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.

 

References

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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/
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• 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
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• 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
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• 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
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• 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

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.

By Wacera Thande and Robert Biel

The Radical Exploration of Co-Learning through Artificial Intelligence for Managing a Food-centric Urban Territory of Unprecedented Resilience and Equity or RECLAIM-FUTURE is a mini project co-lead by Prof. Robert Biel and MSc student Wacera Thande. We are both co-creators in this project seeking to understand how AI can be used to facilitate a co-learning experience to enable students to learn and understand complex systems within the Development Planning Unit’s Food and the City module headed and curated by Prof. Robert Biel.

This project is underpinned by Paulo Freire’s pedagogy and includes these three concepts:

• Dialogue/Co – learning as a model of creating knowledge as a collective where participants are equal. Mutual respect and trust underpin this form of learning process. Each participant including the teacher/lecturer must be willing to question the knowledge they have acquired and be open to change and the creation of new knowledge.
• Praxis – This means the testing of ideas through practice or action learning. It is not enough for people to come together in dialogue, it is key that we act upon our environment to be able to critically reflect on the knowledge we create for further action and critical reflection.
• Liberation – Through practice and dialogue, knowledge should be used to awaken the consciousness of teachers and students to empower them to transform an unjust world through liberating ourselves from the dominating ideologies both cognitively and also in practice.

How does this relate to the Food and the City module?

The Food and the City module seeks to enable students to understand some underlying issues of the food crisis, understand agriculture in relation to the climate crisis, and outline the features of sustainable alternatives such as Agroecology, and link these technical solutions to social struggles of emancipation from oppressive systems such as unjust property relations and the democratization of knowledge. From the module handbook, this module shows how the city can implement these principles both within itself, and in its relations to the surrounding countryside. Internally, the city should evolve an urban metabolism (using compostable waste, heat, gray water) in order to grow some of its own food, as well as various food-related social networks acting to eliminate waste; externally, it can – through ‘community-supported agriculture’ and other means – work to revitalise small farms and free them from the tyranny of globalised value chains. The module uses systems theory to understand these complex systems within the city in relation to food.

 

What is the potential role of AI?

Simply put AI employs feedback in an attempt to answer prompts/questions it has been asked. Our key role in this mini project is to understand these feedback loops and understand how we can use AI in class to enable an understanding. We ask these questions.

• Can AI enhance the ability for students to embrace complexity?
• Can AI be a collaborative problem solver in the classroom?
• Can AI enhance our reflective and reflexive skills within the classroom?

If we imagine in a Food and the City classroom, we would have a discussion across 3 agents: the students, the lecturers and the AI all as collaborators. Potentially AI could help in structuring a discussion by generating prompts through interaction with it. This counts AI as an agent that is not based on creative thought; but as an agent that helps stimulate it. Furthermore, AI can be a good agent in structuring discussions in group activities where open dialogue and reflective sessions may be carried out to enable a more collaborative approach of generating knoweldge. Using student to student and student to teacher dialogue for a co-creative space. Collaborative problem solving seeks to solve questions or problems through pooling their knowledge, skills, and efforts. With the help of AI as an agent can stimulate our human pooling and collaboration that is key for collaborative problem solving. In these cases the AI can generate maps, data sets, and other creative tools that enable greater collaboration processes amongst students. This can be linked to a form of collaborative commons, a concept that is central to the Food and the City module. Mapping and other creative tools can be created within the classroom as a form of commoning such as creating an AI version of a Miro board.

If we are redesigning the module AI’s role seems to be quite useful in those aspects especially when we are seeking to liberate our minds from the alienation of ruling ideology. An Interesting idea we have is that AI seems to have less of a bias in terms of the historic cause and is open to different forms of knowledge and experience.

AI is a tool that has many potential benefits that encourage inquiry based learning, collaborative problem solving, enhancing critical thinking of students and teachers and finally employability beyond the classroom. As described earlier our work is underpinned by Freire’s pedagogy. Therefore, collaborative problem solving may look like interacting with the AI in a classroom as a collaborator in facilitating conversations that are critical and help students reflect on already existing knowledge and newly made knowledge. We recognise the potential of AI in helping to co-design learning environments that replicate the structure and tools that students may find in real world situations. AI could potentially be used as a virtual avatar of the real world to enable the praxis paradigm that Freire talks about before they make it into the real world. Practically for the food and the city course an idea would be to have the real world situation of already existing food systems be replicated by AI. Where AI can design food systems that create an avatar of various ideas generated by students as a trial of potential food systems. Having a customized AI that generates virtual food systems that are conceptualized and imagined by the students. This can foster enquiry based learning, which comes from a drive by curiosity which in turn helps learners cultivate critical thinking and problem solving.

There are many opportunities we have identified with AI and we hope this mini project will at least address some of those opportunities.

This housing story follows my Mum’s journey. It provides valuable insight into the history of housing policies in Mauritius and how they have evolved. Given Mauritius’ location, it is prone to cyclones that cause devastation to homes, which made it critical for the government to prioritise better structures to address inadequate dwellings. However, as my Mum’s story will illustrate, government schemes were not always accessible, resulting in more informal community financing schemes. Incremental approaches to housing development were widespread in Mauritius alongside gradually diminishing access to public spaces due to government policies prioritising real estate development. I will explore these wider factors throughout her story.

 

Growing up in Triolet 

The story is set mostly in Triolet, a small town in post-independence Mauritius, beginning in 1972 and ending with her leaving Mauritius in 2002. Mum was the eldest of five, living with her parents and grandmother on inherited land. Mum’s grandfather adopted her father after he lost his parents as a child, and the land was divided between Mum’s father and his step-sister. This was unusual, as land and property were commonly inherited and split between male family members only, whilst women tended to marry and move in with their husband’s parents. This exception may have occurred because Mum’s aunt was a young widow with children to care for. Furthermore, Mum recalls that “people often lived close to relatives and it was common to extend the homes when the families grew, if there was space.” Although the Mauritius Town and Country Planning Act (1954) outlines that permits are needed for housing construction, it was not strictly enforced. Mum recalls that planning permission for home extensions or improvements was informal and usually involved seeking permission from relatives who lived in the surrounding area.

Mum’s earliest memories were of her home consisting of “two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a toilet.” They stood as three separate structures built with corrugated iron roofs and wood. Mum remembers several cyclones that particularly affected Triolet and nearby areas, some leaving a trail of housing destruction in their wake. However, Mum’s experience was again uncommon, as homes built with corrugated iron sheets and timber frames had decreased significantly during the 1970s (Chagny, 2013, p.6). Destructive cyclones in the 1960s led to workers being offered interest-free loans to build concrete houses for “personal occupation” (Ministry of economic planning and Development, 1986). As a result, housing structures improved drastically. For example, in 1960, 60% of housing in Mauritius was substandard, with only 4% considered durable; by 1972, only 7% were considered substandard, with around 40% considered durable (ibid). Mum’s experience may have been the exception because she lived in a rural area which may have been overlooked because it was not a highly commercial area and so was deprioritised for funding.

It is worth mentioning that there is a limitation in obtaining region-specific data, as Mauritius is a small country, and figures for smaller rural areas away from economic centres are not readily available. Hence, country-wide data has been used instead of data specific to Triolet.

Building a stronger home 

In 1980, Cyclone Hyacinthe severely damaged Mum’s home. During this time, Mum’s family decided to rebuild with cement and bricks to withstand severe weather conditions better. Unfortunately, the family didn’t qualify for the government scheme providing interest-free loans to workers for constructing concrete houses for personal use (Chagny, 2013, p.7; Ministry of Economic Planning and Development, 1986) because my Mum’s dad, an informal sugarcane worker, did not have the relevant documentation.

Therefore, to finance the repairs and future improvements, they relied on an informal community financing practice known in Creole as a “sit.” A “sit” involved pooling money from numerous people (relatives and friends) in a neighbourhood into a general fund. This fund could be used for household expenses, but many used it to improve or repair homes. Every month, each household would pay the same amount into the pool, and a designated collector would distribute the pool to one household randomly until all households had received the pool at least once and then the cycle would start again.

In contrast to bank loans, the “sit” was an attractive alternative since it was interest-free. This arrangement was helpful for Mum’s family, who couldn’t provide an acceptable form of collateral to banks, lacked a credit history, and had limited awareness of how formal credit systems worked. Unlike formal bank loans, “sits” didn’t require collateral or have transaction costs (Karaivanov & Kessler, 2017). However, these practices had downsides. For example, if a ‘sit’ participant can’t pay into the fund for one month, it could impact their relationship with everyone in the community, having a high social cost (ibid). Mum recalls that contributors could swap with the weekly recipient if they required the fund earlier for an emergency, and if someone couldn’t pay for a particular month, they could work out an arrangement with the collector and contributors. It was a system built on trust; in Mum’s experience, “there were never any major issues, and it was essential in difficult times.”

The prevalence of informal community financing practices highlights the failure of government schemes to trickle down to low-income people in rural areas who may have owned land but required financing for materials to build adequate and sustainable homes. So, although private ownership was high, for example, in 1972, 94.6% of all housing units were privately owned (Ministry of Planning and Development, 1986), Mum’s experience illustrates that people that needed suitable and adequate housing were effectively left unsupported by the government.

 

Continuing home improvements 

In 1981, Mauritius was challenged by a sugar crop failure coinciding with a global price drop (Gupte, 1981). Mum’s dad owned a piece of inherited land where he cultivated sugar cane, and the family heavily depended on this for their household income. The poor harvest and lower market prices, left the family significantly impacted; finding themselves relying on Mum’s grandmother’s pension. This also halted their much-needed home improvements and repairs. The country’s economy, which was still heavily reliant on sugar exports, also suffered detrimentally, with nearly 60,000 out of 960,000 people unemployed (ibid).

In late 1981, Mum’s dad secured a job working for the government as an irrigator, qualifying him for an interest-free government scheme to help workers improve their housing structures, with 3,000 rupees a month offered towards sturdy building materials. Mum told me “It was not much, but it was something. We would use this to buy some materials and build slowly.”

For Mum’s family, constructing their home was a slow and steady operation. Even with the government loan, building materials had to be accumulated over a considerable period before construction could start. The family continued participating in the ‘sit’, hoping it would come in handy in speeding up construction work.

In late 1982, they started rebuilding the two bedrooms using bricks and cement, but since they couldn’t afford to hire ‘masons’ (Creole for builders), they employed a ‘maneve’ (builder’s apprentice) who required a smaller fee. It was customary for unpaid male household members and relatives to help with construction, some even travelling from far-away areas to help. To show appreciation for their hard work, they’d be offered a nice meal at the end of the day in lieu of payment. This approach was present in many other households; Mum recalls her dad and brothers helping build and improve relatives’ homes too.

The improvements were focused on the house structure whilst the kitchen and toilet remained outside, still made of corrugated iron and wood. Mum recalls the unpleasantness of bathing in winter and the frequent water shortages; using a ‘dron’ (large plastic barrel) to collect rainwater for showering. Eventually, the kitchen was added as an extension to the concrete home. Mum says the kitchen and bathroom were not prioritised because of a lack of infrastructure for sewage or freshwater, and she says “improving the bedrooms first made sense as it benefitted everyone in the house.”

This incremental approach to housing allowed Mum’s family to improve their homes based on their needs and resources. It also made high building costs more affordable. However, these small loans also meant slow progress. Hence, combining the government loans with the informal community financing was crucial to making this approach possible at all and was ultimately borne out of necessity.

 

Scarce land and the rise of real estate development projects

The declining price of sugar and the phasing out of preferential trade agreements for sugar exports to the EU led the government to seek alternative sources of economic revenue (Gooding, 2016). Hence, in 1985, the government initiated various real estate development projects to attract foreign investment (ibid). These legislative changes would accelerate into the 2000s with the Integrated Resource Scheme (IRS) in 2002, increasing the purchase of villas and hotels, particularly by white Europeans and South African investors (ibid) and the amended Immigration Act in 2002, allowing non-citizens to become residents if they invested a minimum of 500,000 dollars in a set of “identified business activities” (ibid).

These schemes resulted in properties that were commonly located along the coast, providing direct beach access and amenities such as wellness centres and golf courses, and so accordingly requiring vast amounts of land. While many resorts were erected around rural towns, little development or investment occurred nearby in Triolet itself. Indeed, these schemes led to unequal distribution of economic benefits. For example, tourists visiting Mauritius spent money on foreign-owned resorts and hotel restaurants. They were unlikely to venture further and spend on local businesses; thus, the local communities did not feel the economic benefits. (Ramtohul, 2016). Moreover, opening the real estate sector to foreigners caused discontent among the local population, given the sensitivity of land ownership in Mauritius due to land scarcity (Tijo, 2013; Gooding, 2016).

These coastal development initiatives also impacted local communities’ ability to access beaches. Despite it being enshrined in law that all beaches in Mauritius are public up to the high tide mark (Pas Geometriques Act, 1895), hotels and resorts built barriers that made it challenging for people to access the whole beach area. Wealthy investors and private owners who had bought homes with easy beach access followed the hotels barrier-building example and with little intervention by the government, were tacitly allowed to continue this exclusionary practice.

Going to the beach is a celebrated space, important to many Mauritians of different backgrounds who would head there on weekends. Indeed, it was one of the few public spaces available for leisure activities. For Mum, there were no gardens or play areas where she lived. Only a small plot of land behind Mum’s house was shared with her aunt to cultivate papaya trees and aubergines, and the family collectively shared the crops. Like many Mauritian families, they would walk to the beach on weekends. She recalls as she grew older, access to these spaces became more difficult due to the increasing number of resorts, hotels and holiday homes. Accessibility to these public spaces became a huge social issue. Mum recounts her and her family being “told to move from the beach near the hotels. We were made to feel really uncomfortable for sitting on the sand.”

The need to diversify its economic portfolio meant Mauritius focused on expanding the real estate industry as an alternative source of revenue. Unfortunately, the development of coastal areas led to unequal distribution and access to land and limited benefits for working-class communities. The government did not properly consider how these policies would negatively affect the livelihoods of local communities, instead choosing to prioritise scarce public spaces such as beaches for tourists and hotels only (Naidoo & Sharpley, 2015).

 

Moving to Vacoas

In 1994, Mum married and relocated to Vacoas, a town in the western part of Mauritius. Vacoas was a middle-income residential area closer to economic centres than Triolet. There were more amenities, and the area was generally more developed.

She shared a home with her in-laws, my dad’s brother, his wife, and their children. Similar to Triolet, the house was surrounded by the homes of my dad’s relatives, as my grandfather’s brothers owned properties on either side and in front of the house. Similarly, the male siblings all inherited the land from their father. From 1995 onward, their properties would also expand to include their sons once they married.

In 1999, Mauritius was faced with a drought, leading to a limit in water usage for most people in the country (The New Humanitarian, 1999). People had access to water for only one hour a day (ibid). Mum recalls this and says that “during that hour, each household would collect water and fill as many containers as possible.” Despite an improvement in Mauritius’ economy during this period, infrastructural issues still affected people’s daily lives, particularly women, who were expected to manage household chores, and care for young children.

Cultural housing practices continued throughout this period, whereby male family members inherited land, and women did not. After my grandfather died in 2000, the house was divided according to this practice. My dad’s brother began constructing a separate housing unit upstairs, eventually moving there after construction was completed with his family. The main house was split in two, with my dad and his older brother each inheriting half. These patriarchal housing practices can leave women without security, and a lack of land ownership can result in limited say in household decision-making (Archambault & Zoomers, 2015, pp5). It can expose women to vulnerabilities, such as finding it more difficult to leave their spouse if they experience domestic violence (ibid). It’s important to note that, as mentioned previously, if women were widowed or the family didn’t have sons, then the women would likely inherit property. Nevertheless, it is a practice that is ultimately unfavourable to women, leaving them insecure and effectively dependent on male household members; as a result, reinforcing gender inequalities.

Conclusion

In 2002, my dad found a job in the UK, and shortly after, Mum and I moved here for a new beginning. Mum’s housing story illustrates how Mauritius’ housing policies evolved rapidly from 1972-2002. It highlights how the devasting effects of cyclones meant the government had to push for the elimination of structures that could not withstand them. Although this can be lauded, due to the significant rise of concrete structures due to government schemes which provided affordable loans for workers to build sturdier homes; its inaccessibility, particularly for people living in rural areas, meant they had no choice but to rely on informal community financing schemes. The story also highlights the prevalence of patriarchal cultural housing practices whereby male family members inherited land at the expense of women, reinforcing gender norms. Finally, although the expansion of the real estate industry benefited the economy, it came at a cost for locals, who effectively lost their access to much-needed public spaces in favour of hotels, resorts and holiday homeowners in a country where land was already scarce.

Bibliography

Archambault, ‎Caroline S. & Zoomers, Annelies. (2015) Global trends in land tenure reform: gender impacts, Taylor & Francis

Brautigam, Deborah (1999) “Mauritius: Rethinking the Miracle.” Current History 98: 228-231.

Chagny, Maïti (2013) Overview of social housing programs Effected in Mauritius since the 1960s by the government, private sector and NGOs, http://nh.mu/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/Report-Overview-Social-Housing.pdf

Couacaud, Leo (2023) From plantations to ghettos: The longue durée of Mauritius’s former slave population, History and Anthropology, DOI: 10.1080/02757206.2023.2183398

Friedmann, John (2005) Globalization and the emerging culture of planning,

Progress in Planning, Volume 64, Issue 3, 2005, Pages 183-234, ISSN 0305-9006,

https://doi.org/10.1016j.progress.2005.05.001. (https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0305900605000607)

Gooding, Tessa (2016) Low-income housing provision in Mauritius: Improving social justice and place quality, Habitat International, Volume 53, Pages 502-516, ISSN 0197-3975, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.habitatint.2015.12.018. (https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0197397515300898)

Gupte, Pranay, B. (1981) DEPENDENCE ON SUGAR WORRIES MAURITIUS, Dec. 26, Section 2, Page 38, The New York Times archives https://www.nytimes.com/1981/12/26/business/dependence-on-sugar-worries-mauritius.html

Karaivanov, Alexander and Kessler,Anke (2018) (Dis)advantages of informal loans –Theory and evidence, European Economic Review, Volume 102, Pages 100-128, ISSN 0014-2921, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.euroecorev.2017.12.005.(https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0014292117302258)

Naidoo, Perunjodi and Sharpley, Richard (2015) Local perceptions of the relative contributions of enclave tourism and agritourism to community well-being: The case of Mauritius, available at http://clok.uclan.ac.uk/12939

Ramtohul, Ramola (2016) High net worth migration in Mauritius: A critical analysis, Migration Letters, Volume: 13, No: 1, pp. 17–33

Salverda, Tijo (2013) Balancing (re)distribution: Franco-Mauritian land ownership in maintaining an elite position, Journal of Contemporary African Studies, 31:3, 503-521, DOI: 10.1080/02589001.2013.812455

Ministry of economic planning and development – central statistical office (1986) 1983 Housing and population census of Mauritius: households and housing needs: estimates and implications https://statsmauritius.govmu.org/Documents/Census_and_Surveys/Archive%20Census/1983%20Census/Analytical%20Reports/1983%20HPC%20-%20Vol.%20III%20-%20Households%20and%20Housing%20needs%20-%20Estimates%20and%20Implications%20-%20Island%20of%20Mauri.pdf

The New Humanitarian (1999) Water restrictions introduced, https://www.thenewhumanitarian.org/report/10166/mauritius-water-restrictions-introduced

United Nations Human Settlements Programme (2011) Housing the Poor in African Cities, Quick Guide 5: Housing Finance https://www.citiesalliance.org/sites/default/files/Quick%20Guide%205%20-%20Housing%20Finance%20-%20Ways%20to%20Help%20the%20Urban%20Poor%20Pay%20for%20Hpusing_0.pdf

Mauritius Local Government Act 1989 https://la.govmu.org/downloads/LGA%201989.pdf

The Town and Country Planning Act 1954 https://business.edbmauritius.org/wps/wcm/connect/business/f27c44b5-c3d7-4c9a-ae12-9e502c26b390/THE+TOWN+and+COUNTRY+PLANNING+ACT+1954.pdf?MOD=AJPERES&ContentCache=NONE&CACHE=NONE

Mauritius Building and Land Use Permit Guide https://la.govmu.org/downloads/Blp%20Guide%20Updated.pdf

Pas Geometriques Act, 1895 https://attorneygeneral.govmu.org/Documents/Laws%20of%20Mauritius/A-Z%20Acts/P/PAS%20GÉOMÉTRIQUES%20ACT%2C%20Cap%20234.pdf

This housing story follows the urban transformation of a once-thriving node based in the Old Anarkali neighbourhood of Lahore, Pakistan. It is a story of cultural shift, resistance to change, inevitable transition, and the lingering battle between despair and hope. The story follows a narrative thread, informed by inherited memories and from lived experiences in what used to be a tightly-knit neighbourhood community. The story depicts the loss of shared space and collective consciousness due to repeated experiments of urban (de)generation.

While this housing story focuses on the specific neighbourhood of Old Anarkali, Lahore, it is framed by the lived experiences of one of my dearest friends from college, who has requested that his name remain anonymous. As the protagonist of this housing story, he resided at 3/2 Lodge Road for the larger part of his adolescent life. We studied together at the nearby National College of Arts Lahore Campus and would often get together at his house after college.

 

 

Introduction

Pakistan is a South Asian developing country with over 240 million residents and has been doubling in population density every 35 years (World Population Dashboard – Pakistan). According to a recent UN Report, Pakistan is one of the eight countries that will witness more than half of the projected increase in global population by 2050 (World Population Prospects, 2022). Country wide, it has historically battled housing issues. Even at a micro level with its urbanising cities, it has witnessed housing crises that have seen huge shifts in communities and how they live.

As the capital of one of Pakistan’s most populous provinces, the Punjab, Lahore is no exception. Its residents struggle with socio-political power relations that underpin the housing market. Infrastructure facilities and quality-of-life improving investments are inevitably concentrated in areas of influence, where wealthy residents pull resource division and maintenance, directing access away from the urban poor. This rich-poor divide leads to a “splintering urbanism” (DPU 2013, originally by Graham & Marvin, 2001). Additionally, whilst infrastructure like rapid transport may improve mobility, it comes at a high cost. It can displace entire communities, where ‘bastis’ and ‘abaadis’ (shanties) fall prey to repeating false promises of development.

The context

 

 

As one enters the (new) Anarkali food street, there is a sense of being transported to a different time. This pedestrian-centred traffic artery boasts flavourful food and a sensory delight, especially on festive occasions like Eid. However, as one traverses the aptly titled “tourist street” and walks south, a harsher reality unfolds. The Old Anarkali road is chaotic with traffic, overflowing with motorcycles, rickshaws, and cars and being overtaken by rampant commercialisation.

“Purana” Anarkali or Old Anarkali is a neighbourhood at the south end of Anarkali Bazaar (market), one of the oldest surviving markets in the Indian Subcontinent. It dates back more than 200 years. Anārkalī was a courtesan in the Mughal era, with whom Prince Salim, who later became Emperor Humayun, fell in love. Steeped in Mughal architecture and romance, the mausoleum and the area surrounding it existed as a cultural and artistic centre. The story of Anārkalī itself is one of unrequited love and longing.

Timeline

Around World War 1

The Old Anarkali area consisted primarily of horse stables, to facilitate the cavalry, which were later relocated to a place called Rasala Bazaar

1929

The house, 3/2 Lodge road, was constructed, as per the blueprints, in the celebrated Indo Sarsenic style

1947

The protagonists maternal grandparents moved to this house from India after his grandfather fought in World War 2 and was granted legal tenure for being a part of the pre-partition INA – Indian National Army

“There was community spirit and people were considerate, to the point that even families of four decided to share space with each other. My nana (grandfather) gave space to another family on the ground floor.”

During partition – and post 1947

In the splitting of the Indian subcontinent into Pakistan and India- many families were divided. People had to abandon their homes and rushed to relocate. Some buried expensive belongings in hopes that they’d revisit their homes and reclaim their treasures, but that never happened. There are stories that gold and precious metals were found in some abandoned homes.

The neighbourhood, in its physical state, stayed the same for a large part of 1947 up until the 1990‘s, when the protagonist was born. Neighbourly evening walks were common amongst communities and there was strong social integration.

In early 2000’s

By the early 2000’s, the neighbourhood was running on its last fumes, especially as real physical transformations in the form of construction for the contested Orange Line mass-transit system started taking shape. It corroded what little was left of a past sense of community.

Context mapping

 

 

 

3/2 Lodge Road was right in front of Lahore’s former mayor’s residence, which later became, and is still is, the office for a law firm Kashif Law Chambers. This shows truly what a thriving community once existed in the area. Owing to the fact that the high court was close by on Mall Road, more law firms began surfacing in the area.

Circumstance and proximity play an interesting role in shaping life choices. My friend was inspired by both his parents towards the arts since they were designers by degree and profession. He thus chose to attend the same institution as his mother.

My mother would often walk me through the old streets of Rabbani road and Rasala Bazar all the way up to the National College of Arts, her alma mater. She would get fresh clay from the ceramic studio for me to play with. We would stop by the museum quite often. I think just walking through the streets that were populated with such great colonial, pre-partition architecture, sparked and encouraged my sense and fascination for it.

Reasons for leaving

In his own words the factors for leaving Old Anarkali were perhaps many.

For me personally, there was a decline in the quality of life there. There was so much noise pollution. The doctor advised that we move out because it was depressing for Ammi [mother] to be there. It may ring true for a lot of people, when you’ve seen too much in a house you really want to eventually change scenery and get away from it.

Our house shared the wall with a laboratory for the longest time. The machine was placed directly next to the wall that connected with our side of the house, constantly exposing us to x-rays. They were taken to court a few times but nothing became of it. This was also part of why we decided to leave home.

In addition to this, the house was also gradually coming apart structurally – instead of renovating it, it was more practical  to shift. Due to commercialisation, CNC (computerised numerical control) and laser cutting services had taken over and posed serious health concerns. In 2006, the roof of a room we did not use came down too. So it was all just in shambles.

Since a lot of the houses were built pre partition and used wood materials in construction, there was a serious termite infestation  issue. It wasn’t the sole reason why one would be stressed, but it definitely contributed to the overall situation. In modern construction or areas where houses were built with new methods and procedures, treatments for termites are infused in the foundation of the structure. When you compare those construction methods to the methods of the past, you do get colder rooms in summers due to the construction quality, but then there’s issues like termites and seepage in the walls that need constant maintenance. 

In a broader sense, I think for most people there, the community I’d say was 40 percent well educated. The neighbours whom we were most close to, a doctor, passed away, and his family moved out. The neighbourhood began to lose its meaning in time and space. The structures, walls, alleys and corridors don’t make a neighbourhood. It’s the people that occupy it. So I’d say, for most people, time just moved on, and in saying that, they had that move out and on too. But over time, shops and houses turned into spaces to host shoe workshops and metal sign workshops. This meant a lot of noise and the loss of peace and quiet which the area had seen a lot of earlier. Additionally, the areas in close proximity to newly refurbished Anarkali Bazar and commercialised Food Street also began to witness a lot more movement all around. It just did not make sense to stay there for a longer time.

What next?

My brother lives in and manages the upper floor of the old anarkali house. He has a love-hate relationship with the place. Squatters are common in those areas and people occupy spaces illegally. So, until the house is sold, my brother feels it’s unsafe to abandon it as it’s very likely someone will take over it illegally.

 

Broader implications

Lahore’s Orange Line metro seems to be the elephant in the room. The project was a venture part of CPEC (China Pak Economic Corridor). It was a one-of-a-kind Chinese-backed commuter train line, constructed over five years, from October 2015 till October 2020. It signalled a new chapter in the Pakistan-China friendship and provided an easier, faster commute for the citizens of Lahore.

However, the project was surrounded with controversy. In 2016, construction was temporarily suspended by the Lahore Court because it threatened UNESCO world heritage sites. Unfortunately, the verdict was later overturned by the Supreme Court of Pakistan. (Ebrahim, 2020)

Mr Kamil Khan Mumtaz, an renowned Lahore based architect, strongly advocated against the Orange Line project for its destructive methodology. He said that buildings and sites that “make Lahore what it is with its history, its heritage, its culture” were blasted into nothing. “Entire neighbourhoods, like the Old Anarkali where people lived and had worked for generations, look like Nagasaki,” he added, pointing to the blatant “violation of historic monuments” which he described as a “criminal act”. (Ebrahim, 2020)

Kamil Khan Mumtaz expressed concern regarding how “a cash-strapped country like ours would pay for this luxury”. He estimated that the Punjab government will pay “PKR 74 million per day (USD 460,800) in subsidies”. He suggested selling the train line to a private operator and buying buses instead, because, “Lahore has a good road network for the buses to ply on”.

3/2 Lodge Road was not scheduled for demolition, but a significant part of the neighbourhood on the east was destroyed. Over 200 families were displaced, as well as an institute for disadvantaged children, shops and a squatter settlement. (Ebrahim, 2020)

Affectees were compensated with what the government termed a historic package at the time. According to the Lahore Development Authority (LDA), people were compensated a lump sum of PKR 1 million (less than £3000) per room after being displaced by the Orange Line but many residents were unhappy. Shakeel Ahmed, another resident of the Anarkali district, lost his home and accused local authorities of heavy handedness.

Outdated colonial-era land laws like the Land Acquisition Act of 1894 empower the government to snatch land for unjust compensation. The Lahore Development Authority (LDA) said that the Punjab government was authorised to take land, granting the government the right to appropriate land if citizens receive compensation and prior notice.

This means that many of the  former occupants have sacrificed property in one of Lahore’s most iconic and valuable areas. Property prices have skyrocketed in recent years but the displaced will not reap the rewards.

Conceding that Lahore needs a “smart, green transit system” like the Delhi metro, architect Imrana Tiwana deemed that the Orange Line remained an unacceptable alternative. Tiwana reinforced that it violates the law and is a complete misfit for a historic city with its Mughal-era “protected heritage”. She described it as “a huge white elephant” that will be used by very few. In fact, 1% of Lahore’s population (250,000 people) use the train – with the trains often operating considerably under full capacity. (Reuters, 2020)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Conclusion

Pakistan’s housing problems are certainly manifold and complex. Such problems arise due to prioritising short-term goals against a long-term vision, especially when conceiving projects through external aid. Forming periodic consensus and employing a reframing diagnosis can open up the room for transformative potential in this regard. Thus, recognition of all stakeholders is a must to curb social injustices.

Rethinking, recontextualising and reconstructing mechanisms of housing is necessary to converge towards fair and just compensation to ensure that there isn’t a reproduction of what David Harvey calls the “accumulation by dispossession” (Harvey, 2008). Today, the term Purana Anarkali (old Anarkali) evokes a nostalgic sigh for a bygone era.

Although many have shifted away, all cannot be lost. Governments must see the need as well as the possibility to accommodate citizens without displacing them, as well as awarding fair compensation. Organisations like the Walled City of Lahore Authority strongly advocate and achieve results for the restoration and preservation of historic sites. There remains hope that collective action can spur recognition, bringing back to life the community spirit of places like old Anarkali.

The underlying truth is that neighbourhoods like Old Anarkali are co-produced organic urban centres and reminders of history. Their preservation and the just compensation for residents are important to presence, territory, and historic context. Mass appropriation of space, and the copy-paste replication of global cities, like that in the case of the Ravi Riverfront Development serve no good. Proponents and opponents exist towards this hailed as “Pakstan’s answer to Dubai”. This provokes the question ‘Is this what is visioned for once thriving neighbourhoods like old Anarkali?’

 

 

 

References

Ebrahim, Z. (2020, December 15). Orange Line Metro Train: Another ‘huge white elephant’? The Third Pole. Retrieved April 24, 2023, from https://www.thethirdpole.net/en/pollution/pakistans-first-city-metro-another-huge-white-elephant-2/

Graham, S., & Marvin, S. (2001). Splintering Urbanism: Networked Infrastructures, Technological Mobilities and the Urban Condition. Routledge.

            splintering urbanism | UCL The Bartlett Development Planning Unit. (2013, July 5). UCL Blogs. Retrieved April 24, 2023, from https://blogs.ucl.ac.uk/dpublog/tag/splintering-urbanism/

Harvey, D. (2008). The Right to the City [New Left Review].

Managing supply and demand: The key to getting ‘housing’ right in Pakistan. (2022, March 11). World Bank Blogs. Retrieved March 12, 2023, from https://blogs.worldbank.org/endpovertyinsouthasia/managing-supply-and-demand-key-getting-housing-right-pakistan

Rizwan, S., & Mirza, Z. (2022, February 3). Commercialisation in Walled City hampers conservation, trade – Newspaper – DAWN.COM. Dawn. Retrieved March 12, 2023, from https://www.dawn.com/news/1672926

Toppa, S. (2020, December 21). ‘This will make us poorer’: Pakistani metro brings uncertainty for displaced residents. Reuters. Retrieved April 24, 2023, from https://www.reuters.com/article/us-pakistan-lahore-metro-feature-idUSKBN28W039

World Population Dashboard -Pakistan. (n.d.). United Nations Population Fund. Retrieved April 24, 2023, from https://www.unfpa.org/data/world-population/PK

World Population Prospects. (2022). the United Nations. Retrieved April 24, 2023, from https://www.un.org/development/desa/pd/sites/www.un.org.development.desa.pd/files/wpp2022_summary_of_results.pdf

UK immigration from Eastern Europe (EE) increased considerably post the European Union (EU) accession in May 2004 (Parutis, 2015). It permitted free movement across the United Kingdom (UK) and home country, opening the opportunity for employment in Britain, and thus the possibility of ‘a better life’. The EE dream of Britain as the ‘mini-America’ (Judah, 2016) tells the tales of “the glamour of London” (Morrison, 2016) whereby those moving overseas to settle, making Britain their home, can work towards owning something of their own. As such, between May 2004 and December 2008, the UK Worker Registration Scheme (WRS) received over 965,000 applications, of which 66% were Polish, 11% Slovakian and 9% Lithuanian (Parutis, 2015).

Amid the “utopian myths” (Morrison, 2016) of the British dream “as seen from afar” (ibid) are the harsh realities of making home in a new country up close “if you are poor or Other” (Morrison, 2016). It involves navigating a vast array of hurdles including language barriers and thus dependence on co-ethnic social systems for housing, employment, and information; discrimination; limited work opportunities and housing options and as such; a compromise in the quality of life and living standards. Told through the eyes of a Polish mother who immigrated to Britain with her husband and daughter, this essay will seek to explore the journey of making home in the UK within the bounds of the private rental sector as way of opening and closing opportunities for migrants seeking a ‘better life’. It will seek to move beyond the physical structure of a house as four walls and a roof and the statistics used to group and stereotype displaced individuals, but touch upon the “theoretical concept of home […as a] lived experience and identity” (Parutis, 2015).

Whilst there are a multitude of terms to describe someone who has settled away from their country of origin, such as ‘expat’ which is typically associated with successful individuals who bring economic and cultural benefits to the country they move to, use of legal definitions including ‘foreigner’, ‘immigrant worker’ and ‘economic migrant’ paint a picture of ‘otherness’ and are most often used to categorise individuals settling in the UK from EE. For purposes of clarity, this essay will refer to all persons who have “changed their country of usual residence” (Sturge, 2021) as migrants.

 

Leaving the Homeland

Agnieszka’s story of making home in Britain begins in the years leading up to her arrival to the UK in 2005. The post-communist period in Poland, which began in 1989, brought with it major changes to the country’s political, economic, and social systems (Gardawski, 2002). One of the major challenges faced was high levels of unemployment, which reached peak at 20.7% in 2003 (tradingeconomics.com, n.d.), on account of transition to a market-oriented global economy coupled with a decrease in the demand for Polish products in the former Soviet countries (Britannica, 2019). As such, it created a system of hiring based on personal connections and recommendations with limited possibility of securing stable, non-exploitative employment. “Unless you got lucky, you worked long hours and received little pay” (Agnieszka, 2023). “Despite acquiring a house through inheritance, which provided some sense of security and did not consume the already insufficient household earnings, constrained prospects to improve our quality of life motivated our move overseas” (ibid). Poland’s entry into the EU, coupled with established social networks in Britain as “the land of opportunity” naturally dictated the choice of settlement location (Judah, 2016). According to Parutis (2015), securitisation of accommodation, work, and information for many migrants is often attained through “personal co-ethnic social networks” who have settled in the host country beforehand. Despite learning English in preparation for moving to the UK, the limited ability to communicate increased such reliance on the families’ trusted networks. Surrounded by individuals who share one’s culture and native language, as the “symbolic homeland” (Parutis, 2015), “provided us with a sense of belonging and comfort” (Agnieszka, 2023) in adjusting to the psychological and social challenges of immigration.

 

The Private Rental Sector

Thatcher government implemented neoliberal policies that promoted a free-market approach resulted in a decline in the availability of social housing and in turn led to a general shift towards the private rental sector (PRS) for the provision of affordable housing. Policies such as the ‘Right to Buy’, accessibility of ‘Buy to Let’ mortgages and mass social housing stock transfer to housing associations crated a “captive market” (Grey et al., 2019) of households with no alternative to private renting. In addition of state failure to replenish the social housing stock, deregulation of the PRS and major shift in policies towards rent subsidies for lower income tenants in the PRS, which directed capital away from public housing into the private market (Grey et al., 2019), has contributed to the stark increase in housing costs in proportion to renters’ income.

 

(From the perspective of a migrant)

EE migrants arriving in the UK lack an immediate access to welfare rights, and as such, the PRS is the most common viable option for securing housing upon arrival. Implementation of Assured Shorthold Tenancy by the 1988 Housing Act and its standardisation as the “default tenancy type” (Parutis, 2015) by the 1996 Housing Act, prescribed the PRS as the main sector to supply short-term housing, also referred to as the “transitional stage in the [migrant] housing career” (ibid). Arguably offering mobility via relatively easy access and withdrawal, it serves as a useful intermediary stage towards the more desirable housing sectors such as social renting or home ownership. However, in contrast to the attractive portrayal, individuals seeking home security in the PRS are often faced with the cost of “painful compromises” (Grey et al., 2019) that include expensive rent, overcrowded and poor living conditions and threat of eviction. Due to their lower income levels in comparison to the general public, access to accommodation is further restricted placing migrants at a greater disadvantage when competing for housing.

Despite being able to successfully secure a stable job in the construction industry, Agnieszka’s husband’s low wage proved insufficient to cover the cost of renting an entire flat; “we were forced to live in a house share with people we didn’t know. We lived in a three-bed flat on a former social housing estate in Putney Heath, […] it was surprising to see such a clear division between communities and neighbourhoods based on their class and status. The property itself had issues with dampness and poorly insulated single-glazed windows, although this wasn’t the biggest problem for us […] Sharing a home with singles who had different priorities and standards of living made it difficult for our family to achieve the warm and clean space I desired for us. They came from such an assumption that if I wanted to maintain cleanliness, I should do everything myself; this included simple tasks like taking the rubbish out and wiping down surfaces after making food. […] Eventually it led to tensions rising that quickly escalated, making our living situation all the more difficult, especially given that we, as a family of three, had one bedroom at our disposal. […] It felt as though the Polish community living in the UK was caught up in a rat race and I found it difficult to connect with trustworthy individuals on whom I could rely. I felt very isolated” (Agnieszka, 2023).

It is reported that over 800,000 Londoners reside in overcrowded conditions that are primarily associated with the lack of affordable housing. Moreover, difficulties in regulation and management have led to the PRS being ranked lowest with the highest share of “unfit living conditions” (Parutis, 2015) in the hierarchy of tenures. In spite of securing accommodation, the absence of a healthy living environment and dependable social relations, resulted in feelings of “a lack of belonging” (Parutis, 2015) which can also be viewed as an alternative understanding of homelessness (ibid). “We didn’t intend to settle down in England for good, but we were also uncertain of when we would return to Poland. The reality of our living situation felt like someone poured a bucket of cold water over you” (Agnieszka, 2023).

 

Relocating Home

Polish migrants renting in the PRS are found to relocate frequently. “Migrants housing, like migration itself, is a process that changes over time depending on future plans, migration motivation and economic factors” (Parutis, 2015). Housing situations are re-evaluated as personal circumstances change over time. While it may be argued that regular moves may illustrate flexibility in rental agreements, it is a clear indicator of “instability and insecure housing conditions” (Parutis, 2015). This is particularly troublesome to families, as the process involves changing schools, making connections in new communities, switching jobs, or accepting long commutes.

 

 

Pursuit Towards Homeownership; What does it mean to become a homeowner?

Agnieszka was able to secure employment, but her limited English skills restricted her to a low-paying position as a caregiver. Despite the fact that both Agnieszka and her husband were earning wages, it was insufficient for the family to rent a home independently. Upon learning that they might qualify for Housing Benefit which would assist in covering housing expenses due to their low income, Agnieszka approached an estate agent to find a suitable two-bed flat. She was met with a “we do not serve such clients here” response – “I felt like a second-class citizen” (Agnieszka, 2023). After facing several challenges, such as securing a guarantor, the family were able to find a new place to call home. However, the desire to free themselves of the dependence on housing assistance, coupled with the dissatisfaction of paying someone else’s mortgage and the threat of rent rises and eviction that came with renting, motivated the pursuit towards homeownership. According to Grey et al. (2019), 36% of renters’ income is consumed by housing costs compared to that of 12% for homeowners with a mortgage. As such, the desire to become a home-owning household is associated with lower expenses, greater security of tenure and thus sense of belonging. Blunt and Dowling (2006) appoint to the distinction made by the English language of ‘homeownership’ as opposed to ‘house-ownership’. Associations made with owning a house are imagined as having greater ability of making home in comparison of those who rent (Parutis, 2015). Moreover, the commodification of housing which puts first asset value over social good is compounded by the fact that housing equity is said to comprise “the main component of UK household wealth” (Nygaard, 2011).

 

The Cost of Homeownership

According to Grey et al. (2019), “an economic preference becomes effective demand only when it is backed up with money”. This helps explain why minority groups, including migrants with limited financial resources, have lower levels of demand in the housing market. The ease with which a mortgage credit loan can be taken out to secure homeownership, as required by most households in the UK, governs the “purchasing power” (Grey et al., 2019) and thus the “overall level of house and land prices” (ibid). Moreover, cheap ‘Buy to Let’ mortgage loans against projected rental income, as opposed to the existing income of prospective first-time buyers, gave landlords an unequal advantage over lower-priced properties. As such, the various landlord tax breaks, low interest rate credit and deregulated rents permitted the capital value to increase “above the maximum that many first-time buyers could raise” (Grey et al., 2019).

Agnieszka and her husband found themselves in a “vicious cycle” (Agnieszka, 2023) as they tried to save for a housing deposit. Working weekdays and weekends had a negative impact on family life and the increased income resulted in a decrease of housing assistance, cancelling out any gains made towards saving for a deposit. “If you are an individual on a low income and without real qualifications, life is difficult and you need to work relentlessly” (Agnieszka, 2023). As a result, a decision was made to renounce the housing subsidy, work longer hours and return to living in a house-share by subletting one of the bedrooms in their two-bed flat. In the meantime, to broaden her employment prospects, Agnieszka began studying a bookkeeping course and took on training to expand her caregiving qualifications. However, securing a higher paying salary required undertaking an unpaid internship which was unfeasible considering the need to save for a deposit while already being financially stretched.

 

Un(der)-regulated Rental Sector

During the period of saving up for a property purchase, the family experienced multiple relocations while living in the PRS. The legal system in which they found themselves shifted power in favour of the landlord (Spratt, 2023) permitting unregulated rising rents and threat of eviction upon the landlord deciding to put their property on the market, dismissing any renters’ rights. With the aim of making the PRS more competitive following the free market ideology, Housing Acts of 1980 and 1988 demolished the previous 1915 to 1979 legislative policies which to some extent regulated rents and provided protection to tenants (Grey et al., 2019). Under the Assured Shorthold Tenancy agreement as the most common type of private residential tenancy, the limited six moth fixed-term contract permitted landlords to evict their tenants and take back possession of the property (Grey et al., 2019). Landlords could repossess their properties “without having to establish fault on part of the tenant” (UK Parliament, 2023) under the ‘no fault’ section 21 evictions agreement. Furthermore, as well as receiving major tax breaks, landlords received supplementary advantages such as the ‘wear and tear’ allowance which prescribed them to claim for compensation for the cost of replacing movable assets, that “did not require any proof of investment in the property” (Grey et al., 2019).

As a result of the challenging circumstances, the family was only able to secure a rental property within their limited budget by reaching an agreement with the landlord to renovate the property to a liveable standard at their own expense. Despite their hard work and effort dedicated to improving the property, the family was served an eviction notice shortly after moving in, informing them that the property would be listed for sale. Given the asking price of the property was out of their limited price range, they were given a two-month notice to vacate while the landlord profited from their investment.

Despite time pressures and financial constraints that limited their search to a small portion of available properties, “the estate agents informed us of a property that was set to be put up for sale within our neighbourhood. Knowing that the competition for such properties was extortionate, located in a safe area and reasonably priced compared to what was available on the market, we made an offer right away, proposing our maximum budget without physically viewing the property. By some miracle the sale went through and for the first time since setting foot on British soil I felt that I could breathe […] The property was modest in size and in an inhabitable state, but it was ours […] and in this way, we began to lay our roots in London” (Agnieszka, 2023).

 

Conclusion

Recounting the experiences of a Polish mother who migrated to Britain following the EU accession, this story begins to shed light on the challenges and reality faced by various minority groups with limited resources when attempting to make home within the constraints of the private rental sector. The housing crisis revealed is a complex issue, that transcends a simple shortage of supply. While migrants face additional challenges in securing housing due to language barriers that limit job prospects and increase reliance on social networks, the general shift towards privatisation and deregulation fuelled by the free-market ideology has resulted in the private rental sector being monopolised by landlords, leading to extortionate costs and inadequate living conditions. As such, these “trends [that] have systematically undermined the vision of a society with equal opportunity” (Grey et al., 2019) help explain the desire to attain homeownership, offering an escape from rent hikes, threat of eviction and intense competition for ‘affordable’ housing in the PRS. A reform in housing policy and regulation provides an opening to address the issue of how land is owned and managed, thereby creating a more equitable distribution of wealth and promoting empowerment and equal access to opportunities.

 

References

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Grey, R., Kenny, T., Macfarlane, L., Powell-Smith, A., Shrubsole, G. and Stratford, B. (2019). LAND FOR THE MANY. [online] Available at: https://landforthemany.uk/ [Accessed 9 Apr. 2023].

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Mathers, M. (2023). Why is migration to the UK on the rise? [online] The Independent. Available at: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/migration-rise-uk-economy-brexit-b2302159.html.

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Nygaard, C. (2011). International Migration, Housing Demand and Access to Homeownership in the UK. Urban Studies, 48(11), pp.2211–2229. doi:https://doi.org/10.1177/0042098010388952.

Parutis, V. (2015). Home Cultures The Journal of Architecture, Design and Domestic Space ‘Home’ for Now or ‘Home’ for Good? East European Migrants’ Experiences of Accommodation in London. doi:https://doi.org/10.2752/175174211X13099693358799.

Ryan, L. (2011). Transnational Relations: Family Migration among Recent Polish Migrants in London. International Migration, 49(2), pp.80–103. doi:https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1468-2435.2010.00618.x.

Spratt, V. (2023). The Housing Crisis is Even Worse Than You Think | Aaron Bastani meets Vicky Spratt | Downstream. [online] www.youtube.com. 2 Apr. Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wkfe402j9k&ab_channel=NovaraMedia [Accessed 10 Apr. 2023].

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UK Parliament. (2023). The end of ‘no fault’ section 21 evictions. [online] Available at: https://commonslibrary.parliament.uk/research-briefings/cbp-8658/#:~:text=Section%2021%20enables%20private%20landlords,%2Dfault’%20ground%20for%20eviction. [Accessed 15 Apr. 2023].

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This housing story is part of a mini-series revealing the complex ways in which personal and political aspects of shelter provision interweave over time, and impact on multiple aspects of people’s lives. Space for strategic choice is nearly always available to some degree, but the parameters of that choice can be dramatically restricted or enhanced by context. The wide range of experience presented in this collection shines a light on the wealth of knowledge and insights about housing that our students regularly bring to the DPU’s learning processes.