I first met Leslie when I took the Ombudsperson’s office’s seat in the Barrio Padre Mugica’s (BPM) Council for Participatory Management for the Redevelopment Process (CPMRP). Leslie and her neighbours were furious. I wanted to understand why, fundamental changes occurred since BPM’s urban and social integration Law was passed. All residents would access a formalised housing solution with legal tenure, houses would be upgraded, and public services would be delivered onsite with a decision-making CPMRP. These women that were meeting after meeting shouting and crying to be left in their homes had had no information and were never part of the decision that established that, since they lived below the highway, they had to move from their houses to new homes close by, as the Law established. The government has been delivering a policy focused on distribution but needs more regard for the justice of decision-making power and procedures (Young, 1990). I learnt that lesson from Leslie, Sonia, Angela and Mirta, who showed me through their fight for their homes that “just organisation of government institutions and just methods of political decision making” (Young, 1990, p.12) need to be raised in order to achieve social justice.

 

Hoping for a better future

The city of Buenos Aires (CBA) is the heart of a large metropolis five times its population size. The impossibility of accessing formal housing in a country with a dolarised formal market struggling with recurrent economic crises, inflation and no offers to consolidate social housing has led the most vulnerable population to live in informal settlements. Around 7.5% of the inhabitants of the CBA live in slums (DGEyC, 2021). This is the story of one of them, Leslie Rojas, a migrant from Cochabamba, Bolivia, that came to Argentina at age 9 in 1991. Her parents came chasing the dream of a home of their own “They said that in Argentina, your salary was in US dollars. The majority of people who came here saved enough money to go back to Bolivia and buy a house”.

After the hyperinflation crisis, the economy was on the verge of collapse, so the tales of neoliberalism penetrated Argentina deeply. Under Menem’s government, profound changes in the country’s economic organisation were made, which included trade liberalisation, privatisation of public services and the Convertibility Law. This measure established a fixed parity of the Argentine peso to the US dollar. Argentina was soon able to stabilise its economy. However, neoliberalism soon hit the country’s economy: opening markets made Argentina’s emerging industry unable to compete in a liberalised global market with products in USD currency. The economy collapsed, leading to increasing unemployment. This occurs along the implementation of structural adjustment programmes (Davis, 2004), which reduced social policies and welfare (Hirst, 1996). In terms of urban governance, the participation of private actors in the development of real estate operations that encouraged speculation, intensified the commercialisation of urban land, pushed up land prices, and, with this, significantly increased informality” (Gelder, Cravino and Ostuni, 2013, p.128).

In 2000, due to a critical economic situation, Lesli’s parents could not continue to send money to their children in Bolivia. Hence, she and her siblings came and started living in a rented space in Villa Crespo. “They decided to stay because they hoped the country could improve and regain stability”. Unfortunately, that was not the case. The economic situation worsened, leading to one of the most challenging economic and political crises of Argentina’s democratic history in 2001, when poverty reached 66% in 2002 (CEDLAS, 2022). In 2004, after the death of their landlady, with an economic situation that made it impossible to buy a house in the formal dolarised market, the Roja family experienced the difficulties of finding a new place to rent without a property warranty “We did not know anyone who had a formal deed”. They did not have many choices and moved to BPM, one of the largest informal settlements of the CBA, “we had family living there, and my parents learnt about a house that was on sale”. They bought a half-built house in the informal market and started living there incrementally upgrading it.

 

The fight for a house of her own

Leslie wanted to become independent when she finished school, and she learned about squatted land under the highway. With a clear opportunity to rent there “a very precarious house: with brick walls and sheet metal roof”, she found a job and moved in 2008. In 2015 her husband and Leslie managed to buy that house and started incrementally upgrading it, with many material expenses. She put countless hours of sweat equity into that house “I could have enjoyed life, but I deprived myself of many things because I was making an effort to live better. I invested in my house below the highway”.

 

People living in informal settlements in the CBA have been steadily increasing since the return of democracy after slum eradication during the last dictatorship. The state had recognised the right to housing through various laws but did not deliver. This gave rise to a process of judicialisation of the policy (Delamata, 2016) as a strategy to achieve housing. As a result of a long process of mobilisation that included judicial appeals, in 2009, dwellers of BPM managed to pass Law 3343^[1], which established general guidelines for the redevelopment but did not include precise urban planning and regulatory instruments (ACIJ, 2021). However, many dwellers like Leslie had no idea about it “I did not know anything about the Law or our rights. I knew that if you squatted or bought a squatted place, and a formalisation process occurred, you would need to pay for the land, but your house and everything you had invested in it was your own”.

With the arrival of Rodríguez Larreta to the government of the CBA, different socio-urban integration processes were initiated, with a substantial increase in the housing budget. The scheme adopted from 2016 onwards was “a model of territorial intervention that simultaneously comprises physical transformation, social intervention, institutional management and community participation; seeking to promote territorial equity, privileging state action in the peripheral areas of the city, with lower indices of human development and quality of life” (Quinchía Roldán, 2012, p.8). However, in the case of BMP, Lesli witnessed the complex participatory process.

In 2016 the re-urbanisation process began with a census: “I remember there was a census, and I told my husband that he should not tell them anything because I thought it was better. The census was held without information of what it would entail”. Mistrust and misinformation about government action are recurrent in Leslie’s narrative. Even though this policy was aiming at economic redistribution (the what), it did not include recognition of different members of the community (the who) and framing the project in a way in which all members participate as peers in social life (the how) (Fraser, 2009). To achieve social justice, “institutionalised obstacles that prevent some people from participating on a par with others, as full partners in social interaction” (Fraser, 2009, p.13) need to be dismantled. According to Leslie, this did not happen in BPM, leading to severe opposition from dwellers.

Two years later, Law 6.129^[2] was passed, establishing housing improvements, new housing construction, provision of infrastructure and tenure regularisation (ACIJ, 2021) in BMP. It also created the CPMRP and determined that all those enlisted in the census had the right to tenure formalisation. Also, relocations would exist due to project needs (opening roads or public spaces) and environmental and building risk areas. However, they would be carried out as a last resort and with the beneficiaries’ consent. Relocations would be within the neighbourhood (in grey in the picture below), and new homes resulting from them would be built in the areas in light blue. The Law also said that the government must guarantee the availability of units of equal or superior characteristics concerning the original dwelling before moving and vacating the property.

 

At this point, Leslie found out that the process directly affected her house since regulations in the CBA forbid housing below the highway. “Many things had been going on behind my back, meetings had been going on for years, and I knew nothing about them. They were not going to recognise all the materials I had in my house, and I would have to move to the new houses that, for me at that point, were going to be made of sheet metal and cardboard. All my effort, work and sacrifice would be lost. I was angry and wanted to fight for my house”.

Even though she had never been involved in community mobilisation, she started attending CPMRP meetings, going door to door, sharing information and inviting her neighbours to get involved. An insurgent movement emerged; they did not “constrain themselves to the spaces for citizen participation sanctioned by the authorities (invited spaces); they invent new spaces or re-appropriate old ones where they can invoke their citizenship rights to further their counter-hegemonic interests” (Sandercock, 1998).

 

Once I developed a relationship with her, I got to know her house, built with much effort. That was when I fully understood her claims and, in different ways, why she did not want to move. Her house was affordable, adequate, accessible and viable; she already had a just housing solution (Bhan and Harish, 2021). A policy based on regulatory frameworks irrelevant to her needs (Payne and Majale, 2004) demanded that she move because the Law states that it is forbidden to leave below the highway. She was not part of that decision and did not understand it. “I still maintain that even though the highway was a highway, it protected us”.

We started working together once the resettlement process began when it was easy to see how a very comprehensive but top-down policy can have severe implementation problems when not acknowledging realities and voices on the ground. The authoritative disciplinary dominant forms of knowledge that shaped the project needed to be challenged to deliver a consciously collective policy that could address dwellers’ real needs (Bhan, 2019), not those established by the state. This policy falls under the “power of representation dilemma” (Uitermark and Nicholls, 2017). A planner with a privileged position to marginalised communities promotes a specific view of social justice under the risk of making assumptions that sideline specific segments of the urban poor.

Moreover, the government used a steel frame system of construction, unknown by dwellers of BPM, many of whom work in construction. “Nobody understood why we were not getting brick walls. We did not know anything about that system of construction; we had doubts, and they never explained what this system was about. We were afraid, and this was going to be our home. We thought they wanted us to move to houses that would last 30 years, and once we finished paying the mortgage, they would fall apart.” Again, a sense of mistrust, of not getting enough information, of not being part of the decisions that directly involved them emerge. Leslie, like her neighbours, had been directly involved in the incremental construction of their own houses; they knew everything about it, how to fix them, where to add rooms, how to make them more secure, and were happy about the place they lived in. Now they were supposed to move to a place without participating in the decision and to houses they knew little about. “After I moved, I found out that steel frame was a good system of construction and a quick one to deliver 1044 houses in two years. Why did they never explain that? I believe that if you give someone information, arguments, examples, people take it better than if you hide everything”.

While she continued resisting, a second problem emerged by the end of 2019. When people moved out, the government demolished their old houses below the highway to prevent squatting. Everything was left covered by dust and debris. Often, they broke pipes, so places started flooding; the electricity of the houses close by was still on, people threw garbage everywhere, and rats were all over the place. For those still negotiating their relocation, this was perceived as a method of pressure which again increased the mistrust and tension with the government. That was a difficult moment for Leslie, “I was resisting alone. People started to move and everywhere around was demolished, it looked like a war zone, it was insecure, I was afraid. It was unliveable”.

 

 

Soon after, the pandemic started, and Leslie got sick in May. “I was 16 days in the hospital. I was afraid that if people found out my house was empty, they would squat it, and I would lose everything I had been defending. So when I got out, I said, I will accept the new house but under my terms”. As soon as she was discharged from the hospital, Leslie saw the available flats and found a house she liked. Even though she was happy, she did not want to show it because she did not trust the government officials and wanted to negotiate the recognition of the value of all the materials in her house. Through her fight, she moved to a house of her choice and will pay fixed monthly repayments for 30 years, minus the value she negotiated with the government. Every year she has to make an income statement, “I can pay for now, but I know that if I lose my job, I can make the income statement and stop paying”.

 

Again, misinformation and mistrust are present in her narrative: “If I had money to pay it all at once I would, I would feel safer if I fully own the place and nobody can move me”. The Law raises relevant tools for dweller´s permanence after tenure formalisation stating that dwellers must be provided with tenure security in the dwellings they occupy and that in no case the inability to pay could hinder guaranteeing this right. The Law discourages possible gentrification or uprooting processes, seeking the current dwellers’ permanence.

Information could have brought dwellers certainty regarding the policy outcome and their right to stay. However, Lesli does not trust the policy or the Law because her participation was not a “democratic stance; a right of people to decide, in an informed manner and through processes of collective reflection, on the direction of their habitat” (Populab, 2022, p.32).

 

Learning and growth

A lot of Leslie’s fear existed because she did not access information “If you give people information and tools, you don’t hide anything, and you make them part of the process, even if you think that they can oppose it, I think it is worth it and better. If not, it is like gossip”. Leslie believes she is in a better place one year after her move. Nevertheless, how different things would have been if this policy had included and recognised her in the first place, benefiting from her right to participate in those decisions that involved her own life and home. “I would have liked to be involved; I think everything would have been better. In this type of redevelopment process, participation is necessary”.

When I met Leslie, she challenged me to rethink justice rather than come up with a single normative or political vision of housing justice (Bhan, 2019) to reshape my approach of participation in planning to participation as planning (Frediani and Cociña, 2019). During those years, many of her neighbours and even government officials tried to discredit her, accusing her of doing politics. She was fighting for her right to housing; she knew nothing about bills and laws until they directly impacted her. She got involved at that point but did not do things only for her sake; she insurgently fought for justice. She wanted to be recognised, exercise her capacity, express herself and participate in determining her actions and the conditions of those actions (Young, 1990). Those are “universalist values, in that they assume the equal moral worth of all persons” (Young, 1990, p.37).

When I asked her how she could describe this process, she said it was about learning and growth. She became self-conscious of her status as a citizen, collectively demanding rights and battling oppression and domination (Young, 1990) to fulfil that dream that, 32 years ago, her parents sought. She informally bought a house eight years ago. However, a policy intended to upgrade her quality of life made her feel threatened of losing it, mainly because she was never included in the development of that path that comprehended her life and her home. Now, she has a house with a formal deed and a mortgage. She is happy about it, but that was not the only thing she wanted. She was unrecognised, on the side-lines, but she finally determined the conditions under how she would accept her new house, showed she could insurgently and collectively fight until her equal worth was recognised. This is why it is so important to tell her story.

 

Bibliography

Asociación por la Igualdad y la Justicia (2021) Cuánto avanzó la reurbanización en el Barrio Padre Carlos Mugica (ex Villa 31 y 31 bus) en el período 2016-2021?. Available at:   https://acij.org.ar/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/informe-vFinal-interactiva.pdf

Bhan, G. (2019). Notes on a Southern Urban Practice. Environment and Urbanisation, 31:2

Bhan, G. & Harish, S. (2021). Housing Justice: A View from Indian Cities. Coursera Online Course

CEDLAS (2022) Poverty Statistics. Available at:   https://www.cedlas.econo.unlp.edu.ar/wp/en/estadisticas/sedlac/estadisticas/#1496165262484-7f826c3f-b5c3

Davis, M. (2004) Planet of Slums. Urban Involution and the Informal Proletariat

Delamata, G. (2016). Una década de activismo judicial en las villas de Buenos Aires. Revista Direito & Práxis, VII 14, 567-587.

Dirección de estadísticas y censos (2021) Porcentaje de viviendas habitadas, hogares y población en villas sobre el total de la Ciudad. Ciudad de Buenos Aires. Años 2006/2021.  Available at:  https://www.estadisticaciudad.gob.ar/eyc/?cat=164

Fraser, N. (2009) “Scales of justice: Reimagining political space in a globalizing world”, Columbia University Press: New York, pp. 12-29. (Chapter 2: Reframing justice in a globalizing world).

Frediani & Cociña (2019) ‘Participation as planning’: strategies from the South to challenge the limits of planning

Hirst, P.Q. &Thompson, G. (1996) Globalisation in question: the international economy and the possibilities of governance.

Payne, G. K. &Majale, M.  (2004) The urban housing manual: making regulatory frameworks work for the poor

Populab (2022) Policy brief Mejoramiento Integral del Hábitat como estrategia para la transición hacia la paz territorial Urbana. Universidad del Valle, Cali, Colombia

Quinchía Roldán, S. M. (2012), Urbanismo social: del discurso a la espacialización del concepto. Caso Medellín – Colombia. En 9ª Bienal del Coloquio de Transformaciones Territoriales. Huellas e incertidumbres en los procesos de desarrollo territorial. (pp 8). Tucumán.

Sandercock, L. (1998) “The Death of Modernist Planning: Radical Praxis for a Postmodern Age”, in Douglass, M. and Friedmann, J. (eds) Cities for citizens: planning and the rise of civil society in a global age. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons, pp. 163–184.

Uitermark & Nicholls (2017) Planning for social justice: Strategies, dilemmas, tradeoffs

Van Gelder, J.L., Cravino, M.C & Ostuni, F.(2013). Movilidad social espacial en los asentamientos informales de Buenos Aires. R. B. ESTUDOS URBANOS E REGIONAIS 15 (2). Available at: http://ri.conicet.gov.ar/bitstream/handle/11336/12248/CONICET_Digital_Nro.15339_A.pdf?sequence=2&isAllowed=y

Young, Iris Marion, (1990) Justice and the politics of difference, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press

 

^[1] Available at : https://digesto.buenosaires.gob.ar/buscador/ver/21159

^[2] Available at : https://boletinoficial.buenosaires.gob.ar/normativaba/norma/448918

 

 

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.

Ever since Rasini approached me with hope, inquiring about possibly obtaining affordable housing for her family, her story has left a lasting impression. Rasini’s story represents one among countless others striving to achieve the dream of homeownership. This essay delves into the experiences of Rasini and her parents to examine the dynamic of Jakarta’s housing market over a 40-years span. In this essay, the housing narrative of Rasini’s family is followed by relevant housing policies or housing market transitions that contribute to this dynamic. The timeline is divided into two eras; Rasini’s parents and Rasini’s.

First Generation: Rasmani & Nursiah (1980 to 2008)

The dynamics of housing in Jakarta are closely tied to the massive migration that took place when the city emerged as the economic centre of Indonesia after gaining independence. The population of Jakarta grew significantly after the 1960s, from 823.000 in 1948 to 3.5 million in 1965 (Cybriwsky and Ford, 2001). This rapid urbanization was driven by the Indonesian public’s perception of improved job prospects in the capital, offering the potential for an enhanced family economy compared to opportunities in their hometowns. However, the government’s focus on constructing high-rise buildings and large complexes of government offices led to the neglect of housing provisions for the growing population.

“It was impossible for Mom and Dad to obtain a mortgage because it is cos,tly and considering their job status. That is why they had to save for years, work two shifts daily, and not have a car or motorcycle. I remember there were weeks our meals consisted of nothing but rice and salt. My parents were determined to achieve their dream of homeownership.” – Rasini.

Both of Rasini’s parent was born during that time to a working-class family that had recently migrated to Jakarta. Their limited education restricted their employment opportunities, forcing them to rely on low-paying jobs. Rasini’s dad, Rasmani, worked as an outsourced employee at the Local Administrative Office, and Rasini’s mom, Nursiah, worked as a cleaning service in a private company. After each experienced a failed marriage, they married each other in 1983. There was little information about their housing condition during the early years. However, it is known that they both resided in Rasini’s Grandparent’s housing in Central Jakarta until they obtained their home. Realising the dream of becoming homeownership was difficult for them, especially with eight children to feed. They also experienced a burden due to the social belief in Indonesia that a family must have a house to raise children (Tarigan, 2017). This context sheds light on the numerous sacrifices they made to pursue homeownership.

During that time, there was a massive construction of new towns around Jakarta’s periphery aimed at the middle and upper-income groups, as they were only accessible by private cars (Firman, 2004). The development of new towns was not based on proper spatial planning but rather driven by the profit-seeking of the developers, resulting in low-density housing with significant impacts on uncontrolled urban sprawl and price speculation practice (Firman, 2004; Leaf, 1994). In certain newly developed towns, the State Housing Provider Agency (PERUM PERUMNAS) partnered with private developers to guarantee that a portion of the housing was aimed at accommodating families with low to middle incomes (Cybriwsky and Ford, 2001). On top of that, the Indonesian government also provided interest rate subsidies for buyers through Bank BTN, reducing the interest rate from 24% to 9-15% (Winarso and Firman, 2002; Struyk, Hoffman, and Katsura, 1990).

However, This type of housing option was not a viable option for Rasini’s parents due to these factors: (1) Their outsourcing jobs were not recognized as a reliable source of income for mortgage instalments, making that housing unaffordable without a mortgage; (2) The considerable distance between housing and workplaces, coupled with the lack of public transportation, meant relocating would also necessitate finding new employment—a challenge considering their job experiences and qualifications; (3) As working parents, they relied on their parents to help in taking care for their children. Resigning from their jobs was not feasible, as it would mean sacrificing one of their income sources. These problems, faced by Rasini’s parents, are a clear representation of the structural obstacles that low-income households encounter when trying to access affordable housing. Furthermore, they highlight how the housing policies in place at the time failed to accommodate the diverse needs of different socio-economic groups, thereby amplifying these barriers.

In 1991, Rasmani and Nursiah purchased their first house, an unexpected stroke of luck. The house, measuring 80 sqm, was purchased for IDR 100,000,- below market rate, as the previous owner urgently needed funds. Although it required extensive renovations, the location was perfect for the couple as it was conveniently situated near Rasini’s grandparents’ house. Three years after purchasing the house, the first renovation was done to divide the available space into three bedrooms. As their children grew older and needed more personal space, another renovation took place three years later, adding a second floor and two more bedrooms. The incremental renovations continued into the next decade, with Rasmani and Nursiah allocating a portion of their salaries for this purpose. To minimise construction costs, they either undertook the renovations themselves or hired neighbours on an hourly wage basis.

Coincidentally, The period from 1993 to 1996 can be characterised as the first boom in Indonesia’s housing market (Firman, 2000); unfortunately, this condition was short-lived due to the economic crisis that hit Indonesia in mid-1998. This crisis led to a decline in the rupiah exchange rate, a significant decline in GDP, and a surge in layoffs. Consequently, numerous new housing projects were left unfinished, although many developers had overinvested in them. This situation benefited a select group of wealthy individuals while the rest of the nation bore the brunt of the economic chaos (Firman, 2004). Nevertheless, the housing market began to recover in early 2002, experiencing a surge in housing sales and increased property prices (Firman, 2004). This recovery, likely spurred by the 1998 economic crisis, which led to a depreciation in the rupiah’s value, caused the Indonesian public to seek safer investments like property to protect themselves from rising inflation. This growing demand is evident in the cumulative 56.82% increase in property prices from 2002 to 2008 (Bank Indonesia, 2008, as cited by Widianto, 2022). Yet, it is important to note that not all families experienced this recovery positively. For instance, the Rasini family faced hardship when Rasmani passed away in 2003, leaving Nursiah to provide for their eight children independently. At this juncture, the family house became not only a source of security (an emplacement for the family), but also a potential economic asset. It was during this time that Nursiah was faced with a hard decision.

“Beginning in 2005, my neighbors started putting their houses up for sale. Prospective buyers were offering bids as high as 15 million rupiah per square meter. Despite our pressing financial needs, my mother made the difficult decision not to sell our home. She knew that finding another affordable option capable of accommodating our entire family would be nearly impossible. Housing in Jakarta had become out of our reach and we had already quite comfortable with our surroundings. However, today, the neighbourhood around Mom’s house is filled with rental rooms.” – Rasini.

Nursiah’s decision to retain the house underscores the complexity of housing issues among low-income families. For them, the need for immediate stability and security often outweighs potential future economic gains. Nursiah prioritised housing security, for she didn’t have any other options left for her large family. Her decision had consequences; her children could not pursue a university education. This highlights the difficult trade-offs families often face between fulfilling their housing needs and ensuring their members’ well-being. Realistically, It fell upon individual households like theirs to make these tough decisions based on their unique circumstances, priorities, and resources for their long-term interest and overall welfare.

As the neighbourhood transformed into rental rooms closely related to real estate investment, it was even more challenging for long-term residents like Nursiah. The distinct characteristic between long-term residents and rental room occupants led to disparities in community engagement and neighbourhood cohesion. With rental room residents being more transient and less committed to community involvement, long-term residents like Nursiah experienced feelings of isolation and disconnected from their surroundings. This shift in neighbourhood dynamics could impact the overall well-being of long-term residents and erode the social fabric that once held the community together.

 

Second Generation: Rasini (2008 – Now)

“It reached a point where Mom’s house became increasingly overcrowded, so after my second child was born, we moved to Rumah Petak. The house is small, with no visible partitions between rooms, so we had to create our own dividers using cabinets or curtains to make it feel more like a home. But at that time, it was the only option we could afford.” – Rasini

Rasini and her husband married in 2008 and decided to rent a Rumah Petak in West Jakarta after their second child were born in 2011. Since Rasini’s husband earned a minimum wage of IDR 1,150,000 as a security staff member, the Rumah Petak, priced at IDR 500,000, was their only viable housing option. Rumah petak (cheap rental house) is a type of residential dwelling consisting of a large building divided into many small rooms, most of which are located in the Kampung area. In Rasini’s case, their unit has a rectangular room measuring 3×9 meters without wall separations. Then, she divided the area into two bedrooms, one kitchen, and one bathroom. Rumah petak is particularly popular among migrants or low-income households in metropolitan cities. Although Rasini is the homeowner’s child, the inheritance or wealth transfer theory using housing as an asset is impossible due to Nursiah’s eight children. Dividing the property fairly becomes more complex in a large family, potentially leading to disputes. Consequently, Rasini must find a solution to address her family’s housing needs.

Rasini’s husband worked in Cikarang, West Java, which meant he could only visit his family on weekends while staying at a company dormitory during the week. In 2013, he resigned from his job to become a street vendor selling sandals and shoes after saving up enough money to start his business. This decision was primarily motivated by Rasini’s struggles managing childcare and growing household expenses. Since income as a street vendor fluctuates, Rasini decided to work as a cleaning service, earning her the minimum wage (IDR 2,200,000), while her husband took up a second job as an Ojek Pangkalan (Indonesia’s motorcycle taxi rental). Their educational background, which is high school graduates, restricted their job opportunities, making it challenging for them to have financial security. Unknowingly, this limitation also influenced their housing options, demonstrating the interconnected nature of education, employment, and housing stability in urban environments.

“Rent is getting more and more expensive, so I started thinking about buying a house instead of constantly spending money on rent without owning anything. Ideally, I would like a house near my parents, but now it’s impossible. Now the price of a house near my mother’s house is up to 30 million rupiah per meter.” – Rasini

As the rent for Rumah Petak reached Rp 1,500,000/month in 2019, Rasini began considering homeownership, ideally close to Nursiah’s residence in Central Jakarta. However, that year, housing prices in Nursiah’s house had soared to IDR 30,000,000 per meter. Elmanisa et al. (2016) found that developers’ speculative practices in Jabodetabek contributed to soaring property prices counted by 50% between 2010 to 2014. Jakarta’s housing development focus on low-density, landed houses exacerbated the situation, causing land scarcity. This can be traced back to the aggressive new-town developments of the 1990s, when large developers targeted premium areas area Jakarta for luxury landed-housing projects, relegating affordable housing options to the outermost regions of the Bodetabek^[1] area. The impact of these trends is visible in the dramatic disparity in land prices across the city as discovered by Elmanisa et al. (2016). Land prices in Central Jakarta, where Nursiah’s residence is located, reach their peak. As one moves further away from this central area, the prices gradually decline, illustrating a clear gradient in property costs. This particular distribution of land prices exemplifies the economic forces at play in shaping the city’s urban landscape. Consequently, due to her financial constraints, Rasini found it increasingly challenging to find affordable housing near Nursiah’s home.

At that time, Rasini worked in an environment where she was exposed to extensive information about the government’s housing assistance program or KPR FLPP, which became her primary motivation for choosing this path. The KPR FLPP, or housing financing liquidity facility, is part of President Jokowi’s “Sejuta Rumah” (One Million House) initiative to improve affordability and homeownership among low-income households. Through this program, eligible first-time homeowners can obtain low-interest mortgages (5%) to purchase newly built affordable homes from developers. The monthly instalments for the Jabodetabek area range between IDR 950,000 – 1,200,000, with housing prices IDR 168,000,000. However, these affordable housing options have a trade-off: Low-quality units, low-transport accessibility, and inadequate infrastructure. Harrison (2017) highlights several problems with affordable housing units in Indonesia, such as the distance from employment opportunities and public amenities, lack of connection to the local water and electrical system, and seasonal flooding due to poor irrigation systems. These issues lead to the big question of whether the government’s homeownership target is truly addressing the housing needs of the majority or not.

 

After some delays in purchasing a house due to the Covid-19 case, Rasini finally purchased a 36 sqm house through the KPR FLPP program in mid-2022. She provided a down payment of IDR 6,500,000, which she paid off over four months, resulting in a mortgage instalment of IDR 1,080,000 for 20 years. The area where Rasini’s new home is not fully developed, with limited access to public amenities. It was 54 km from Rasini’s workplace, with a one-way commute taking 2 to 3 hours. This adds to the challenges Rasini and her family face, as they must deal with the long daily commute and the continuity of her husband’s business.

“We haven’t fully figured out everything that will come after moving. I’m just really hoping the current area will become more developed, so my husband’s plan to open street-stall in there can become a reality and help increase our family’s income.” – Rasini

Adamkovič and Martončik’s (2017) theory highlights the negative link between poverty and decision-making, with a preference for short-term rewards over long-term consequences among this group, which may perpetuate the cycle of poverty. In Rasini’s case, her decision to buy a house farther away from her main activity area is driven by her inability to determine the best choice between long-term consequences (long commute time, increased expenses, and impact on her work-life balance) and the need for a short-term solution (an affordable housing). Her financial constraints create a heavy cognitive load on psychological states, such as stress, uncertainty, and distress. As a result, This mental pressure impacts her impulsive decisions based on intuitive thinking, prioritizing short-term solutions over potential future outcomes. This pattern contributes to the cycle of poverty perpetuation as Rasini’s family’s inability to save money.

Despite Rasini’s new home being completed in early 2023, she postponed her move due to the unavailability of elementary schools for her children in the area. This situation certainly adds to Rasini’s financial burden, as she now has to manage both the mortgage instalment and housing rent. However, given the limited options available to her, Rasini finds herself with no choice but to bear the additional expenses.

Addressing The Housing Dilemma

The housing dilemma faced by Rasini’s Family across two generations  provides critical insights into the challenges and complexities low-income families face in navigating Jakarta’s housing market. The struggle to secure housing differs in each generation, which shows how Jakarta’s housing market shifted in a different era.

The Nursiah and Rasmani’s experienced the early stage of housing inequalities stemming from inadequate policies and profit-driven developments. As Jakarta transformed into a bustling metropolis, the availability of affordable housing failed to meet the demand, and existing options did not adequately cater to diverse needs. Consequently, low-income families faced immense struggles and relied on resilience and luck, as evidenced by them. Although they were fortunate enough to purchase a house before the price boom, they could not provide their childer with a high level of education due to limited resources left, thereby perpetuating the cycle of poverty and limiting their children’s opportunities for social mobility.

Despite the government’s efforts to implement new housing policies targeting low-income families in Rasini’s era, the ripple effects from past policy inadequacies were increasingly apparent. Rasini like most younger people in Jakarta, faced the harsh reality that securing housing within the inner city had become increasingly difficult. Housing options in the outskirts Jakarta, while not so affordable, are lacked proper infrastructure and basic amenities. This situation forces families like Rasini’s to make difficult trade-offs between affordability and access to resources, such as schools, a well-connected transportation system, and employment opportunities. Consequently, this exacerbates the urban segregation and social inequalities that plague Jakarta, as low-income families are pushed further away from the city centre and the opportunities it presents.

To address these issues, policymakers should re-evaluate and adjust policies to accommodate diverse needs while tackling past inadequacies by improving infrastructure for housing development on the outskirts. Furthermore, reconsidering the emphasis on homeownership is crucial, as it perpetuates neoliberal ideologies. Instead, promoting affordable rentals, cooperative housing, and community land trusts can offer secure living conditions without long-term financial burdens for this sector. By diversifying housing solutions, policymakers can challenge prevailing neoliberal narratives and work towards creating a more equitable and inclusive housing market that serves the needs of all citizens, regardless of their socio-economic status.

 

Bibliography

Adamkovič, M. and Martončik, M. (2017) ‘A Review of Consequences of Poverty on Economic Decision-Making: A Hypothesized Model of a Cognitive Mechanism’, Frontiers in Psychology, 8. Available at: https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fpsyg.2017.01784 (Accessed: 19 April 2023).

Arif Widianto (2022) Data Indeks Harga Properti di Indonesia, Bolasalju.com — Riset dan Edukasi Investasi. Available at: https://www.bolasalju.com/artikel/data-indeks-harga-properti-di-indonesia/ (Accessed: 11 April 2023).

Cybriwsky, R. and Ford, L.R. (2001) ‘City profile: Jakarta’, Cities, 18(3), pp. 199–210. Available at: https://doi.org/10.1016/S0264-2751(01)00004-X.

Dao Harrison (2017) Five lessons on affordable housing provision from Indonesia. Available at: https://blogs.worldbank.org/sustainablecities/five-lessons-affordable-housing-provision-indonesia (Accessed: 21 April 2023).

Delta Group Property (2020) ‘Housing features of Puri Delta Kiara – Type 28/60’, Delta Property. Available at: https://deltaproperty.co.id/property/puri-delta-kiara-tipe-28-60/ (Accessed: 12 April 2023).

Elmanisa, A., Kartiva, A., Fernando, A., Arianto, R., Winarso, H. and Zulkaidi, D. (2016) ‘LAND PRICE MAPPING OF JABODETABEK, INDONESIA’, Geoplanning: Journal of Geomatics and Planning, 4, p. 53. Available at: https://doi.org/10.14710/geoplanning.4.1.53-62.

Firman, T. (2000) ‘Rural to urban land conversion in Indonesia during boom and bust periods’, Land Use Policy, 17(1), pp. 13–20. Available at: https://doi.org/10.1016/S0264-8377(99)00037-X.

Firman, T. (2004) ‘Major issues in Indonesia’s urban land development’, Land Use Policy, 21(4), pp. 347–355. Available at: https://doi.org/10.1016/j.landusepol.2003.04.002.

Leaf, M. (1994) ‘The Suburbanisation of Jakarta: A Concurrence of Economics and Ideology’, Third World Planning Review, 16(4), pp. 341–356.

Struyk, R.J., Hoffman, M.L. and Katsura, H.M. (1990) The Market for Shelter in Indonesian Cities. Urban Institute Press.

Tarigan, S.G. (2017) Housing, homeownership and labour market change in Greater Jakarta, Indonesia. Thesis. Newcastle University. Available at: http://theses.ncl.ac.uk/jspui/handle/10443/3795 (Accessed: 10 April 2023).

Winarso, H. and Firman, T. (2002) ‘Residential land development in Jabotabek, Indonesia: triggering economic crisis?’, Habitat International, 26(4), pp. 487–506. Available at: https://doi.org/10.1016/S0197-3975(02)00023-1.

 

^[1] The term “Bodetabek” stand for Bogor, Depok, Tangerang, Bekasi is an acronym used to describe the urban agglomeration that extends beyond Jakarta’s city limits and includes its surrounding satellite cities.

 

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.

By Haim Yacobi, Michelle Pace, Ziad Abu Mustafa, Yasser Abu Jami

“The idea of continuing to search for opportunities and not finding them, then seeking and working hard to strengthen yourself to find an opportunity and then things do not work out, or to reach the interview stage in a very great institution and then not succeed? All of this takes you way back. The idea of seeking is related to finding something, so when you seek and do not find something, it causes you many problems. I cried often and experienced depression, poor appetite and anxiety. Even my face and skin have psychological problems and my hair is falling out because I keep trying in vain”.

The above quotation is taken from an interview with D, a student in Gaza, who expressed her efforts at finding a job, and how the ongoing failure, due to the current situation in Gaza, damages her mental well-being. Crucially, we argue, this is not an anecdote or a unique case. Rather, the deterioration in Gazans’ mental health conditions in general and among young people in particular, could be defined as an epidemic. According to Dr Yasser Abu-Jamei (March, 25 2023), the director general of the Gaza Community Mental Health Programme, research carried out in 2017 among university students showed that 60% felt sad, 60% felt hopeless about their future and 35% had experienced suicidal thoughts sometimes or often. The Gaza Community Mental Health Programme conducted research on this same issue once again in 2019 that confirmed (amongst another group of university students) that living under the ongoing siege compromised participants’ resilience, increased their sense of hopelessness, and exposed them to anxiety, stress and depression. Similarly, an International Committee of the Red Cross 2022 survey found that 9 out of 10 young people from Gaza believe that their lives are abnormal, suspended and their life opportunities fading.

Indeed, years of living under violence, as well as the constant fear of violence, poverty and lack of hope shape Gaza’s generations’ vision and attitude towards their uncertain future. Moreover, while the scope of mental health issues is widespread, throughout our fieldwork we have encountered interviewees who felt uncomfortable discussing this topic; this was not always directly communicated but all interviewees’ comments revolved around these issues.

Consequently, in our current research “Making the Invisible Visible: Slow Violence, Mental Health and Resilience in Gaza”, supported by The MENASP Network and the UCL Global Engagement Office, we focus on this urgent humanitarian case. In this project, we aim to make the invisible and long-term effects of violence visible, i.e., to examine how violence affects Gaza’s young generation in terms of their increasing vulnerability to mental health challenges, and how existing resilience networks could serve as a vehicle for better strategic intervention in mental health. In more detail, the main question we investigate in this project is how slow violence, implemented by Israel over Gaza, affects the mental health of Gazan young people.

A central theme at the core of our findings is the lack of possibility even to imagine a future amongst Gazan youth, which, according to Ratcliff et al (2014), is a symptom of trauma that can lead to a loss of “trust” or “confidence” in the world. This is illustrated, for instance, in an interview with M. from Khan Younis, south of Gaza city. M. did not complete his bachelor’s degree due to the tuition fees predicament. M.’s frustration was clearly voiced when he stated that:

“… because of the circumstances and conditions in Gaza and the high costs of studying, I was only able to study for one year, then I stopped. I still have one year, and a semester left. This happened because of costs and transportation, as I needed 12 shekels daily, in addition to university fees, which ranged from 250 to 300 dinars each semester. This made me stop studying”. (Interview with M, 25 years old, Khan Yunes, March, 2023)

Significantly, M. further stated:

“There is no future in this country and the situation is very difficult. If we are unable to complete our education, will we find a future in this country?… I am depressed, approaching the age of 26 and there is no life or future, not even hope for the future in four or five years’ time …”.

Indeed, as indicated by existing research, exposure to ongoing violence is associated with mental and physical health deterioration. Individuals with regular exposure to violence, such as in Gaza, are at a much higher risk of depression and lack of consideration of a positive

future. Yet, while most research focuses on individual circumstances, we argue that there are some structural foundations where violence targets a collective. As we elaborated in a previous article Israel’s ongoing settler colonialism in occupied Palestinian territory impacts Palestinians’ everyday life in all its aspects. In more detail we suggest that settler colonial violence and strategies of carceration, exploitation and elimination of the existing population is not only inherent in the production of a new reality and geography, but also at the core of the transformation of Gazans’ life into non-life.

The political topographies in Gaza are affected by Israel’s almost non-existing moral obligations over Gaza’s population, at the same time it creates the possibility of manipulating destructive power and violent practices. With a specific focus on Israel’s interventions in the field of mental health, we suggest that military power, ongoing violence and mental health are entangled in the creation of an intentional and conscious strategy that aims to instil in Gazans a sense of despair and the need to leave Gaza or, in other words, a slow form of violence as a weaponized strategy for diminishing the future of Gazan society in general and of young people, comprising one-fifth of the Gaza population (ICRC 2022), in particular. It is this Gazan youth segment – aged between 18 and 29 years old that forms the core focus of our ongoing research.

As learned from a survey we conducted among 225 students in Gaza, slow violence, indeed, increases perceived stress and impacts related future orientation. 42.8% of our respondents stated that they feel nervous, anxious, tense, or ‘about to explode’ several days over the past two weeks, 27.0% felt like this almost every day, 15.8% felt like this more than half a day, while 14.4% did not feel like this at all. This survey further indicates that 30.2% of respondents were unable to stop or control anxiety for more than half a day in the past two weeks, 29.3% had it several days, 17.7% had this inability several days, and 22.8% had no experience of feeling incapable to control these emotions at all. Indeed, symptoms of depression amongst Gazan youth – resulting from Israel’s slow violence – are clear: 35.3% of respondents answered that they had a lack of desire, interest, or pleasure in doing things several days in the past two weeks, 25.1% had it several days, 20.5% had a lack of desire for more than half a day, while 19.1% had no desire at all. These results are well echoed in the interview already mentioned above with Dr Yasser Abu Jamei who reiterates:

“Mental health is the feeling of psychological wellness and your ability to overcome circumstances, challenges and difficulties, to be productive for yourself and for society, and to feel your ability to change in your society.” Interview with Dr. Yasser Abu Jamei, March 25th, Gaza

Our survey highlights how our interviewees’ challenged state (in terms of mental health) results mainly from the dire economic and living conditions that Gazan families find themselves in. Dr B., a university lecturer, links the lack of work and economic crisis that Gaza´s youth are going through directly with stress and mental health issues. He refers to the level of stress that university students are suffering: “We find that the biggest issues are the economic pressures and basic needs that the student cannot fulfil. Of course, these issues cast a great shadow on their psyche.” Similarly, Rawia Hamam, Director of the Training and Scientific Research Department at the Gaza Community Mental Health Programme, also correlates poverty, unemployment, and Israeli aggression with Gazan youth´s deteriorating mental health condition:

“We may have said before that Palestinian youth are trapped between unemployment, poverty, lack of a horizon, frustration, and loss of hope. This applies to most young people here in Gaza. If we ask a young man how he imagines the future or what he dreams of? A young man can sometimes answer this question that he does not expect what may happen today or tomorrow, let alone the future. The continuous expectation of Israeli aggressions and continuous wars makes many young people unable to plan or form a specific picture of the future”. (March, 2024)

Importantly, despite the unpredictable future in Gaza, some voices have expressed resilience. Resilience (by which we mean the ability of Gazan youth to manage and recover from slow violence perpetuated daily by the Israeli settler colonial regime) is present among Gazan youth in the way they divulge their faith in Allah (God) and the existing social fabric (a strong sense of family and community in Gaza persists). Furthermore, some respondents indicated that, if they do not get a job after graduation, they aim to initiate some private project, continue looking for work, work with parents or neighbours, or look for online work, as well as take training courses and complete postgraduate studies:

“I was affected, but one of our advantages as Palestinians is that we make miracles out of our inhibitions, as we struggle and make something… In terms of individual salvation, I can say that I am now working on an online platform… and I am getting income” (A, North Gaza, March, 2023)

To sum up, our report concludes that the serious and permanent slow violence that Gazan youth find themselves experiencing daily is a clear reflection of the gross violations of the IHL, Geneva Conventions, the political repression, the economic strangulation, the blatant racism, apartheid and creeping genocide that the Israeli settler colonial enterprise subjects them and their fellow Gazans to on a regular, daily basis. The dire situation and status of Gazan youth mental health is what we expose here and call upon policymakers across the globe to address this situation – as an urgent, humanitarian crisis – honestly, fairly and deeply. This is a subject which involves 25% of all refugees in the world and the longest-running injustice of the 20th (-21st) century. Because Gazan youth’s every day is decided by Israel’s colonial rule it is in effect more than a humanitarian crisis: it is politically, economically, and consciously driven, the permanent occupation of Palestinian territories lead by the principal vehicle of the blockade in Gaza, continual Israeli aggressions, with Gazan youth suffering the brunt of all this slow violence, alongside domestic political divisions. In most policy circles, fear and censorship – both internal and external – are concurrent with economic imperialism, rule the discussions. Despite the routine suffering of Gazan youth’s mental health, institutionalized power enforces silence. As academics we still have an open space through which we can shed light on these important issues: But these windows are also being closed off. The ongoing brutal and inhumane reality of so many young lives in Gaza sheds light on the tools and mechanisms of slow violence that Israel’s oppression involves. In this project, we seek to give the front stage to the victims of this violence with the hope that those in power step forward and take the required ethical and moral action to bring an end to this inhumane treatment of so many young lives and to offer some rays of hope for their future.

Epilogue

While writing this blog, Israel struck Gaza once again, with 40 warplanes and helicopters hitting homes, causing fear among residents. The Gaza health ministry reports that at least

21 were killed including 6 children, 3 women, and 2 elderly people. . This current intentional Israeli aggression adds yet another layer of fear, despair and hopelessness amongst Gazan society, which is already, as we discussed above, a target of slow violence attempting to erase Gazans’ sense of the future. When will the powers take action?

As part of an 8-month engagement in one of the ‘hotspot islands’ in Greece, Ignacia Ossul Vermehren shares insights into how FGM/C is an invisible yet pressing issue for female asylum seekers.

Despite its deadly and widespread presence female genital mutilation/cutting^[1] (FGM/C) remains a taboo, particularly in Europe. Managing a Women’s & Girls Safe Space and collaborating with Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) in Samos, Greece, I saw how big an issue this is, and how little is currently understood about it.

FGM/C is a type of harmful traditional practice – grouped with child marriage and virginity testing – which involves the partial or total removal of external female genitalia or other injury to female genital organs for non-medical reasons. Present in 92 countries, it is estimated that at least 200 million women and girls have undergone FGM/C. It is entangled in complex relations with culture, economy, politics, and religion, in many cases is a vehicle for women to get married, and thus access resources and acceptance in their communities.

However, FGM/C is a violation of the human rights of women and girls, and it is grounds for International Protection for asylum seekers. In practice, though, despite an increase in the percentage of women and girls potentially affected by FGM/C who arrive in Europe, there are multiple obstacles for survivors to claim asylum and receive the medical, legal and psychological support they need.

In a hostile environment in which violence against asylum seekers consistently increases in Europe – including against women and girls and boys – “the practice of FGM is unfortunately often instrumentalised to serve an anti-migrant and racist agenda.” As a result, upholding human rights has become a challenge, and more needs to be done to provide consistent and dignified support for women and girls in the asylum procedure.

Forced displacement – why women leave home

Whilst women’s motives for leaving their communities amidst humanitarian crises are not dissimilar to those of men, the effects of violence, war, displacement, climate change have specific costs for women. An increase in gender-based violence (both conflict related and domestic violence), early child marriage due to scarce resources in a household, and deprioritising of food consumption for women and girls, are just a few.

There are several reasons why only one fifth of asylum seekers in Greece in 2021 were women and girls. In a long and difficult journey, women are at a higher risk of sexual exploitation and trafficking than men and tend to have fewer financial means to pay for the high cost of the trip. Adolescents, older women and women with disabilities are at an even higher risk. Hence, women are less likely to take expensive, high-risk routes into Europe, such as through Turkey and Libya and on to the Greek islands, The Balkans or Italy. Instead, women tend to move within their country of origin, constituting a much larger proportion of internally displaced population and/or settle in neighbouring countries. Being in the minority means that women’s needs are      deprioritised.

By the end of 2021 and first semester of 2022, most of the women arriving to the Greek island of Samos – the first of the Aegean islands to build a Closed-Controlled Reception Centre as part of the  ‘hotspots approach’  – were from Somalia, Sierra Leone, DRC, Chad and Cameroon. All are countries widely affected by FGM/C.

“When we get our period, we get sick and it is difficult to move”

For five months between November 2021 and March 2022, I worked for Samos Volunteers managing the only Women & Girls Safe Space (WGSS) for asylum seekers and refugees on the island. WGSS is a well-known strategy in humanitarian action to facilitate support, information, and empowerment of women in emergencies, where sharing concerns and finding collective solutions is a key goal. In this context, many women raised specific concerns around FGM/C and access to healthcare.

In a series of participatory workshops on access to health care^[2] women identified the key issues that affect survivors. They mentioned frequent urinary tract infections, extreme pain during periods, complications during childbirth, difficulties having sex and depression among others. They said:

“In the camp the bed bunks are very high, they are difficult to reach if you have your period”

“When we get our period, we get sick and it is difficult to move.”[3]

“The women in the camp are suffering because we don’t get the healthcare we need.”

 

The fact that most women raised FGM/C as an important issue provides important, if anecdotal, evidence of how widespread the issue is in the asylum seekers’ community. However, according to UNHCR, during 2017 alone, 24,000 women and girls could potentially have already been affected by FGM at the time of their asylum application in the EU.

Not all women were against the practice, but all of them agreed that it had serious health consequences for their bodies, particularly for those that had undergone infibulation^[4]. Some went even further and spoke out against the practice altogether, stating that they wouldn’t not do it to their daughters:

“No more girls should go through female genital mutilation, it needs to stop.”

 

The asylum system is broken – and it is failing women seriously

Claiming asylum is a human right. The Greek Asylum Service conducts interviews to identify those people that should be granted asylum based on their vulnerabilities. However, as seen in Samos and in further evidence from the End FGM European network, there are serious obstacles for granting international protection to survivors of FGM/C.

The case of Samos showed the following:

• Lack of information available for asylum seekers: Women claiming asylum tended to be unaware that they were entitled to international protection if they experienced physical and/or psychological consequences due to FGM. The grassroots legal NGOs working on the island provide information, however their capacity is limited and do not focus on gender issues. For example, they said that women tend to contact them less than men to inquire about legal information.
• Interview mechanism is not geared to support FGM/C survivors: Asylum seekers had the perception that interviewers were not trained to discuss the topic. For those that did mention it in their interview, they did not know if this was translated correctly by the interpreter or if it was a topic that the interviewer had been trained for. Furthermore, applicants need to bring this up in the first interview or use the 5 days after their asylum interview to submit new evidence, after which FGM/C will not be considered in their application, an incredible tight deadline for women that have just arrived in Europe after a long journey.
• Evidence of physical and psychological consequences is hard to gather: Being a survivor of FGM/C is not sufficient to receive international protection in Greece, and furthermore the law states that vulnerable persons “should be certified by a medical certificate issued by a public hospital or by an adequately trained doctor of a public sector health care service provider”. This is challenging as hospital certificates takes a longer time and although MSF could provide with a certificate for the interview, this may be not deemed enough.
• Lack of awareness of the medical, legal and psychological staff: There also seems to be a lack of training for medical and other professionals involved about how to communicate, diagnose and support survivors working in the hospital.
• Women have normalised it and/or are ashamed: For women coming from countries or communities affected by FGM/C, the health difficulties associated tend to be normalised, and thus are not in the forefront when discussing their health and wellbeing during the asylum interview. Some said that they did not know that it was relevant and/or a practice known in Europe.

As a consequence, FGM/C tends to go unnoticed in the asylum application process – and thus, women and girls, do not receive the protection and support they need.

More coordination and gender-sensitive support is needed for female asylum seekers

Collaborating with MSF in Samos during April to June 2022, we developed a dossier based on feedback from survivors to train and raise awareness of FGM/C within the humanitarian response. The purpose was to provide top line information to female asylum seekers about the support available as soon as they arrive to the island. The trainings also included a session for the NGOs medical staff on the island, raising awareness to Health Promoters in MSF and working closely with the affected community. Developing a dossier like this is a fundamental first step to highlight the importance of an issue that is under researched, under implemented and misunderstood in the Greek asylum seeker system.

Despite this initial effort, more coordinated work is needed across the five ‘hotspot islands’ and mainland Greece to raise awareness, work hand-in-hand with survivors to develop more information and support sessions, train NGOs and State staff on the topic, and ultimately change the fact that women are not guaranteed consistent gender-sensitive treatment when they seek protection in Europe. As one of the participants raised in the workshop:

“We thought that in Europe we would get the respect that we deserve as women, but that has not been the case.”

__________

[1] The word “cutting”, avoiding the term “mutilation” on its own, is used by researchers and international development agencies to engage with the complexity of the practice in a more culturally sensitive manner.

[2] Workshops conducted during January and February 2022 with 20 women staying at the Closed-Controlled Reception Centre in Samos. They had arrived in the last 1 to 6 months. The participants were between 17-45 years old and all of them were from African countries.

[3] Quotes from women that participated in the workshops, they have all given their consent to publish them. Their names, ages and nationalities have not been used to protect their identities.

[4] Infibulation or type 3 is the narrowing of the vaginal orifice with creation of a covering seal by cutting and apposition the labia minora and/or the labia majora, with or without excision of the clitoris.

__________

Ignacia Ossul Vermehren is currently deployed to Ukraine as the Gender Coordinator for Oxfam. She holds a PhD from DPU-UCL.

Introduction

This housing story follows the journey of Mum and Dad, who also happen to be my parents. Characteristically, Mum is Fire while Dad is Ice, but their housing visions and strategies ultimately align in response to two major themes. Through conversations with both characters supported by secondary sources, this essay illuminates the notion of social networks for housing and their socio-economic advantage (or lack thereof) to individuals. Secondly, this essay explores residential land-use conversion, where for specific reasons, residents are displaced because of informal and gradual residential to commercial land-use changes.

 

Starting in the backhouse

Mum and Dad began their housing story at 30 Aramide Street, Ikeja, Lagos. Dad had lived in the compound since 1990 after he migrated from the nearby city of Ibadan. Mum had also relocated to Lagos in 1986 but only joined Dad in 30 Aramide after their wedding in 1994. The couple were part of the massive immigration into Lagos, contributing to the rapid population growth from 350,000 in 1950 to 25,615,703 today (MEPB, 2019).

30 Aramide belonged to Dad’s father, Papa. Papa bought the three-bedroom detached house on a 1247 sqm plot of land in 1963 from the Western Nigerian Housing Corporation (WNHC), a public organisation mandated with the “development, construction and management of housing estates” (Onibokun, 1971) for the Western Region of Nigeria. The establishment of the First Republic of Nigeria in 1963 sub-divided the federal government into four semi-autonomous regions, rendering WNHC a federal entity. On the promise of a new country, WNHC ambitiously established the Ikeja Industrial Estate “consist[ing] of 500 acres developed for industrial establishments and ­­300 acres for housing” (Abiodun, 1976, p.343). Aramide Street was intended to accommodate higher-income managerial staff facilitating the Estate establishment. While WNHC hoped to accommodate lower-income workers in apartment blocks (ibid.) and offer more accessible payment plans, they did not urgently address this agenda. Instead, by the Corporation’s dissolution in 1966 (after the Republic’s first coup), only 505 homes[1] were built and all were sold for GBP1000 to GBP4000 to “top government and quasi-government officials, professionals, big businessmen, and high-ranking politicians” (Stren, 1972, p.504 cited Ogunpola 1969, p. 3). With friends in high places and USD4200 to spare, Papa secured freehold ownership of 30 Aramide.

Papa initially leased 30 Aramide to Chinese expatriate families. In 1973, however, Papa’s seventh child moved into the main house, while the ninth child moved into a newly built structure behind the main house called the backhouse… all at no cost. The backhouse was a small sand-crete one-bedroom bungalow with an open-air kitchen. In 1990, the seventh child moved into his own home, the ninth child relocated to the main house, and Dad (the eleventh child) moved into the backhouse. By 1973, seeking rental income on 30 Aramide was challenging. Nigeria was recovering from civil war, and the Western Region had been further divided into Lagos State and Western State. With such political instability, the country was not in a position to focus on industrial development. Besides, Papa was more than happy not to receive any financial income from 30 Aramide. As far as he was concerned, providing a soft landing for his young adult children in Lagos’s harsh environment was profit enough.

Naturally, the children were delighted to accept Papa’s benevolence because living in 30 Aramide was an opportunity they could not pass. Accommodation costs in Lagos have always been high. In fact, high rents in Lagos contributed to the national general strikes in 1964, and despite increases in minimum wages, rent continued to rise disproportionately (Stern,1972, p.503). In particular, Mum and Dad moved to Lagos at the peak of crisis caused by an economic emergency imposed by the Babangida military regime in 1985, followed by International Monetary Fund Structural Adjustments programmes in 1986. The naira had devalued from NGN0.77/USD in 1984 to NGN7.39/USD in 1990 (Iyatse, 2021). A state-imposed forex embargo encouraged a booming parallel market that demanded NGN10.70/USD (ibid.). In such conditions, how did people without generous families cope? This excerpt by Koenigsberger (1970, p.394) gives a clue: “Available accommodation became overcrowded, clandestine settlements sprang up on the outskirts of the big cities and squatters occupied open grounds near the city centres”.

Without Papa’s generosity, Mum and Dad could not afford to live in such a well-connected location. Fair enough, it was not on the Island.[2] Still, it was close enough to essential transport routes and the Lagos State Government Secretariat. Additionally, if Mum contributed rent towards her matrimonial home, she would not have been able to maintain her two-bedroom rented apartment for twelve years, where all her younger siblings lived at some point… free of charge. Papa and Mum recognised the value of oh-so-common rent-free family houses: Assets that mitigate against the social costs of poverty, particularly in contexts that lack well-developed social security systems such as Lagos (paraphrased from Korboe, 1992).

 

Fixing the backhouse

For a bachelor like Dad, the backhouse had been perfectly adequate. The ninth child had made modifications to include a living room and a dining room; The space satisfied necessary storage, rest, and wash functions. However, Mum had been accustomed to a different standard of living and things would have to change. Some of the modifications were necessary. For instance, the cooking-gas tank residing inside the small kitchen was rightly relocated outdoors. Mum and Dad had just begun building their businesses, and almost all discretionary income was reinvested in their respective ventures. Therefore, modifications were undertaken incrementally and within a tight budget, probably formulated by the ever-frugal Dad. In this case, incremental should not be mistaken for continual. Improvements were few and far between because the couple was willing to wait until they had saved enough money to afford the quality of construction they desired. Till today, Mum would say, “I don’t manage,” and the backhouse was structurally sufficient that they never had to.

Having avoided the cost of residential rent, the couple later indulged in less necessary improvements. Mum fondly recalls the most luxurious modification that literally transformed the couple’s life. In 1998, they converted a large closet into an en-suite bathroom fitted with white tiles and green sanitary wares to ease the burdens of caring for their first-born child (me). Green for no other reason than the joy it sparked in Mum. While they were at it, they repainted all the furniture in the main bedroom a glossy bright green to match the new bathroom. The backhouse served many vital functions for the young family. After all, Mum’s social stationery printing press started in its dining room. However, it was only a matter of time before they maxed out on modification value potential and outgrew their first home.

 

Moving to the main house

Eventually, Mum and Dad moved from the backhouse to the main house under exceptional circumstances. One would have expected the ninth child to leave the main house soon, Dad would move in, and the twelfth child would replace him in the backhouse. But when Papa died in 1999, he willed 30 Aramide to Dad. Papa had freehold ownership of 30 Aramide before the 1978 Land Use Act of Nigeria, “vest[ed] all Land compromised in the territory of each State (except land vested in the Federal government or its agencies) solely in the Governor of the State” (Federation of Nigeria, 1990). After the Land Use Act was ratified, his freehold ownership was replaced with 100-year leasehold ownership signed by the Lagos State Governor. Dad inherited the leasehold with 79 years left on the dial. Why Papa would will this valuable asset to his eleventh child in the backhouse instead of the ninth child in the main house, no one would say. Either way, Mum and Dad relocated to the main house, while the ninth child returned to the backhouse, thus breaking the established tenure arrangement in the family house. Indeed, the couple greatly appreciated the unfortunately circumstanced opportunity. Not only had they outgrown the backhouse, but the main house came with authoritative perks over the entire compound. For instance, they now controlled the operations of the electricity generator, essentially dictating the power supply on behalf of all residents in 30 Aramide – a fantastic privilege considering the incessant power outages that still plague Nigeria.

In 1999, the country had just ended a brutal military dictatorship and turned a new leaf as the Fourth Republic. The economy was on the up; Mum and Dad could have afforded to leave 30 Aramide and relocate to the Island where they would be closer to friends, and Dad could avoid the painful commute to his law firm. Instead, they decided to remain in Ikeja for the following reasons. Firstly, Mum had relocated her printing press to the boys’ quarters of 21 Aramide and wanted to stay within walking distance. Secondly, the couple had already been working the angles to secure a position for their first child in one of the city’s best schools nearby. Lastly, the Island notoriously flooded during the rainy season as the drainage infrastructure for the water-logged landscape was woefully inadequate. Paying rent on a home that flooded annually did not seem like good value for money. Remaining on the Mainland – on solid ground – did.

 

Changes on Aramide street

Unfortunately, the couple’s tenure in 30 Aramide would not last long owing to land-use changes on Aramide Street. In the 1970s, there had been about 60 households. Then came a Chinese restaurant, replacing a residential unit, followed by a furniture store and a logistics centre. The arrival of a mini-mall cemented the fate of the street as commercial. By 2001, only six households remained on Aramide Street. Some new businesses did little to amend the architecture of the homes, while others erected purpose-built offices. Observing the commercial land-use demands in Ikeja, the Lagos State government reactively demarcated some WNHC-zoned residential areas as commercial in the Ikeja Land Use Map of 1982[3] (Oduwaye and Enisan, 2011). Aramide Street is sure to have been rezoned. According to Mum, the transformation on Aramide Street was inevitable. The road was a major thoroughfare linking Alausa, Allen Avenue and Oba Akran Avenue, all major institutional/industrial areas. On the day of the Ikeja Cantonment Bomb Blast,[4] she recalls watching tens of thousands of people flood her street on foot, walking past her gate and observing her in her home. It was then that, with disdain, she realised she lived on the main road.

The tension between the desire for privacy and the reality of exposure was a historical theme for residents of Aramide Street. In 1980, all households replaced their steel mesh and hedge fences with tall brick walls. Every family also had a mai guard[5] who lived in a small gatehouse and provided base-level security[6] for free accommodation and a stipend. Dad went the extra mile and acquired eleven guard dogs. Yet, no measure was enough to fend off crime in light of the depletion of residential homes. The thought process of a criminal was that if no one was watching, one could easily get away with it. So it was, that when 30 Aramide stood between two commercial entities from 1999, several mid-night attempts were made to break into the compound. Mum suffered from anxiety and insomnia, but despite her worries, she did not comment on wanting to leave 30 Aramide.

Dad was grateful to live in 30 Aramide cost-free. But he certainly held no sentimental attachment to the home. It simply is not his nature. He had received many financially enticing offers for 30 Aramide, and he recalls feeling the pressure to be rational. Although, as someone who always plays the long game, he probably could have remained in 30 Aramide, knowing one of the eleven dogs could protect him. Yet, it took only one successful armed robbery attack in November 2001 for the pressure to be rational (financially) and responsible (for his family) to give way.  A week later, he accepted a ten-year leasehold offer from a bank that would pay a substantial lump sum and another payment for demolishing 30 Aramide. He broke the news on an unassuming evening, informing Mum that she had just two weeks to find a new home before the Bank took possession.

Lessons learned

Mum and Dad have since rented a three-bedroom home and now own a four-bedroom house. Both homes are in the gated community of Lira Housing Association (LIRA) Ikeja, a seven-minute walk from 30 Aramide. While their housing story has evolved, the threat of residential land-use conversion persists. Ikeja, in particular, has experienced a reduction in residential land from the initially planned 41 percent to 28.4 percent in 2010. Meanwhile, commercial land has increased from 9.5 percent to 46.06 percent. (Oduwaye and Enisan, 2011). Oosterbaan et al. (2012) highlight the widespread nature of residential to commercial conversations in sub-Saharan African cities. The process is typically informal, and many businesses promoting this phenomenon are small-scale. In response to the violation of land-use legislation, the Lagos State Physical Planning Authority (LASPPPA) is clamping down by sealing uncomplying buildings and imposing charges (Edeme, 2021; Olasunkanmi, 2021). However, Oosterbaan et al. (2012, p.63) rightly note that such sanctions could either stifle economic vitality or prove ineffective “considering the widespread, informal nature of the process, and the inadequate capacity of planning agencies to enforce such a law” (ibid.).

At a community level, LIRA is one of the few housing associations off the main road to resist land-use conversion. Aramide Street and the adjacent Adeniyi Jones Avenue remain favoured commercial axes, and businesses that cannot afford units on the main roads seek cheaper leases within housing associations. By joining the association, every resident within LIRA has agreed never to use, sell or rent their property for commercial purposes. The Executive Council – where Dad served as vice-chairman – fiercely enforces this rule to the extent that a fellow resident has been sued for using their property as an Airbnb. The resident claims an Airbnb does not qualify as a commercial enterprise, but the Council begs to differ. The case is presently pending in court.

­­­Is preserving the land use of LIRA worth the cost? To Mum and Dad, the answer is a vehement yes. Reflecting on the experience of being displaced from 30 Aramide, Dad says the following: “I have a right to safety and privacy. I should be able to stand on my balcony, let my guard down and wave at my neighbours. I should not have to deal with a restaurant or office and their associated trouble, traffic and strangers disturbing my peace. If the government cannot defend those rights, should we not do it ourselves?” The contradiction lies in the fact that Mum would not have been able to use the boys’ quarters of 21 Aramide and later the main house of 26 Aramide for her now thriving printing press presently on 24 Aramide if it were not for the informal conversion processes she opposes today. She would have been dragged to court, which would have been the end of her business. The real question should be, what determines a city’s spatial organisation? The neatly laid colour blocks on a map, the instincts of citizens, or both?

Note

The names of Aramide Street and Lira Housing Association (LIRA) have been altered to anonymise the identities of the main characters.

 

References

Abiodun, J. O. (1976). Housing problems in Nigerian cities. The Town Planning Review, 47(4), pp.339-347.

Dad(2022, April). Interview about 30 Aramide Street.

Edeme, V. (2021, November 19). Lagos govt decries conversion of residential buildings for commercial uses. Punch Nigeria. [online] Accessed April 22, 2022. Available at: https://punchng.com/lagos-govt-decries-conversion-of-residential-buildings-for-commercial-uses/

Federation of Nigeria (1990) Land Use Act, Laws of the Federation of Nigeria (ed)

Iyatse, G. (2021, October 18). Osinbajo’s prescription and painful history of naira devaluation. The Guardian Nigeria. [online] Accessed April 9, 2022. Available at: https://guardian.ng/business-services/osinbajos-prescription-and-painful-history-of-naira-devaluation/

Koenigsberger, O. (1970) Housing in the National Development Plan: An Example from Nigeria. Ekistics, 180.

Korboe, D. (1992). Family-houses in Ghanaian cities: To be or not to be?. Urban Studies, 29(7), pp.1159-1171.

Ministry of Economic Budget and Planning’ MEPB’ (2019) Lagos Socio-Economic Profile. [online] Available at: http://mepb.lagosstate.gov.ng/wp-content/uploads/sites/29/2019/11/11.0-LAGOS-SOCIO-ECONOMIC-PROFILE.pdf

Mum (2022, April). Interview about 30 Aramide Street.

Oduwaye, L. & Enisan, G. (2011). Effects of Global Economy on Spatial Structure of Ikeja. Proceedings REAL CORP, pp.1257-1265.

Ogunpola, G. A. (1969). The functioning of a statutory corporation: the case of Western Nigeria Housing Corporation 1958-1966. Quarterly Journal of Administration, 4(1), pp.31-44.

Olasunkanmi, O. (2021, March 3). Lagos set to enforce converted property in government schemes. Lagos State Official Government Website. [online] Accessed April 9, 2022. Available at: https://lagosstate.gov.ng/blog/2021/03/03/lasg-set-to-enforce-converted-property-in-government-schemes/

Onibokun, G. A. (1971). Housing finance in Nigeria: A critical survey of private and public sources. The Town Planning Review, 42(3), pp.277-292.

Oosterbaan, C., Arku, G., & Asiedu, A. B. (2012). Conversion of residential units to commercial spaces in Accra, Ghana: A policy dilemma. International Planning Studies, 17(1), 45-66.

Stren, R. (1972). Urban Policy in Africa: A Political Analysis. African Studies Review, 15(3), pp.489-516.

The Birmingham Post (1963, October 1) Swamp becomes industrial estate. The Birmingham Post, p.14

[1] 505 homes in all housing estates, including the Bodija Estate, Ibadan and the Ikeja Industrial Estate, Lagos.

[2] Lagos is divided into the Mainland and the Island. The Island is home to Lagos Island and Victoria Island, which serve as the city’s Business Districts.

[3] The Ikeja Land Use Map (1982) is not publicly accessible

[4] A armoury explosion at the Ikeja Military Cantonment that killed 1,100 people and displaced over 20,000.

[5] A security personnel. Typically, a rural-urban immigrant. The concept of a mai guard deserves its own housing story.

[6] They did not have any security training but acted as eyes on the street.

 

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.

Upon Israel’s establishment in 1948, a public and national housing block(s) programme, referred to in Hebrew as shikun or shikunim (plural), was established to provide dwellings to Jewish refugees and immigrants. The shikunim, the most common dwelling form in Israel, became increasingly controversial, leading to political strife, as well as turning into a symbol of the nation’s birth and of the Israeli government’s discriminating treatment of Mizrahi Jews,[1] most of who became the shikunim residents.

In this housing story, I choose to make a genealogical research and write about the life journey of Ilana Nouriely, my grandmother, and its socio-political meaning, during three time periods between 1928-2021. In order to do so, I made interviews with my close family – mother, and four aunts and uncles. I searched for news articles and governmental and organisational reports regarding the Israeli housing blocks’ conditions as well. I aim to echo the feminist statement that the personal is the geopolitical, as well as to illustrate the fascinating interlinks between geopolitics and various housing and land policies in Israel.

My story will begin with presenting shortly Ilana’s undocumented life story in Tehran, Iran. I will move on to focus on her first years in the Israeli shikun, and then to depict the time period in her second shikun apartment, after the loss of her husband. Finally, I will conclude the story by describing her last few years in her third shikun apartment, where she had to move because of an urban renewal project.

 

Introduction

Our story begins in 1928 at the city of Kashan, the Imperial State of Iran. Iran Nour-Mahmoodi, named after the country, was born in an undocumented address and date. We have no details about her childhood, not even some kind of a family story. Iran was married or forced to be married with Eliyahu at the age of 14. In an unknown date they moved to the Imperial State’s capital, Tehran – but we do not know exactly where to. By 1965 the couple extended the family and had 9 children. In 1968, a year after the Israeli-Arab Six-Day War, and after one of their children had immigrated before to Israel, the Persian-Jewish couple decided to follow him and continue their life in a new environment.

The Shikun as a Frontier

As they arrived to Israel’s airport, they encountered for the first time with one of the government’s main policies – the population dispersal policy. The officials in the airport told Iran that the family must move to Israel’s capital, Jerusalem. However, and unlike many other new immigrants, Iran already had a brother who lived in Qiryat Ono, a small town and a suburb of Tel-Aviv city, in the centre of country. The brother who immigrated to Israel in the 1950s and knew how the government treats the Mizrahi immigrants, told Iran to refuse to move to Jerusalem, thus she and her family could live next to him. After putting some pressure, Iran agreed to go alone to Jerusalem and see where the officials wanted to settle them. In Jerusalem, the authorities wanted the family to settle in the shikunim of the frontier neighborhood of Katamonim. When Iran got back to the airport the decision was clear – the family refused to evacuate. In a very unique behaviour, the family waited until 12am, when the officials blinked first and agreed to settle them in two shikun apartments – door to door – in the 4th floor of building in Qiryat Ono, Avraham Yair Stern Street 2. The family went up the stairs at night in the dark, because the electricity was not connected, and got some used beds from the Jewish Agency. Each apartment had two bedrooms, and the older and younger children splitted into each.

 

Israel’s population dispersal policy, by settling Mizrahi immigrants in shikunim, aimed to fulfill at least three formal Zionist ideological wishes (Kipnis, 1988). First, securing control over the new national land and its essential resources, thus strengthening the national security. Second, securing Jewish demographic majority in each of the areas of the national territory. Third, securing that the territorial space will be used only for the Jewish nationality. Nevertheless, it appears that this policy had three other concealed objectives (Yiftachel and Meir, 1998). First, using Jewish settlement to constitute an Ashkenazi[2] narrative of nation-building by implementing collective values of “desert conquest” and “land redemption”. Second, the policy assists the dominant Ashkenazi population in taking control of the lands where Palestinians had settled before. Third, the policy’s implementation distanced the Mizrahi Jews from the power and capital centres by turning them into a settler force. However, simultaneously, they allegedly become partners to the nation building project. Thereby, they were included within the new Israeli-Jewish nation, but in an inferior standpoint that reveals us the racialised power relations.

Dispersing Mizrahi Jews in neighborhoods such as the Katamonim is just one example of the constitution of the Israeli frontier and of Israel’s frontier settler society, especially since the 1967 Six-Day War, when Israel occupied many new territories such as Gaza Strip and the West Bank. Kemp (1999, p. 82) defines frontier as “the spread of settlers into new areas, mostly in stateless societies but during state expansion as well”. She suggests that the frontier cultural discourse in Israel after 1967 War became a border-blurring mechanism that prevented, at the same time, the annexation of and the withdrawal from the Palestinian occupied territories. Following Yiftachel (1996), since 1967 War, neighborhoods such as the Katamonim can be seen as an “internal frontier”, which is “zones (physical or mental) within the spatial boundaries of existing states or cultures, into which the expansion of the core society is sought” (p. 494). Yiftachel (1996) argues that the hegemonic group uses the ethos of frontier development and the power of the state to take control of marginalised group’s territories. In the Israeli case, this mechanism was not operated only to limit the Palestinian minority’s living space, but also justified the population dispersal policy, the poor socio-economic conditions of Mizrahi Jews in Israel’s periphery and the state’s political, cultural and economic control over them.

The Shikun During the Neo-Liberal Shift

While settling in, Iran’s name was changed by the government officials to Ilana Nouriely, in order it to be “Israeli”. Eliyahu started to work in one of the most known government’s factories (“Ossem”) and Ilana started to baby-sit other families’ children, in order them to pay the monthly rent to the governmental company owning the apartments, “Amidar”. In 1977, the right-wing “Herut” party won for the first time the elections and started slowly to promote a new housing policy – the privatisation of the public housing stock. A significant discount was made and the couple was able to buy the two shikun apartments for 18,000 Israeli Liras (pounds) each, while taking loans from family relatives and friends. However, many other shikun residents in the neighbourhood did not have this privilege or decided they prefer to continue and pay the low rent.

From that point on, things started to deteriorate. In 1985, Eliyahu passed away from a brutal cancer disease and Ilana was left suddenly alone, only with her youngest child living in the apartment. She decided to sell one of the apartments, rent the other, and to buy her second shikun apartment in the first floor of the same building. But one way or the other, the “outside” began to reflect her feelings “inside”. The shikun itself has been neglected as the Israeli neo-liberal capitalist regime has become more and more dominant. The staircase started to crack, the common yard has become empty of playful children and its grass went dry, the building entrance’s pavement started to have some bumps, and more and more abandoned and sick cats were seen around. It was if the time stopped. Nobody – from the municipal or governmental authorities nor any dwellers committee – took responsibility over the deteriorated conditions, and wealthier population moved away while the poor entered the shikunim (the residualisation process). It appeared the communities and the sense of community disappeared.

At first sight the privatisation policy appears completely different from the quasi-socialist public housing policy. However, reexamining the two policies shows us they are both subjected to the same spatial racialised logic. Unlike the recent critical literature, Yacobi and Tzfadia (2019) argue the neo-liberal policy of selective privatisation of space should be understood through Israel’s neo-setter-colonial politics that allow us expose new mechanism of colonial control. In fact, this new process in that time was only an adaption of Israel’s ethno-national model to the “free market” logic. I.e., the “free” market, which usually is presented as colour blind and neutral, just deepened the marginalisation of Palestinians and Mizrahi Jews (Tzfadia, 2010). As for Mizrahi Jews, it could be explained that after 1977 elections when an imagined “threat” has been created that their socio-economic class will be elevated, the privatisation was used as an answer to oppress them and transfer material capital to the hands of the Ashkenazi hegemony’s hands. As for Palestinians, the privatisation enabled to use new Western economic and militaristic tools, forces and industries to deepen the control over the Palestinian occupied territories and demonstrate its profitability.

 

The Shikun Demolition: “Evacuation-Construction” Project

In 1998, the Israeli Urban Renewal Project, “Evacuation-Construction” (“Pinuy-Binuy” as referred to in Hebrew), was declared as an official policy by the Housing and Labour Ministry. The new national project takes place by several steps. First, the Construction and Housing Ministry declares an urban plot as an “Evacuation-Construction” site. Second, the majority of the dwellers in the site must agree to sign a contract with the project promoters, that promises the dwellers’ right to new apartments in the same size in the new building after the renewal. The dwellers also get funding for them to rent other houses until the project will be finished. Third, the project itself starts with an often-celebrated demolition of the shikunim, and eventually the dwellers get their new apartments and the promoter sales the remain apartments.

The awaited advantages of the Renewal Project are as follow (Hasson, 2014): First, condensing the cities without harming open spaces, upgrading the public space, and restraining suburbanisation; Second, strengthening from economic and security aspects the inhabitants of poor neighbourhoods by returning them more expensive new apartments with residential secure spaces against rockets and earthquakes (“Mamad” as referred in Hebrew); And third, the enlargement of the housing stock in order to increase the housing supply.

During 2010-2020 an estimated 5% of the housing construction starts were an “Evacuation-Construction” projects, almost all of them in the Israel’s centre or Jerusalem (State Comptroller of Israel, 2016). As a result of the establishment of the Urban Renewal Authority as a branch in the Housing Ministry, this number is expected to continue to grow. The first plan was launched in 2001 in Qiryat Ono, right next to where Ilana lived her entire life. It was clearly chosen because of the high housing prices in what that became a prestigious suburb in the country’s centre. In 2014 the plan was declared as successful by the companies and authorities. 11 first new high buildings were built and 517 apartments were occupied by the residents – 270 of them by former residents Jerusalem (State Comptroller of Israel, 2016).  In 2017 the second plan in the city was completed.

At the same year, the third plan was set to start. This time the target was Ilana’s and her neighbours’ shikunim. Ilana had to rent a new shikun apartment and to move unwillingly in the age of 89. Until her apartment was ready, she already passed away.

The Renewal Project policy continues to operate within Israel’s spatial and racialised logic, but unlike the “usual” privatisation processes, it adds to the equation the demolition of the shikunim and their symbolic cargo. Cohen and Yacobi (2020) argue that the entrepreneurial projects are focused on maximising entrepreneurs’ private profits, and are expressing the idea that the shikunim are a “defective product” that is not reparable and must be destroyed. This is despite the fact that the shikunim are almost the last location, especially in Israel’s centre, that provides affordable housing for immigrants, migrant workers, seniors and the poor.

In light of the above, many of the disadvantages of these projects are quite clear (Bimkom, 2016; Zandberg, 2016). First, the construction of dense towers exceeds the carrying capacity of the public infrastructure. Second, the maintenance of the towers is highly expensive, an issue that will contribute eventually to the displacement of the former residents from the old city centres and to the destruction of the communities. Furthermore, renters in these city areas will not be able to afford the new high rent prices and will have to leave. Third, the high towers are detached from the surroundings, a problem that could result in the negligence of public space and a rise in violence levels.

Instead of forcing the shikunim residents to bear the burden of the housing crisis in Israel, Cohen and Yacobi (2020) suggest to repair the existing shikunim, and even to add a much lower number of new apartments, so the state will provide the budgets and take the planning responsibility in order to save the urban fabric of the cities and protect marginalised groups.

As Cohen and Yacobi (2020) maintain, the shikun’s cultural representations link it to the Mizrahi culture and it became part of the Mizrahi identity, thus it is seen nowadays as a Mizrahi location. Following that, I argue that the demolition process should be understood as part of Israel’s continuous settler-colonial mechanisms. The demolition is not used only for economic profit. It falls as well into Israel’s spatial and racialised logic, that is held by Israel’s hegemonic forces who wish to erase Israel’s Mizrahi identity, and thus reinforce Israel’s self-perception as “Western” state (Shohat, 1988). Moreover, the usage of demolition as a very drastic planning tool, may indicate that the privatisation policy is not sufficient anymore in order to shift material capital to upper racial-classes who managed to enjoy the neo-liberal regime.

Epilogue

While closing this personal-geopolitical housing story of Iran-Ilana, I am thinking about storytelling in our family, about family inter-generational trauma and my grandmother’s undocumented history. It saddens me how little her life and many other shikunim residents were told, and at the same time, surprises me how much power she had to lead her big family into better future. In my mind, I remember her sitting alone in her shikun home almost all day long, listening obsessively to Iranian and Israeli news channels and radio, while the photo of my late grandfather placed on the white wall in front of her, and his eyes stare at her and vice versa. I wonder what she told him and what she felt.

 

 

[1] Jewish immigrants from Muslim states.

[2] Jewish immigrants from Europe and North America.

 

Bibliography

“Bimkom” – Planners for Planning Rights (2016). Appendix to Bimkom’s response to the chapter of the State Comptroller of Israel – “Government’s actions to promote Urban Renewal as a national requirement”.

Cohen, S. & Yacobi, H. (2020). Repair, do not demolish! In Y. Israel (Ed.), South West Jerusalem Newspaper (pp. 72-75). Black Box.

Hasson, N. (22.12.2014). The building program in south Jerusalem: Lifeline or urban disaster. Ha’aretz. Retrieved from https://www.haaretz.co.il/news/local/.premium-1.2517944

Kemp, A. (1999). The frontier idiom on borders and territorial politics in post-1967 Israel. Geography Research Forum, 19, 78–97.

Kipnis, B. (1988). Geopolitical ideologies and regional strategies in Israel. Horizons in Geography, 23/24, 35-54 [Hebrew].

Shohat, E. (1988). Sephardim in Israel: Zionism from the Standpoint of its Jewish Victims. Social Text, 19/20, 1-35.

State Comptroller of Israel (2016). Government’s actions to promote Urban Renewal as a national requirement. In State Comptroller of Israel report 66(3), pp. 1243-1304.

Tzfadia, E. (2010). Militarism and space in Israel. Israeli Sociology, 11 (2), 337-361 [Hebrew].

Yacobi, H., & Tzfadia, E. (2018). Neo‐settler colonialism and the re‐formation of territory: Privatization and nationalization in Israel. Mediterranean Politics, 24(1), 1-19. doi.org/10.1080/13629395.2017.1371900

Yiftachel, O. (1996). The internal frontier: Territorial control and ethnic relations in Israel. Regional Studies, 30(5), 493-508.

Yiftachel, O. & Meir, A. (1998). Frontiers, peripheries, and ethnic relations in Israel: An introduction. In O. Yiftachel & A. Meir (Eds.). Ethnic frontiers and peripheries: Landscapes of development and inequality in Israel (pp. 1-11). Westview Press.

Zandberg, E. (1.6.2016). The State Comptroller ignores the dramatic social consequences of the “Evacuation-Construction” method. Ha’aretz. Retrieved from https://www.haaretz.co.il/gallery/architecture/.premium-1.2963093

 

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.

By Giovanna Astolfo, Harriet Allsopp, Maciej Duszczyk, Yvonne Franz, Annegret Haase, Karlis Laksevics, Bahanur Nasya, Ieva Raubisko, Ursula Reeger, Anika Schmidt

The blog presents an initial reflection on emerging challenges that the influx of refugees from Ukraine – about 7 million people since 24 February 2022 – poses to cities and their housing infrastructures. Based on a recent exchange convened within the framework of the JPI-funded research project HOUSE-IN, it focuses on the project’s case studies (Riga, Vienna, Leipzig) and Warsaw. Cognizant of evident differences in refugee numbers and responses across the four countries, the blog discusses the role of humanitarian and state actors and that of grassroots and migrant-to-migrant solidarity, crucial in navigating a volatile and unplannable situation for the urban context. It raises questions around so-called compassion fatigue and its different facets, amongst trauma and loss; issues of temporality vis a vis austerity urbanism, inequality and precariousness; and around double standards and the enduring issue of racism at the core of housing and welcoming culture in Europe.

Referring to the influx of refugees arriving at Europe’s borders in 2015, the network Housing Europe suggested that ‘we don’t have a refugee crisis, we have a housing crisis’ (Housing Europe, 2016) that intersected with a crisis of welfare and the intensification of neoliberal practices, including privatisation and financialization of housing (Soederberg 2018). Six years on, history repeats itself. However, the current housing crisis is also distinct, as it involves a different political context, geographies and relations of proximity. Numbers are quite different, too. It is reported that more than 4 million refugees crossed from Ukraine into Poland between February and June 2022 (Polish Border Guard 2022). Estimates suggest about 2.8 million Ukrainians are currently in Poland. 30,000 people have entered Latvia, around 70,000 Austria, and 750,000 people into Germany. Back in 2015 it was unthinkable that European countries were able to accommodate these numbers. 

Another element of difference is the unpredictability of the Russian war against Ukraine, which makes it difficult to understand when, how and if refugees will actually seek refuge in third countries or will return home. An estimated 1.5 million Ukrainian have probably already returned to Ukraine. But the majority have been accommodated in private houses. In Poland, Austria, Germany and Latvia, as in other countries, people have opened their homes, marking a show of solidarity and care which equals, if not furthers, the civil society response in 2015. Within the void left by regimes of austerity urbanisms, such a strong role and effort displayed by people – and humanitarian organisations behind them – is entirely positive and fundamentally needed. Short-term fill-the-gap strategies are, however, already revealing their limits and, as the situation drags on, imperatives for state institutions to play a stronger role and for longer-term provisions increase, to reach a “much fuller register of the multiple modes of dwelling and inhabiting” (Powell and Simone, 2022, p.838). Civil society organisations in some countries have already “raised the alarm” to governments, calling for longer term housing strategies beyond the emergency response.

Four months after the beginning of the war, ‘compassion fatigue’ is already reported. Such fatigue is experienced by refugees and their hosts, and it is imbricated in the manifold paradoxes and contradictions of hospitality and care. Refugees are casualties of care (Ticktin 2011), and Ukrainians are no exception. If access to safe accommodation and housing is mostly governed through the exceptional principle of compassion and left to a common sense of obligation – whether found within grassroot solidarity or humanitarian intervention – the risk is to erode what we otherwise conceive as a universal right (to housing).

Finally, and more importantly, this current crisis, compared to 2015, demonstrates how housing, as a sociomaterial infrastructure, is governed by selective solidarity (Magni 2021) and double standards (Sanyal 2015) that expose the colonial, orientalist and essentially racist nature of migration management and welcoming culture within European societies. Comparing the kind of policies set up by the EU gives an idea of such racist double standards. While during the crisis in 2015, most policies were highly restrictive, aimed at the externalisation of asylum procedure, at the closure of borders, and criminalization of migration; with respect to the current crisis, the Commission has enabled an open border policy, removing the need for visa or residence permits, issuing funding, although within a limited timeframe, for housing and subsistence. 

A cruel manifestation of racism appears to be present also in the local management of migrants and in grassroots responses. Differential treatments between white and non-white refugees fleeing Ukraine are reported, including African students left waiting indefinitely at the border, and Roma people abused in refugee reception centres (Njai, Torres and Matache, 2022). In Poland and Latvia, people have opened their homes to Ukrainians, while pushbacks of Middle Eastern and African migrants at the border with Belarus continue, resembling what happened in Italy and Spain since 2015, with the acquiescence and participation of Frontex. 

Double standards are seen in housing, too. Our research has found that many of the people willing to rent out a flat or temporarily share their private space will do so only for white Ukrainians, e.g. in Leipzig. Refugees fleeing Ukraine can access housing via expedited routes, while long-term asylum seekers remain on waiting lists. At all levels the system favours and reproduces distinctions between wanted and unwanted, between bodies that qualify and those that do not. Those working on the ground are trapped within the reproduction of white privilege and the danger of playing off different groups of vulnerable people against each other or bringing them into unnecessary competition for empathy, support and recognition.

A closer look at the situation

The Ukrainian population in Warsaw and its vicinity is estimated at 300,000-350,000, or 12% of the region’s total population. Most were family reunifications, the reason why the influx did not yet generate a housing crisis. For refugees, Poland is a transit country, with approximately 1.9 million refugees moving on to other countries or back to Ukraine. Across Poland the solidarity response from civil society and grassroots organisations housed an incredible 600,000 (approx.) refugees in private homes. Yet, there are limits to relying on short-term approaches. Predictions that many Ulkrainians will return to and settle in Poland for winter raises questions of longer-term housing and the challenge of educational provision for 600,000-650,000 Ukrainian children within Polish schools. ‘Compassion fatigue’, ending temporary funding schemes and autonomy desires of homeowners and refugees alike, make existing support systems fragile – says Maciej Duszczyk (University of Warsaw).

Approximately 40,000 people from Ukraine have registered in Austria in the first quarter of the year (Statistik Austria 2022). Recent data suggests many have since left. Language or administrative barriers, as well as distance between Ukraine and Austria, do not make Austria a preferred destination. However, forecasts that around 200,000 more people could arrive in Austria, half of which in Vienna, make housing a significant challenge (Haas et al. 2022). Vienna’s affordable social housing system is solid but, as Bahanur Nasya (Eutropian Director) argues, it works for many not for everyone. Newcomers cannot access social housing but rely on the tight private housing market where prices are soaring. The majority of recent refugees have entered this market. However, contracts are oftentimes precarious, increasing newcomers’ vulnerability. The local government set up a stock of houses for the refugees. Yet, similar to the case of Warsaw, “welcoming culture stops at a point”. 

It is estimated that Riga has received around 10,000 people from Ukraine. Data however, is limited as to how many people stayed in Riga, how many moved to other cities. So far, the municipality has provided accommodation for around 1500 people. As Ieva Raubisko (University of Latvia) explains, Latvia has adopted a Law on Support to the Ukrainian civilians, in-line with the EU Temporary Protection directive, which stipulates a support package, including housing assistance. The support period was extended from 90 to 120 days in May 2022, following pressure from civil society organisations and municipalities on the government. Three types of housing support are now available: monetary support for rent and other expenses, based on a lease agreement between the owner, municipality and tenant; financial support to municipalities that accommodate refugees in their buildings; support to private owners who offer housing free of charge. All have caps. In another initiative, a public database was created for private owners to register properties available for refugees. So far, registration has been limited. 

Leipzig has received around 9,000 Ukrainians and is also a transit city. Ukrainians can stay for 90 days without a visa. Registration, however, offers access to social benefits for up to a year. The tight housing market and insufficient adequate low-cost housing has hindered efforts to enable asylum seekers to live in flats instead of in group or mass accommodation (e.g. Werner et al. 2019). Still, 80% of Ukrainian refugees live in private accommodation, the rest in group accommodation houses, hotels, hostels or emergency accommodation, comparable to arrival infrastructures setup in 2015 (Stadt Leipzig 2022). Response initiatives included free local transport for Ukrainians and bureaucratic processes were simplified and streamlined. Still, racism and discrimination have equally emerged. In terms of housing access, Anika Schmidt (Helmholtz-Centre for Environmental Research) argues that there is a huge difference between refugees with Ukrainian citizenship and those without it. Private owners have been known to open their flats only to refugees from Ukraine. In turn frustration has increased among refugees from other countries, resident  for a longer time, but who face greater restrictions and less support. Many wait to access the housing market, while Ukrainians are offered faster routes.

All cases point at common issues related to the politics, materiality and temporality of reception, accommodation and housing. The situation is volatile and difficult to plan for – there are no policy provisions to accommodate everyone in the long-term – despite the existence of an arrival infrastructure in certain cities since 2015. Housing is treated as a commodity not a right; austerity urbanism has eroded welfare systems; benefits exist but operate on exclusionary bases. Funding will end soon – then what? The response to the current crisis has shown great levels of solidarity from the ground-up, including migrant-led ones – and the burgeoning role of humanitarian actors taking over state roles, especially in housing provision, our research has found. This could lead to incredible outcomes: new types of relations and governance arrangements. While care and solidarity give us hope in a time of crisis, it also risks depoliticizing the housing struggle in the city. More than anything else, this current housing crisis, and related response, reveals in all its brutality the inherent colonial racism deeply embedded in the management of migration and provision of accommodation, and in the housing system itself.

 

The JPI project HOUSE-IN is led by Dr. Annegret Haase, Helmholtz Centre for Environmental Research www.ufz.de/house-in. 

 

Haas, M.; Moussa-Lipp, S.; Verlic, M. (2022): Geflüchtete aus der Ukraine am Wiener Wohnungsmarkt. A&W Blog, 27. Mai 2022. https://awblog.at/ukraine-gefluechtete-am-wiener-wohnungsmarkt/ (retrieved 13th June 2022)

Magni, G. (2021): Economic Inequality, Immigrants and Selective Solidarity: From Perceived Lack of Opportunity to In-group Favoritism. British Journal of Political Science, 51(4), 1357-1380.

Njai, A., Torres, M., Matache, M. (2022) Ukraine: the refugee double standard. Love thy neighbor, but only if they look like you? Foreign Policy in Focus. March 15, 2022. https://fpif.org/ukraine-the-refugee-double-standard/ (retrieved 20th June 2022)

Powell, R., Simone, AM. (2022): Towards a global housing studies: beyond dichotomy, normativity and common abstraction. Housing Studies, 37:6, 837-846.

Sanyal, R. (2015): Refugees and the City: An Urban Discussion. Geography Compass, 6(11), 633-644.

Soederberg, S. (2018): Governing Global Displacement in Austerity Urbanism: The Case of Berlin’s Refugee Housing Crisis. Development and Change, 50(4), 923-947.

Stadt Leipzig (2022): Unterbringung von Geflüchteten in der Zuständigkeit der Stadt Leipzig. Monatsbericht April 2022. Anlage 1 der Informationsvorlage VII-Ifo-07239. 

Statistik Austria (2022): Pressemitteilung: 12.794-092/22. https://www.statistik.at/fileadmin/announcement/2022/05/20220426BevoelkerungApril2022.pdf (retrieved 13th June 2022)

Ticktin, M. (2011) Casualties of care. Immigration and the Politics of Humanitarianism in France. University of California Press.

Werner, F., Haase, A.,   Renner, N., Rink, D.,  Rottwinkel, M., & Schmidt, A. (2018): The Local Governance of Arrival in Leipzig: Housing of Asylum-Seeking Persons as a Contested Field. Urban Planning, 3(4), 116-128. 

‘Wayn el-Dawleh!?’ (Where is the State!?) is a very popular Lebanese saying, one I heard frequently exclaimed by every member of my family, especially when the power cut in the middle of dinner. I was born in 1993, three years after the end of 15 years of conflict that ravaged the country and devastated its capital, Beirut, which my family calls home. Lebanon today is a country characterised by the nepotism, corruption and neglect of its political elite. It is no wonder, then, that nostalgia and myth-making play important roles in Lebanese society, weaving stories of a glorious past to which the country could return. I grew up with stories of Beirut’s ‘Golden Age’ before the war, when it was still known as the ‘Paris of the Middle East.’ But it was my mother who taught me those stories and she was only four years old when the civil war started in 1975. Whenever I went to my grandmother to ask about her life in pre-war Beirut, her memories were never accompanied by the same romantic nostalgia that my mother deployed.

Through my grandmother’s stories, I came to realise that the question of the State’s presence, or rather its absence, stretched beyond the country’s post-war narrative, and began with her experiences moving from home to home and adapting to a quickly changing space. By sharing my grandmother’s housing journey, this essay aims to provide an answer to the question ‘Where is the State?’ and critically examine the value of public intervention in her life. It will also investigate who and what was there in its place when the public sector was absent.

 

Growing Up in a Growing City:

Haifa, my grandmother, was born and raised in Ras el-Nabeh in 1944, one year after Lebanon had gained its independence from the French. She described the area in her youth as “nothing but farms and orchards, and a few farmhouses here and there.” Ras el-Nabeh, which is located south of Beirut’s downtown, was characterised at the time by its peri-urban agricultural landscape and the low-rise, one-to-two-storey buildings that sparsely dotted the neighbourhood. Haifa and her family lived in one such building, owned by the Nsouli family, who my grandmother explained were major landowners in the area before the war. She lived on the first floor of the building while members of their extended family occupied the ground floor apartment. This pattern of extended family members living in the same building remains a hallmark of Lebanese society to this day. My father similarly, grew up in a building where three of his eight siblings would later settle to be close to each other. My own family at one point even moved to the same neighbourhood to be close to our extended family.

 “It was spacious and comfortable. Each child had their own room and we even had two ‘salons’ (social/gathering spaces) to host guests” my grandmother said. She then added that, while the house was large, the rent was relatively cheap for Beirut at the time. All of that changed once her father developed a cardiovascular condition that would permanently prevent him from working. Her mother, who I knew as Teta Nahla (‘Grandma Nahla’), became the family’s primary provider. While she was a gifted seamstress, she could not afford to simultaneously raise a family, care for her ill husband and pay the rent on her income, so they chose to search for more affordable housing. Luckily, the local Maronite church, ‘Sayyidit Al-Najat’ (Our Lady of Deliverance), chose to develop part of their ‘waqf’ land from orchards to low-rise housing units, to provide lodging for their priests and establish income-generating assets with which they could sustain their community-focused activities.

‘Waqf’ land describes land endowed to a charitable or religious institution. Authorities in Lebanon during the French Mandate, which began in 1920 and ended in 1943, deregulated the development, functional zoning and exchangeability of ‘waqf’ lands to liberate their economic potential and contribute to the national economy (Moumtaz, 2021). Before that point, when the Ottoman Empire still controlled the Levant, lands designated as ‘waqf’ were bound in perpetuity to specific individuals or organisations and to particular functions (ibid.). These changes in land law afforded Sayyidit Al-Najat Church the opportunity to develop their ‘waqf’ for housing, which in turn granted my great-grandmother the ability to relocate her family to a nearby and more affordable household.

 

Teta Nahla had a good relationship with the local church. Though she and her family were Muslim, she was welcomed as a tenant. Like much of Beirut at the time, Ras el-Nabeh had a mixed sectarian community of Muslim and Christian households (Sadik, 1996), including my grandmother’s. In the early 1950s, my grandmother and her family moved to the ground floor of 83 Rue Des Muriers (now called Abdul Karim el-Khalil Street), two doors down from the church that owned their home. The church always renewed my great-grandmother’s rental agreement with minimal increases, despite the local currency’s devaluation through the war years, and she called that house home until she died in 2011.

As my grandmother grew, so did Beirut. The city rapidly urbanised to accommodate the large and rapid influx of foreign and local migrants who came seeking better employment. “Between 1960 and 1970, Beirut’s population more than doubled from 450,000 to 940,000” (Sadik, 1996; p.99). The Nsouli family, on whose property my grandmother grew up, took advantage of the rising demand for housing to develop a new mid-rise apartment building just across the street from my great-grandmother’s. That is where Haifa would find her first home as a young bride.

 

From Renting, to Owning, then Fleeing:

 Haifa married my grandfather Zouheir in 1966 and moved across the street from Teta Nahla in the Nsoulis’ new development. My grandfather at the time was working as a consultant for a pharmaceutical company, while my grandmother had her job in the Lebanese Central Bank (BDL). As my grandmother already had a good relationship with the family, they were able to negotiate a comfortable rental agreement for their new apartment. Beside their building, the development of another mid-rise apartment building began just a few years later, but this one provided only apartments for sale. Despite the good relationship they had with the landlord, in 1972, my grandparents purchased an apartment in the building next door. To her, renting was only a temporary solution. She asked me “Why would you place your neck beneath the hand of someone who could change the price of your home as they want whenever they want?” Her concerns about the precariousness of the rental market did not prove to be unfounded.

Lebanon has never adopted a public housing strategy (Sadik, 1996). In fact, masterplans developed for Beirut were “essentially little more than road plans” (ibid.; p.94). Planning policies that aimed to control or manage land development were never established, nor were policies regulating the rental market or housing-for-sale (ibid.). Rents in Beirut, as a result of public absence, could “claim 48% to 97% of household income” (ibid.; p.103). My grandparents covered their purchasing costs through a loan from a company named ‘American Life’, in which my grandfather had also taken up life insurance. My mother heard rumours that American Life’s office building was also shared by the American Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), though my grandmother does not corroborate this. The rumours gained more weight as, allegedly, the office building was never damaged during the war, and my mother suspects that the gossip made American Life loans more desirable, given their perceived security. I could not find any documentation for such a company in Lebanon. Of the 65,000 Lebanese Pounds (LBP) needed for the house, which equated to 20,700 US dollars (USD) at the time (Banque Du Liban, n.d.), 21,000 LBP were secured by the loan. By 1974, only 17% of Beirut residents were homeowners (Sadik, 1996), my grandparents among them. One year later, in 1975, the civil war began.

As communities migrated within Beirut and Lebanon, traditionally mixed-sect areas began to homogenise. It was in this period that the division of Beirut into a ‘Christian’ East and a ‘Muslim’ West began to materialise (Sadik, 1996). My grandmother told me that because Ras el-Nabeh was geographically located between both halves, it “saw the worst of its brutality”. Despite the clashes, they chose to stay. The Nsouli family by then had converted one of their building’s basements into a community shelter, in which my family repeatedly sought refuge from the violence. “Even when the Israelis invaded in 1982, we did not leave. But one day, in 1984, the shelling was so severe that I went up to your grandfather, told him we were leaving and that there was no conversation to be had about it.” Early one morning, they packed their belongings and fled to Raoucheh, a neighbourhood on the western shore of Beirut. For a short period of time, they lived with distant relatives. Eventually, they moved to an apartment they received free of charge from my grandfather’s employer, who was also a very good friend. They would live in that one-bedroom apartment with their three children until 1991.

 

The Price of Peace and Returning Home:

Despite the severity of the clashes and instability brought by multiple crises, my grandparents chose to invest in real estate. In 1982, just before the Israeli invasion, they purchased a flat in Ain Jdideh, in the mountains south of Beirut. Later in the 80s, they purchased another flat in Aramoun, in the mountains to the south-east. Both purchases were facilitated by my grandmother’s access to loans from the Central Bank that were granted specifically to BDL employees at low interest rates (2.5%). While both apartments were kept for their investment potential, they were not purchased initially for that purpose. My grandparents felt a need to build a new home outside of the city, where the clashes at the time were not as violent.

Both apartments were purchased prior to their respective building’s completion but my grandparents never had the chance to enjoy their new properties once they were built. The first apartment in Ain Jdideh was looted during the Israeli invasion, and the second apartment in Aramoun became too dangerous a location as clashes in the south of the country intensified toward the end of the 1980s. Despite these challenges, my grandparents retained ownership of both apartments as they believed it better to own something they could potentially profit from later.

In 1990, conflicts in most of Lebanon, namely in Beirut and the north of the country, had finally ended. It is in this chapter of my grandmother’s journey that, for the first time, she mentions public-sector intervention. When my grandparents decided to return to their original home in Ras el-Nabeh, they found their building devastated and their apartment burnt down. The government’s newly formed Ministry for the Displaced provided them a grant of 2,000,000 LBP (worth 1,333.33 USD by this point) to repair their home. The ministry gave out 47,000,000 USD worth of grants to 16,000 households by July 1993, but their success in covering repair costs and encouraging families to return to their original homes was never measured or monitored (Sadik, 1996). For my grandparents, the grant was inadequate to cover all the costs, so they had to pay the rest of it out of their own savings.

The government ended up taking more from my grandparents than it gave. The reconstruction of the Beirut Central District began in the 90s. The government appointed Solidere, a private development company established by soon-to-be Prime Minister Rafik Hariri, to regenerate the area and gifted the company the entirety of the downtown to redevelop as long as they compensated existing renters and owners (Vloeberghs, 2012). My grandfather was one such renter, with a documented claim to a shop in the central district. Solidere complied with the need to compensate claimants, but it did so by granting renters and owners shares of their stock instead of direct financial compensation (Vloeberghs, 2012). The stocks my grandfather received rarely returned any dividends and, when they did, the sum was meagre. “We keep them now as souvenirs”, my grandparents told me.

The two apartments my grandparents owned outside the city proved their usefulness at the time. The apartment in Aramoun was gifted to my uncle and his wife, who would later sell it and buy a house in Ras el-Nabeh to raise their children closer to family. In 1999, the apartment in Ain Jdideh was sold for 20,000,000 LBP (13’333 USD) to Jihad Al-Arab, a developer with strong political ties to the post-war government who has also been repeatedly favoured for public contracts in development and infrastructure. Most recently, he has been sanctioned by the US Treasury on grounds of corruption and “contributing to the breakdown of the rule of law in Lebanon.” (US Department of the Treasury, 2021)

As the post-war government prioritised rapid reconstruction and economic growth, the public sector did not change its pre-war prioritisation of luxury development and increasing land/real estate values (Sadik, 1996). Real estate prices after the war swelled rapidly and “[in] 2008, the average property sales price was up 26.8% to LBP 116.3 million (US$77,500)” (Global Property Guide, 2009), more than five times what my grandparents had received for their Ain Jdideh apartment. My mother also told me that the area was converted by Jihad Al-Arab into an urban complex of villas and luxury apartments. Amid a backdrop of increasing land and housing financialisation, my grandparents gifted the profit from the Ain Jdideh sale to my parents, who in turn purchased their own new home. In 2000, my family moved to a spacious apartment in Ras el-Nabeh, which I would call my childhood home, a five-minute walk from the homes of grandmother and great-grandmother.

 

Conclusion: Concerning the State, its Absence and those who Filled the Void

My grandmother would certainly agree with the conclusion that “to talk about housing policy in Lebanon is to talk about the consistent nonintervention of the state in housing” (Sadik, 1996; p.88). Except for the most recent chapter in her housing journey, the State has been effectively absent from her life, despite her and her family’s need for affordable housing. That said, my grandmother’s employment at the Central Bank, a public authority, did grant her access to low-interest loans through which she was able to secure new properties she eventually benefitted from in the decade following the war. But the privilege of employees accessing public funds cannot be equated with public sector action. Actions taken by the public sector, at best, had little positive impact on my grandparents’ access to land and housing, like the grant they received, or, at worst, dispossessed them of their ownership and rental claims for the purposes of elite development.

That said, the void left by the government was not left empty as a variety of different agents stepped in at key moments in my grandmother’s life to provide aid and support. The church provided her family affordable rent in her youth, then a private landowner who valued her friendship gave her easier access to rent a home of her own when she married. Friends and family supported her through the war years and, eventually, she adopted that role for the sake of her children and grandchildren. The significance of community and family ties in Lebanon is heavily expressed in my grandmother’s narrative. Today, she and many other members of my family participate in a Facebook group called “Initiative Ras el-Nabeh”, which is dedicated to keeping the neighbourhood’s history alive and encouraging other members of the community to participate in charity works happening in the area. Her housing journey also reveals the value of new questions of increasing relevance as the 2022 parliamentary elections approach and considering the country’s ongoing financial crisis. My grandmother was certainly lucky given her employment at BDL, her homeowning friends and family members, and her relationship with the local church. Many others would not be as fortunate. Suppose a reformed Lebanon State were formed, how can it contribute to the development of a broader network of communally-led and privately-led supportive initiatives in such a way that it can be regionally or even nationally impactful and accessible? Could such an institutionalisation initiative strip these grassroots operations of their flexibility and enshrinement of empathy?

 

 

References and Bibliography:

Banque Du Liban (n.d.). Statistics. [https://www.bdl.gov.lb/webroot/statistics/table.php?name=t5282usd] (accessed 10 April 2022)

Deguilhem, R. (2008). The Waqf in the City. The City in the Islamic World. Handbook of Oriental Studies, Section 1: The Near and Middle East, Volume 94, pp.929-956. Brill.

Global Property Guide (2009). How Long Can Lebanon’s Real Estate Boom Last? [https://www.globalpropertyguide.com/Middle-East/Lebanon/Price-History-Archive/how-long-can-lebanons-real-estate-boom-last-1204] (accessed 10 April 2022)

Initiative Ras El Nabeh – Beirut. Facebook Public Group. [https://m.facebook.com/groups/658627484182798?group_view_referrer=search] (accessed 10 April 2022)

Moumtaz, N. (2021). Waqf and the Modern State, Capitalism, and the Private Property Regime. Islamic Law Blog. [https://islamiclaw.blog/2021/04/22/waqf-and-the-modern-state-capitalism-and-the-private-property-regime/] (accessed 10 April 2022)

Sadik, R.L. (1996). Nation-Building and Housing policy: A Comparative Analysis of Urban Housing Development in Kuwait, Jordan and Lebanon. University of California at Berkeley.

United States Department of the Treasury (n.d.). Treasury Targets Two Businessmen and One Member of Parliament for Undermining the Rule of Law in Lebanon. [https://home.treasury.gov/news/press-releases/jy0440] (accessed 10 April 2022)

Vloeberghs, W. (2012). The Politics of Sacred Space in Downtown Beirut (1853–2008). Popular Housing and Urban Land Tenure in the Middle East. pp.137-168. American University in Cairo Press.

 

Maps Sources:

Maps 1-3: American University of Beirut (n.d.). Historic Maps of Beirut. Heritage Buildings of Beirut. [https://aub.edu.lb.libguides.com/c.php?g=1090674&p=7967484] (accessed 13 April 2022)

Map 4: MAPSTER (n.d.). Digital collection of Cartographic Materials. [http://igrek.amzp.pl/maplist.php?cat=TPOTHERS&listsort=sortoption11&listtype=mapywig2] (accessed 13 April 2022)

Map 5: Extracted from Google Earth.

 

 

Thanks and Acknowledgements:

 

I would like to thank my grandmother, Haifa, my grandfather, Zouheir, and my mother, Dania, for their help in completing this essay and their willingness to share, with me and my instructors, their photographs and the details of their experiences living through such a turbulent period of the country’s history.

 

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.

Research has highlighted the importance of accessible community gardens in providing a space to protect and enhance older people’s wellbeing as they age. This is particularly pertinent in the context of UK’s ageing population as it is juxtaposed with other public spaces become increasingly exclusive, to the exclusion of older people. Through adopting a spatial justice perspective, it is discerned that whilst many community gardens across the UK are ostensibly open for everyone to enjoy, not everyone can equally access these coveted spaces. In particular, older people may face barriers to participation through accessibility issues such as spatial designs deficiencies that fail to address people with disabilities, which may be associated with ageing. By actively identifying who can access these spaces and in what ways different user groups can participate, community gardens can continue to move towards making these green spaces easily accessible to all social demographics to improve wellbeing.

 

Project Focus and Description of Fellowship

Through a dissertation fellowship with Marina Chang Chair of Calthorpe Community Garden (‘Calthorpe’) and my supervisor Liza Griffin, I examined the ‘Diversity and Inclusion of Community Gardens for the Wellbeing and Participation of Older People’. A case study of Calthorpe enabled me to explore the particular opportunities and barriers to diversity and inclusion that may impact upon older people’s wellbeing and participation in community gardens using a spatial justice lens. Situated within the Kings Cross ward in the London Borough of Camden, Calthorpe is a suitable site to study as it is easily accessible via public transport and has users both from the local community and those who travel in specifically to use this space. Furthermore, as acceptance and inclusiveness form part of Calthorpe’s values, this is a seemly site to explore how diversity and inclusion may impact older people’s wellbeing.

 

Community Gardens

A community garden is a piece of land gardened by people individually or collectively. In the UK, community gardens are likely to have a duality of functions, such as providing open spaces whilst also offering plots for interested parties. Personally, when I think of ‘community gardens’, connotations of ‘diversity’ and ‘inclusion’ spring to mind as notions of ‘community’ and ‘gardens’ often instil tranquillity and evoke a sense of belongingness. However, exploring the diversity and inclusion of community gardens for the wellbeing and participation of older people through a spatial justice lens highlights unequal access to these green spaces.  Employing a spatial justice lens allows us to scrutinise the different factors that may increase inclusion or inequalities within the space of community gardens and how to move towards achieving greater justice.

 

Spatial Justice

Whilst the theory of spatial justice is complex and multifaceted, simply put, it links the notions of social justice and space. Centrally, spatial justice encompasses the equal and equitable distribution of, and the ability to use, socially valued resources within a space (Soja, 2009:1). Adopting a spatial justice lens reveals the nuances of spatial injustice within a space. Within the context of community gardens, spatial justice considers the elements necessary to investigate hitherto overlooked barriers towards (re)producing a diverse and inclusive community garden for everyone as it comprises and considers both ‘real’ and ‘imagined’ space equally. It examines who can access different spaces within community gardens and how individuals can participate meaningfully in such spaces. For instance, the spatial design may not be inclusive for everyone, impeding the diversity of users as some cannot access the space. By way of illustration, despite aiming to be universally inclusive, Calthorpe remains inaccessible to certain older people, preventing them from enjoying the green spaces that community gardens offer. Whilst Calthorpe’s ‘wild garden’ provides gardening opportunities to improve wellbeing, it is hidden away. The secretive element makes this space attractive to children, but for older people, the paths to reach the ‘wild garden’ may present difficulties to exercising their right to use this space. Consequently, some less physically mobile people may feel excluded as the paths and gardening plots are not designed to enable wheelchair access. Additionally, whilst clear signage is desirable for all users, they are particularly useful for those with impaired sight. As Calthorpe’s existing signage is small and not always easily visible, this may reduce the engagement of visually impaired older users as they may not be able to navigate the space independently.

 

What can Community Gardens learn from taking a Spatial Justice Perspective to their Governance?

Spatial (in)justice manifests in various ways and for community gardens, there are some ‘easy fixes’ that can help them move towards achieving spatial justice. Through a spatial justice perspective, practical steps that community gardens can adopt include looking at how the benefits and burdens in society may impact diversity and inclusion and therefore have ramifications on users’ wellbeing and participation in these spaces. Taking a spatial justice approach to the unjust and uneven development of community gardens can both reveal how people’s experiences of the space can impact wellbeing, and consider the less tangible aspects of the spatial experience. Diversity and inclusion in community gardens manifest both tangibly, whether there are physical barriers to participating, but also intangibly, through the feeling of belonging. To demonstrate, a survey found that a ‘community feeling’ is fostered at Calthorpe. This survey also spotlighted a group of Latin American women who explained how gardening at Calthorpe provided them the opportunity to become more independent, learn to use London’s buses and expand their social circles. Additionally, the sense of belonging cultivated extends further than the Latin American group. A broader community appeal exists as most of the ‘family allotments’ at Calthorpe belong to local residents of various nationalities. Survey respondents expressed ‘feeling at home’ at Calthorpe and having a ‘strong sense of ownership’, cultivating good spatial justice and wellbeing.

 

A spatial justice framework can provide insights for community gardens when designing or planning their space, whether it be to increase the diversity of people able to access the space or to diversify the voices of those partaking in decision-making processes. By understanding how space relates to justice, community gardens can scrutinise the different facets that produce the space: for example, evaluating how spatial design, physical accessibility and cultural factors impacts the wellbeing and participation of people in community gardens.

 

Practical learning taken from this research on Calthorpe highlights the many ways in which a community garden can facilitate the (re)production of a diverse and inclusive space. By placing diversity and inclusion at the heart of its core values, Calthorpe emphasises the importance of providing a welcoming environment for all users by opening the space to everyone irrespective of background to enjoy its diversity and benefits. It also provides an office where people can ask questions. What’s more, the abundant greenery and benches throughout Calthorpe’s space fosters a tranquil environment for older users in particular. Community gardens can also enhance the engagement of visually impaired users by providing them with the ability to manoeuvre through the space autonomously. As aforementioned, having large and visible signage is also essential.

 

Offering opportunities for users to garden or participate in activities independently can increase both the diversity of users and increase their feeling of inclusion through fostering strong social bonds. Calthorpe offers numerous age-specific activities, such as ‘walking football for ages 55+’ and ‘meditation for ages 60+’. Such activities can encourage wellbeing and participation through the creation of an environment that allows older people to carry out a range of activities adapted to their specific requirements.

 

Moreover, requisites to establishing a community garden that feels welcoming includes both the construction of a positive culture and ensuring that the different spaces within and across it are physically accessible. Whilst a community garden may in theory be open for all, certain areas may remain inaccessible for some socio-demographic groups. For example, narrow and uneven paths without handrails may reduce navigability for those with reduced mobility, presenting difficulties for them to exercise their right to use the space.

 

Nonetheless, there are simple design modifications that can improve access. For instance, adapting spaces by raising container beds enables less physically mobile users to participate as fully as possible in gardening. Community gardens that foster environments where people can work with others can create a sense of belonging as collective gardening is said to build social capital and enhance community cohesiveness, thereby improving wellbeing overall. Research has highlighted that a sense of belonging can also be cultivated through the inclusion of users in the decision-making process. Whilst Calthorpe currently does not have a formal systematic procedure to facilitate the inclusion of users and for community groups to raise issues or voice relevant concerns, implementing procedures such as an anonymous suggestions box may enable participation and provide opportunities to include previously overlooked voices.

 

Nevertheless, extrinsic forces that should be considered in an analysis of spatial justice include the distributive injustices at play in the wider geographic area where a community garden is situated. For example, the monetisation of community gardens in the UK can negatively impact on their diversity and inclusion. As an illustration, Calthorpe is unable to extend their opening hours due to funding constraints from the local council, restricting access to this socially valued space. Whilst this may impede spatial justice, community gardens may be creative in finding solutions. For instance, community gardens could potentially capitalise on the surrounding population, drawing on volunteers to oversee the organisation and running of activities. By actively engaging with local communities, community gardens may be able to overcome some of the many constraints they face.

 

References:

Soja, E.W. (2009). The city and spatial justice. Justice spatiale/Spatial justice, 1(1), pp.1-5.

Authors: Claudy Vouhé (L’être égale) and Nelly Leblond (DPU), with contributions from Penda Diouf (OGDS), Angèle Koué (GEPALEF), Astrid Mujinga (CFCEM/GA), Jeannine Raoelimiadana (SiMIRALENTA) and Mina Rakotoarindrasata (Genre en Action), and Adriana Allen (DPU)

//See online version published on OVERDUE website: https://overdue-justsanitation.net/?page_id=3514

According to Tatu Mtwangi Limbumba, a sanitation expert and member of the Tanzanian OVERDUE project team, traditional taboos surrounding excreta and toilets have been eroded in African cities. For example, in Kenya or Tanzania, the mixing of a mother-in-law’s excreta with that of her son-in-law, which once prohibited the construction of indoor latrines, is no longer an issue, and is being replaced by “modern aspirations” such as indoor and public toilets. Are these modern aspirations free from taboos?

 

When the feminist organisations CFCEM/GA (Coordination des Femmes Congolaises pour l’Équilibre dans les Ménages/Genre en Action) in the DRC, GEPALEF (Genre, Parité et Leadership Féminin) in Ivory Coast, SiMIRALENTA in Madagascar, and OGDS (Observatoire Genre et Développement de Saint-Louis) in Senegal interviewed women for the Voicing Just Sanitation campaign launched by OVERDUE with support from L’Etre Egale, few of these “traditional” taboos were mentioned. Instead, respondents spoke of :

• enduring social rules that silently organise sanitation practices along gender lines, distributing opportunities and constraints, often to the detriment of women,
• prejudices which surreptitiously relegate women to the end of the toilet queue, as well as to the very end of the list of employable people for paid sanitation jobs, in the private or public sector,
• multiple constraints, preventing their safe access to toilets in public spaces, especially in urban areas, and in particular during their menstruation,
• Above all, the women interviewed described the non-recognition of their contributions to sanitation from families and communities, but also from politicians and public authorities.

So what are we talking about?

Harmless or even positive (protective?) “modern taboos” for women, or prejudices that feed gender discrimination, rooted in social gender relations and endorsed by public authorities? On the basis of the testimonies collected and to open the conversation, we have drawn up an initial list of ten points (not prioritised) which articulate taboos, clichés and prejudices, that push intimate bodies and gender hierarchies into the field of public policy: 

 

1. Women’s digestive systems are different from men’s

This is what one might think when listening to Angèle Koué, a feminist activist in Côte d’Ivoire, talking about the taboos and prohibitions that surround women’s use of the toilet. In the courtyards of the concessions, women must not be seen too often around the toilets and must go after men. They should not make any noise or leave any smell when using the toilet. They can be repudiated for this. Women’s bodies, even in their most basic biological functions, must respond not to nature, but to patriarchal culture. However, the privacy and dignity of girls and women are often undermined by inappropriate facilities in both private and public spaces.

2. No one should know that a woman is menstruating

From the first to the last, menstruation should remain hidden, explains Emilie Tapé, a sex blogger in Abidjan. You shouldn’t stain yourself; you shouldn’t leave dirty towels lying around. Everything that revolves around menstrual blood is considered shameful, even for the many women and girls who have internalized these injunctions. And yet, changing in public toilets, especially, is a challenge, a feat and a risk! Inadequate facilities turn menstruation into a cyclical dread.

 

While toilet paper is considered a basic element of the toilet, sanitary napkins and bins for disposing of them are forgotten. As a result, women are singled out when pads clog septic tanks.

 

To stimulate engagement around this taboo, the OGDS in St Louis, Senegal, is countering with a short play illustrating what a caring and non-stigmatising handling of girls’ first periods in school might look like.

3. Sanitation work is too dirty and difficult for women

This prejudice is quickly invalidated by the fact that women overwhelmingly take charge of the maintenance of the sanitary facilities of the house, manually evacuating the family’s wastewater and excrement on a daily basis when the infrastructure is lacking or failing. This work is invisible and, of course, unpaid.

Prejudice also obscures the key roles of women in neighbourhoods as described by Mariam Bakayoko, a community leader in the Treichville neighbourhood of Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire.

Nadia Ramanantsara, in charge of public sanitation in the Urban Municipality of Antananarivo, also tells how women are involved as agents but also through associations that pool funds to remove waste and wastewater. Although, she also describes a very standard division of sanitation work within the community: women in communication, men in the field.

4. Women’s sanitation practices contribute to the insalubrity of cities and neighbourhoods

Abdoulaye “Pelé” observes that women “carelessly” dump their wastewater in the street in his neighbourhood in Saint-Louis, Senegal. In response, Awa ba, a resident of Diamaguene in Saint Louis, explains that families do not have sewer connections, private toilets, or the means to access them. In fact, they manage as best they can when the infrastructure is insufficient, especially when they have little money.

Whereas women are often blamed for their “irresponsible” management of wastewater and family excrement, the fact that men use public space to relieve themselves is little questioned in the discussion on unhealthy urban environments, according to Félicité Naweza, Provincial Deputy Mayor for South Kivu, Democratic Republic of Congo.

5. Sanitation jobs are not for women

This cliché perpetuates the idea that women have no place in the paid sanitation sector as employees of companies or communities, or as company managers. This view is contradicted by the testimony of Véronique Randriaranison, manager of a waste disposal company in Antananarivo which deals in particular with mobile urinals.

Defying the stigma, Prisca tells why she accepted the job of “pee lady” at one of these mobile urinals and now wishes that her work would never stop. Solange Tiémélé, deputy mayor in the commune of Treichville in Abidjan, also advocates opening up sanitation jobs to women and calls for private-public partnerships to achieve this.

6. It is better to hold back than to risk infection or aggression in unsanitary and unsafe public toilets

Lack of hygiene and safety has given rise to this prohibition, a sort of “protective” taboo. In Abidjan, for example, the poor maintenance of public facilities in working-class neighbourhoods and their mixed accessibility generate a widespread fear of urinary infections, as noted by Emilie Tapé, a sex blogger; but also a fear of sexual harassment and assault, according to Brigitte Taho, president of a feminist NGO.

This “retention“, which women and girls have internalised “for their own good“, puts their health at risk. The fear of sexual harassment and assault weighs heavily on women’s peace of mind and well-being in public spaces, and therefore on their citizenship and rights.

7. Toilets at any cost

Access to toilets is a right, not a luxury. However, this right continues to come at a price, especially for women. Lanto, a cleaner and tenant in the Malagasy capital, tells how landlords turn the improvement of toilets on their property into power and profit. By threatening to raise the rent, they easily put an end to the demands of poor tenants, especially women who are alone with their families.

 

Having a “proper” toilet in the home becomes a symbol of social success. The lack of social and economic power keeps women and families in degrading situations and increases their dependence on paid public toilets, which are often non-existent or inadequate. It also increases dependence on toilets and bathrooms at workplaces, which then become a real bonus.

 

Félicité Nawaza, deputy mayor of a commune in Kivu (DRC), points out that in public spaces, women spend more than men to use the toilets because, unlike men, they do not undress to pee behind a pole! Paradoxically, due to a lack of options, they are forced to contribute to the profitability of companies or communities that are reluctant to employ them because they are women.

8. The toilet is for “relieving oneself”

Of course, but that’s not all it is! It is also a place that is often used for washing or changing (especially during menstruation). This multi-purpose use remains unthought of, as does the mixing of spaces.

Nathalie Musau, deputy spokesperson for the students of the Institut supérieur d’études commerciales et financières (ISECOF) in Bukavu (DRC) explains how, at the university, mixed sex toilets generate discomfort. Female students want to use the university toilets to change clothes or put on make-up, but they come across their (male) professors or fellow students.

Mixed toilets also encourage sexual assault. Women are encouraged to go to school and to attain higher education degrees, but the infrastructure and buildings are not adapting to their bodily needs. In schools, says Anjara Maharavo from the urban commune of Antananarivo, the issue of mixed toilets is starting to be taken into account.

9. You don’t fight over a toilet: well, yes you do!

Women and their associations play a decisive, but invisibilised role in the collaboration between communities and municipalities. The problem is that they receive little recognition and support for the work they do on a daily basis, sometimes with shame and without any social or economic reward, to make up for the lack of infrastructure and the deficiencies of states and communities.

Collective demands on sanitation issues revolve more around the issue of access to water. Toilets, symbols of (still taboo) bodily needs and intimacy, are struggling to find their place in community advocacy, with an impact that weighs even more heavily on women and girls. However, women are mobilised in the struggle, as in Saint-Louis, but everything remains to be done!

10. Toilets, a political taboo?

The reluctance of decision-makers to talk publicly about excreta, latrines and bodily needs keeps sanitation low on the agenda, according to Astrid Mujinga of the NGO CFCEM/GA. A double gender discrimination is in place:

On the one hand, limited investment in neighbourhood facilities to serve residents, as well as poor infrastructure in public space or educational venues, mainly affects girls and women. Why are they affected? Because they do not use the street as a urinal, they need privacy, security and appropriate spaces; and because they use toilets more than men for physiological, but also social, reasons (they are mainly the ones who accompany small children to the toilet, for example). This calls for gender-sensitive budgeting for sanitation.

On the other hand, when infrastructure is in place, employment opportunities in the private and public sectors are reserved for men, whereas women have sanitation skills (acquired at home), or can develop them. A political will to act in favour of professional equality and gender diversity in the workplace would enable women who so wish to enter this promising field of employment. This is what Fatoumata Djiré Ouattara, deputy mayor of the municipality of Koumassi (Abidjan), would like to see.

 

In cities, taboos and prejudices linked to gender are constantly being re-created. They feed political and technical blind spots and legitimise the unequal distribution of rights, benefits, advantages and disadvantages between women and men in the field of sanitation. By highlighting and deconstructing these gender issues, the feminist organisations of the OVERDUE project are lobbying for real gender equality around the toilet seat and throughout the sanitation chain.

 

• Join them by sharing your experience and adding your voice to the Voicing Just Sanitation campaign.

 

• Discover the films produced in Antananarivo, Bukavu, Saint Louis and Abidjan, presented during a webinar on 12 November 2021 titled “Toilets, seats of gender equality?” and discussed by OVERDUE researchers and guests.