah, (1985) ‘How Israel Controls the Bedouin in Israel’, Journal of Palestine Studies, 14(1), pp. 61–84.
• Gordon, (2008) Israel’s Occupation. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.
• Khalidi, (2020) The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine: A History of Settler Colonialism and Resistance, 1917–2017. New York, NY: Metropolitan Books.
• Lefebvre, (1968) Le Droit à la Ville. Paris: Anthropos.
• Nixon, (2011) Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
• Ortiz, (2022) ‘Storytelling otherwise: Decolonising storytelling in planning’, Planning Theory, 22(2), pp. 177–200.

doi: 10.1177/14730952221115875.

• Simone, (2004) ‘People as infrastructure: intersecting fragments in Jakarta’, Public Culture, 16(3), pp. 407–429.
• Simpson, (2014) Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life across the Borders of Settler States. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.
• Tuck, E. and Yang, K. W. (2012) ‘Decolonization is not a metaphor’, Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, 1(1),

40. 1–40.

• United Nations General Assembly (2007) United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. New York, NY: United
• United Nations Human Rights Council (2022) Report of the Special Rapporteur on the Situation of Human Rights in the Palestinian Territories Occupied since 1967 (A/HRC/49/82). Geneva:
• United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (2016) West Bank: Area C and Palestinian Communities. Jerusalem:
• UNESCO World Heritage Committee (2022) Decision: Bedouin Cultural Landscapes of the Judaean Desert (WHC/22/44.COM/INF.8B2). Paris:
• Weizman, (2007) Hollow Land: Israel’s Architecture of Occupation. London: Verso.
• Wolfe, (2006) ‘Settler colonialism and the elimination of the native’, Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), pp. 387–409.

Bringing the Global South to the Table: Post-Growth Perspectives and Learning Pedagogies from Kalentzi

By Sarah Flynn, on 21 January 2025

By Rana Zein

Introduction

In this second part of my reflective journey through the “Life After Growth” summer school, I explore the complexities of post-growth concepts and principles, particularly through the lens of a Global South citizen and researcher. This blog delves into critical debates surrounding sociocracy, the commons, capitalism, and the relevance of post-growth ideals across diverse political landscapes, especially in the Global South. By examining the interplay between political systems, social structures, and post-growth ideals, I reflect on how these concepts resonate within local, real-world contexts. Additionally, I consider the challenges posed by traditional higher education systems, particularly their rigidity and disconnection from local realities. Grounding learning experiences in local environments not only contextualizes academic discussions but also fosters relaxed and memorable educational moments. Such an approach opens the door to reimagining academic spaces, embracing spontaneity, and integrating local culture into the learning process. By doing so, we can bridge the gap between theory and practice while enriching the overall learning experience.

Exploring the Controversies and Challenges of Post-Growth

Sociocracy and Matters of Scale and Governance in Post-growth

From the photo hanging on the wall at Tzoumakers, depicting local villagers performing a traditional Greek dance near the main church, to the various activities within the summer school, the circle structure was a recurring motif that cultivated connections and mutual support. The circle, a geometrical and sociological archetype, symbolizes egalitarianism—signifying equal standing and shared focus, without any single point exerting dominance over others. This principle aligns closely with the foundations of sociocracy, a governance model that prioritizes equivalence, transparency, and inclusivity (Owen & Buck, 2020). In our practical exploration of a sociocratic decision-making mock-up during the final day of the summer school, we encountered a remarkably fluid process. Decisions were made through structured rounds of dialogue where each voice was heard, enabling a collective sense of ownership over the outcomes, and reflecting reflection of the circle’s capacity to foster psychological safety among its participants.

Figure 01: Photograph of the local community of Kalentzi dancing in circles, displayed on the wall of Tzoumakers space

Yet, while the structure proved effective in this microcosmic setting, its scalability provoked some questions. Could such a model, with its reliance on clear communication and small, cohesive circles, retain its clarity and efficacy when expanded to the complexities of local or municipal governance? Sociocracy’s reliance on interlinked circles—each connected but autonomous—offers a theoretical pathway to manage this challenge. Each circle addresses specific issues while remaining accountable to a broader structure through double linking, where representatives participate in both their own circle and a higher-level one (Boeke, 2023; Owen & Buck, 2020). However, there remains a potential risk of fragmentation—a risk that post-growth initiatives are always subject to. In scaling up, the model might face dilution as circles proliferate to accommodate diverse issues and stakeholders. Specialized circles could drift into silos, eroding the coherence of the system. Additionally, the reliance on consent-based decision-making could encounter bottlenecks in larger, more diverse groups where conflicting priorities might emerge.

Figure 02: Abstract diagram for the sociocratic decision-making model in cooperatives, Source: Boeke, 2023

Post-growth between public good and common good

Although a public good is defined as a universal welfare resource or service that is non-excludable and non-rivalrous (Anomaly, 2015)—available to all without restriction and unaffected by individual use—this concept has also taken on some negative associations. Often, the notion of public good is misused by governments to justify interventions that, under the guise of public benefit, perpetuate injustices. These interventions can include land expropriations, speculative developments, or costly infrastructure and real estate projects that, overtly or covertly, reinforce social inequalities and free-market dominance. On the other hand, the concept of common good operates differently: it can be somehow excludable as it is not universal in nature.

Common goods are services and resources collectively owned, accessed, and managed by a particular community that shares aligned values and interests (Mazzucato, 2023). This approach fosters a sense of solidarity and stewardship but also carries an exclusivity that raises questions of equity and access. So, where does post-growth stand between these two models? If it focuses exclusively on the common good, can it truly uphold ideals of justice and equity? Is there a way for post-growth frameworks to bridge the inclusivity of public goods with the shared stewardship of commons, or does it risk marginalizing those outside the shared community, no matter how intentionally inclusive? This tension raises critical questions about how post-growth ideologies might navigate inclusivity without compromising the values that define them.

Is post-growth harming capitalism?

Is the post-growth approach aiming to co-exist with a tamed version of capitalism as some argue for the possibility of post growth capitalism (Murphy, 2018)? Or does it seek to dismantle and replace the capitalist model completely? If post-growth is designed to counter capitalism, how much ground and agency does it have to achieve this goal? One major weakness of post-growth initiatives in challenging capitalism is their often fragmented and localized nature. These initiatives mostly emerge in peripheral and rural spaces (Tschumi et al., 2021), away from urban centers—the strongholds of corporate capitalism. By operating outside the direct oversight of governing bodies and surveillance, they gain more freedom to address the unmet needs of left behind areas. However, this independence often comes at the cost of reduced visibility and diminished potential to exert broader influence. This underscores the urgency for post-growth initiatives to upscale, interconnect, and spatially agglomerate. Only through such consolidation can they strengthen their societal influence and build the capacity to radically transform the capitalist model—or create parallel structures resilient enough to counter it.

Challenging political environments in the Global South and post-growth

If post-growth initiatives face significant challenges even in democratic contexts, navigating legal and political resistance (Kostakis et al., 2023; Tomaselli et al., 2021), then how can they survive or even emerge within authoritarian contexts that are predominant in the Global South? In such settings, supportive legal frameworks for cooperatives—as conceptualized in post-growth discourse—are often absent. From a post-growth perspective, cooperatives are envisioned as autonomous organizations owned and democratically governed by their members (Robra et al., 2023). However, in many Global South regions, existing legal frameworks for agricultural or housing cooperatives fall short of providing the political empowerment necessary for true democratic ownership and self-management.

In Egypt, laws such as the Cooperative Societies Law (Law No. 317 of 1956) provide the general framework for the establishment and management of cooperatives, while others, like the Consumer Cooperatives Law (Law No. 109 of 1975), offer subsidies and tax exemptions for production and service provision (CHC (General Authority for Construction & Housing Cooperatives), 2024). Yet, these laws do not promote autonomous governance or shared ownership, in the way postgrowth articulate them, as they are still centrally governed by ministries. Bureaucratic obstacles further discourage communities from establishing cooperatives, undermining their potential to operate effectively. How, then, can cooperatives be legally empowered and protected? One idea discussed during the summer school is the establishment of independent legal arms that is integrated in the ecosystem of cooperatives—ensuring their autonomy and safeguarding their operations. However, this hinges on community activism and the capacity of communities to form strong legal coalitions. Additionally, there is a possibility and a need for combining legal and extra-legal practices—actions outside formal legal boundaries that are not governed or sanctioned by law, nor are they illegal like informal negotiations—to support cooperatives in navigating hostile political environments.

The post-growth academic controversy

Is post-growth a new addition to critical social theory, or is it merely a reconfiguration of pre-existing frameworks like communism, and self-organization? Is it a patchwork of other movements like the foundational economy, circular economy, and others?  These questions have fueled ongoing debates about the movement’s coherence and its ability to translate its principles into practice. Critics argue that the post-growth discourse often seems fragmented, as there is no consensus on what post-growth should entail, despite widespread agreement on what it should not be (Savini et al., 2022). This lack of clarity, sometimes, limits its practical impact. Not to mention, the backlash post-growth receives from pro-growth or green-growth advocates (Tomaselli et al., 2021). The controversy perhaps stems from its mis-framing as an anti-growth movement; however, the essence of the movement, at least from my perspective, lies in finding a balance between growth and de-growth—advocating for selective de-growth or shrinkage in resource-intensive and market-driven activities, and controlled growth in eco-friendly, localized initiatives that prioritize community wellbeing and ecological regeneration.

Politics, geopolitics, and receptiveness of post-growth

Is protecting the environment incompatible with political realities?… Anti-post-growth politicians often depict post-growth as synonymous with a neo-primitivism movement, advocating a return to primitive living (Hickel, 2023; Kostakis et al., 2023). However, this misrepresents the core tenet of post-growth regarding technological use. Rather than rejecting technology, post-growth calls for conscious, contextual, ecologically regenerative, and open-resource technological innovations—contrasting sharply with the expensive, extractive tools monopolized by transnational technological capitalist firms (Kostakis et al., 2023; Robra et al., 2023). Unsurprisingly, such a vision faces strong resistance from corporations and mainstream politicians, possibly due to shared interests or fears of the uncertainties and backlashes that progressive post-growth approaches could provoke in planning and governance frameworks.

Yet, isn`t it even scarier to continue in that dead-ended path of growth rather than daring to experiment with an approach that can possibly lead to different, though not utopian, results? Another crucial question is how well post-growth narratives resonate with the public. Too often, the literature and rhetoric surrounding post-growth appear niche or elitist, disconnected from the everyday language of ordinary people. Additionally, a recent study highlights that the acceptance of post-growth values and interests varies significantly based on political affiliation, with right-wing proponents being the most opposed to post-growth initiatives (Paulson & Büchs, 2022). Consequently, a significant part of post-growth’s battle lies in addressing information asymmetry by making its principles accessible and understandable before expecting people to advocate and adopt something they don`t clearly grasp (Tomaselli et al., 2021).

Shifting the debate to the Global South, the opposition to or perceived irrelevance of the post-growth movement becomes even more pronounced. In a recent interview on the geopolitics beyond growth, Herrington stated, “But I want to emphasise that green growth is definitely useful for poor countries. There, growth still contributes directly to people’s wellbeing. In Europe, this has long ceased to be the case – in fact, the drive for growth makes us unhappier because it fuels pollution and inequality. The policy agenda of the degrowth movement is very suitable for Europe.” (Herrington & Wouters, 2023)

This highlights the critical role of geographical context in shaping the desirability and applicability of post-growth strategies. However, such framings of the post-growth movement often overemphasize economic narratives while detaching them from social and ecological dimensions. This approach reinforces the perception of post-growth as a concept relevant only to affluent countries, rendering it ineffective in addressing poverty in less developed nations. It also perpetuates the idea that poverty stems from insufficient growth, rather than from growing inequalities. Furthermore, how can we ensure that affluent countries in the Global North will not exploit the post-growth narrative to continue pursuing growth through offshoring, while presenting themselves as shifting toward post-growth? Wouldn’t this ultimately entrench these inequalities, leaving the Global South to bear the consequences of the North’s resource-intensive models disguised under the guise of post-growth?

Learning pedagogies takeaways from the summer school

Human-friendly learning environment and a lax concept of time

Being able to stay focused during a two-hour lecture was unusual for me, particularly given that this was an outdoor lecture with various sources of distraction. While some participants were engaged in the lecture, others were cooking, rearranging parts of the setting, and more guests continued to arrive. Toddlers were playing nearby, and one participant’s dog wandered freely. Remarkably, none of these activities disrupted the flow of the lecture or the discussion that followed. Instead, the spontaneity of these movements was beautifully interwoven into the session, creating a relaxed atmosphere that allowed us to complete all scheduled activities without feeling overwhelmed or stressed. The unexpected sounds of kids laughing, dogs barking, and the occasional clatter of objects added cosiness and moments of humour, providing natural mental breaks. Even the shifting of chairs and umbrellas as we adjusted to the sun’s position infused the session with a sense of dynamism and encouraged stretching and movement.

Figure 03: Photo from the guest house showing the friendly and adaptable setting of the lecture

Interestingly, that change of scenery and the good use of the setting`s specificities, in terms of physical setting and also the changes in the composition of attendees, wasn’t limited to that initial lecture. Throughout the summer school, each setting—whether an old classroom in Kalentzi, an outdoor theatre near Habibi.Works or Tzumakers, or a garden or backyard—offered its own distinct character. Participatory workshops might be held in the school’s amphitheatre one day and a shaded garden the next. These varied learning spaces allowed the natural rhythms and characteristics of each location to shape the sessions, resulting in an organic flow that was both grounding and energizing.

Figures 04 & 05 & 06: Show the different learning locations during the summer school

Reflecting on this experience, I found myself questioning the conventional obsession with formal, isolated learning spaces where every aspect is meticulously controlled, and activities are perfectly timed, especially in my home country. This rigidity may contribute to our collective anxiety when technology fails or things don’t go as planned, as we’re conditioned to expect predictability and control in learning environments. Perhaps there’s a need to rethink this rigidity and embrace a more flexible approach that allows space for human spontaneity and errors, unexpected occurrences, and a more natural pace of learning.

Another notable aspect of the program was the seamless balance between theory and practice, thoughtfully designed and skillfully delivered. While a strong theoretical foundation was integral to the summer school, it was complemented by hands-on workshops, discussions, and interactions with representatives from Kalentzi cooperatives. These encounters offered a practical lens into both the achievements and challenges involved in implementing postgrowth concepts across social, financial, environmental, and political dimensions. This integration of practice with theory fostered a richer, multidimensional understanding, grounding abstract ideas in real-world contexts. As such, these experiences challenged my notions of learning spaces, timing, and structure, inviting a reconsideration of how learning might be enriched by embracing openness, adaptability, and a greater harmony between structured content and spontaneous experience.

Embedding Greek culture and art in the learning process

Although the summer school was brief, it placed considerable emphasis on integrating Greek culture and artistic practices into various aspects of our experience. One particularly creative and immersive approach was the use of a tablecloth as a narrative and commemorative tool. This tablecloth accompanied us at every communal meal, becoming a canvas for documenting our reflections, sharing ideas, developing new recipes, or simply capturing the emotions and visuals that stayed with us. This unique artifact allowed participants to collectively create an evolving visual story, blending personal insights with shared experiences.

Figure 07: The tablecloth with participants` sketches and doodles during the summer school

Food was another significant cultural element woven into our activities, encompassing the philosophy of postgrowth by prioritizing local, organic, and sustainable choices. Meals were carefully crafted to highlight Greek culinary traditions, whether through dishes prepared by the organizers, collaborative cooking sessions at Habibi.Works, or meals enjoyed at local tavernas and the village panigiri. The emphasis on sourcing food locally and supporting eco-friendly practices—such as minimal plastic use and the inclusion of organic or up-cycled ingredients—was consistently reinforced. Many ingredients, such as artisanal drinks, jams, and cheeses, came from the agricultural cooperatives in Kalentzi, enhancing the sense of community support and ecological consciousness in our food practices.

Attending the local panigiri—a traditional Greek festival—provided an authentic immersion into the cultural heart of the region. Panigiris, vibrant with music, dance, and community spirit, allowed us to experience firsthand the timeless customs and social bonds that characterize Greek celebrations. The panigiri was a place to engage with locals, share stories, and gain a deeper appreciation for Greek traditions through an informal, celebratory lens. Local tavernas also offered a vital connection to Greek culture. Each meal in a taverna was an invitation to taste authentic flavors, experience the hospitality that defines Greek dining, and enjoy friendly conversations.

Figures 08 & 09: Snapshots of the Greek food and the local Taverna

Conclusion

In conclusion, the “Life After Growth” summer school was more than an academic exercise; it was a living experiment in applying post-growth principles to learning, community building, and cultural exchange. It left me questioning: Can post-growth ideas truly transcend localized contexts to reshape global systems? How do we balance inclusivity and equity while respecting the unique needs of different communities in a post-growth manner? And most importantly, can we rethink our relationships with time, space, learning, and resources to envision a world that flourishes beyond growth, as we navigate the pervasive manifestations of capitalism in our daily lives?

Resources

Anomaly, J. (2015). Public goods and government action. Politics, Philosophy and Economics, 14(2), 109–128. https://doi.org/10.1177/1470594X13505414

Boeke, K. (2023). Sociocracy in co-operative organisations. https://www.uk.coop/resources/sociocracy-co-operative-organisations

CHC (General Authority for Construction & Housing Cooperatives). (2024). Cooperative Legislation. https://chc-egypt.com/en/cooperative-legislation/

Herrington, G., & Wouters, R. (2023). Geopolitics Beyond Growth. https://www.greeneuropeanjournal.eu/geopolitics-beyond-growth/

Hickel, J. (2023). On Technology and Degrowth. https://monthlyreview.org/2023/07/01/on-technology-and-degrowth/

Kostakis, V., Niaros, V., & Giotitsas, C. (2023). Beyond global versus local: illuminating a cosmolocal framework for convivial technology development. Sustainability Science, 18(5), 2309–2322. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11625-023-01378-1

Mazzucato, M. (2023). Governing the economics of the common good: from correcting market failures to shaping collective goals.

Murphy, R. (2018). Is post-growth capitalism possible? https://www.taxresearch.org.uk/Blog/2018/02/27/is-post-growth-capitalism-possible/

Owen, R. L., & Buck, J. A. (2020). Creating the conditions for reflective team practices: examining sociocracy as a self-organizing governance model that promotes transformative learning. Reflective Practice, 21(6), 786–802. https://doi.org/10.1080/14623943.2020.1821630

Paulson, L., & Büchs, M. (2022). Public acceptance of post-growth: Factors and implications for post-growth strategy. Futures, 143(December 2020), 103020. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.futures.2022.103020

Robra, B., Pazaitis, A., Giotitsas, C., & Pansera, M. (2023). From creative destruction to convivial innovation – A post-growth perspective. Technovation, 125(March 2022), 102760. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.technovation.2023.102760

Savini, F., Ferreira, A., & von Schönfeld, K. C. (2022). Uncoupling planning and economic growth: Towards post-growth urban principles: An introduction. In Post-Growth Planning: Cities Beyond the Market Economy (pp. 3–18). Taylor and Francis. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781003160984-2

Tomaselli, M. F., Kozak, R., Gifford, R., & Sheppard, S. R. J. (2021). Degrowth or Not Degrowth: The Importance of Message Frames for Characterizing the New Economy. Ecological Economics, 183(August 2020), 106952. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ecolecon.2021.106952

Tschumi, P., Winiger, A., Wirth, S., Mayer, H., & Seidl, I. (2021). Growth independence through social innovations? An analysis of potential growth effects of social innovations in a Swiss mountain region. In B. Lange, M. Hülz, B. Schmid, & C. Schulz (Eds.), Post-Growth Geohraphies (Vol. 49, pp. 115–136). transcript Verlag. https://doi.org/10.14361/9783839457337

Post-Growth Pathways: Learning, Living, and Reimagining in Kalentzi, Greece

By Sarah Flynn, on 21 January 2025

By Rana Zein

Introduction

Amid the growing prominence of post-growth ideas in research and policy-making, the summer school titled “Life After Growth” offered a transformative experience, blending “unlearning” and “co/re-learning” about values, needs, time, growth/post-growth, and collective development. Held in the summer of 2024 in Kalentzi, Greece, the school aimed to bridge theoretical exploration with practical engagement in post-growth principles. Organized collaboratively by the P2P Lab of Tallinn University of Technology—a research hub based in Ioannina focused on post-growth cooperative models—the Post-Growth Innovation Lab of the University of Vigo, and the Department of Social Policy of Democritus University of Thrace, the learning experience was steeped in interdisciplinary and international expertise.

The location was specifically chosen for its emerging cooperative ecosystem, which includes initiatives such as “Tzoumakers,” a rural makerspace; “The Heart of the Bee,” a honey and agricultural farm; “Nea Guinea” (School of Earth), focusing on sustainable lifestyles; “High Mountains,” an agricultural social cooperative; “Boulouki,” a collective of vernacular builders preserving traditional construction techniques; and “Habibi.Works,” an intercultural and educational makerspace supporting refugees. This integrated network of collectives provided participants, including myself, with a hands-on experience of how cooperatives operate and the challenges they face daily, fostering a more tangible and meaningful connection with the theoretical content of the school.

Figure 01: The historic school of Kalentzi and its amphitheatre, the central hub for most summer school activities.

My post-growth journey

My motivation for attending this summer school stems from a deep passion for post-growth, a journey that began coincidentally in 2020. Since then, I have explored its theory and practical applications through various lenses. In 2021, I volunteered with the Post-Growth Institute, collaborating with people from diverse backgrounds to examine how post-growth principles intersect with daily life. To me, post-growth is not just a theoretical discussion but a paradigm shift from consumerism toward carbon-neutral, community-centered living. As an urban planning tutor at the Bartlett School of Planning, I guided students in reimagining a London borough as a post-growth community. This experience revealed diverse interpretations of post-growth—self-sufficiency, polycentricity, and ecological urbanism—while highlighting challenges in translating these ideas into spatial plans, particularly concerning resource allocation, land use, and compatibility with existing planning frameworks.

Additionally, being part of the State and Market Research Cluster at DPU further deepened my engagement, supporting post-growth events that explored intersections between heterodox economics and practical urban planning. These experiences sharpened my understanding while raising critical questions about applying post-growth principles in Egypt, my home country. In Egypt, developmental needs are intertwined with environmental crises and governance challenges, complicating the implementation of approaches like commoning and co-production in such a complex system. As such, this summer school presented a unique opportunity to seek answers to these pressing questions. It brought together 25 research students from diverse disciplines, including urban planning, ecology, philosophy, architecture, feminism, and economics, sparking rich discussions and intellectual exchanges. This article, part one of a reflective series, documents my experience, delving into critical post-growth debates while celebrating innovative, locally grounded pedagogies that make intellectual exploration more engaging and impactful.

Grounding and scene-setting

“Kalo Mina!…..Happy Month!”

With this word, our summer school began with the promise of shared knowledge, meaningful connections, and memories rooted in post-growth ideas. Each day started with a circular check-in and ended with another check-out, forming a daily ritual. In these circles, we alternated between silence and conversation, exploring both familiarity and novelty while connecting with ourselves and each other. Sometimes we wandered aimlessly, exchanged glances, or mirrored movements; other times, we shared quick words or reflections of gratitude. These rituals, along with warm-ups, stretches, and wind-downs, grounded us and helped us reset, reflect, and embrace the day’s rhythm.

Figure 02: The first grounding morning circle, setting intentions for the summer school.

Day 01: Demystifying cosmo-localism

Theoretical Insights into Post-Growth and Cosmo-localism

The first morning, lecture opened with a slide of the world on fire—a striking image that framed the social and ecological urgency behind post-growth thinking. Then, it explored critiques of growth-based economics, introducing the language and debates surrounding commoning and post-growth, laying the foundation for the whole summer school. Later, the afternoon lecture shifted to discuss the rise of “The Commons” and the idea of re-embodying ourselves within the world. It also explained how “Cosmolocalism” as a method of open communication can link local groups into broader networks, enabling the collective exchange of resources and co-creation of products; thus, grounding communities in local contexts while building resilient systems for sharing knowledge, skills, and practices (Kostakis et al., 2023).

These concepts sparked powerful questions: How do our bodies fit within our environments? Do our actions align with our values, instincts, and visions for more ecologically balanced cities? Is the concept of “green growth” truly viable, especially given the evidence of a strong connection between GDP growth and material consumption? Advocates of green growth may argue that correlation does not imply causation, but can we ignore the ecological “sacrifice zones” created by this approach (O’Donnell, 2024; Zografos & Robbins, 2020)? What kind of social imaginaries are we co-creating for ourselves and future generations—Just and brighter or apocalyptic?

The First Walks in Kalentzi

Following these puzzling thoughts, we explored the surroundings on our way to the house of our hosts— an old house inherited from their grandparents, where we had our first Greek meal. They shared bits of the house’s history before leaving us to the afternoon lecture and finalizing the food preparations. Collectively, we rearranged tables into a linear formation, covering them with a long, white tablecloth embroidered with “Life After Growth.” This tablecloth, which became the summer school’s living memoir, was soon filled with scribbled thoughts, reflections, and sketches from everyone present.

Figures 03 & 04: The first shared Greek meal, with participants collaboratively crafting the tablecloth.

Evening workshop: Exploring the cooperative ecosystem

That evening, we gathered for a “World Café”-style workshop. We split into four groups and rotated between stations representing local cooperative initiatives: Tzoumakers, Nea Guinea, High Mountains, and The Heart of the Bee, each led by one of the founders.

At Tzoumakers, the first stop, the makerspace equipment is used by trusted locals to repair items, though challenges around trust, legalities, and institutional constraints remain. Some of the advanced machines—like the 3D laser printer—left us wondering about their use in such a small village. To our surprise, village youth were using these tools to design logos for their hiking club and to replace costly parts for household items. This example illuminated how post-growth thinking doesn’t oppose technology. On the contrary, it advocates for using technology if it is ecologically responsible, socially inclusive and meaningful, and contextually adaptive (Hickel, 2023). The low-cost wooden wind turbine, crafted from open-source designs at Nea Guinea, our second stop, was another evidence of the alignment between post-growth and counter-hegemonic technological innovation (Robra et al., 2023). This design, popularized in Argentina to power off-grid communities, isn’t widely prevailing in other parts of the Global South—a point that sparked discussions about barriers such as the availability of suitable materials and the political will to manifest such projects. Therefore, local community engagement and grassroot political activism are critical for success in such projects.

At High Mountains, our third stop, we stepped into the back garden for some fresh air while learning how the founders connect farmers directly with consumers. By bypassing exploitative middlemen, they create shortcuts in food supply chains (Luzzini et al., 2024). However, they face challenges such as demand fluctuations and a reliance on EU funding—a common bottleneck for post-growth initiatives. High Mountains also plays a role in local eco-tourism, inviting visitors to experience village life, contribute to community projects, and foster connections, helping to combat social isolation. Our final stop was The Heart of the Bee, the youngest initiative. Transcending their name, their activities go beyond beekeeping to include traditional music preservation, berry farming, and crafting local furniture. This collective illustrates how multidisciplinary skills and polymathy can flourish in post-growth environments, fostering a resilient community with diverse talents, in contrast to the narrow specialization entrenched in the capitalist model.

Figure 05: The first workshop discussions held in the yard of the Tzoumakers space.

Day 02: What is a Value and what is a Need?

Actions, Values and Needs in a Post-Growth World!

The morning lecture began once again with the apocalyptic slide—a world on fire—followed by a list of climate action “commitments” from global summits. These commitments revealed a recurring pattern: ambitious yet vague actions that, some might argue, are designed to be ignored. Who defines these actions? Who enforces them? Are they genuinely binding for world leaders and corporations, or merely performative? Notably, the persistent framing of change as a “challenge” stood out—as if our goals are inherently unattainable. Do we genuinely seek change, or are we merely crafting new ways to shield ourselves from its consequences?

The afternoon lecture delved into the theoretical roots of labor, capital, and value—a mind-bending exploration of Marxist and feminist frameworks. This set the stage for discussions about what we value, why, and how those choices are validated. Marx’s distinction between “use value” and “exchange value” highlights our tendency to prioritize market worth over practical or emotional significance (Armstrong, 2020; Pazaitis, 2023). Feminist perspectives expand value to include invisible labor, emotions, and social reproduction, challenging capitalism’s sidelining of human well-being for profit. Post-growth thinking and the Commons embrace this broader ethos, assigning inherent value to all things—not just what can be commodified (Pazaitis, 2023). Nevertheless, can these alternative values survive within the capitalist system? Does the Commons hold enough agency to resist its machinery?

Evening Workshop: Can we clearly map our Needs and Values?

The evening workshop invited us to examine our perceptions of needs and values through a mapping exercise, dividing participants into three groups: personal, collective, and community circles. In the personal circle group, we faced immediate questions: Where do we start? What counts as a “need” or a “value”? Categorizing felt futile as concepts quickly overlapped. We realized our definitions were shaped by individual contexts and life stages. Interestingly, none of us listed basic needs like food, water, or shelter. Instead, we focused on emotional and moral aspirations—love, respect, integrity—likely because our basic needs were met, allowing us to prioritize higher-order ones. Subconscious biases also emerged from our position at the intersection of the three circles, prioritizing collective agreement over individual needs. Moreover, being in a post-growth summer school framed our thinking within principles of selflessness and collectivism. How ironic—or materialistic—would it have seemed to list “money”!

The collective and community groups faced similar struggles with categorization, dividing needs and values into moral, geographical, and relational categories. Yet, I wondered: aren’t all needs and values inherently geographical and relational at the same time? After all, how can we experience solidarity, diversity, and fun if they aren’t anchored to specific spaces, even if those spaces are just the boundaries of our own bodies or minds? Needs gain meaning only through spatial context. My need for open space as a Cairo resident, for instance, differs greatly from someone in rural Germany.

Figures 06 & 07: Mapping and presentation of the values and needs workshop.

Dancing into the night

Fortunately, our heavy discussions ended on a light note as we attended a Panigiri, a traditional festival in a neighbouring village. This gave us the chance to immerse ourselves in Greek culture, joining in on the traditional music and dances performed in circles. While the dance steps seemed simple, keeping up with the rhythm alongside seasoned Greek dancers was no easy feat! It was a joyful and grounding experience, providing the perfect close to a day of intense intellectual exploration.

Figure 08: Participants and locals dancing together at the Panigiri.

Day 03: Re-visiting our perception of Time

Typologies of time

Our third morning began with a liberating Greek dance. Without choreography to follow, we simply moved, laughed, and let go—an antidote to overthinking. Next, we had 15 unstructured minutes to spend however we liked while brainstorming verbs tied to time. I climbed to the highest step of the amphitheater, sharing a panoramic view with another participant. We alternated between quiet conversation and silence, occasionally wondering if our “time” was up. The waiting sharpened how fleeting the moment felt. When we regrouped, we shared our words: maximize, waste, extend, exploit, enjoy, spend… These verbs reflected how we experience time, from commodifying it as something to “spend and consume” to cherishing it as a precious finite resource. Additionally, by externalizing time, we seemed to grant it agency over us—turning ourselves into objects rather than subjects! In the afternoon, we explored conceptualiations of time perception: “lived” time versus clock time, planned versus leftover time, “work” time versus “doing” time, slicing and weaponizing time, and the precarity often associated with it.

Collective time and collective space

Afterwards, we headed to Habibi.Works`s communal kitchen for a batch-cooking experience, that was also an exercise of self-organization and managing collective time. While some groups focused on cooking, others set the dining area with our cherished tablecloth, turning the space into an inviting shared dining environment. As we moved around Habibi.Works, we noticed that it felt like a miniature world—a microcosm of diverse languages, cultural symbols, and shared purpose. Each corner had traces of transnational creativity and solidarity, with phrases scrawled in multiple languages and handmade objects that spoke of past projects and the global stories behind them, especially those of refugees. It was a space that radiated inclusivity and inspired a sense of togetherness, capturing the essence of the post-growth values we’d been discussing.

Figure 09: The collective cooking inside the cosmopolitan kitchen of Habibi.Works.

Evening workshop: Mini-consultancy experience

In the evening, we delved into Kalentzi’s post-growth initiatives, providing insights to help each one assess its current situation and plan for future development. Divided into three groups, we focused on different themes: decision-making and role distribution; establishment, founding, funding, and infrastructure; and networking and organizational challenges. I was in the second group, where we brainstormed ideas to address gaps in Kalentzi’s cooperative ecosystem and suggest potential solutions. Key needs identified included establishing a safety net for both financial resources and volunteers, diversifying funding sources, and creating a more organized business model. Enhancing physical and social infrastructure to attract more supporters was also crucial. Successful synergies between initiatives and pooling financial resources were noted, but challenges included lack of equitable resource distribution, high administrative costs, and minimal political engagement.

In response, we proposed several strategies: exploring crowdfunding to reduce EU dependency, creating an online volunteer database to help in distributing human resources and scaling efforts, forming alliances with cooperatives beyond Kalentzi, developing participatory—post-growth aligned impact assessment tools, building political coalitions to generate political momentum for governance reform, using unconventional marketing (like festivals), and establishing in-house administrative capacities to reduce outsourcing costs.

Day 04: Sociocracy and community practices

Putting sociocracy in action

The final mini lecture introduced the sociocracy model, a form of democratic governance that has been gaining attention both in academic circles and in practice. This approach supports collaborative, self-managing governance where all members are treated as equals and roles are rotated to foster balance and adaptability (Owen & Buck, 2020). Sociocracy is structured around four key principles: the formation of sociocratic circles (or decision-making structure), consent-based decision-making, double-linking between circles to facilitate vertical and horizontal networking, and open elections for roles (Boeke, 2023; Owen & Buck, 2020). Ideally, each sociocratic circle has no more than eight participants to ensure effective communication.

After the lecture, we participated in a role-playing activity where six volunteers simulated members of an initiative preparing for the planting season. Roles included a head of the initiative, two members, a timekeeper, a notetaker, and a facilitator, all discussing necessary greenhouse repairs. As we worked through the sociocratic model, the decision-making process went through nine structured phases, as depicted in the following diagram. The activity illustrated both the structure and flexibility inherent to sociocracy, giving us insight into the coordination and collective responsibility it entails.

Figure 10: The flowchart of the sociocratic circle mock-up.

Evening workshop

In the evening, our final workshop distilled the ideas and questions raised throughout the summer into three key themes for open debate. I joined the group discussing political systems and policy, exploring the complex relationship between state, business, and social interests, with a particular focus on the Global South. These debates continue in the second part of this blog, where I dive into the intersection of post-growth and state-market dynamics, the misconceptions surrounding post-growth, and the geopolitical tensions it sparks.

Figure 11: Snapshot of the last round of discussions in the summer school.

One last circle

Despite the rainy weather, we ended the summer school by forming one last circle, reflecting on our experiences and brainstorming ways to sustain the post-growth community we built in Kalentzi’s mountains.

Resources

Armstrong, E. (2020). Marxist and Socialist Feminism. Study of Women and Gender: Faculty Publication, Smith College, Northhampton, MA. Study of Women and Gender, 24. https://scholarworks.smith.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1014&context=swg_facpubs

Boeke, K. (2023). Sociocracy in co-operative organisations. https://www.uk.coop/resources/sociocracy-co-operative-organisations

Hickel, J. (2023). On Technology and Degrowth. https://monthlyreview.org/2023/07/01/on-technology-and-degrowth/

Kostakis, V., Niaros, V., & Giotitsas, C. (2023). Beyond global versus local: illuminating a cosmolocal framework for convivial technology development. Sustainability Science, 18(5), 2309–2322. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11625-023-01378-1

Luzzini, D., Pagell, M., Devenin, V., Miemczyk, J., Longoni, A., & Banerjee, B. (2024). Rethinking Supply Chain Management in a Post-Growth Era. Journal of Supply Chain Management, 92–106. https://doi.org/10.1111/jscm.12332

O’Donnell, A. (2024). Green Sacrifice Zones: The Justice Implications of the Green Transition. https://www.tasc.ie/blog/2024/02/06/green-sacrifice-zones-the-justice-implications-of/

Owen, R. L., & Buck, J. A. (2020). Creating the conditions for reflective team practices: examining sociocracy as a self-organizing governance model that promotes transformative learning. Reflective Practice, 21(6), 786–802. https://doi.org/10.1080/14623943.2020.1821630

Pazaitis, A. (2023). Exploring the Value of Life After Growth in a world valuing growth over life. https://medium.com/postgrowth/exploring-the-value-of-life-after-growth-87622120257c

Robra, B., Pazaitis, A., Giotitsas, C., & Pansera, M. (2023). From creative destruction to convivial innovation – A post-growth perspective. Technovation, 125(March 2022), 102760. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.technovation.2023.102760

Zografos, C., & Robbins, P. (2020). Green Sacrifice Zones, or Why a Green New Deal Cannot Ignore the Cost Shifts of Just Transitions. One Earth, 3(5), 543–546. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.oneear.2020.10.012

Holding onto home: A story of resilience in neglect

By Dana Sousa-Limbu, on 17 December 2024

By Mahnoor Shah

Urban Development Planning MSc graduate

Urbanisation has caused slums to rapidly spread worldwide (Panday, 2020; Mansoor and Iram, 2023). Like many countries in the Global south, Pakistan has a preponderance of slums (Shafqat, et al., 2021). While most slums In Pakistan are typically situated on the outskirts of cities, Islamabad, the capital city of Pakistan, stands out as an exception, with slums dotted across its centre, primarily along the banks of riverine nullahs (drainage canals) (Hasan et al., 2021; Mansoor and Iram, 2023). These slums are commonly referred to as ‘colonies,’ a euphemism for informal settlements that are primarily inhabited by religious minorities, specifically Christans (Shafqat, et al., 2021).

This housing story follows the journey of Maria (pseudonym), a 30-year-old woman and her family, residing in one of these colonies, colloquially known as France colony. My acquaintance with Maria began through her mother, who previously worked as an occasional domestic helper in our home before taking on a full-time role elsewhere. Maria frequently accompanied her mother, and due to our similar age, we developed a friendship over the course of her visits. Through the years, Maria’s stories unfolded like fragments of a larger narrative, offering glimpses of the intricate challenges woven into her everyday existence within the colony. Despite their ‘’some-what formal status’’, the residents of France colony continue to grapple with tenure insecurity, displacement, loss, and exclusionary urban governance, all to serve the interests of the elite (Samuel and Nisar, 2021; Rehman, 2015). Maria’s story offers an entry point to explore the broader narrative of beautification, urbanity, order, and illegality that are repeatedly used to further marginalise and displace the religious minorities residing in informal settlements, in favour of the interests of elite housing and real estate development (Aqeel 2016). The story also sheds light on how the inhabitants of these settlements have come to resist these inimical forces and create conditions for a more secure future.

Disorder within Order

Islamabad was founded upon the principles of ‘’Dynapolis- ‘’the city of the future’’ by Doxiadis (Imran and Maria, 2015; Hassan et. al, 2021). The city aimed to embody structure and administrative efficiency, in line with the tenets of modernist ideals (Imran and Maria, 2015; Hassan et. al, 2021). An essential aspect of this vision was the deliberate exclusion of the poor, reflecting a commitment to order and beautification, as well as preventing the formation of slums (Hassan et. al, 2021).

Nestled on the foot of the lush green Margalla hills, Islamabad is laid out over a meticulously planned grid, comprising tree-lined avenues and larger ‘signal-free’ urban highways. Lining the streets are spacious single-family detached houses and pocket parks frequented by middle-aged individuals leisurely strolling for their evening walks (Hassan et. al, 2021).

This setting initially evokes the idyllic suburban American dream, seemingly devoid of any hint of poverty (Hassan et al, 2021). However, in the very heart of the city, tucked away behind an affluent neighbourhood, is an altogether different reality. On the periphery of F/7, an elite sector, lies one of the 50 katchi abadis (a local word for slums, which loosely means unpaved settlement), known as “France colony’’ (Samuel and Nisar, 2021). Here, the meticulous order observed throughout Islamabad gives way to a densely chaotic landscape and irregularly constructed buildings, evoking the sense of entering an entirely different realm.

This densified growth is a response to urbanisation and unaddressed population pressures (Panday, 2020). Over recent decades, Pakistan has experienced a ‘’population bomb’’, making it the ‘fifth most populated’ country globally. This has been accompanied by the rapid urban influx of migrants in search of employment and improved living standards (Mansoor and Iram, 2023). Cities such as Islamabad, which are characterised by stringent, largely outdated regulations that prioritise single-family dwellings, have naturally been unable to cope with the increased housing demands of such rapid rural-urban migration (Hassan et. al, 2021). Consequently, the real estate market in the city has become exceedingly unattainable for low-income groups, leading to a rapid growth of katchi abadis throughout the city. (Mohsin, 2020; Hassan et. al, 2021).

Fig 1 | Original Masterplan of Islamabad 1960 (Imran and Maria, 2015).

Fig 2 | Revised Masterplan of Islamabad 1991 (Imran and Maria, 2015).

Fig 3 | Contextual mapping of France colony

Fig 4 | Aerial view of the France colony (Source: Islamabad City)

Home amidst adversity

Maria’s life and the life of her parents have been profoundly shaped by these developments. Maria was born in 1994, in France colony. Her parents had migrated from Sialkot, a nearby town, to Islamabad only a year after the regularisation of the katchi abadis under the Punjab Katchi Abadi Act in 1992 (Naqvi, 2023). This Act provided a legal framework to allow the formal lease of land as well as access to state services for the inhabitants of the colonies (Naqvi, 2023). Maria describes the conditions of the colony when her parents had moved here compared to now:

“When my parents came here, they had nothing. Both my parents have worked all their life, my father as a labourer and my mother as domestic help in the adjacent sector of F-7. We were a family of 4 and they built the house using mud and wood with the help of fellow residents of the colony. Over the years, the home has expanded as our needs grew, from a single room of 200 sqft to a 10 marla home (2525 sqft). It now has 3 rooms and is 3 storeys high. My parents and I live on one of the floors and my brothers and their families on the rest. The entire community is similarly close-knit.’’

Fig 5 | Maria’s home showing one of the additional floors added.

The contingent, stop-start growth of Maria’s house symbolises the growth of the colony itself, which has become increasingly dense since its inception. The colony is one of the many colonies that emerged through the demand for workers and labourers required to construct the inaugural planned capital city of Islamabad in the 1960’s, leading to a significant influx of mainly male Christian workers from various regions of the country (Aqeel, 2016). Gradually, the makeshift work camps became permanent homes and were soon inhabited by immediate families, wives, and children, followed by other relatives, leading to rapid expansion and densification of the settlement over time (Mansoor and Iram, 2023).

Fig 6 | Densification of France Colony Overtime (Shafqat et al., 2021)

Even though the colony is regularised, its densification has brought with it many challenges that cannot be seen in other more planned parts of the city. As Maria narrates:

“Even after it (home) was regularised, nothing (planning regulations and building codes) was ever implemented by the CDA, leading to a (haphazard) growth of the area as more people and relatives of families moved here in search of jobs. The land is still owned by CDA, but we have an official stamp paper that proves our right to ownership of this house. We have formal access to the more expensive amenities such as electricity and gas, but no access to services like sewage and cleaning. We handle all the waste disposal ourselves. There is no space for the colony to grow outwards, so all new building is happening on top of the nullahs (drainage canals). There is more dirt on the streets. Our neighbours (4 households), clean and sweep the street together and dispose of all trash but there is not much we can do about the sewage issue other than to dispose of it in the nullahs like the rest of the colony.’’

The absence of municipal sanitation and sewage services in the colony is not merely an oversight. Unlike utilities such as electricity and gas in Islamabad, residents are not charged for these services. However, the Capital Development Authority (CDA), which provides municipal services across the city, does not extend these services to the colony (Naqvi, 2023). This neglect results in the obstruction of drains and nullahs, which are interconnected with the broader city stormwater drainage network. Even though the katchi abadis were ‘regularised’ decades ago, the CDA makes no efforts to enforce building standards while new construction is taking place (Shafqat, et, al., 2023). It does, however, use the lack of adherence to these standards, particularly related to waste disposal and construction on the top of the nullahs (drainage canals), as a pretext to initiate demolition of the katchi abadis, which has brought several sets of challenges, like fear of displacement and loss for Maria and her family (Asad, 2015; Iqbal, 2015).

Islamabad’s officialdom prides itself on administrative efficiency (Hasan, et, al. 2021). Compared to other parts of the country, state intervention is notably more pronounced. The tendency towards ‘over regularisation’ has led to a dismantling of the colonies inhabited by Maria and others like her (Hasan, et, al. 2021). Back when these colonies were being established on government land in the 1960’s, the state didn’t exert any pressure on these neglected areas because the Christians living there provided labour and domestic services to the neighbouring sectors (Aqeel, 2016). However, as the population and land prices have increased, the state has hardened its stance and become increasingly preoccupied with clearing the land to make way for elite housing or commercial ventures (Haider, 2015).

In 2015, the Capital Development Authority (CDA) launched a four-phase demolition strategy for the informal settlements, with the ‘regularised’ France Colony slated for removal in the final phase (Asad, 2015). Presenting the demolition proposal to the Islamabad High Court (IHC), the CDA contended that residents of these settlements had ‘’ruined the landscape of the capital’’ and ‘’occupied posh land’’ and that the ‘’pace of occupation of land by the Christan community” could threaten the capital’s Muslim majority (Aqeel, 2016).

However, this was not the first time the inhabitants of France colony had lived under the threat of displacement. Maria and her neighbours are the descendants of Christians expelled from their villages at the time of the Partition of (colonial) India in 1947 (Aqeel, 2016). Before Partition, the Christian community worked for Sikh landlords who provided them with wages and shelter (Aqeel, 2016). Following Partition, the land abandoned by Sikhs was allocated to Muslim immigrants who had fled different parts of colonial India to make a home in the newly created state of Pakistan (Aqeel, 2016). To make way for this influx, thousands of Christians were driven out by force from their villages. This included the forebears of the communities now residing in Islamabad’s colonies (Aqeel, 2016). Hence, the fear of displacement has loomed over this marginalised community for generations, first under the pretext of religious nationalism and nation-state development, and now in the interest of commercial and residential real estate developers. Maria hesitantly quotes an attack in 2013 on a majority Chistian settlement, the Joseph colony, another settlement like her own that was burned down by an extremist mob in Lahore, Pakistan’s second largest city and a few hours’ drive away from Islamabad. This assault led to several casualties and displacement of hundreds of Christian families, who were forced to take up residence in other informal colonies across the country (Rehman, 2013). The Supreme Court of Pakistan later found that while the mob had ostensibly been gathered in response to an alleged case of blasphemy within the Christian community, the assault and arson was primarily motivated by local real estate development interests that wanted to occupy the land for commercial use without having to pay for it (Raja, 2013; Aqeel, 2016).

“That really shook us. We had so many relatives living in that colony. Thankfully none of them (Maria’s relatives) got injured but not everyone was that lucky. They lost everything and came to stay with us for a few months, after that they moved to a village with their other relatives. We fear the same happening to our colony. If something happens to our home, where will we go?” 

Holding on

While the fear of displacement and communal loss has been woven into the fabric of this community since the country’s inception, the community’s response to these circumstances however has evolved considerably. Although Maria’s forefathers may not have been educated, the advent of globalisation, technological advancements, and increased educational opportunities for some members of the community have enabled them to assert their rights and find new ways of resistance. As Maria explains:

‘’My grandfather didn’t know what his rights were. Neither did my parents. But I have been lucky to get an education. I can read and write and that is my power. Not many in this community are educated, but the ones that are help and educate others on important issues like this (Right to living). We know we have rights, we can read documents, approach organisations and NGOs and stand for ourselves and that is why it is different this time. We have lived here for over 30 years; and we know we have a right to be in our home.’’

These modes of resistance came into play when CDA initiated the first phase of its planned demolitions across Islamabad colonies in 2015. With the help of Awami Worker’s Party (AWP), a left-wing political party, the inhabitants of different colonies across Islamabad began a rapid program of community mobilisation and political organising (AWP official website). Unlike resistance movements launched by the community in the past, which often devolved into violence and gave the state the pretext to retaliate with a heavy hand, this new movement made use of “the right to life and shelter’’ under the Article 9 of the Constitution of Pakistan (Malik, 2105; Aqeel, 2016). When a nearby colony to Maria’s was razed to the ground, the community approached the Supreme Court, which stayed the CDA’s plans of evictions and labelled them as ‘’forcible’’. The Chief Justice of Pakistan found the CDA’s actions to be discriminatory, relying on its past record of granting exemptions to unplanned luxury farmhouse developments for the elite. As Maria relates:

“This was groundbreaking for us. My community is generally scared to go to the court as they have been traumatised by government officials and think everyone is the same. However, they have now seen the impact of resistance as an organised community. We could not save the homes of the (nearby) colony but at least we now have the support of law to help save ours.”

When asked about her living situation now, Maria responds:

Thankfully, there has been no major escalation recently from them (CDA). We as a community are now better informed of our rights and the actions that need to be taken if things escalate further. For now, we still struggle with municipal services being provided and the lack of safety, considering the arson attacks on Christian communities in the country. However, we have learnt to live with that and take care of it ourselves through resident committees. Around the time of the evictions, I had bought a wall hanging and for the longest time did not put it up for fear of losing our home. It’s been a few years since I hung it on our front door, and it makes me so happy every time I see it. I look at it and I know I’m home.”

The story of Maria provides an insight into the wider issue of exclusionary government policies, which have long favoured the elite, but also provides a glimpse into the changing modes of resistance adopted by those excluded by these policies. Slums are seen as a blight on the city’s infrastructure but the reality in Islamabad is that these colonies have in fact been instrumental in building and maintaining the city’s infrastructure and serving its growing needs. Maria’s story also shows how communal politics are implicated within an exclusionary urban governance, which has targeted religious minorities since the inception of the country, first on the pretext of religious nationalism and now to serve elite real estate development interests. For generations, the Christian community of Pakistan has suffered displacement to make way for private real-estate schemes and this displacement is almost always facilitated by the government. The story of Maria and her family’s struggle provides an insight into the strategies of resistance and political organisation that communities have evolved against their marginalisation, which have enabled them to assert their ‘right to belong’ in an unwelcoming urban space (Mansoor and Iram, 2023).

References

• Ali, M. F. (2013, March 9). 125 Christian houses burnt over blasphemy. DAWN. Available at: https://www.dawn.com/news/791491/125-christian-houses-burnt-over-blasphemy
• Ali, S. (2012). A visit to the slum areas of Islamabad. Available at: https://sairaalikhan. wordpress.com/2012/08/06/a-visit-to-the-slum-areas-of-islamabad/
• Aqeel, A. (2016). State of displacement. The Friday Times. Available at: https://thefridaytimes. com/01-Jan-2016/state-of-displacement
• Asad, M. (2015). Plan to remove illegal slums submitted to IHC. DAWN. Available at: https:// www.dawn.com/news/1190765
• Awami workers party campaign. Official website. Available at: https://awamiworkersparty. org/about-awp/
• BACA NEWS. (2022). Slum-Pak-Christians descale Christmas after demolition of homes from bigoted authorities renders them into abject poverty. Available at: https://www. britishasianchristians.org/baca-news/20425/
• Ghani, F. (2015). Islamabad’s Christian slums face demolition. Al Jazeera. Available at: https:// www.aljazeera.com/news/2015/12/14/islamabads-christian-slums-face-demolition
• Gillani, W. (2015). When the state turns tyrant. The News on Sunday. Available at: https:// www.thenews.com.pk/tns/detail/560005-state-turns-tyrant-katchi-abadi-islamabad
• Haider, I. (2015). Slum-dwellers clash with authorities over Islamabad anti-encroachment drive. DAWN. Available at: Slum-dwellers clash with authorities over Islamabad anti-encroachment drive – Pakistan – DAWN.COM
• Hasan, L, et al. (2021) Slums, Sprawl and Contemporary Islamabad – A Doxiadis’ Mess (June 12, 2021). Available at SSRN: https://ssrn.com/abstract=3885118 or http://dx.doi.org/10.2139/ ssrn.3885118
• Imran, M. and Maria, I. S. (2015). PLANNING OF ISLAMABAD AND RAWALPINDI: WHAT WENT
• WRONG?. Available at: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/268357503_PLANNING_ OF_ISLAMABAD_AND_RAWALPINDI_WHAT_WENT_WRONG
• Iqbal, N. (2015). 38 illegal slums in capital to be razed. DAWN. Available at: https://www. dawn.com/news/1203778
• Malik, H. (2015). Relief for the poor: Supreme Court asks govt to stop bulldozing of katchi abadis. Tribune. Available at: https://tribune.com.pk/story/945374/relief-for-the-poor- supreme-court-asks-govt-to-stop-bulldozing-of-katchi-abadis
• Mansoor, H., & Iram, A. (2023). An Empirical Analysis of Well-being: A Case Study of Slum Area in Islamabad. IRASD Journal of Economics, 5(1), 760–776. Available at: https://doi. org/10.52131/joe.2023.0501.0114
• Mohsin, M. (2020). Pakistan Institute of Development and Economics. PIDE. Available at: https://pide.org.pk/blog/islamabad-a-city-for-the-rich/
• Naqvi, I. (2023). POWER AND ITS DISCONTENTS. DAWN. Available at: https://www.dawn.com/ news/1799784/power-and-its-discontents
• Panday, P.K. (2020). Urbanization and Urban Poverty in Bangladesh. In: The Face of Urbanization and Urban Poverty in Bangladesh. Palgrave Macmillan, Singapore. Available at: https://doi. org/10.1007/978-981-15-3332-7_3
• Raja, M. (2013). Joseph Colony Case: SC suspects land occupation as motive for arson. Tribune news. Available at: https://tribune.com.pk/story/519502/joseph-colony-case-sc-suspects- land-occupation-as-motive-for-arson
• Rehman, S. (2013). Joseph Colony: Attacked and Unprotected. The Diplomat. Available at: https://thediplomat.com/2013/04/joseph-colony-christian-community-in-lahore-attacked- and-unprotected/
• Rehman, S. (2015). Govt decides to legalize 10 slums of federal capital. Business recorder. Available at: https://www.brecorder.com/news/amp/245573
• Samuel, P., & Nisar, M. S. (2021). Stuck in Slums: A Case Study of Slums in Islamabad, Pakistan. European Scientific Journal, ESJ, 17(2), 56. Available at: https://doi.org/10.19044/esj.2021. v17n2p56
• Samuel P. & Nisar S.M. (2021). Stuck in Slums: A Case Study of Slums in Islamabad, Pakistan. European Scientific Journal, ESJ, 17(2), 56. Available at: https://doi.org/10.19044/esj.2021. v17n2p56
• Shafqat, R et al. (2021). Placemaking in Informal Settlements: The Case of France Colony, Islamabad, Pakistan. Urban Sci. 2021, 5, 49. Available at: https://doi.org/10.3390/ urbansci5020049
• Sheikh, F. (2018). A France we must visit. The Friday Times. Available at: https://thefridaytimes. com/15-Jun-2018/a-france-we-must-visit
• Yasif, R. (2023).Christian community moves LHC against police pressure to reach compromise. Tribune. Available at: https://tribune.com.pk/story/2432505/christian-community-moves- lhc-against-police-pressure-to-reach-compromise
• Zafar, Z., Waheed, A., & Javaid, B. (2019). Addressing the Affordable Housing Challenges for Urban Poor in Pakistan. Global Social Sciences Review, IV, 416-433. doi:10.31703/gssr.2019(IV- IV).53. Available at: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/349146772_Addressing_the_ Affordable_Housing_Challenges_for_Urban_Poor_in_Pakistan

Blue right, Red left? My Grandmother’s House history in the Red Neighborhood of Medellín

By Dana Sousa-Limbu, on 2 August 2024

By Esteban Llano Piedrahita

(…) ¿El campo?… Lo que hay allá es monte bravo 

 aquí es bosquecito preso. Como un hombre en La Ladera,  

pero si el camino se hace calle y la calle pueblo y el pueblo ciudá, 

 ¿Quién retrocede?” 

(…) The countryside?… What lies there is untamed brush  

What we have here is a small captive forest. Like a man in the hillside,  

But, if the path evolves into a street and the street into a town, and the town into a city,  

who turns back? 

(Manuel Mejia Vallejo, 1973) 

Introduction

Colombian cities have been shaped by nearly 80 years of internal conflict, marked by strong waves of terror that have forced the displacement of millions of people. Just during the period known as “The violence,” which spanned from 1946 to 1966, more than two million individuals in Colombia were compelled to abandon their homes, the vast majority of them settling in urban peripheries to start a new life (Chacón, Sánchez, 2003). This phenomenon is not only part of Colombia’s history but also of my own family. My grandmother, Aurora, fled the countryside with her eight children and found refuge in the red neighborhood of Medellín in the year 1963. 

But what exactly does the term “red” refer to? For 150 years, until the year 2002, Colombia was under the dominance of two political parties, in fact, the two oldest in Latin America. On one side, the Conservative Party, identified with the colour blue, and on the other, the Liberal Party, associated with the colour red. Initially, the Conservative Party had the backing of large landowners, slaveholders, and the clergy, while the Liberal Party represented the oppressed, such as peasants, indigenous peoples, and minorities. 

Over time, shifting political landscapes and pivotal historical events gradually obscured the founding principles of these two parties, leading to conflicts that deeply scarred the nation. This essay aims to unravel how the enduring feud between these parties significantly contributed to the widespread phenomenon of internal displacement in Colombia, and in turn, how this mass movement of people fundamentally reshaped the demographic, urban, and social fabric of Colombian cities. Anchoring this exploration is the story of my grandmother’s home, situated in the historically ‘red’ neighbourhood on the northeastern hillside of Medellín.

Figure 01. Current Urban Landscape: Mapping Medellín’s Plan and Sections. Author (2024) 

Figure 02.  Manrique neighborhood in 1920. Benjamín de la Calle. Pilot Public Library In Medellín. (1920) 

Origins of the Red Neighborhood of Medellín

 By 1937, an extensive estate known as “La Favorita” graced the highest part of the northeastern hillside of Medellín. After the death of its owner, Mr. Tomás Muñoz, his heirs decided to illegally subdivide the land, a practice that had become increasingly common in the city’s northern parts over the previous two decades. The Cocks family, through their property development company “Cock and Sons,” were prominent practitioners of this approach, acquiring and then illicitly subdividing large tracts of land on both the eastern and western slopes of the city. Their operations involved laying out lots, creating paths, and, in a unique move by Cock and Sons, offering long-term financing for these newly divided plots at favourable prices. This strategy attracted the working class, including both seasoned urban dwellers and fresh arrivals from the countryside, blending urban and rural settlers into the northeastern communes of Medellín. This mix started to define the area as a liberal, or “red,” stronghold. East Manrique, the neighbourhood that developed on the lands of the La Favorita estate, stood out as a symbol of this “red” identity, thanks in part to the significant influence of Liberal Party members who were instrumental in its development.
 

In the early 1940s, community leaders like Ramón Rivera, Abel Hoyos, Pepe Serna, Carlos Oporto, Luis Pineda, Aníbal Carvajal, Aníbal Vélez, Ramón Hoyos, and Fernando Gómez founded the community civic center. From this base, they committed to building homes for incoming families and led the creation of schools, a church, and the establishment of utilities and public spaces over the following decades. Their efforts cemented East Manrique’s reputation as a “red” neighborhood, nurturing a strong sense of community and belonging among its residents. 

Figure 03. Local Liberal committee of East Manrique in the 1970s. Ramón Rivera in the middle, wearing a red shirt and red beret. Rivera Family and Juan Camilo Castañeda. (1970s) 

The Period of “La Violencia” (The Violence)

During the period from 1946 to 1966, Colombia was the stage of a severe internal conflict known as “La Violencia” (The Violence). During this conflict, it is estimated that more than 190,000 Colombians lost their lives and another two million were displaced from their lands, leading to an unprecedented exodus from rural areas to the cities in the country. The origin of this conflict stemmed from the differences between the “azules” (blues) and “rojos” (reds), which is equivalent to conservatives and liberals, respectively. Furthermore, this conflict intensified in 1948 with the assassination of the left-wing presidential candidate, Jorge Eliécer Gaitán, whom the “reds” perceived as the leader of the people and a liberating promise for the oppressed. Thus, the violence, particularly the assassination of Gaitán, paved the way for the emergence of guerrilla groups in the country (Chacón, Sánchez, 2003). It is worth noting then that, from the time of the violence, being “red” not only associated with sympathising with the “left”, but also with being a militant against the law; which made the red neighbourhood of Medellín a military target. According to Juan Camilo Castañeda in interviews with residents of East Manrique, they recall how during the time of the violence, conservatives would come to the neighbourhood with the intention of attacking liberals, prompting the neighbors to respond with sticks, stones, and if necessary, shotguns (Jesús, Lucía, 2018). Finally, The Violence period established East Manrique as the red neighbourhood of Medellín. After Gaitán’s death, the main square of the neighborhood was named as “Red Square– Jorge Eliécer Gaitán”, a name it still retains to this day. 

Aurora flees with her children

Aurora, my grandmother, was born in the 1920s in a small town located three hours far from Medellín. Although of peasant origin, but from a conservative family, she developed a clear inclination towards the Liberal Party from a very young age. This tendency was significant in her life, as at the age of eleven she was married to one of the police officers in the town, a man sixteen years older than her and a fervent militant of the conservative party. This marriage was heavily marked by deep differences, but above all by abuse and violence, due to the husband’s authoritarianism and prohibitions towards his wife and children. Amparo, one of the younger daughters of the marriage, recounts in an interview that her mother gave birth to more than fifteen children, of which only eight survived to adulthood. 

When Aurora’s eldest sons reached adulthood, they persuaded their mother to leave their father, who at that time served as the mayor of the town (Amparo, 2024). This decision led Aurora and her eight children to embark on the journey to Medellín amidst the violence of the year 1963. Thus, they joined the flow of more than two million people who, during the turbulent period from 1946 to 1966, migrated from the countryside to the city in search of refuge and new opportunities (Chacón, Sánchez, 2003). It is crucial to emphasise that, although the year 1966 is recognised as the end of the Violence period, over time new disputes and conflicts emerged, both political and civil, triggering persistent rural migration to urban areas. This migratory process significantly altered the demographic composition of Colombia: while in 1938 only 31% of the Colombian population lived in urban areas, by the year 1993, this percentage had increased to 68%, leaving an indelible mark on the territorial configuration of the country and exerting a notable influence on the development of Colombian urban areas (Sánchez Steiner, 2008). 

Aurora and her children settle in the red neighbourhood

Aurora’s choice to settle in the red neighbourhood was not random. Close friends who had already moved to this area provided her with refuge and support during her transition. Additionally, as a sympathiser of liberal ideals, Aurora trusted that the local liberal committee would provide her with a crucial support network to safeguard herself from the conservative influence of her ex-husband. In this new environment, Aurora saw the opportunity to start anew, and with her savings, she bought a plot of land on the 30th street, which at that time marked the limit of urbanisation on the hillside. “Now the neighbourhood extends almost to the top of the mountain,” says Amparo Piedrahíta, who also remembers that, during the construction of her home on the land her mother acquired, not only all the family members participated but also several neighbours from the area, including some leaders of the local liberal committee. She reveals that the original house was quite simple, consisting only of a large living room, a single bedroom, kitchen, and a bathroom, spaces that she, her seven siblings, and her mother had to share. Additionally, she said that the plot already had basic services such as potable water, electricity, and sewerage, as it was in a “planned” area of the neighbourhood; a situation that, although illegal in the eyes of the municipality, was accepted and managed by the neighbours and the liberal board from the beginning of the neighbourhood. Amparo concludes by recalling that, despite the challenges, they lived a full life for a long period. Her family managed to maintain a serene existence even in moments of tension in the neighbourhood, demonstrating the resilience and community spirit that characterised them. 

 “One lived happily there. Of course, there was always tension because from time to time they tried to attack a leader or killed a neighbor. There was always tension, but one lived peacefully most of the time. Despite everything, there was a lot of community feeling and that was very satisfying. One felt protected,” argues Amparo. 

Figure 04. Aurora’s house in 1965, drawn by Amparo.  Amparo. (2024) 

The emergence of urban militias and paramilitary groups

Figure 05. People’s militias of the town and for the town. El Colombiano Newspaper. (1991) 

By the early 1980s, Aurora’s house had changed significantly. Six of her eight children had left to start their own households, and the house now had new occupants. Besides Aurora, two of her daughters, one son-in-law, and some of her grandchildren lived there. Due to this new family setup, a second level was built, and both houses had better finishes. The house was better than ever, but the neighbourhood was going through its worst moment, and things seemed to be worsening. 

The period following The Violence period in Colombia was characterised by being a critical moment when insurgent guerrillas gained strength, especially in rural areas. In cities, the story was different due to a greater presence of the state, which made guerrillas easy targets. Consequently, the guerrillas limited their presence in cities to sporadic and highly strategic incursions. However, simultaneously, in the neighbourhoods of the hillsides of Medellín, the “reds” began to collaborate with civil defence. This joint effort aimed to acquire training in combat tactics and strategies directly from police commands to safeguard their communities from potential attacks by the “blues” (Márquez, 1986). According to authors like Gilberto Medina Franco in his book “A History of the Militias of Medellín,” arguing that the country’s guerrillas founded the urban militias would be a mistake, but he states in his own words that these militias “were born from the same trunk as the guerrillas and fed on their own sap.” The discourse of the militias originated from the guerrillas established previously in the country and emerged in response to the violence from various criminal bands, but especially from the paramilitary action that was decimating the red neighbourhoods of Medellín; accused of being hiding places for guerrillas (Medina, 2006). 

On the other hand, paramilitary action began years ago in response to the excesses of the guerrillas, explains Edgar de Jesús Velasquez in his publication “History of Paramilitarism in Colombia.” Additionally, he states that the paramilitaries favoured, as a method of struggle, massacres, selective assassinations, and displacements of the civilian population, accused of being sympathisers or collaborators of the guerrillas. All of this was orchestrated by the military, prominent representatives of the right-wing, and to a large extent, sympathisers of the conservative party.  

Figure 06. Before and after the old 30th street in 1983. Note the unpaved road. Author. (2024) 

Figure 07. Amparo and my sister Adriana walking along the old 30th street in 1983. Amparo Piedrahíta. (1983) 

The Old and the New 30th Street

As mentioned before, Aurora’s house was located on 30th Street; which was the last road on the hillside; which bordered to the east with the mountain, and to the south with La Honda creek. However, by the early 90s, the dizzying growth of the neighborhood had paved the way for new roads and with this, new homes appeared both on the mountain and on the other side of the creek. 

Figure 08. Diagram of the Old and New 30 with the Context of the Creek. Author. (2024) 

Precisely, La Quebrada was always the geographical limit of the neighbourhood towards the south side, comments Amparo, who in turn points out that it was this creek that became the barrier between the new and old 30th Street, roads that, due to the conflicts, did not even come to physically unite. And she also says: 

“The problem lay in the fact that our neighbourhood was always red territory. Liberal. And when the other side of the creek began to be populated, gangs that had allied with the army formed there… On that side was the military base. This made the two territories hate each other to death because the old 30 was considered a militia zone. I don’t remember exactly how many people were killed from one side or the other, but we lived years of real terror. Everything was blood and fear. We saw many people die.” 

According to Gilberto Medina Franco, by the late 80s and early 90s in Medellín what there was a strange mix of political elements, but also of rampant violence. The drug cartels had a lot of power and corrupted everything. It was not surprising that ideals changed, or that those organisations that had arisen to protect the neighbours, now were their executioners. Regardless of the side, drug trafficking, extortion, forced displacement, and homicides prevailed. The ideals were different. 

Finally, Amparo recounts that her family, and she, in particular, received threats on several occasions: 

“Because of my job, I had to get up very early in the morning, but before leaving, I had to prepare my children’s meals. One day, the gang from the new 30 came to accuse me of hiding militiamen in my house in the early morning… That was a first warning. Subsequently, the militiamen pointed me out for having conversations with those from the other neighborhood… There came a point where everything you did there represented a death sentence. It was very hard for me to let go of the little house. After all, it was all we had, but that neighborhood was not the environment in which I wanted to raise my children. One day in 1993, I closed my eyes, took Aurora and my two children, and went far from there… the house was sold at a very low price. Months later, I was told that a grenade fell on the second level of the house and the damages were great, fortunately, no one died on that occasion.” 

Figure 09. The author of this text at Aurora’s house in 1991 when the facade was still red. Author (2024) 

Figure 10. Paradoxically, the facade is no longer red but has changed to a cyan-type blue. Captured by the author via Google Street View. (2024) 

Conclusion

The narrative surrounding Aurora’s house sheds light on the complex interplay between personal and political dynamics, and how these influence housing decisions and outcomes, as well as urban design. It is crucial to understand that the urbanisation of the northern slopes of Medellín was driven by opportunistic families who, in the absence of regulations, chose to parcel out and illegally market large expanses of land. This phenomenon invites reflection on the role of the State in the development of these unregulated urbanisations and why there was a demand that encouraged such families to develop and finance these projects. This reality highlights the persistent inability of the Colombian government to provide adequate housing, turning irregular urbanisations into a business opportunity for some and a pathway to housing for others. 

Furthermore, the story of Aurora’s house allows us to understand that the Colombian government has not only failed to provide comprehensive housing solutions but that its politicians have contributed to deteriorating, and in many cases worsening, the conditions of community-managed housing. The historical and deep division between liberals and conservatives triggered a period of violence, followed by waves of conflicts that have forced the displacement of millions, forcing them to leave their homes both in rural and urban areas and to seek new places to live, significantly reshaping the urban realm. 

Lastly, the story of Aurora’s house highlights the value of community participation and how it contributes to the legitimisation and improvement of the “illegal” neighbourhoods that emerged on the northern slopes of Medellín. However, it also reflects the harsh reality of aligning with a political ideology as a community leader in a country that, to this day, continues the systematic practice of assassinating its social leaders. This story not only evidences the urban and housing challenges in Medellín but also bears witness to the ceaseless struggle for social justice, security, and the right to a dignified home in contexts of political and social violence. 

Acknowledgements

To my women. My grandmother, my mother, and my sister. Thank you for your effort 

References 

Alcaldía de Medellín & Universo Centro. (2015). El libro de los barrios: Medellín. Alcaldía de Medellín; Universo Centro. ISBN 978-958-8888-52-1. 

Amparo, my mother. 

Castañeda, J. C. (2018, 9 de abril). El Parque Gaitán: la huella de un pasado rojo en Manrique Oriental. Recuperado de https://hacemosmemoria.org/2018/04/09/parque-gaitan-la-huella-de-un-pasado-rojo-en-manrique-oriental 

Chacón, M., & Sánchez, F. (2003). Polarización política y violencia durante “La Violencia”; 1946-1963. Universidad de Los Andes. 

Coupé de Restrepo, F. (1993). Las urbanizaciones piratas en Medellín: el caso de la familia Cock. Universidad Nacional de Colombia. 

Gómez Rosa, F. (n.d.). Los grupos paramilitares en Colombia. Universidad Complutense de Madrid. 

Márquez, W. (1986). Historia del barrio Santa Cruz. Citado en Rasgando velos. Universidad de Antioquia, 1993. 

Medina Franco, G. (2006). Una historia de las milicias de Medellín. Instituto Popular de Capacitación IPC. Recuperado de http://bibliotecavirtual.clacso.org.ar/Colombia/ipc/20121207043123/historiamilicias.pdf 

Roll, D. (2002). Los partidos tradicionales en Colombia: entre el debilitamiento y la persistencia. Universidad Nacional de Colombia, Facultad de Derecho, Ciencias Políticas y Sociales. 

Sánchez Steiner, L. M. (2008). Éxodos rurales y urbanización en Colombia: Perspectiva histórica y aproximaciones teóricas. Universidad Nacional de Colombia, 57-72. 

Velásquez Rivera, E. de J. (2007). Historia del paramilitarismo en Colombia. História, 26(1), 134-153. 

The UK-Rwanda deal: a cruel experiment in inhospitality

By Sarah Flynn, on 27 June 2024

By Dr Harriet Allsopp

On 23 April 2024, the Safety of Rwanda (Asylum and Immigration) Act was passed. By writing into law that the Republic of Rwanda was a safe third country, it gave legal provisions for the deportation to the African state of people seeking asylum in the UK. The Act and the UK-Rwanda treaty that it supports have taken the UK’s “hostile environment” policy a dangerous step further than other deals that offshore asylum processing. By transferring both asylum claims and refuge, even successful asylum seekers will not return to the UK where they sought asylum but will only be eligible to stay as refugees in Rwanda.

It is, in effect, “the wholesale transfer of the UK’s asylum responsibility to another country”. With several substantial legal challenges and new evidence stacked up in the courts and a general election on the horizon, the agreement may never come into effect. Nevertheless, it sets a precedent for future deterrence agreements across Europe to eschew legal responsibilities to protect and to reinforce colonial logics of bordering and hierarchies of worth and vulnerability.

An increasingly hostile environment

Legal routes for entry to the UK for the world’s most precarious, at risk and vulnerable people, and avenues to apply for asylum have steadily been narrowed and reduced, most recently by the controversial Nationality and Borders Act 2022 and the Illegal Immigration Act of 2023.

Together the acts criminalise asylum seekers arriving via “irregular” routes (such as small boat), disqualify them from being eligible to apply for protection on the UK, and create the provisions for them to be removed to third countries for asylum processing. With most countries of origin deemed unsafe for repatriation, the majority are stranded in permanent limbo within the UK, having had their asylum claims declared permanently inadmissible, but not removed (Refugee Council).

Research on offshore processing suggests that removals to Rwanda will have detrimental effects on mental and public health (Parker and Cornell 2024; Chaloner et al. 2022; Smith et al. 2023; Boeyink 2023). Already traumatised people are criminalised, detained and dehumanised. They are rendered, in the words of Mbembe, discounted bodies – bodies at the limits of life. For asylum seekers in the UK, the spectre of the Act has already forced thousands of people, most having fled conflict, persecution and climate change and having experience multiple traumas enroute to the UK into situations of extreme precarity and vulnerability.

A week after the Safety of Rwanda Act passed into law, the Home Office confirmed that, under “Operation Vector”, people whose asylum claims had been refused were being detained, through raids on homes and hotel accommodation across the UK, and when reporting in. Scores were handcuffed and transported in police vans, leaving any worldly possessions behind, and held in detention centres awaiting enforced deportation. After the government conceded that no flights would depart before the General Election in July, dozens were released on bail, but remained subject to future removal. Thousands of others, already on the limits, debilitated and deprived of protection, were reported to be unlocatable.

Although the Rwanda Act limits what kind of legal challenges can be presented to the courts, they have already appeared from diverse directions: from senior civil servants on the grounds that implementing it will force them to act illegally, to ignore interim ruling of the European Court of Human Rights, producing an unlawful conflict of interest, to charities supporting and safeguard asylum seekers. Meanwhile, UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, Volker Türk, called on the UK Government to reconsider the bill because it “erodes” legal frameworks for protection. Indeed the “bill poses the most serious of challenges to the role of the courts, human rights protection under the European Convention on Human Rights (ECTH), the separation of powers and the rule of law” (Birkinshaw 2024).

The view from Rwanda and the wider context

The UK is said to have juggled with several possibilities for the deal: Iraq, Ascension Island in the South Atlantic Ocean, Albania and Ghana, as well as Gibraltar and the Isle of Wight. In April, The Times and the The Daily Mail reported that leaked FCO documents suggested the government had shortlisted several other countries for future deals: Armenia, Ivory Coast, Costa Rica and Botswana, Eritrea and Ethiopia. Aside from Rwanda, however, no third country had agreed to accept asylum seekers from the UK in large numbers. The UK-Rwanda Migration and Economic Development Partnership of 2022 was born.

One of the most densely populated countries in Africa, Rwanda has high unemployment, is the most unequal country in the East Africa region and, in 2021 had 48.8 percent of the population described as multidimensionally poor. Affordable housing is in short supply, and 60 percent of the population lives in informal settlements. Rwanda is still rebuilding following the genocide of 1994 and is focused on economic development and global positioning. It already hosts a large number of refugees, (the majority from Barundi, Congo, and those removed by the UN from Libya since 2019,) accommodated in six open camps across the country, and it is said to have a progressive stance towards refugees . By its neighbours and by Rwandan opposition figures, however, the government is accused of complicity in M23 military incursions in Eastern Congo. They condemn the deal with the UK, arguing that it endorses the suppression and persecution of dissent and fuels the conflict that has already resulted in thousands of deaths and caused millions to be displaced.

The Rwanda Bill follows a wealth of UK and EU legislation and international agreements, exploiting emergency rhetoric that accompanied the 2015 “migration crisis”. All externalise asylum commitments, migrant presence, processing and containment, blocking and interrupting the passage of racialised migrants at the borders of Europe or further afield. All are tied to economic incentive. Payments to cover asylum processing and operational costs within the Rwanda deal are complimented by an economic development package (the Economic Transformation and Integration Fund, ETIF), designed to support economic growth in Rwanda – a country attempting to redefine itself from a “failed state” into “the ‘Singapore’ of Africa”.

Such migration agreements have become a new territory for international agreements, offering financial and political incentive tied to migrant management and thwarting mobility and granting European states further influence over former, or new, colonies. It is a new international development agenda in which economic power has emerged as a “shield against new arrivals” (Morano-Foadi and Malena 2023).

An enactment of necropolitics

The UK’s Safety of Rwanda Act and Immigration and Borders Act have been described as an “enactment of exclusive colonial b/ordering regime” creating differentiated bodies at the limits of life (Phipps and Yohannes 2022). They are part of broader attempts of western countries to strengthen, close and externalise their borders, and to control the movement of people – a redefinition of territorial boundaries (Morano-Foadi and Malena 2023).Through such bordering, migration and migrant bodies become spaces of exception, of extra legality, outside the realms of protection (Phipps and Yohannes 2022). The detention and forced transfer of asylum seekers from the UK, from the borders of Europe to Africa, to remote locations, a perverse reenactment of human trafficking that, paradoxically, sits at the centre of justification for these brutal border regimes and agreements with countries along migration routes, and justified through colonial logics.

Detaining and containing, criminalising and invisibilising people on the move in isolated mass accommodation, offshore on barges, in detention on the borders of Europe and forcibly transferred beyond them to countries such as Rwanda are acts of racial differentiation and colonial violence, with echoes of colonial population transfers and the slave trade. Devalued, deviant migrants become “cheapened, super exploited and disposable” labour (Rajaram 2024; Mezzadra 2011). As Gurminder Bhambra and Laura Basu remind us, the borders erected by through “decolonisation” and claiming sovereignty, “were actually acts of re-colonisation, blocking those who built Europe from accessing its wealth”. Today, the Rwanda deal, along with other acts of enforcing the borders of Europe, and offshoring asylum, should also be understood as acts of re-colonisation, or continuing coloniality. The transfer of asylum seekers, the wholesale outsourcing of asylum and refuge, is a contemporary colonial practice of moving people against their will, in order to further the goals of wealthier nations.

Feeding on emergency and crisis rhetoric, the threat of “criminal hoards breaking in” to western states but drawing on colonial legacies and continuing colonial practices and knowledge, these migration policies are imbued with racialised hierarchies that normalise the removal of rights from black and brown bodies. It is ultimately a “politics of non-lethal violence: the strategic and attenuated delivery of injury, maiming, and incapacitation that shapes contemporary borders” (Davies et al. 2024:1; Paur 2017).

The crisis narrative, whether focused on the numbers involved, the challenge of housing, the risk of journeys, the people smugglers, frames migration as an exceptional managerial problem that can be addressed through criminalisation, expulsion and the expansion of securitised detention. This aggressive inhospitality, epitomised by the Rwanda Act, undermines human rights, prevents migrants’ access to life sustaining infrastructures, inflicts slow violence (Nixon 2011), debilitation (Puar 2017) and ultimately slow death (Berlant 2007). It calls upon a thinly veiled cruel colonial logic that differentiates between lives worth protecting and saving, and others that are not. The Rwanda Act manifests a “necropolitical experimentation” in “uninhabitability and inhospitality” (Phipps and Yohannes 2022), that removes refuge itself from UK soil and is designed to render migrants continually displaceable yet immobile, precarious and disposable, debilitated and “let die” offshore, beyond the fringes of Europe.

Dr Harriet Allsopp is Research Fellow on the AHRC-funded project “Reframing infrastructures of arrival: Transnational perspectives, governance and policy” (link). The 3-year project aims to reframe the paradigm of forced migrants’ arrival as a policy framework and discursive realm. Taking the idea of unfolding crisis as background, the project will develop around different research strands. It investigates how refugees’ action and agency are shaped by and shape the infrastructure of arrival in different locations across UK, Italy, Turkey and Germany. It will examine specific housing choices and dwelling strategies that occur under conditions of constraint within the humanitarian systems of care. It will try to understand how different spaces of refusal or acceptance, care and repair, can be opened up to go beyond binary approaches of power/resistance, or humanitarian myths of self-reliance and resilience.

Healthy cities aren’t a question of boring or exciting buildings but about creating better public space

By Sarah Flynn, on 6 February 2024

Originally published in The Conversation by Haim Yacobi, Professor of Development Planning and Programme Leader of the MSc Health in Urban Development.

Interstate 5 near downtown San Diego, US. Abraham Barrera | Unsplash

The US developers of a 300ft glowing orb, set to be built in the middle of Stratford, east London, and accommodate upwards of 21,500 concert goers, have withdrawn their planning application.

Las Vegas, in the US, already boasts one such venue, known as Sphere. Citing its “extreme” disappointment at London residents not similarly benefiting from what a spokesperson said was its “groundbreaking technology and the thousands of well-paying jobs it would have created”, Madison Square Garden Entertainment (MSG) has decided the British capital is not one of the forward-thinking cities it aims to work with.

Campaigners have responded with glee, not least because, in response to concerns over the proposed structure’s potential noise and light pollution, developers had initially suggested they invest in blackout curtains. “Residents would be served far better by building social housing on the site,” a representative for Stop MSG Sphere London reportedly said.

Quite how a city both caters to its residents’ needs and sustains its economy is an enduring debate. The tension is between innovation aimed at boosting investment (in this instance, in the entertainment industry) and what urban geographer Colin McFarlne terms the “right to citylife”.

Projects like the Sphere sit on one extreme end of what gets built in a city. The British designer Thomas Heatherwick recently highlighted what he sees as another extreme, though no less harmful: “boring buildings”.

In his new book, Humanise – a Maker’s Guide to Building Our world, Heatherwick says “bland architecture” causes stress, illness, loneliness, fear, division and conflict. Research shows, however, that more than individual buildings, how the city is planned as a whole variously harms or improves people’s lives.

The city as a complex system

The physical and social environment of any given city are just two contributing factors in the complex system that shapes residents’ wellbeing. Public health research has found a positive, non-linear relationship with a higher prevalence of mental health problems in more urbanised countries, particularly for anxiety disorders.

Copenhagen: public space is the very essence of urban life. Brian Kyed | Unsplash

Mental health problems now account for over a third of the total burden of disease in adolescents in urban settings. Research shows that, for young people (a significant proportion of urban populations), health and wellbeing constitute major determinants in their future life prospects.

In Humanise, Heatherwick ignores this complexity. The book is a collection of thoughts, ideas, visuals and reflections on the role of contemporary architecture and architects. In it, the designer suggests that the world is facing a “global epidemic of inhuman buildings” and suggests a list of what to do and what not to do to achieve the reverse: “interesting buildings”.

Heatherwick sees cities as collections of buildings, of architectural objects. The problem here, of course, is that the various aesthetic merits of any given structure can be endlessly debated.

Some of Heatherwick’s arguments (“boring places contribute to division and war”; “boring buildings help to cause climate change”) are plainly simplistic. They also beg the question of who decides what is and what isn’t interesting.

As examples of interesting buildings that bolster people’s wellbeing, he cites, among others, the Parkroyal Collection hotel in Singapore and the Edgewood Mews housing project in Finchley, north London for their generosity.

The first, he says, is “enthusiastic to share its wonder with everyone” and the second offers “more than minimum to the world”.

To me, though, these are extravagant architectural statements of capitalist power (the Singaporean hotel) and an over-designed fortress building (London’s Edgewood housing project).

Singapore’s Parkroyal Collection hotel. Meric Dagli | Unsplash

Recognising the importance of public space in cities

In the early 1900s, the German sociologist and philosopher, Georg Simmel, hailed the advent of a new urban condition. Compared to rural life, he said, the metropolis made people more individualistic, prioritised capitalist modes of production and intensified sensory exposure. As a result, he said: “Instead of reacting emotionally, the metropolitan type reacts primarily in a rational manner”. City dwellers were, Simmel said, less sensitive and further removed from “the depths of personality”.

Mid-20th century architects and planners further explored the socio-psychological damage wrought by urban expansion in the post-war era. In his 1971 book, Life Between Buildings, Danish architect and urban planner Jan Gehl underlined how, more than architecture, urban space itself had the potential to either harm or affirm social interactions.

The capitalist logic underpinning modernist urban planning was harming residents. More and more people were living in high-rise buildings. Open, green spaces were commodified. Private transport was prioritised. Gehl thought it was precisely in these daily situations, where people move between home and work and play, that cities should both “function and provide enjoyment”.

In over-emphasising the design of exciting buildings, Heatherwick overlooks this: that it is between and around buildings that you find the essence of urban life.

Architectural objects in themselves cannot tackle the issues city residents face. Ricardo Gomez Angel | Unsplash

Research shows that urban policies have evolved since the 1970s, largely to try to shape cities for the better and to ensure better accessibility, better quality and diversity of housing, open spaces, more reliable infrastructure and more robust services.

After joining the World Health Organisation’s healthy cities initiative in 1987, Copenhagen developed a holistic urban policy. This included walkable streets, public transportation, diverse housing opportunities, more pointed social policies around ideas of community and using taxation to encourage smoking control. Nearly four decades on, the Danish capital continues to be upheld as one of the world’s healthiest cities.

However “good” or “interesting” architecture might be, it cannot tackle poverty, social exclusion and public health on its own. But even high-rise buildings can make a difference to people’s lives if they’re well designed and well regulated. How the built environment is shaped as a whole is crucial.

In denying MSG planning permission for a London Sphere, city authorities have prioritised residents’ concerns over private investment. Everyone benefits from public space and infrastructure being seen as public goods, not commodities.

Claudia Sheinbaum and the future of Mexico’s Fourth Transformation

By Sarah Flynn, on 5 February 2024

A blog written by Étienne von Bertrab, Lecturer (Teaching) at The Development Planning Unit.

Claudia Sheinbaum greeted by supporters at an informative assembly in Acapulco. Source: Wikimedia Commons

The original version of this text was presented at the seminar “Mexico’s 2024 elections and continuation of the Transformation” during the Latin America Conference 2024 on January 27^th in Hamilton House, London. DPU’s Étienne von Bertrab was joined in the panel by William Booth (UCL Institute of the Americas) and by David Raby and María Pérez Ramos from Mexico Solidarity Forum.

On June 2^nd Mexico will elect its first female president in 200 years as independent nation. It won’t be Xóchitl Gálvez, candidate of the opposition considered instrument of the country’s oligarchy, but Claudia Sheinbaum, an environmental scientist and social leader who has accompanied the political movement of Andrés Manuel López Obrador (AMLO) for over two decades. She is one of the founders of the Morena party and has admirably governed Mexico City this sexenio (six-year term) until stepping down last June to pursue the presidency.

Apart from this being a momentous event for Mexican society, the coming elections will be highly significant for the life of Morena after AMLO, as Claudia (for short) will be accompanied by five female gubernatorial candidates including leftist Clara Brugada who aspires to build on Claudia’s legacy in Mexico City. Indeed, as journalist Kurt Hackbarth puts it in his latest piece in Jacobin, “the next chapter in Morena’s history is set to be shaped by leftist women”.

The certainty I start with is founded both on AMLO’s remarkably high approval rates (unprecedented at this point in a presidential term) and on the numerous opinion polls that consistently give Sheinbaum a significant lead (20 to 30%) ahead of the opposition’s strongest candidate (Gálvez). But who is Claudia Sheinbaum and what could be expected from a second moment of Mexico’s Fourth Transformation?

There isn’t much space to elaborate on Claudia’s fascinating background and significant public life, but I would like to highlight some things from her trajectory and ways of thinking and doing.[1]

As a young student in the National University, UNAM, Claudia became an activist, first in movements of solidarity with workers and peasants and then as part of the wider student mobilisations of the 1970s and 1980s.  She took part in the Comité de Lucha of her university campus and became prominent in the Consejo Estudiantil Universitario (CEU), a movement in defence of public education, at a time when neoliberalism started creeping up in Mexico’s education system.

Claudia got her first degree in Physics and did a masters in Energy Engineering. She was the first woman to enter the doctorate in energy engineering at UNAM and to obtain, in this institution, a PhD in the field. As a young mother she moved with her family to Berkeley, California, to undertake her doctoral research, but even there continued her political activism. Together with other activists she bravely gave President Carlos Salinas de Gortari a hard time in a triumphalist visit to sell the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). She worked hard as student while nurturing her political awareness and social commitment towards marginalised communities in her work on energy.

As a climate scientist, Claudia was a contributing author to the IPCC’s Fourth Report. For this work the panel received the Nobel Peace Prize (2007). She is a respected scholar in the energy and climate fields, and academia is a part of her life that she never fully abandons (although her life might become even a bit busier for a while).

Due to her solid trajectory on environmental matters and their clear political affinity Claudia was invited by AMLO to be the environment minister for his government of the capital city, then called Distrito Federal, from 2000 to 2005. As minister, Claudia was entrusted with key projects and led significant initiatives.

She supported the struggle against the desafuero of López Obrador[2] and was fundamental in the documentation of the electoral fraud that stripped AMLO from the presidency in 2006 (his first attempt). We need to remember that, since then, Mexico’s government and the business elites worked closely in well-funded smear campaigns to portray him as “un peligro para México” (a danger for Mexico). After the 2006 fraud Claudia returned to her academic activities at UNAM, but never abandoned her political action alongside AMLO.

Claudia was key in the defence of energy sovereignty —a central component of the proyecto obradorista de nación that took AMLO to the presidency in 2018— and was a great mobiliser of women in defence of such sovereignty.

Once AMLO broke with the then leftist party PRD as it allied with the conservative alliance (PRI-PAN) when Enrique Peña Nieto took power, Morena was founded, first as a civic organisation, and later —after discussions in assemblies— as a political party. Claudia Sheinbaum was part of Morena’s foundational process. The rest is history. Morena competed electorally for the first time in 2015 and only 9 years later governs, together with its allied parties, 23 of the 32 states that form the Mexican federation. It could win a few more states in the coming elections.

As mayor of Mexico City, Claudia Sheinbaum’s government expanded fundamental rights to public education, health, housing, culture, dignified employment at a fair wage, sustainable mobility, and a healthy environment. It also drove significant innovation. For example the integration of a solar power plant (now the world’s largest in an urban area) in the city’s food market, and public and free Internet connectivity throughout the city. The accomplishments of her administration are impressive and long is the list of international recognitions and prices. Mirroring what occurs at the national level, public investment in infrastructure and social protection are unparalleled, achieved through republican austerity (not the neoliberal version) and good governance, including combating corruption, without incurring in additional debt. A recurrent argument of the opposition is that Claudia Sheinbaum is candidate because of being AMLO’s favourite (or its “handpicked successor” as it is often framed in the media).[3] This (also misogynist) trope neglects her outstanding leadership and the extraordinary results of her government, putting, for the benefit of all, the poor first.

Claudia Sheinbaum’s programme is under construction. An anachronic electoral law forbids candidates to spell out specific proposals until campaigns officially start in March. However, political documents and ongoing processes are useful indications:

1. Proyecto de Nación 2024-2030, consulted and written by a special commission of Morena (before the candidacy was determined). It addresses 19 themes considered major challenges of the Fourth Transformation. More than 15 thousand people participated in this process.
2. An initial diagnostic produced by Claudia’s closest team.
3. The ongoing Diálogos por la Transformación, a public, participatory process coordinated thematically by a team of advisors (a transition team of sorts).

The dialogues’ resulting document will be presented in March and will complement both Morena’s project (abovementioned) and the programme registered before the National Electoral Institute, INE, which already indicates a boost in the energy transition, a further impulse for women, and a National Guard of proximity oriented to ending violence in the country.

Challenges are many and Claudia Sheinbaum won’t have it easy, not least before a huge popular movement in mourning with AMLO’s full retirement in October. AMLO has been an extraordinary leader and political mastermind and is impossible to substitute him. Mexico’s oligarchy will continue working hard to try to end the political project in power and lawfare is likely to intensify in the next administration, including attempts to seek US intervention. But Claudia Sheinbaum has many things in her favour, not least the demonstrated success of the Fourth Transformation, the palpable results of her government in Mexico City and, above all, her personal integrity. Undoubtedly, a key goal is to achieve a two-thirds super majority in Congress (dubbed Plan C), as this would allow constitutional reforms needed to expand, extend and deepen Mexico’s transformation.

In sum, barring an unforeseen reversal of circumstances in the country, Claudia Sheinbaum will be Mexico’s next president, taking office on October 1^st, 2024, and this will be very good news for Mexico, for Latin America and for the world.

Footnotes

[1] For those interested in knowing more about her I recommend the recent documentary Claudia, and Arturo Cano’s book Claudia Sheinbaum: Presidenta.

[2]  A political manoeuvre aimed at stopping him from being candidate to the presidency in the 2006 elections.

[3] Claudia Sheinbaum became candidate after winning an internal, transparent process through national polling against five other contestants from Morena and allied parties.

References

Cano, Arturo, 2023, Claudia Sheinbaum: Presidenta, Grijalbo, Ciudad de México.

Hackbarth, Kurt, 2023, “MORENA’s Next Chapter Will Be Written by Leftist Women”, Jacobin, 22 December 2023 https://jacobin.com/2023/12/morena-claudia-sheinbaum-clara-brugada-mexico-women-politics

Raby, David, 2024, “Mexico’s transformation advances”, Morning Star Saturday/Sunday January 27-28 2024. https://morningstaronline.co.uk/article/mexicos-transformation-advances

Unlocking collective trauma: Knowledge production, possession, and epistemic justice in “The Act of Killing” and the 1965 genocide in Indonesia

By Dana Sousa-Limbu, on 20 September 2023

A blog written by Kafi Khaibar Lubis, 2022-23 student of the Environment and Sustainable Development MSc

“Your acting was great. But stop crying.”

Not more than 20 years ago, I was called by my hysterical mom to quickly get inside the house while playing outside as a sunburnt pre-teenager. She was upset like I had never seen before, locked the doors, and shouted things at me, my dad, my uncle, and everyone in my family. She cried. I was just wearing a normal-sized T-shirt gifted by my beloved uncle, the only sibling my mother had. I never understood why it upset her so much until decades later.

Chapter 1: Sickle and Hammer

A couple of months ago, I crashed into a screening held by a film society at one of University College London’s neighbouring universities. It was for a film that I had always wanted to see but was never able to: “The Act of Killing”, or “Jagal” in Indonesian (literal English translation: “slaughter”), a documentary by Joshua Oppenheimer, Christine Cynn, and an anonymous Indonesian co-director. It was about the mass murder that happened in Indonesia around 1965-1966 to millions of people associated, or assumed to be associated with, the Indonesian Communist Party.

This film was never formally distributed in Indonesia. It was only known through underground screenings and word of mouth, which was not a surprise since the topic of the 1965 mass murder itself is very hard to talk about in the country. One could risk being distanced from, labelled a communist (pejorative), or even prosecuted. The film, therefore, plays a significant role in opening and normalizing discussions about the topic and taking a step in unlocking what has been, for so many decades, a painfully silenced collective trauma.

Chapter 2: Confrontation with Reality, Truth, and Knowledge

At the beginning of the screening, they invited Soe Tjen Marching, writer of the 2017 book titled “The End of Silence: Accounts of the 1965 Genocide in Indonesia” to give an introduction. Her father would have been a victim of the mass murder, if it had not been for the delay in processing his name to join the party’s organizing committee. She introduced the film by bringing to light recently declassified documents from the government of the United States of America that played a significant role in setting off the chain of events that led to the 1965 mass murder. However unsettling, the documents act as robust evidence against justifications made for the mass murder, including and especially the government-produced film of the event that was once a mandatory watch for schoolchildren in Indonesia in the 1980-1990s. These forms of knowledge possession have perpetuated the exclusion, silencing, and denial of genocide, leaving the victims at the hand of many types of injustice (Oranli, 2018; Oranlı, 2021).

“The Act of Killing”, on the other hand, used a unique approach to documentary filmmaking that allowed the perpetrators to participate in the production process and shape the story themselves. The film asks former commanders of the Indonesian death squads, who oversaw the execution of hundreds of thousands of suspected communists and other political dissidents in the 1960s, to recreate their atrocities. Devoid of remorse, the perpetrators were proud of their actions, even providing creative choices to narrate the reenactment in the style of their favourite Hollywood genre: action western.

The film’s epistemology is based on the belief that by allowing the subjects to participate in the production process and control the narrative, the film can achieve a level of authenticity and emotional depth that traditional documentaries may not be able to achieve. One might question why after decades of silencing and exclusion, a filmmaker would give a platform to the perpetrators. They are, after all, most often indifferent to the injury they have done and lack any understanding of the extent of harm they have caused. But as the film progressed, it was clear that this was a well-calculated strategy. It was precisely by giving space for the perpetrator to show off their crime that the truth became plain and visible, the genocide clear and undeniable.

Figure 1. Herman, one of the perpetrators, comforting his daughter, Febby, while she is crying in the aftermath of shooting a scene re-enacting the terror towards families of the 1965 mass murder victims (Oppenheimer, 2012).

There was one powerful scene in which the daughter of one of the perpetrators could not stop crying after they shot a reenactment of women and kids being taken away from their homes and their houses set on fire (Fig. 1). She was just an actress, playing one of the kids in the scene. The perpetrator was visibly aware of his daughter’s distress and was trying to comfort her: “Your acting was great,” he said, “but stop crying.” It was followed by depictions of other actors, children, and adults alike, looking traumatized by the reenactment, some requiring physical assistance to calm them down and remove themselves from the situation. Although obviously much milder than what truly happened in the 1960s, the activity incited an exchange of knowledge, blurring the reality and fiction of what they wanted to portray. It was no hidden knowledge that their crime caused significant terror; it was simply something that everybody was afraid to say. Now, by loudly narrating their own ruthless crimes, the perpetrators got a taste of their own medicine.

This method of filmmaking provides an interesting basis for analysis of epistemic injustice, delving into the nature and limits of knowledge. By allowing the perpetrators to narrate the story, the film not only exposes society’s normalization of celebrating brutal murderers but also places the killers in the position to confront their own past actions and their consequences. Another interesting example was Anwar Congo, a prominent leader in the death squad. Throughout the film’s first half, Congo seemed unrepentant and rather laid-back while recounting the murderous event. However, as the cowboy style film he had directed about his killing past neared its end, he started feeling nauseous. He cried, seemingly having an extremely late epiphany (Fig. 2). In that scene, a vivid connection is built between having knowledge and being aware of one’s own actions.

Figure 2. Congo showed regret near the end of the film. “Did all the people I killed feel what I felt in that scene?” Joshua responded, “Actually, the people you tortured and killed felt far worse because you knew it was only a film. They knew they were being killed.” (Oppenheimer, 2012)

The fact that the filmmakers tried more than 30 times to find and interview different subjects is, in some ways, an attempt to understand the many forms of knowledge and the chase of finding the hidden knowledge held by an individual, as categorized in the Johari window (Bhakta et al., 2019; Shenton, 2007). Also, such effort was a sign that the film was not about them or the filmmaking. Oppenheimer had his realization moment and shifted the focus to the perpetrators; that what they did, was almost like a multi-layer fiction, a simulacrum, to say the least, of hidden knowledge, unknown knowledge, and blind knowledge of the genocides, their regrets, and their pride that in itself is a hidden remorse trying to justify their past actions.

Reflexivity and self-awareness become the central theme in the film’s method of unveiling the truth about the tragic past. With the denialism of the perpetrators that have been observed elsewhere, the creators might or might not be intentionally utilizing this reflexive participation measure to disclose objective information and even to induce empathy in people who were detached from their cruelty. With the surfacing of the declassified government documents, the fear and secrecy of the victims, and the genocide denialism, the injustice of knowledge possession has been hiding in plain sight, crossing identities and the reality of a whole nation.

Chapter 3: Empathy, Trauma, and Dreams of Justices

The images of my memories started to become clearer. I understand better about that day, the day my mother was upset beyond measure towards everyone. I remember the T-shirt I wore, which my uncle gave to me. It was a dark blue T-shirt with a sickle and hammer logo and the bold black writing of “SOVIET UNION”.

The discourse on epistemic justice and participatory measures extends beyond academia and into fieldwork, practice, and lived experience. My own family had their own trauma regarding the 1965 mass murder, which I never entirely understood since it could never be talked about openly. “The Act of Killing” tried to unveil the chronic terror of the tragedy both loudly and delicately, borrowing the voice of the perpetrator to raise the volume of the victims’ collective voice. The film confronted the perpetrators not with a team of obvious enemies, but with the most powerful confronter of all: a mirror image of themselves.

The fruit of participation, or engaging people, can open and lead to many kinds of knowledge, whichever type and however vile or inspirational that is, that leads to something minuscule such as being free to wear anything we want, to be anything we want, to justice, and the truth. Moreover, the disclosure of information, whether it be from the state to the people, from the victims to the public, or even from the very perpetrators to their own eyes and mind, can be the first step to opening up a complex dialogue, taking responsibility and addressing a proper apology, healing a collective trauma, and marching towards a better, more empathetic and just future.

References

Bhakta, A., Fisher, J., & Reed, B. (2019). Unveiling hidden knowledge: Discovering the hygiene needs of perimenopausal women. International Development Planning Review, 41(2), 149–171.

Oppenheimer, J., Anonymous, & Cynn, C. (2012). The Act of Killing. Drafthouse Films

Oranli, I. (2018). Genocide Denial: A Form of Evil or a Type of Epistemic Injustice? European Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies, 4(2), 45–51.

Oranlı, I. (2021). Epistemic Injustice from Afar: Rethinking the Denial of Armenian Genocide. Social Epistemology, 35(2), 120–132. https://doi.org/10.1080/02691728.2020.1839593

Shenton, A. K. (2007). Viewing information needs through a Johari Window. Reference Services Review.