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La ciudad en conflicto
VILA-SANJUÁN, Rafael
Let the Dead Be Dead: Memory, Urban Narratives and the Post-Civil War
Reconstitution of Beirut
YAHYA, Maha
LES CAMPS
DE RÉFUGIÉS :
L'ÉMERGENCE D'UN
NOUVEL URBANISME ?
Michel Agier
Nous sommes aujourd’hui à peu près tous d’accord pour dire que notre temps n’est
plus celui de la ville historique, c’est-à-dire un temps où la ville organisait la complexi-
té des systèmes sociaux, mettait en espace la « solidarité organique », pour reprendre
les termes de Durkheim. Nous avons dépassé ce temps où la ville disposait, sur un
espace délimité, tout un réseau de dépendances indirectes entre les catégories, les
classes sociales. Nous avons dépassé ce temps où la ville était à la fois le symbole et
l’une des formes matérielles d’organisation de la modernité, un autre symbole et une
autre forme matérielle étant l’usine. À cette époque-là, la ville et l’usine fonction-
naient ensemble, pour ainsi dire.
Bien sûr, aujourd’hui, nous sommes dans une situation où il nous faut repenser
non seulement toutes les formes de violence et de déstructuration, mais aussi repen-
ser ce qui constitue l’urbain, découvrir la ou les formes actuelles ou émergentes de
constitution de la ville, et donc aussi comprendre l’importance particulière de ces
éléments douloureux de notre contemporanéité que sont les guerres, les violences
et les déplacements de population. Les déplacements dont nous parlons ici sont
provoqués par les violences internes ou les guerres, par la pauvreté ou l’extrême pau-
vreté et en conséquence par la recherche de solutions économiques en dehors de
son lieu d’origine.
Notre monde, aujourd’hui, est donc non seulement celui de la fin de la ville his-
torique, mais il est aussi celui de multiples formes de délocalisation et de flux mas-
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Les camps de réfugiés : l´émergence d´un nouvel urbanisme ?
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Michel Agier
dans les centres de transit pour les regroupements de longue durée des étrangers et
des demandeurs d’asile, les hôtels, les prisons ou les centres de détention pour migrants
en attente de régularisation ou en attente d’expulsion près des ports et des aéroports,
les camps et les villages de réfugiés (qui vivent donc sous assistance humanitaire et
sous protection internationale). Par ailleurs, il existe différentes formes de centres :
des centres d’aide ou d’accueil de demandeurs d’asile ou, non plus dans une ver-
sion humanitaire mais dans une version policière, des centres de contrôle des immi-
grants demandeurs d’asile, et donc des réfugiés potentiels qui sont gardés dans les
marges. Il y a actuellement une problématique nouvelle autour de l’émergence des
camps en Europe, et notamment en Espagne, en Italie, en France avec Sangatte, en
Pologne, en Belgique, etc.
Cet inventaire est donc inachevé, il est en développement permanent. Or, ces
espaces de mise à l’écart, qu’ils soient humanitaires ou qu’ils soient policiers, relè-
vent non pas des non-lieux mais des « hors-lieux », c’est-à-dire qu’ils sont en dehors
de « l’ordre normal des choses », en dehors du fonctionnement normal de citoyens
dépendant d’un État. Ils sont sous contrôle, mais à la marge des nations. On peut
dire que ça relève de ce que Foucault a appelé « les ramifications de la société de
contrôle », à une échelle même planétaire. Ce sont des espaces d’exception, au sens
où, sur le plan juridique, sur le plan de la vie sociale, du statut juridique de l’espace
lui-même, on est dans des situations d’exception, en dehors du nomos, en dehors de
la loi ordinaire des humains.
Ce qui est problématique, c’est l’existence des camps et des installations huma-
nitaires à l’échelle de l’ensemble de la planète, où se retrouvent des personnes qui
ont été déplacées de leur propre lieu vers un autre lieu, qui se retrouvent rassemblées
dans des espaces vides à l’origine, et qui sont donc confrontées à l’étrangeté d’un
désert – un désert social, un désert de relations, où elles sont placées sans l’avoir vou-
lu, et qu’elles subissent ou transforment.
C’est à partir de ce constat que commence l’enquête pour l’ethnologue, pour
essayer d’en dire un certain nombre de choses.
Il existe différentes formules de sites humanitaires, de sites du Haut-Commissariat
des Nations unies pour les réfugiés (HCR). Ce ne sont pas toujours des camps fer-
més : il y a des camps fermés avec des barbelés et des portails, mais il y a aussi des
camps qui sont ouverts, mais d’où les gens ne sortent pas tout de même – c’est
qu’ils sont là pour une raison bien précise. Il y a des camps qui sont des villages ou
qui reproduisent des formes de villages. Il y a, dans tous les cas, une certaine plani-
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Les camps de réfugiés : l´émergence d´un nouvel urbanisme ?
fication minimaliste du quadrillage de l’espace, d’un certain nombre de rues : rues prin-
cipales, rues secondaires. Au début, un certain nombre de tentes y sont placées – c’est
l’image qu’on a conventionnellement, médiatiquement, des camps de réfugiés –,
mais, très rapidement, elles font place à des installations moins précaires.
La démarche que j’envisage est celle d’une ethnologie urbaine des camps. La ques-
tion n’a aucun contenu normatif ou évolutionniste : je n’interroge pas les camps
en fonction d’un but qui serait prédéfini et qu’ils devraient atteindre (la ville, com-
me une organisation de l’espace, ou comme des formes architecturales ou des struc-
tures institutionnelles qui seraient normées a priori), mais je cherche à rendre comp-
te de créations sociales, de changements culturels, éventuellement de nouvelles formes
politiques qui apparaissent dès lors que des personnes se retrouvent rassemblées pour
un temps indéfini dans un espace donné, quel que soit cet espace et dans une situa-
tion que l’on peut considérer – je reprends les termes de Louis Wirth pour définir
la ville en termes minimalistes – comme « une implantation relativement perma-
nente et dense d’individus hétérogènes ». À partir de là, donc, un certain nombre
de choses peuvent se produire.
Ainsi, il nous faut comprendre les transformations de l’espace que cette situa-
tion implique : un camp qui a cinq ans d’existence n’est plus un ensemble de tentes,
un alignement de tentes, il peut ressembler à un immense bidonville, comme il
peut faire penser, aussi, dans certains endroits – et c’est l’impression que j’avais gar-
dée d’enquêtes que j’avais menées dans les camps de Dadaab, dans le nord-est du
Kenya –, à un vaste musée ethnographique où chacun essaye, avec les matériaux qu’il
trouve dans le camp, de reconstituer tant bien que mal son habitat d’origine.
Le résultat est parfois un paysage bariolé, de forme hybride, où les bâches de
couleur bleue et blanche du HCR recouvrent des constructions frêles de branchages
et de terre des cases que les gens ont eux-mêmes construites à la place des tentes, ou
bien où des toiles et des sacs estampillés UE ou USA servent de rideaux de fenêtres
ou de rideaux de porte à l’entrée des cases.
La question posée part de l’observation d’un espace émergent et littéralement in-
connu aussi bien des gens qui arrivent là que de l’observateur. Comment des individus
aussi ethniquement divers, aussi déracinés et aussi démunis sur le plan économique,
peuvent-ils, dès lors qu’ils sont ensemble, pour une mise à l’écart durable, faire ville,
d’une certaine façon, au sens relationnel – l’urbs, soit la ville comme espace d’échanges
et comme expérience de l’altérité – et faire ville aussi au sens politique – la polis, c’est-
à-dire un monde ni trop privé ni trop étranger, où se forme une communauté, une
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Michel Agier
communauté de paroles, une communauté à laquelle ceux qui y vivent finiront par
s’identifier. Il s’agit d’une hypothèse forte et je l’assume volontiers comme l’expres-
sion d’un engagement, d’une attention portée sur les émergences plutôt que sur les
traces du passé.
D’une certaine façon, l’ethnographie urbaine des sites humanitaires doit per-
mettre d’aller plus loin que ce que peut dire une philosophie des camps, qui est certes
une philosophie critique, mais sans sujet. Les analyses de Giorgio Agamben concer-
nant les camps ont, de manière exemplaire, conclu à la fin de la cité dans la situa-
tion des camps et à la domination du camp comme paradigme biopolitique de
l’Occident. Or, dans cette approche, on voit bien que la politique se confond totale-
ment avec l’exercice du biopouvoir, du pouvoir sur la vie des gens qui sont réunis là,
dans ces espaces d’exception. Quant à la question de l’action politique, de la subjec-
tivation politique, elle reste complètement inexplorée. C’est précisément cet objet
théorique-là qui fonde l’ethnographie urbaine des camps, voire de la ville et de la
politique à l’œuvre, ne serait-ce qu’en ébauche, au cœur de ces espaces d’exception
qui, a priori, les nient.
Dans ce cadre, l’enquête porte sur les changements sociaux, les prises d’initiati-
ve et les prises de parole, sur les appropriations et les transformations d’un espace
initialement désert.
Au nord-est du Kenya il y a une zone humanitaire formée, autour du village de
Dadaab, par trois camps qui sont placés les uns à proximité des autres et qui regrou-
pent environ 140 000 personnes en tout. Ces camps sont là depuis 1991 et abri-
tent en majorité des réfugiés somalis, mais également des réfugiés sud-soudanais –
actuellement, avec ce qui se passe au Soudan, la population des camps doit augmen-
ter aussi au Kenya, et pas seulement au Tchad –, et des réfugiés éthiopiens de conflits
qui datent aussi de 1990-1991.
Bien que cette population de 140 000 habitants réfugiés soit plus nombreuse
que la population du département dans lequel ils se trouvent, les camps n’apparais-
sent pas sur la carte du Kenya parce que ce sont des espaces concédés par le pays au
HCR, mais que le pays ne prend pas en charge lui-même. Donc, officiellement, ils
n’existent pas, et on peut dire que tout est à l’image de cette inexistence apparente
et de cette absence de reconnaissance. Les réfugiés des camps vivent en attente, une
attente qui dure depuis plus de dix ans, et ce sont les organisations non gouverne-
mentales qui prennent en charge leur alimentation, leur sécurité sanitaire et quelques
bribes d’animation sociale. Ils n’ont, en principe, pas le droit de travailler ni de cir-
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Les camps de réfugiés : l´émergence d´un nouvel urbanisme ?
culer dans le pays, et leur présence dans l’espace humanitaire n’est pensée qu’en tant
qu’étape de transition vers un retour chez eux, retour pourtant largement incer-
tain. Qu’ils se soient habitués à vivre sur un coin d’espace dans le camp ou qu’ils cir-
culent dans le pays de manière clandestine – ce qui arrive aussi en corrompant les
fonctionnaires qui sont chargés de les surveiller, de ne pas les laisser sortir des camps –,
dans tous les cas, les réfugiés de ces camps de Dadaab semblent donc avoir intégré
l’espace du camp dans leur cadre de vie actuel. En même temps, la perspective du
retour se réduit d’année en année – dans le cas des Somaliens en particulier, l’exis-
tence de l’État somalien lui-même restant impossible, comme l’a dit l’écrivain et poè-
te Nuruddin Farah : toute la Somalie est en exil, et le pays lui-même est un pays de
l’exil, et ce qui reste de la Somalie, le territoire somalien officiel, ce n’est plus le
pays, c’est autre chose.
L’organisation de l’espace est une question, une entrée à partir de laquelle on
peut voir une forme de contestation de l’inexistence sociale des réfugiés. L’espace
des camps est a priori défini de la façon suivante : le HCR construit des clôtures
qui sont faites d’épineux ou de barbelés pour la fermeture des camps et, à l’inté-
rieur, par la fermeture de certains blocs, carrés, qui regroupent des ensembles d’abris
de 300 ou 500 réfugiés en moyenne. Les réfugiés ont été regroupés selon leur pro-
venance, selon leur ethnie, éventuellement selon les clans d’origine, et sont généra-
lement désignés selon leur origine ethnique très globale, voire nationale. On dit
« les Éthiopiens », « les Soudanais ». Pour les Somalis, l’interpellation se fait en
fonction de différents classements claniques plus précis. À l’origine, les réfugiés ont
tous reçu les mêmes toiles de plastique du HCR, un matelas, quelques ustensiles de
cuisine ; ils sont allés chercher du bois autour du camp pour fabriquer des huttes
avec les toiles du HCR ; ils ont récupéré les boîtes de conserves données par le PAM
(le Programme alimentaire mondial de l’ONU) et, en dépliant ces boîtes et en les
assemblant les unes aux autres, ils forment des portails, des fenêtres, des tables. Il y
a donc des regroupements par bloc d’abris. Dans ces regroupements, des ferme-
tures existent parfois, que les gens font eux-mêmes, qui sont liées à des conflits eth-
niques passés ou à des conflits ethniques que l’on craint.
Certaines minorités ethniques internes au camp, par exemple les Soudanais ou
les Ougandais, et aussi pour partie les Éthiopiens, ont tendance à fermer leur espa-
ce face aux Somalis, qui sont majoritaires dans les camps, ce qui traduit des compor-
tements de crainte, de rejet, de repli ou d’autodéfense. On a ainsi, par exemple, un
bloc qui regroupe des Sud-Soudanais, catholiques en très grande partie, d’origine
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Michel Agier
citadine, surtout des hommes jeunes ayant fui leur région, le Sud-Soudan, lorsqu’ils
étaient encore enfants ou adolescents, sans parents, et qui sont passés d’un camp à
un autre depuis une dizaine d’années et ont, à un moment donné, créé un espace
qui est maintenant le leur. Dans leur propre bloc, auquel ils ont donné le nom de
leur région d’origine, Equatoria Gate, ils ont aménagé une espèce de ruelle, une égli-
se catholique d’un côté, une église pentecôtiste de l’autre, et ils surveillent eux-mêmes
la nuit leur espace, qu’ils ont cloisonné. Ils se relaient la nuit pour surveiller le péri-
mètre de leur espace. Leurs craintes se portent sur les voisins immédiats, des « Somalis
Bantous » comme on les appelle, c’est-à-dire un groupe hors caste venu de Somalie
et qui a été reconnu comme minorité par l’administration du camp. Le « bloc »
des Sud-Soudanais a des querelles avec des Somalis Bantous assez fréquemment, por-
tant sur des problèmes liés aux enfants, qui circulent d’une partie à l’autre de ce
camp, d’un bloc à l’autre, ce qui provoque parfois la dispute des aînés.
Si certains espaces sont ainsi fermés et protecteurs, les habitants de ces espaces
fréquentent aussi d’autres lieux à l’intérieur des camps, qui sont davantage ouverts
et davantage mixtes. C’est ce que l’on voit, par exemple, avec la multiplication des
coffee-shops, ou des vidéo-shops, où l’on peut assister en différé aux matchs de la
Coupe du monde de football, par exemple, enregistrés dans le compound humani-
taire grâce au branchement satellite et passés, le lendemain, dans les vidéo-shops
des camps de réfugiés. Dans ces espaces-là, dans ces lieux-là, des rencontres inter-
ethniques ont lieu, parfois au grand dam et avec la réprobation des aînés de cer-
tains clans somalis, clans supérieurs qui défendent un point de vue ethnique, ou
ethniciste, consistant à ne pas se mélanger avec d’autres, notamment avec des Éthio-
piens. De fait, ces rencontres-là ont lieu. Elles ont également lieu, par exemple, autour
des points d’eau communs, entre des gens provenant d’horizons différents, de groupes
ethniques différents et qui ont pu être en conflit à un moment donné.
Parmi les facteurs de changement important, il faut également mentionner le
travail dans le cadre des organisations internationales ou en association avec elles ;
celles et ceux qui sont employés par des ONG, comme « travailleurs communautaires
volontaires », ou qui sont considérés comme appartenant aux catégories les plus vul-
nérables – les veuves, les handicapés, les gens des castes inférieures – reçoivent des
crédits, des aides financières pour mener des projets « d’activité génératrice de reve-
nus ». Bien souvent, ces activités ne sont pas réellement génératrices de revenus ;
par contre, elles occupent les gens. En fait, c’est une préoccupation fréquente de cer-
taines ONG de faire en sorte que les réfugiés dans les camps soient occupés à faire
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Les camps de réfugiés : l´émergence d´un nouvel urbanisme ?
quelque chose, puisque l’inactivité, en particulier chez les jeunes, peut créer un cer-
tain nombre d’attitudes de désespoir, d’attitudes violentes, etc.
Il y a aussi, dans les camps, ceux qu’on appelle les « leaders de secteur », qui,
petit à petit, se rapprochent des ONG, suivent des enseignements, des cours, des
formations – de langues, par exemple –, différentes sortes d’animation, de sémi-
naires, etc., qui sont organisés par toutes sortes d’ONG, et qui, donc, deviennent aus-
si, à leur tour, des facteurs de changement. Tout cela compose une « classe » de réfu-
giés qui est amenée à concurrencer, parfois à contester, le pouvoir des aînés ethniques
et à contester les valeurs qui fondent ce pouvoir des aînés.
Il y a quelques esquisses d’appropriation symbolique des espaces, qu’on voit dans
le fait que certains endroits complètement anonymes à l’origine et insignifiants ont
été nommés par les habitants, comme on le fait dans des quartiers qui naissent.
Dans l’un des trois camps de Dadaab, par exemple, deux petites ruelles de terre de
50 mètres chacune sont bordées d’échoppes où certains réfugiés revendent une par-
tie de la ration alimentaire qu’ils reçoivent du Programme alimentaire mondial.
Certains revendent quelques légumes, des tomates ou des oignons, qui sont absents
de la ration et qui sont cultivés dans certains recoins des blocs d’abris, ou des objets
de première nécessité qui sont vendus au « microdétail ». Cet endroit, composé de
deux petites ruelles en terre, est appelé par les réfugiés « la ville », « magaalo » en
langue somalie. En anglais, ils disent « the town ». À partir de cette « ville », une
étendue de sable part vers les zones où se retrouvent les cases des réfugiés, une voie
très large que l’on parcourt sur au moins un kilomètre de long et que les gens ont
appelée « the highway », « l’autoroute ».
Parmi les réfugiés (ceux qui ont donc déjà une forme de reconnaissance, donc
dans une prise en charge humanitaire), certains ont tendance à prendre les organi-
sations internationales des camps comme leurs partenaires sociaux. Parfois, malgré
les interdits, les intimidations ou les limitations que les autorités des camps – le HCR,
en particulier, ou certaines ONG qui sont chargées par le HCR de gérer les camps –
mettent à l’existence d’une vie active, associative, et plus encore politique, certains
réfugiés s’organisent et organisent un certain nombre d’actions, comme, par exemple,
les boycotts de la ration alimentaire du Programme alimentaire mondial ou des grèves
de ceux qui travaillent comme « volontaires communautaires » pour les ONG. On
l’a vu dans le cas de ces camps de Dadaab, au Kenya.
Dans une autre situation – deux camps de réfugiés libériens et sierra-léonais qui
se trouvent en Guinée –, j’ai pu constater qu’un certain nombre de conflits exis-
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Michel Agier
taient, là aussi. J’ai cherché à connaître les différentes manifestations par lesquelles
les réfugiés peuvent, à un moment donné, demander un certain nombre de choses,
et en quels termes ils les demandent. Par exemple, dans un camp de réfugiés sierra-
léonais en Guinée, des femmes d’un certain âge ont organisé des manifestations, avec
leurs enfants, au milieu de la rue principale du camp de réfugiés. Elles ont séques-
tré des membres des organisations humanitaires, qu’elles ont fait sortir de leurs voi-
tures. La manifestation visait à obtenir des bâches plastiques pour couvrir le toit de
leurs cases en saison des pluies. Elles protestaient ainsi contre le fait que des bâches
plastiques aient été données à des réfugiés récemment arrivés, alors que, elles, plus
anciennes et plus « vulnérables », avaient plus droit à cette aide.
Il existe dans ces camps – assez rapidement, au bout de six mois ou une année
d’existence du camp, que ce soit en Guinée ou en Sierra Leone – un certain nombre
de conflits autour de la représentation des réfugiés, puisque les administrations du
camp – qui gèrent et qui sont là uniquement dans un souci de gestion, et donc
d’application d’un pouvoir d’organisation et d’un pouvoir sur la vie (distribuer la
nourriture, donner des tentes, mettre les gens dans les tentes, organiser les soins,
etc.) – demandent que des personnes fassent l’intermédiaire, le relais avec les réfu-
giés. Cela donne lieu petit à petit à un certain nombre de conflits pour la représen-
tation des réfugiés et, à ce moment-là, on voit aussi émerger un espace de parole poli-
tique pour savoir qui, parmi ceux qui sont là, représentera les réfugiés. Or, ce qui se
passe – et parfois au grand dam des organisations humanitaires –, c’est que ce ne
sont pas les plus pauvres et les plus victimes, les plus misérables ou les plus vulné-
rables, qui représentent les réfugiés : ce sont des gens qui ont, comme partout ailleurs
quand on fait de la politique, un peu plus de compétences que les autres, éventuel-
lement qui s’en sortent un petit peu mieux, qui sont moins vulnérables, moins misé-
rables, qui ont éventuellement un petit peu d’argent de côté, qui ont pu aménager
un petit peu mieux leurs cases, leurs tentes. Et, donc, ceux qui parlent finalement
au nom des réfugiés face aux organisations humanitaires sont ceux qui, du point de
vue des organisations humanitaires, seraient les moins légitimes, parce que les moins
souffrants et les moins victimes.
On voit donc bien que, dans cette affaire de l’émergence de petits espaces poli-
tiques à l’intérieur des camps, se remet en cause quelque chose de fondamental,
qui est la production des victimes comme étant le mode de fonctionnement du poli-
tique en général. On traite des victimes selon un principe de biopouvoir, mais ces vic-
times n’ont pas droit à la parole. Dès qu’elles commencent à émettre une parole, et
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Les camps de réfugiés : l´émergence d´un nouvel urbanisme ?
216
Michel Agier
217
Les camps de réfugiés : l´émergence d´un nouvel urbanisme ?
lement, la permission qui a été donnée par l’Autorité palestinienne à une jeune archi-
tecte pour mener une recherche sur l’urbanisation d’un camp de réfugiés palesti-
niens, celui de Kalandia, en Cisjordanie, à trois kilomètres de Ramallah et à huit
kilomètres de Jérusalem, qui existe depuis 1948 et qui compte environ 10 000 habi-
tants. Le sujet était toujours considéré comme tabou par l’Autorité palestinienne. On
ne peut pas parler des camps de réfugiés comme des réalités sociales, et encore moins
comme des réalités urbaines, puisque, d’un point de vue politique, les camps sont
des scandales : c’est la négation du droit à la terre des Palestiniens. Et pourtant,
tout cela existe depuis quarante ou près de soixante ans, et les camps sont déjà,
pour beaucoup, devenus des villes. Maintenant, la possibilité donnée par l’Autorité
palestinienne de faire des recherches sur l’urbanisation des camps de réfugiés est
un pas important pour la reconnaissance non seulement des réfugiés mais aussi de
la réalité de l’espace sur lequel ils vivent.
218
CHERNÓBIL: CRÓNICA
DEL FUTURO
Svetlana Aleksiévich
Como persona que viene de Bielorrusia, un país afectado por la catástrofe de Chernóbil,
vivo con la sensación de tener como un tercer ojo. Toda nuestra tierra es un palacio de
cristal, toda la tierra, todo el planeta. Desde la perspectiva de Chernóbil, la cuestión de
las fronteras se ve de forma muy distinta. Si los bomberos de Chernóbil no hubiesen
apagado el incendio en los primeras días, y sobre todo en la primera noche, ni en
Escandinavia ni en Europa se podría vivir, el mundo se habría convertido en algo muy
frágil. Siempre me acuerdo, cuando viajo por ciudades europeas, de las películas de
Tarkovski, en que todo es frágil, todas las cosas desaparecen.
Cuando se dice que Chernóbil está casi olvidado, que es nuestro pasado, creo
que no se ve como un símbolo, un mensaje, porque yo siempre, en mi país y hasta
ahora, tengo la sensación de no haber hablado del pasado. Cuando vi todo lo que
pasaba, cuando grabé las conversaciones con la gente, para mí aquello era el futuro.
La gente tiene una fuerza que le empuja a salvarse, o también hay una especie de
fuerza del miedo. Nosotros sentimos esta hostilidad. En ese momento no queremos
pensar, o tenemos miedo de pensar, o bien no tenemos conocimientos suficientes.
No vemos que Chernóbil nos introdujo en otra realidad.
¿Qué es lo que pasó? Cambió la relación con el tiempo. Existe la idea de que el
tiempo es muy efímero, pero nosotros hemos depositado en éste alguna esperanza.
219
Chernóbil: Crónica del futuro
¿Qué pasa después de Chernóbil, cuando todas las sustancias radioactivas que están
allí permanecerán durante cientos de años? No podemos medirlo, no podemos medir-
lo con nuestro concepto del tiempo. ¿Qué pasa también con el espacio después de
Chernóbil? El cuarto día las emisiones ya llegaban a África y a China. En Bielorrusia
no hay ninguna instalación nuclear, pero nosotros ya habíamos recibido todas las
emisiones, toda la contaminación. Antes teníamos una determinada noción de lo que
está cerca y de lo que está lejos. Y todo esto cambió.
Sería interesante hablar de Chernóbil como un trauma de la cultura, porque
hasta ahora Chernóbil no se ha tratado desde la perspectiva cultural que tiene. Las
personas que fueron a la zona de Chernóbil para salvar al mundo de las consecuen-
cias del accidente era gente muy emotiva, y su emoción se fue difuminando. El pasa-
do era despiadado. Toda esta explosión es como si hubiese hecho estallar el pasado.
El pasado fue sustituido: primero estaba el poder y después está el pequeño ser huma-
no. Y el poder, frente a este accidente, intentó utilizar las técnicas que se empleaban
en otras catástrofes con cierto secretismo. La gente ponía arena, plomo, sustancias
varias y, al mismo tiempo, había muchos soldados, mucha técnica, y había que ven-
cer, pero nadie sabía qué había que vencer. Nadie sabía cómo había que luchar ante
este nuevo mal. Recuerdo las caras desesperadas de los médicos, de los soldados, pero
sobre todo de la gente que trabajaba allí.
Enviaron a unos 100.000 soldados, y los iban reemplazando, pero de todas mane-
ras todavía siguen muriendo. Es difícil de calcular, porque están muy dispersos aho-
ra. Un oficial de un grupo de aviadores que habían enviado desde Afganistán y que
estaban en torno al reactor me dijo: «¿qué estamos haciendo aquí? Puedo ir a la
guerra, puedo morir, puedo disparar, pero aquí no veo al enemigo, ¿dónde está el
enemigo?» Y nos tropezamos con el mal, pero este mal era algo totalmente descono-
cido, estaba bajo una máscara nueva.
Se actuó como se hacía en el pasado, tranquilizando a la gente, engañándola,
diciéndole que se vencería, que todo estaba bajo control. El pasado siempre era des-
piadado, pero esto no podía ayudar al ser humano, e inmediatamente el miedo desem-
peñó un papel muy importante. Al principio, pensé que el miedo tenía un papel cons-
tructivo en cualquier lugar, en todo caso, en lo que yo había observado.
La gente controlada por un régimen, un régimen totalitario que entonces era bas-
tante fuerte, se hizo libre gracias al miedo. Gente que tenía niños dijo que, o bien se
quedaba en la zona con los niños, con la familia, o bien dejaba el Partido. Hubo
mucha gente que devolvió el carné del Partido y salvó a sus hijos. La propaganda
220
Svetlana Aleksiévich
por la radio y la televisión decía que todo iba bien, que no había motivo de preocu-
pación. Pero la gente escuchaba también las emisoras occidentales o escribían a
personas de Occidente. La población intentaba salvarse, intentaba imaginar estrate-
gias para no contaminarse con los alimentos. Fue el miedo lo que les hizo libres. El
miedo, que ocupa tanto lugar, ya no es como una paranoia que puede paralizarnos
a todos. Es también como la vía para buscar cambios y una forma de ser conscientes.
¿Cómo superó la vida este miedo?
Era necesario ir más allá de los límites de la cultura, no únicamente de las leyes
bíblicas, sino de nuestra imaginación. La gente había llegado a una especie de umbral
de la autodestrucción. Por eso se tuvo que pensar en la Biblia y algún escritor habló
de los valores del terror.
Hubo una mujer, una anciana, que no quería salir de la zona protegida. La ame-
nazaron con sacarla por la fuerza, pero dijo que no saldría. Al verme a mí, la única
mujer entre periodistas y militares, me dijo: «hijita, ¿esto es la guerra?». Nadie pen-
só que nos estaba haciendo la principal pregunta, la que se ha convertido en la gran
pregunta después de Chernóbil. Dijo: «yo he estado en la guerra, yo he visto la gue-
rra, yo sé que la guerra es cuando disparan o bombardean los soldados de otros paí-
ses. Pero de todas maneras vuelven a crecer las flores. Y ¿por qué tengo que irme de
aquí?» Y repitió: «¿esto es la guerra? ¿Por qué me tengo que ir de aquí?»
Durante los primeros meses –creo que este episodio de la anciana fue el tercer
mes después del accidente– no sabíamos que sí, que era una guerra, que habíamos
entrado en un nuevo mundo. Después del 11 de septiembre también se habló de ello.
Habíamos entrado en un nuevo mundo, con nuevos misterios, nuevos sentimientos
y nuevas dudas sobre nuestra existencia y sobre la manera de sobrevivir.
En un pueblo junto al reactor de Chernóbil, donde viven muchas personas que
trabajan en la planta nuclear, había unas pequeñas casas cerca del reactor. Tres días
antes de la evacuación, la gente, por la noche, se sentaba en los balcones y le decía
a sus hijos: «mira, recuerda todo esto», porque era un espectáculo. Una casa des-
truida, o una ciudad asolada, o una planta nuclear incendiada puede ser un espec-
táculo muy bello y esto la gente lo repitió muchas veces, dijo que era como una luz
muy especial, como una luz malva, como un incendio muy especial. No sabíamos
todavía que la muerte puede ser tan hermosa. Incluso sin filósofos, sin historiado-
res, se crearon unos textos muy especiales. Los campesinos fueron los que más sufrie-
ron, los que estaban más cerca de la naturaleza en Bielorrusia y en Ucrania. Son
personas que tienen otra relación con la naturaleza, que confían en ella, y era muy
221
Chernóbil: Crónica del futuro
difícil hacerles entender que la muerte está dentro de la tierra. Se les tenía que
decir que la leche que querían beber también es la muerte, que toda la hierba que
tenían alrededor es la muerte.
Había personas que ya estaban condenadas, que padecían una especie de cáncer
que consume muy rápidamente al enfermo. En la clínica, una persona muy enfer-
ma comentaba que, al tercer día del accidente, cuando habló Gorbachov, no salía
ninguna abeja de la colmena; todo estaba muerto, todos los animales habían muer-
to. Pensaba que la situación era provisional, pero cuando vio que las abejas no salí-
an volando, se dio cuenta de que algo había pasado. Esto lo formulaba una persona
muy sencilla, y todas esas personas se convirtieron en filósofos. Tuvieron que llegar
a esas conclusiones ellos mismos. Los sufrimientos, la tensión, la emoción, todo esto
elevó a estas personas, y se pusieron a escribir. Y parecían Dostoievski escribiendo.
Alguien dijo: «yo me estoy muriendo, a lo mejor mis abejas sobrevivirán, a lo mejor
están más adaptadas a este mundo que yo». Chernóbil supuso la aparición de una
nueva realidad. Esto es algo que se encontraba en cada esquina. Y fue una pena que
la literatura y el periodismo únicamente se dedicaran a la capa más superficial, a los
efectos sobre la salud y a la política.
Allí también se descubrieron aspectos vulnerables de nuestro mundo. En una reu-
nión de la Academia de Ciencias en Bielorrusia, a pesar de la oposición de los políti-
cos, empezando por Gorbachov, por el enorme coste que representaba, se decidió
que había que desplazar a 400.000 personas de Bielorrusia. Esto planteaba otra cues-
tión en esa nueva realidad: se puede salvar a la gente, que puede llevarse documentos
y dinero, pero ¿qué se hace con los animales, por ejemplo? La zona era como un cemen-
terio de animales, pero a lo mejor se pueden salvar aquellos que se desplazan con las
personas, los caballos, los perros, etc. Pero ¿qué se hace, por ejemplo, con los árboles,
con todo lo que vive dentro de la tierra o en los bosques? Por primera vez en la histo-
ria de la humanidad, se plantearon este tipo de preguntas. Aunque sea a un nivel
filosófico, eran nuevas cuestiones filosóficas. Pero en ese régimen tan cruel, no fue-
ron desarrolladas todas estas cuestiones.
Pasados ya casi 20 años, la gente se quiere distanciar, quiere enviar ese miedo a la peri-
feria. Pero no se puede hacer del miedo algo periférico en este momento, todo va a las
capitales de las superpotencias y va adquiriendo fuerza, y Chernóbil fue una primera aler-
ta. Cuando me reúno con científicos de todo el mundo en Chernóbil, siempre dicen:
«nos preparamos para el futuro». Todos entienden ahora que es un laboratorio gigan-
te, que es un banco de datos muy importante para la supervivencia del ser humano.
222
Svetlana Aleksiévich
223
THE GEOGRAPHY
OF EXILE
Lindsay Bremner
In 1994, ten years ago this year, South Africa was welcomed into the global community,
when it held its first ever national democratic elections after nearly 50 years of apartheid
rule. A new government was installed with Nelson Mandela as its first President. Under
his leadership, great effort was made to unite the racially divided society of the past
(symbolically at least), and to set in place shared democratic values.
This terminated an entire period of human history – of slavery, colonization and for-
eign rule in Africa. With South Africa’s liberation from apartheid, the last system of
white domination on the continent was ended and the way was opened for a new era of
African-led development. One of its chief protagonists has been Thabo Mbeki, second
President of the Democratic Republic of South Africa, Nelson Mandela’s successor.
249
The Geography of Exile
South Africans were forced to live in these areas, often by force, supposedly to be
able to develop according to their authentic tribal customs and practices. Outside of
these enclaves, yet inside South Africa, they were temporary residents, only entertained
for the labour they supplied to the country’s industries.
Bantustans, or «homelands» as they were otherwise known, were fragmented
and discontinuous territories, located in unproductive and marginal parts of the coun-
try (Horrell, 1973). They existed in a state of contrived sovereignty, recognized
«internationally» as independent countries only by the South African state whose laws
had set them up. Their borders, rarely mapped, marked stark divisions between moder-
nity and the stasis of their enforced tribalism (Benningfield, 2003).
It is the shadow of these Bantustans, and their mirror, the military encampments
of the liberation movements in exile, established outside South Africa’s borders, that,
I think, shaped and still shapes Mandela’s and Mbeki’s political projects.
Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in prison, mostly on Robben Island, in Table Bay,
off Cape Town; Thabo Mbeki lived for almost 28 years in exile outside South Africa.
Mandela’s politics focused on uniting the divisions of South Africa’s past and creat-
ing a society of shared democratic values. It was a politics of the interior, of unity, of
closure. Mbeki’s politics, on the other hand, has focused on repositioning South Africa
in Africa and on integrating Africa into the global economy and body politic (Mbeki,
1998 and 2002). It is a politics of the exterior, of border crossings, of connections.
Yet, paradoxically, Nelson Mandela is a symbolic figure that circulates globally, an
international icon of human freedom; and Mbeki’s internationalism has produced
new forms of isolation and exclusion. Rather than seeing these two as opposites,
they need to be understood as the anomalous partners, the Janus faces, of contem-
porary global geopolitics.
But a few more words about Mbeki’s period in exile, for it is important to what
follows.
Mbeki’s exile years were characterized by continual movement from continent to
continent and place to place (Mbeki, 1998). In the sixties, he was a student at Sussex
University in England and then at the Institute of Social Sciences in Moscow. After
1971, as a key theoretician, strategist and diplomat for the African National Congress
(ANC), he lived in exile in Africa, for large periods of time in the movement’s exile
capital, Lusaka. From here, he moved between Nigeria, Botswana, Swaziland,
Mozambique and Zimbabwe, living in all these countries for various lengths of time,
where he established underground bases and channels of communication for the
250
Lindsay Bremner
ANC. In the eighties, he became one of the most public faces of the international
anti-apartheid movement, traveling around the world mobilizing sanctions again
the apartheid government.
The geography of this exile life was made up of safe houses, disguised spaces, or
ANC headquarters and diplomatic missions. For the most part, Mbeki lived in ANC
educational or military camps situated in the remote hinterlands of one or other cen-
tral or southern African state, isolated and disengaged from their surroundings. They
were governed, not by the laws of their host countries, but by the constitution of the
ANC, overseen by its internal structures, including its own military police, Mbokodo
(whose methods have been found to have frequently exceeded those sanctioned by
International Law) (Twala and Benard, 1994).
These isolated, extraterritorial nodes were collectively and effectively the ANC’s
territory in exile. Connected by routes and corridors that allowed a continuous flow
of information, ideology, weapons, and supplies, they were the laboratory of the spa-
tial politics now unfolding. The geography of exile, of networked nodes and the flows
between them, of secret bases, located in space, but disengaged from their sur-
rounding field, the geography that Mbeki lived in exile, that shaped his spatial expe-
rience, has come to characterise his post-exile politics.
Pan Africanism
The key idea around which Thabo Mbeki has shaped his political project is that of
an «African Renaissance», a pan-African project for Africans to overcome their colo-
nial and neo-colonial past, and to re-imagine and reposition the African continent
as part of the global community (Mbeki, 1998a). This project has been articulated
in the New Partnership for African Development (NEPAD, 2001), a pledge by the
African leaders of the newly established African Union (successor to the Organisation
of African Unity) for Africa’s renewal.
But NEPAD’s spatial impact too, is developing paradoxically. On the one hand, it
is producing increased continental and global integration and connectivity, while
on the other, it is producing increasing local discontinuity and fragmentation.
251
The Geography of Exile
1994). Apartheid policy drew lines to create racial and ethnic territories (Addison,
1981). Contemporary global geo-politics continues to engage with Africa through
lines of exclusion, marginalisation and denial.
This landscape has been translated, in post-colonial times, into one of contesta-
tion and conflict. The borders of former colonial nation states have become the fron-
tier zones of internecine conflict, between rebel armies, effectively extra-territorial
spaces governed by warlords, vigilantes, private entrepreneurs, clan chiefs, armies for
hire or youth gangs, in a state of low intensity, permanent warfare. Africa’s cities are
sites of similar levels of contestation and conflicting claims, and resemble the frac-
tured landscapes of the war zones.
Mbeki’s vision is to overcome these political and socio-economic conflicts, which
he sees as part of Africa’s colonial and neocolonial heritage, and to configure a new,
seamless pan African space, through the merging of national frontiers, through
border crossings and bridgings and through the politics of dialogue, reconciliation
and partnership.
The site of the configuring of this newly conceived continental space is the recent-
ly established African Union, a pan-African forum for political, economic and social
dialogue and for the collective negotiation of Africa’s global future.
In the policies being developed by this new political body, national borders and
sovereignty are not eradicated, they are simply absorbed into larger, regional eco-
nomic units – the Southern African Development Community (SADC), the Economic
Community of West African States (ECOWAS) etc. – that facilitate co-operative adven-
tures – cross-border infrastructure, cross-border energy flows, cross-border trade,
trans-frontier conservation areas, co-operation on shared rivers, transport develop-
ment corridors, etc. These new co-operative strategies are aimed at eradicating block-
ages that have stood in the way of opening up Africa to the movement of people,
goods and services. Their ideal is a seamless, continuous, integrated continental space,
to enable the fluid and uninterrupted flow of resources into, through and out of
Africa (NEPAD, 2001).
Clearly, one of the major impediments to the realization of this vision is the per-
sistence of armed conflict on the continent – between rebel movements in Bujumbura,
Burundi; between the Lord’s Resistance Army and the Ugandan military in north-
ern and eastern Uganda; in Darfur on the border between Chad and the Sudan, in
Ituri in the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), in Côte d’Ivoire, in Sierra
Leone, in Liberia, etc.
252
Lindsay Bremner
These hot spots are the target of Mbeki’s diplomatic energies and of South African
troop deployment on peacekeeping missions across the continent – currently in
Burundi, the DRC and Liberia. Here a politics of the thickened boundary – dialogue,
negotiation and transitional forms of government – is being pursued, modeled on
South Africa’s own transition to democracy.
253
The Geography of Exile
and seek refuge in Johannesburg’s decaying high-density inner city suburbs – Hillbrow,
Joubert Park, Berea. These have become bysites of intense verbal abuse, physical attack,
police harassment and racial profiling. Here, in a strange re-enactment of apartheid,
South Africans have violently reasserted their national claims against those whose bod-
ies (marked by darker skin colours or foreign accents) are seen to be outside the law
(Landau, 2004). Inner city suburbs have been transformed into war zones. The lim-
itations of Mbeki’s cosmopolitanism have been exposed.
• Under apartheid law, each South African town or city had its «township». These
were spatial institutions, created by apartheid law, for housing black workers.
They were separated from the city by geography or infrastructure and exclud-
ed from the general laws governing city space. They were places of non-life, urban
warehouses for black bodies. Now that apartheid has ended, these townships are,
in a sense, no longer there. They have slipped out, leaked and scattered. The
city, Johannesburg in particular, has become a Township-Metropolis (Motsepe,
2004).
The city is being both opened up and torn apart by the new logics of national and
transnational wealth and politics.
Viral Geographies
This concatenation of the open and the closed, of networks and nodes, is also evi-
dent in the epidemiology of the HIV / Aids epidemic, a viral disease spread through
connectivity and flows (sex), and producing the ultimate exclusion (death) in the
midst of the most active parts of the social body (its youth). With HIV / Aids, death
is no longer confined to the margins of social experience (amongst the old, the infirm,
the weak), but is located at its heart, at the very site of its reproduction (Walker, Reid
and Cornell, 2004).
The geography of the HIV / Aids epidemic is a thoroughly global one. It cannot
be separated from the global political economy – disparities of wealth, patterns of
international migration, the global production and distribution of pharmaceuticals,
global circuits of mass media, music and popular culture. HIV / Aids is unevenly
distributed and spread by mobility (Posel, 2003). The Great North Road through
Zambia, for instance, is one of the primary conduits for its transmission throughout
central Africa. Zambia, a country with borders to seven other central or southern
African states, has one of the highest prevalences of HIV / Aids in Africa. 20% of its
254
Lindsay Bremner
adult population between 15 and 49 years of age was infected in 1999 (Van Kesteren
and Van Amerongen, 2000).
Thabo Mbeki’s attitude towards HIV / Aids has been a dissident one. He dis-
putes the conventionally held view that HIV causes Aids and that its transmission is
primarily sexual. This must be taken as a refusal of the contradiction between life
(as invoked by ideas like the African Renaissance) and openness (to global flows)
on the one hand, and infection, exclusion and death on the other. The idea that con-
nectivity, openness and mobility, the central vectors of his project, are disrupting
life and producing vast swathes of poverty and death is, for him, unthinkable.
Yet this logic inheres in the emerging patterns of Africa’s modernity, which is
episodic, fragmentary and discontinuous. Mbeki’s political vision for its renewal is
being realised in incomplete and disconnected episodes. His Africa, while whole, is
not continuous. It is comprised of islands of wealth in a sea of poverty, of territorial-
ized nodes in networks of deterritorialised power, of internally homogeneous, yet
externally disengaged enclaves. This is not the result of a failure of imagination on
his part, but rather a product of the kind of spatiality in which his political imagina-
tion was honed – that of the Bantustan and the exile encampment. The irony is that
extraterritorial connectivity, disjointed territoriality and suspended sovereignty, once
features of a politics of expulsion or exile, now lie at the heart of the contemporary
geopolitical imagination. Global geopolitics, in the words of Paul Gilroy (2004), have
been «South Africanised».
Bibliography
255
The Geography of Exile
Horrell, Muriel, The African Homelands of South Africa, Institute of Race Relations, Johannesburg
1973.
Johannesburg Roads Authority, Map of Road Closures in Johannesburg, unpublished map,
2004.
Landau, Loren B. (ed.), Forced Migrants in the New Johannesburg, Forced Migration Studies
Programme, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg 2004.
Mbeki, Thabo, Africa The Time Has Come. Selected Speeches, Tafelberg, Cape Town 1998.
Mbeki, Thabo, The African Renaissance, South Africa and the World, speech at the United Nations
University, 9th April 1998a (http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/ history/ mbeki/
1998/sp980409.html).
Mbeki, Thabo, Africa Define Yourself, Tafelberg, Cape Town 2002.
Motsepe, Fanuel, at Round Table Discussion on Cultural Creativity in and Representation of
«the Township» at the «Townships Now Symposium», WISER, University of the Witwatersrand,
Johannesburg, 9th & 10th June 2004.
Nepad, The New Partnership for Africa’s Development, 2001 (http://www.touchtech. biz/
nepad/ files/documents/nepad_english_version.pdf).
Oliver, Roland and Atmore, Anthony, Africa Since 1800, Cambridge University Press,
Cambridge 1994.
Posel, Deborah, A Matter of Life and Death: Revisiting «Modernity» from the Vantage point of the
«New» South Africa, unpublished paper delivered at the «Biopolitics, States of Exception and
the Politics of Sovereignty» Workshop, 6th & 7th February 2003.
Twala, Mwezi and Benard, Ed, Mbokodo. Inside MK: Mwezi Twala - A Soldier’s Story, Jonathan
Ball, Johannesburg 1994.
Van Kesteren, Geert and Van Amerongen, Arthur, Mwendanjangula. Aids in Zambia, trans. J.
Michael, David Philip, Cape Town 2000.
Walker, Liz; Reid, Graeme and Cornell, Morna, Waiting to Happen. HIV Aids in South Africa
– The Bigger Picture, Double Storey Books, Cape Town 2004.
256
HIP-HOP,
PERIPHERY, AND
SPATIAL
SEGREGATION
~ PAULO
IN SAO
Teresa P. R. Caldeira
In the last two decades, both urban violence and democracy took root in Brazil. Instead
of serving to deter each other, violence and democracy expanded in interconnected,
paradoxical, and sometimes simply surprising ways. The urban spaces of metropoli-
tan regions, especially their poor peripheries, constitute a dimension of Brazilian soci-
ety in which we can observe both an inventive engagement with democratization and
some of its most dramatic limits. In these cities, violence and fear are entangled with
processes of social change, generating new forms of spatial segregation and social
discrimination. Fortified enclaves – private and privately surveilled spaces for resi-
dence, work, and leisure of those who can pay for them – constitute a central instru-
ment of segregation. In the last years, however, a series of new cultural and artistic
movements created in the poor peripheries of São Paulo have articulated responses
to both urban violence and to the new forms of urban segregation. The most visible
and influential of these movements is certainly hip-hop. In this paper, I show that
São Paulo’s rappers produce a powerful critique of Brazilian society, as they try to artic-
ulate a means of controlling the proliferation of violence and death among young res-
idents of the poor peripheries. Paradoxically, though, they also recreate some of the
257
Hip-Hop, Periphery, and Spatial Segregation
terms of their own segregation, as they symbolically reinvent the periphery as an iso-
lated ghetto. Thus, they construct a position of self-enclosure that is paralleled by
upper classes’ practices of enclosure and their protest against their exclusion ends
up contributing to the reproduction of segregated spaces and intolerance.1
The Racionais MC’s are the most important of São Paulo’s rap groups. They are formed
by Mano Brown, Ice Blue, Edy Rock, and KL Jay. Their project is to use words as
weapons, to make people think, to be rational, to make information circulate, to
denunciate, to build an X-ray of Brazil. Their mission is to take young men out of
the path of drugs, alcohol, and organized crime. For them, this is the only alterna-
tive in a universe basically without alternatives, the only chance of life.
The Racionais position themselves in the periphery, identify themselves as poor
and black, express an explicit class and racial antagonism, and create a style of con-
frontation that leaves very little space for tolerance and negotiation. Their raps estab-
lish a non-bridgeable and non-negotiable distance between rich and poor, white
and black, the center and the periphery. Racism is one of their most important denun-
ciations. The members of hip-hop not only are mostly black but also assume pub-
licly and confrontationally their racial identity in a society that has preferred to
deny racial categories in the name of an illusory «racial democracy» and in which
denunciations of racism have been absent from most forms of popular movements.
1. This paper results from an ongoing research on gender and youth in São Paulo. I have developed the
fieldwork for this project between July 2001 and December 2002, and in the summer of 2003. I would
like to thank the institutions that have generously supported this research: J. William Fulbright Foreign
Scholarship, Fapesp, Núcleo de Estudos da Violência from the University of São Paulo, and Program in
Latin American Studies of the University of California, Irvine. The analysis presented here is part of a
larger study on violence, re-significations of justice, and hip-hop that will appear in a volume organized
by John Comaroff and Jean Comaroff on «Law and Disorder in the Post-Colony».
2. «Eu tenho uma bíblia velha, uma pistola automática e um sentimento de revolta. Eu tou tentando
sobreviver no inferno», Sobrevivendo no Inferno, 1997.
258
Teresa P. R. Caldeira
The Racionais MC’s speak from the periphery about the periphery and to the
periphery’s residents, especially young males. In São Paulo as in Los Angeles or New
York, raps are interpretations of the conditions of life in the deteriorated spaces of
post-industrial cities offered by their young residents. Periferia is the referential space
of the Racionais. But the periphery they rap about is a re-signified space.
In São Paulo, as elsewhere in Brazil, poor workers have settled in cities by build-
ing by themselves their own houses in the outskirts of the city and, in the process,
urbanizing the metropolis. Their autoconstructed houses in the peripheries are not
the same as the favelas, which occupy invaded property, while autoconstructed hous-
es are built on land that has been bought by their owners, who thus have claims to
property ownership. Starting in the mid-1970s, numerous neighborhood-based social
movements appeared in the poor urban peripheries of Brazilian metropolitan regions.
Their participants, a majority of them women, were new property owners who real-
ized that political organization was the only way to force city authorities to extend
urban infrastructure and services to their neighborhoods. They discovered that being
taxpayers legitimated their «right to have rights» and their «rights to the city», that
is, rights to the legal order and the urbanization (infrastructure, piped water, sewage
collection, electricity, telephone services, etc.) available in the center. The urban social
movements were central actors in the political process that brought the military dic-
tatorship to an end and in the constitution of a new conception of citizenship.
In the last 15 years, the peripheries of São Paulo have undergone contradictory
processes of improvement and deterioration. The state responded to the demands
of social movements with investments that improved the urban infrastructure and
indicators such as infant mortality and with the regularization of developments. The
combination of infrastructural improvement and regularization radically changed
the status of the peripheries in the cityscape, a transformation analogous to that of
the political status of their residents obtained through the organization of social move-
ments.
Nevertheless, as the peripheries improved, and as democratization took roots in
Brazil, the conditions that sustained industrialization, development, and social mobil-
ity eroded. They started to collapse in the 1980s with what is called the «lost decade.»
They continued to change as a result of the adoption of «structural-adjustment» poli-
cies. Some of the effects of these changes have been high unemployment rates,
worsening of an already bad distribution of wealth, and erosion of perspectives of
social mobility.
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Hip-Hop, Periphery, and Spatial Segregation
Certainly, one of the aspects that contribute significantly to deteriorate the con-
ditions of everyday life in the peripheries is the sharp increase in violent crime. Violent
criminality has increased continuously in Brazil since the early eighties, and São Paulo’s
homicide rates of around 65 per 100,000 inhabitants is one of the world’s highest.
In São Paulo, homicide has become the main cause of death of young men (the third
for the total population) and has made life expectancy for men decrease in four years
in the last decade. More dramatically, the police have been responsible for about 10%
of the homicides of São Paulo’s metropolitan region in the last 15 years. Most cases
of homicide and of police killing happen in the peripheries, not in the center.
In sum, although the urban space of the peripheries improved and the political
citizenship of their residents expanded, their civil rights have shrunk and their every-
day lives have deteriorated as a consequence of various processes that increased the
uncertainties under which residents have to shape their lives.
As hip-hop members reflect on the conditions of life on the outskirts of the city,
they transform the quite diverse peripheries into a symbol: a periferia. As this new sym-
bol, the periphery is homogenized to represent the worst social inequalities and vio-
lence. Not all residents of the peripheries, and not even the majority of them, share
the interpretation of the periphery articulated in this recent symbol. Probably, the
people who share this view are only a minority. However, the rest of the population
cannot ignore the view that represents them so powerfully and that places their
areas once again on the center of political debate.
The members of hip-hop are mostly young, the first generation of children of
migrants born in the poor neighborhoods of the city which their parents built
dreaming of becoming property owners and modern citizens. However, the condi-
tions they encountered in the peripheries are quite different from those of their
parents. They are part of the first generation to come of age under both a demo-
cratic political system and the effects of neoliberal policies, such as high unemploy-
ment, less formal jobs, and a new «flexible» culture of labor. From many perspec-
tives, their parents succeeded in their dreams of social mobility, and their own
insertion in the city, in its modern consumption market, and in its public sphere
of political debates and communication, are signs of this success. However, while
their parents believed in progress, they feel that they have few or even null chances
of social mobility. They think of themselves as marginal and excluded, not as citi-
zens, although they exercise daily their citizenship rights of integrating a public
debate and creating a public representation of themselves. They grew up at a moment
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Teresa P. R. Caldeira
In most of their raps, the Racionais portray the periphery as what I call a space of
despair. Several of their raps are painful to listen to because of the powerful way in
which they describe the proximity of death, refer to various dead friends, and express
the vulnerability of life in the periphery. «To survive here, one has to be a magician.
… Death here is natural, it’s common to see», they affirm in the rap Rapaz Comum
(Ordinary Kid), by Edy Rock, from 1997. «If you want to destroy yourself, you’re in
the right place», they affirm of the periphery in Fim-de-Semana no Parque. The Racionais
tirelessly reiterate the elements of this space of despair: the constant violence, the
naturalness and proximity of death, drugs, alcohol, organized crime, and feuds among
brothers. These are the things one has to resist to be able to survive. Poverty is some-
thing people can deal with. The trick is to avoid these things that lead to death. «To
die is a factor… The true trick is to live.» This is their argument in another famous
rap, Fórmula Mágica da Paz (Magic Formula for Peace), by Mano Brown, from 1997.
They also conclude:
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Hip-Hop, Periphery, and Spatial Segregation
The Racionais describe themselves as survivors, because they escaped the lack of alter-
natives of the periphery, or rather, they escaped its destiny, the main alternative it
presents to the young men, which is fratricide. There is always the violence of the
police, but the main cause of death is poor brothers killing each other. Their descrip-
tion of a process of widespread reciprocal violence reminds us of what René Girard
calls a sacrificial crisis, a crisis of distinctions in which men are leveled by violence
and in which there is an impossibility of maintaining the difference between good
and evil. In the indistinction of the universe of violence and death, they try to trace
a line. They discover that the real trick is to live when «to die is a factor.» And they
want, maybe romantically, to use rap to show to other young men (yes, only men, as
they do not talk to women, do not see them as equal, and in fact only despise them)
what may separate life and death.
The line separating life and death, right and wrong, heaven and hell, violence and
peace is thin indeed. Distinctions are unstable and, therefore, there is always ambi-
guity. They live side-by-side with manos (still brothers) who made other choices, who
did not have the strength to resist the drugs, money, the appeal to consume, crime.
And they understand why they make these choices – «nobody is more than nobody
else», they repeat. Members of the hip-hop movement carry guns, as do so many manos
in the peripheries, and display them on most of the covers of their CDs and on their
sleeves. They sympathize with the faith of those inside prisons. The culture of São
Paulo’s prisons and of hip-hop share many elements.
What does allow them to trace this narrow path that separates life and death?
First of all, there is reason and word. They think, they are the Rationals; their words
are weapons. But they alone do not have so much power. Thus, they evoke God and
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Teresa P. R. Caldeira
the orixás (the gods and goddesses from Afro-Brazilian religions) to help them to
«stop in the middle of the way.» Gods and the old Bible end up being the only guar-
antors of the distinctions. In the absence of a trustworthy justice system, given the
impossibility of trusting the authorities, above all the police that only kill, there is
God. This is their argument in the CD Sobrevivendo no Inferno (Surviving in Hell), in
one of their most famous raps, Chapter 4, Verse 3, a reference to Psalm 23, «The Good
Shepherd».
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Hip-Hop, Periphery, and Spatial Segregation
264
Teresa P. R. Caldeira
To be a «type A» black who defies the statistics and remains alive is hard. He must
escape violence, always, but also resist many other seductions and temptations that
«transform a ‘type A’ black into a wimpy black.» The only source of protection is
God «who does not let the mano here go astray.» But if a young black man survives
in the space of despair and temptations, he is subversive. He sabotages your (our)
reasoning. And the sabotage seems to be multiple. He sabotages the system, the sta-
tistics, the reasoning of the elites, the racist status quo, which destines him to death
in the periphery. He sabotages the pattern of reciprocal violence and indistinction
that makes the brothers kill one another. But he may also sabotage the usual ways of
conceiving of democracy and a democratic public sphere by marking a non-nego-
tiable position of exclusion, drawing rigid boundaries to the brotherhood, and test-
ing the values of tolerance and respect for difference. They sabotage the assurance
of a democratic project that ignores the task of protecting the bodies of the subal-
terns.
For the Racionais, what makes a «type A» black is atitude (attitude). This expres-
sion, which is also present in the lexicon of American hip-hop, acquires a more promi-
nent and central role in São Paulo’s hip-hop. «Ter attitude», or «to have attitude»,
means to behave in the proper way that supposedly will help to keep one on the side
of life. It means to avoid drugs, alcohol, and crime; to be loyal to your manos; to be
proud of the black race; to be virile; to avoid ostensive consumption and proximity
with the upper classes; to avoid the mass media; to be loyal to the periphery; to be
humble; to avoid women. In other words, the brotherhood is kept together by this
strict code of behavior that those who consider to be their spokesmen do not hesi-
tate in enforcing in quite authoritarian terms, as they do in the rap Júri Racional
(Rational Judgement) in which they condemn in the strongest of the terms a black
man that they consider to be a traitor of the race.
From the brotherhood are excluded not only the usual suspects (rich, white, police-
men, politicians) and those with the wrong attitude. Excluded also are their sisters – all
women. Maybe the only women treated with respect in the raps are their mothers who
suffer, cry for them, and give them character. Verses despising women abound. The list
of faults attributed to women is more detailed than those attributed to rich whites and
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Hip-Hop, Periphery, and Spatial Segregation
sometimes the words used to refer to them are more offensive (as are those used to
refer to the black «traitor»). There are several possible conjectures to be made in rela-
tion to such an anxiety in relation to women. It could be remembered that women in
the periphery seem to have another relationship with the position of marginality, as
they continue to be educated, to enter the labor force and find jobs, to support and
head households, to raise children by themselves. I would argue that the denigration of
women (even if black) as well as the harsh judgment of the black «traitor» are part of
the same trend. This is the need to police the boundaries of a community that is kept
together on the basis of «attitudes» and which has no tolerance for difference. This task
of policing is easy in relation to the obvious «others» but becomes a cumbersome deed
when it has to separate those who are «equal but not quite.»
The periphery is a space of huge uncertainties. The generation of youth to which
rappers belong grew up at a moment in which the strong belief in progress and social
mobility that have structured the lives and actions of the previous generation of res-
idents of the periphery has vanished. Moreover, the culture of labor that anchored
working class culture and their sense of dignity, especially male, has lost reference
in the context of unemployment and job informality. When the loss of these refer-
ences combine with the constant presence of police harassment and murdered friends,
«daily life becomes a perpetual dress rehearsal for death», as Zygmunt Bauman puts
it.3 No wonder, then, that anxieties about betrayal, loyalty, appearance, and the evil
eye should be high and that trust becomes something to be carefully constructed and
difficult to obtain.
3. Bauman, Zygmunt, cited by Gilroy Paul, « “After the love has gone”: bio-politics and etho-poetics in
the black public sphere », Public Culture, vol. 7, no. 1, p. 69, Duke University Press, 1994.
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Teresa P. R. Caldeira
of the political sphere and indeed forced the expansion of its parameters so that they
could fit in. The law and the state that the residents of the periphery engaged with
and that incorporated them during the democratization period have protected
their political rights, improved at least partially their spaces and even protected
their property rights; but they were unable to protect their bodies and lives, espe-
cially if black and male. It is this vulnerability that the Racionais and the hip-hop move-
ment dramatically express. As they do this, however, they articulate for themselves a
position of enclosure. Their intolerance of difference (any difference, in fact, remem-
ber the sisters) sets limits to the kind of community and politics they may create. They
think of the periphery as a world apart, something similar to the American ghetto,
an imaginary that has never been used before in Brazil to think of the peripheries.
Moreover, democracy is not a word in their lexicon. Their evocations of justice are
not necessarily those of citizenship and the rule of law – as were the ones of the
social movements. Theirs is a moralistic order, and one in which difference has no
place.
This construction of a position of self-enclosure gets to be especially problemat-
ic when one considers that it is paralleled by other practices of enclosure, this time
from the upper classes. For some time, groups from the upper classes have been cre-
ating spaces of isolation for their activities, from housing to work, from entertain-
ment to consumption. These are fortified enclaves kept under the surveillance of pri-
vate guards. When both sides of the wall think of themselves as enclosed and
self-sufficient, what are the chances of democratization? What are the chances of
the construction of a less unequal and segregated city and a democratic public space
when intolerance is evoked to build the communities on both sides of the walls?
267
LA VIDA ENTENDIDA
COMO ENSAYO GENERAL:
SOBRE TRAUMAS,
CALAMIDADES
Y CATÁSTROFES1
Manuel Cruz
Sorpresas agradables
Desde siempre, la acción humana ha constituido un misterio para sus mismos pro-
tagonistas. Más allá del obvio transcurrir de los acontecimientos, de la monótona y
previsible toma de decisiones (que no pasa a menudo de ser otra cosa que la asun-
ción del propio destino, de aquello que ya nos viene dado y a lo que no nos queda
más remedio que acomodarnos con decoro), en contadas y excepcionales ocasiones
la cadencia sin brillo del obrar se interrumpe y al agente se le muestra, con el fogo-
nazo de la evidencia, con el carácter casi luminoso de la revelación, el vacío de su
existencia, la irremediable oquedad de su devenir vital.
A tales momentos u ocasiones bien pudiéramos denominarlos experiencias, enten-
diendo por tales esos viajes hasta el límite de lo posible para el hombre a los que hicie-
ra referencia Bataille en su libro La experiencia interior. Hay, en efecto, experiencias
–sucesos extraordinarios, relaciones personales de una desmesurada intensidad, situa-
ciones revolucionarias...– cuya principal virtud consiste en interrumpir el orden
preexistente, en impugnar, con desvergonzada gratuidad, con la alegre ligereza del
1. Versión ampliada del texto presentado en la sesión de clausura del ciclo Traumas urbanos. La ciudad y
los desastres.
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La vida entendida como ensayo general
270
Manuel Cruz
2. Sigo en este punto el planteamiento categorial presentado por Ernesto Garzón Valdés en las prime-
ras páginas de su excelente libro Calamidades, Gedisa, Barcelona 2004.
3. En efecto, si, como parece inexcusable, al referirnos a la acción en general incluimos también dentro
de ella aquella variedad tradicionalmente denominada acción por omisión, resulta difícil concebir una
catástrofe en estado puro, esto es, una desgracia en la que la intervención humana no constituya un fac-
tor relevante. Por decirlo de una manera directa: la mayor de las presuntas catástrofes naturales no causa
los mismos daños materiales y humanos según suceda en un país occidental altamente desarrollado o
en un país del tercer mundo sumido en el subdesarrollo más absoluto (bastaría con recordar al respec-
to el célebre trabajo de Amartya Sen sobre democracia y hambrunas). En ese sentido, puede afirmarse
que toda catástrofe tiene, inexorablemente, algo de calamitosa.
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La vida entendida como ensayo general
272
Manuel Cruz
Vulnerables
El mundo actual es un mundo fundamentalmente urbano. Cuanto de importancia
ocurre, ocurre en las ciudades de tal manera que, cada vez más, el fuera de las ciuda-
des ha dejado de constituir una realidad que rodee a éstas, para pasar a verse rodea-
da por ellas. En este contexto conviene inscribir la percepción, tan sumamente gene-
ralizada, de nuestra vulnerabilidad. Es cierto que las ciudades contemporáneas parecen
crecientemente expuestas al desastre. Datos tan indiscutibles como el crecimiento des-
mesurado, la densidad de población o la velocidad de las transformaciones tecnoló-
gicas parecen haberse convertido en factores generadores de situaciones que produ-
cen temor e inquietud. Pero, sin discutir la realidad de esta percepción (que, en tanto
que tal, es un dato de hecho), cabría preguntarse si las concentraciones urbanas de
antaño no estaban también expuestas (en idéntica o mayor medida incluso) a ame-
nazas igualmente generadoras de temor e inquietud.4
¿Qué hay de nuevo entonces en la señalada percepción de vulnerabilidad? Por lo
pronto, la percepción misma, puesta en sordina en los últimos años (tras el final de
los episodios más duros de la guerra fría, por fecharlo con una cierta rotundidad) y,
a continuación, su particular perfil. Un perfil que, a diferencia del de otro tiempo,
ya no aparece vinculado a designio o intencionalidad alguna sino que, en lo sustan-
cial, emerge como vinculado casi en exclusiva a la incertidumbre, cuando no al sin-
sentido. Los traumas en los que se va sustanciando la vulnerabilidad tienden a inter-
pretarse más como absurdos efectos de barbarie (y, en esa misma medida, de sinrazón)
que como desoladoras manifestaciones del mal.
Lo que en la jerga especializada de teóricos y sociólogos de la acción se denomi-
na efectos perversos o efectos indeseados ha ido adquiriendo carta de naturaleza en
el lenguaje más habitual de nuestra sociedad bajo la fórmula –de origen bélico– de
4. No sería ésta en ningún caso una pregunta capciosa. De hecho, han sido muchos los autores que
han insistido en la idea de que a nuestra época le cabe el dudoso honor de haber alcanzado los más
altos niveles en lo que hace a calamidades. Así, tiene escrito Habermas: «[nuestra época] ha “inven-
tado” la cámara de gas y la guerra total, el genocidio estatalmente planificado y los campos de exter-
minio, el lavado de cerebro, los aparatos de seguridad del estado, y una vigilancia panóptica de
poblaciones enteras. El siglo veinte nos ha traído más víctimas, más soldados caídos, más civiles
muertos, más minorías desplazadas, más tortura, más muertes por frío, hambre, y maltrato, más pri-
sioneros políticos y refugiados, de los que habríamos podido imaginar. El fenómeno de la violencia
y la barbarie marca el sello distintivo de esta era» (Habermas, J., «¿Aprender de las catástrofes? Un
diagnóstico retrospectivo del corto siglo xx», incluido en su libro La constelación postnacional, Paidós,
Barcelona 2000, p. 66).
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La vida entendida como ensayo general
los efectos colaterales. Nadie –excepto cuatro locos– parece desear las catástrofes, pero
el caso es que nos vemos rodeados por ellas, y no parece haber forma humana de
dar cuenta de la universalización de este desorden. Caducó, por ejemplo, la imagen
de Europa como un balneario rodeado de miseria, explotación y opresión, al igual
que pasó a la historia la metáfora de los EE.UU. como una fortaleza blindada res-
pecto a cualquier agresión exterior (y aquí la fecha no ofrece duda: el ataque a las
Torres Gemelas del 11 de septiembre de 2001), sin que haya surgido en su sustitu-
ción una imagen o concepto explicativo de recambio, fuera de la formulación, ape-
nas puramente constatativa, de sociedad del riesgo.
Algo, desde luego, debiera hacernos recelar ese arbitrario vaivén de elementos gene-
radores de incertidumbre y miedo, por no mencionar unas diferencias, según contextos,
no siempre fáciles de interpretar. Así, en un momento determinado puede producir enor-
me inquietud colectiva la violencia política; al poco, la violencia de género (recalificada,
si hace falta destacar su importancia, como terrorismo doméstico); a continuación, la
inseguridad ciudadana; luego, los absurdos accidentes de tráfico o la contaminación ali-
menticia, y así sucesivamente… en una extensa relación cuya jerarquía se altera a cada
rato sin que se conozcan muy bien las razones y que, por añadidura, no es la misma en
un determinado país y en su vecino, aunque compartan múltiples circunstancias objeti-
vas. Se impone, por tanto, introducir la sospecha de la condición de producto –más que
de respuesta– de ese estado de ánimo generalizado.
Pero que sea un producto, no forzosamente implica que sea un producto inten-
cionado. Reconozco que simpatizo poco con las concepciones conspirativas de la his-
toria, o con las múltiples variantes de la teoría de la mano invisible. Tiendo a creer
más bien que existen productos que como mejor se entienden es viéndolos como el
resultado de un conjunto de intenciones que apuntaba cada una a su propio objeti-
vo específico. En su proceso de efectiva materialización, tales intenciones entran en
contacto, conflictivo, reforzante o de otro tipo, dando lugar a esos efectos, a su vez
felices o desafortunados, a que aludíamos dos párrafos atrás.
Alguien podrá pensar que la renuncia a una intencionalidad fuerte constituye el
último episodio hasta el momento de una cadena de renuncias que han ido dejan-
do nuestra capacidad de interpretación de los sucesos humanos crecientemente debi-
litada. Parece haber, en efecto, un cierto consenso en que no podemos echar mano
de categorías como la de destino, providencia, progreso y similares. Tampoco da la
sensación de que la clave para interpretar lo que ocurre nos la pueda proporcionar
alguna entidad metafísico-trascendental, del mismo modo que tampoco podemos
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Manuel Cruz
mantener la vieja confianza ciega en la ciencia, ni tiene demasiado sentido seguir cre-
yendo en nuestra condición de agentes soberanos, eficaces diseñadores de un futu-
ro que se deja modelar por nuestros proyectos.
Pero lo importante de esta secuencia de renuncias tiene que ver con lo que comen-
tábamos al principio, a saber, con los relatos en los que inscribir aquellos sucesos que,
en uno u otro sentido, nos conmocionan. Se diría que las categorías o conceptos cons-
tituyen los mimbres con los que se trenza el cesto de la interpretación, de manera
que el abandono de los mismos convierte en sumamente ardua la tarea de dar cuen-
ta, de la manera que sea, de lo que ha irrumpido, abruptamente, en nuestras vidas.
Probablemente sea éste el contexto discursivo en el que tengamos que inscribir el
problema de los traumas.
5. Cfr. el trabajo de Mudrovcic, María Inés, «Alcances y límites de perspectivas psicoanalíticas en histo-
ria», DIÁNOIA, vol. XLVIII, núm. 50, mayo 2003, pp. 111-127. Para este mismo asunto, un libro de obli-
gada consulta es el de Certeau, Michel de, Historia y psicoanálisis, Universidad Iberoamericana, México
1998, 2.ª ed.
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La vida entendida como ensayo general
desmesurada intensidad, la insólita fuerza de ese suceso que denominamos trauma y que,
en su irreductibilidad cualitativa, parecería allegable, como su reverso, a la experiencia
o al acontecimiento al que nos referíamos al principio del presente texto.
De ejemplos de traumas contemporáneos no andamos, ciertamente, escasos, pero no
sería difícil acordar que el trauma que ha terminado por convertirse en emblema y cifra
del lado más oscuro y siniestro de nuestro tiempo ha sido el Holocausto, al que, con dema-
siada frecuencia, se hace referencia como si su descarnado horror invalidara, haciendo
inútiles, obscenamente irrelevantes, cualesquiera consideraciones teóricas. ¿Poetas des-
pués de Auschwitz? ¿Novelistas tras los campos de exterminio? ¿Filósofos para especular
sobre el horror? Son preguntas que tienen mucho, demasiado, de retórico, sobre todo
según quién se las plantee. Por supuesto, que sólo retórica –en la mejor de las hipótesis–
parece haber en la mayor parte de quienes se formulan la clásica pregunta de Adorno,
o cualquiera otra variante, al inicio de sus textos, para, una vez cumplido con el ritual,
utilizar aquellos monumentales episodios de barbarie como materia prima para relatos,
poemas o ensayos. Pero no se trata ahora de hacer una consideración de orden socioló-
gico –apartado «sociología de los intelectuales»– sino de analizar los problemas teóricos
subyacentes a estos planteamientos.
Un matiz conviene introducir, a efectos de no generar malentendidos y de dispo-
ner de un buen pie para proseguir la argumentación. Hablar de lo inenarrable (o
de lo inefable o de lo impensable) cuando se hace referencia al propio horror, o cuan-
do hay una experiencia que pugna por hacerse visible (comunicable, esto es, inter-
subjetiva, humana) es legítimo porque la supervivencia del sujeto como tal está en
juego.6 Pero hablar de lo mismo a propósito de lo ya vivido por otros es convertir el
dolor en el problema de su expresabilidad, esto es, equivale a transformarlo en un
problema de metodología o, tanto da el matiz, de crítica literaria. Centrémonos, pues,
en lo primero, que es lo que verdaderamente importa.
Resulta sumamente frecuente, hasta el extremo de que podríamos llegar a pensar que
se ha convertido en tópico, tropezarse, a propósito de traumas de semejante envergadu-
ra, con la exhortación a recordarlos (o a no olvidarlos), exhortación a menudo justificada
con el argumento de que de esta forma nunca más se repetirán. Se da por descontado
así algo que está lejos de ser obvio, y es que no hay problema alguno en la evocación de
6. De hecho, ésta es la cuestión que se plantea de forma más recurrente Primo Levi en su libro Si esto es
un hombre, Muchnik Editores, Barcelona 1987, como es también el tema en el que más insiste en la entre-
vista-río Primo Levi. Diálogo con Ferdinando Camon, Anaya & Mario Muchnik, Madrid 1996.
276
Manuel Cruz
Penúltimo epígrafe
Porque dicha insistencia, pretendiendo subrayar la importancia del aconteci-
miento traumático en cuestión, termina, paradójicamente, desactivándolo por com-
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La vida entendida como ensayo general
8. Comentando el libro de Huyssen, Andreas, En busca del futuro perdido, FCE, México 2002, me he refe-
rido a este asunto en mi trabajo «Recordamos mal», incluido en Cruz, M., Escritos sobre memoria, respon-
sabilidad y pasado, Universidad del Valle, Cali (Colombia) 2004.
9. Para tales casos, es de recibo la afirmación de Todorov: «otra razón para preocuparse por el pasado
es que ello nos permite desentendernos del presente, procurándonos además los beneficios de la buena
conciencia», Todorov, T., Los abusos de la memoria, op. cit., p. 52.
10. Proust, Marcel, En busca del tiempo perdido: El mundo de Guermantes, Alianza, Madrid 1998, tomo III,
pp. 524-525, citado por Todorov, T., Ibid., p. 38.
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Manuel Cruz
11. Respecto de todas ellas se podrían ofrecer abundantes ilustraciones, pero tal vez la de sacrificio
merezca capítulo aparte, aunque sólo sea por haber recibido este esclarecedor comentario de
Adorno y Horkheimer: «Todo sacrificio es una restauración que se ve refutada por la realidad histó-
rica en la que se lleva a cabo. Pero la fe venerable en el sacrificio es ya probablemente un esquema
inculcado, según el cual los sometidos vuelven a hacerse a sí mismos el daño que se les ha infligido
a fin de soportarlo. El sacrificio no salva mediante restitución representativa la comunicación direc-
ta tan sólo interrumpida que le atribuyen los actuales mitólogos, sino que la institución misma del
sacrificio es la señal de una catástrofe histórica, un acto de violencia que le sobreviene por igual a los
hombres y a la naturaleza», Horkheimer, Max; Adorno, Theodor W., Dialéctica de la Ilustración,
Trotta, Madrid 1994, p. 104.
12. Zizek, S., Revolution at the Gates, Verso, Londres 2003, p. 277. Edición castellana: La revolución a las
puertas, Debate, Barcelona 2004.
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La vida entendida como ensayo general
13. Vid. a este respecto el libro de Innerarity, Daniel, Ética de la hospitalidad, Península, Barcelona 2001.
280
Manuel Cruz
14. Marramao, Giacomo, Cielo y tierra, Paidós, Barcelona 1998. Este libro desarrolla y completa algunos
de los temas planteados en su anterior Poder y secularización, Península, Barcelona 1989. En todo caso,
reconstruir el debate acerca del contenido de la secularización nos alejaría del eje de nuestra argumen-
tación en el presente texto.
281
La vida entendida como ensayo general
282
Manuel Cruz
283
POSTMORTEM CITY:
TOWARDS AN URBAN
GEOPOLITICS1
Stephen Graham
«As long as people have lived in cities, they have been haunted by fears of urban ruin […].
Every city on earth is ground zero is somebody’s doomsday book» (Berman, 1996, pp.
175-184).
«To be sure, a cityscape is not made of flesh. Still, sheared-off buildings are almost as elo-
quent as body parts (Kabul, Sarajevo, East Mostar, Grozny, 16 acres of lower Manhattan after
September 11th 2001, the refugee camp in Jenin). Look, the photographs say, this is what
it’s like. This is what war does. War tears, war rends. War rips open, eviscerates. War scorch-
es. War dismembers. War ruins» (Sontag, 2003, p. 5).
«Today, wars are fought not in trenches and fields, but in living rooms, schools and super-
markets» (Barakat, 1998, p. 11).
1. The term «postmortem city» was first coined by Chris Hables Gray in his book Postmodern War. He
coined the term to describe an aerial «damage assessment» map of Tokyo after the US fire bombing dev-
astated the city on March 9th/10th, 1945. This raid – the most murderous act of war in human history –
killed over 130,000 civilians in a few hours (see Gray, 1997, p. 86).
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Postmortem City
Cities, warfare, and organised, political violence have always been mutual con-
structions. «The city, the polis, is constitutive of the form of conflict called war, just
as war is itself constitutive of the political form called the city» (Virilio, 2002, p. 5,
original emphasis). War and the city have intimately shaped each other through-
out urban and military history. «There is […] a direct reciprocity between war and
cities», writes the geographer Ken Hewitt. «The latter are the more thoroughgoing
constructs of collective life, containing the definitive human places. War is the
most thorough-going or consciously prosecuted occasion of collective violence
that destroys places» (1983, p. 258).
The widespread survival of massive urban fortifications – especially in Asia, North
Africa, Europe and parts of Latin America – are a living testament to the fact that in
pre-modern and pre nation-state civilisations, city-states were the actual agents, as well
as the main targets, of war. In pre-modern times cities were built for defence as well as
dominant centres of commerce, exchange and political, religious and social power. «The
city, with its buttressed walls, its ramparts and moats, stood as an outstanding display of
ever-threatening aggression» (Mumford, 1961, p. 44).
The sacking and killing of fortified cities and their inhabitants was the central event
in pre-modern war (Weber, 1958). Indeed (often allegorical) stories of such acts make
up a good part of the Bible – especially Jeremiah and Lamentations – and other ancient
and classical religious and philosophical texts. «Myths of urban ruin grow at our cul-
ture’s root» (Berman, 1996).
In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, as modern nation states started to
emerge in Europe as «bordered power containers», they began seeking a monopoly
on political violence (Giddens, 1985). «The states caught up with the forward gal-
lop of the towns» (Braudel, 1973, p. 398). The expanding imperial and metropoli-
tan cities that lay at the core of nation-states were no longer organisers of their own
armies and defences. But they maintained political power and reach. Military, politi-
cal, and economic elites within such cities directed violence, control, repression, and
the colonial acquisition of territory, raw materials, wealth, and labour power from afar
(Driver and Gilbert, 2003).
By the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, industrial cities in the global north had
grown in synchrony with the killing powers of technology. They provided the men and
material to sustain the massive, industrial wars on the twentieth century. At the same
time their (often female-staffed) industries and neighbourhoods emerged as the prime
targets for total war. The industrial city thus became «in its entirety a space for war. Within
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Stephen Graham
a few years […] bombing moved from the selective destruction of key sites within cities
to extensive attacks on urban areas and, finally, to instantaneous annihilation of entire
urban spaces and populations» (Shaw, 2003, p. 131). Right up to the present day, the
capture of strategic and politically important cities has «remained the ultimate symbol,
of conquest and national survival» (Shaw, 2001, p. 1).
Given the centrality of both urbanization and the prosecution of political violence
to modernity, this subtle interpenetration of cities and warfare should be no surprise.
«After all, modernity, through most of its career, has been modernity at war» (Pieterse,
2002, p. 3). It is no longer feasible to contain cities within defensive walls or effective
cordons which protect their citizens from military force (Virilio, 1987). But the delib-
erate destruction and targeting of cities and their support systems in times of war and
crisis is a constant throughout the eight thousand years or so of urban history on our
planet. «Destruction of places», Hewitt continues, writing in 1987:
«driven by fear and hatred, runs through the whole history of wars, from ancient Troy
or Carthage, to Warsaw and Hiroshima in our own century. The miseries, uprootings,
and deaths of civilians in besieged cities, especially after defeat, stand amongst the
most terrible indictments of the powerful and victorious. In that sense, there is, despite
the progress of weapons of devastation, a continuity in the experience of civilians from
Euripides’ Trojan Women or The Lamentations of Jeremiah, to the cries of widowed women
and orphaned children in Beirut, Belfast, the villages of Afghanistan, and those of El
Salvador» (p. 469).
Cities, then, provide much more than just the backdrop or environment for war and
terror. Rather, their buildings, assets, institutions, industries, infrastructures, cultur-
al diversities, and symbolic meanings have long actually themselves been the explicit
target for a wide range of deliberate, orchestrated, attacks. This essential, urban,
spatiality of organised, political violence is rarely recognised in the obsessively chrono-
logical and temporal gaze of the historians who dominate the study of the urban
violence of the twentieth century. Thus, the architectures, urbanisms, and spatial plan-
ning strategies that sustain, reflect, and are intrinsic to strategies of informal and state
terror all too often get overlooked (Cole, 2003, chapter 2).
For this explicit concentration on the (attempted) killing of cities in modern war,
the geographer Ken Hewitt has coined the term «place annihilation» (1983). «For a social
scientist», he stresses that «it is actually imperative to ask just who dies and whose places
are destroyed by violence» within such wars of place annihilation (1987, p. 464, original
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Postmortem City
emphasis). This is because such strategies are usually far from indiscriminate. Commonly,
they involve a great deal of planning so that the violence and destruction achieves the
political, social, economic, ecological and cultural effects, on the target population and
their places, that are desired by the attackers.
Since the end of the Cold War, this dominance of war casualties by civilians, rather
than enlisted military personnel, has only accelerated further. Between 1989 and 1998,
for example, four million people were killed in violent conflicts across the world. An
estimated 90% of these were civilians – primarily women and children (Pieterse, 2002,
p. 1). In short, since the end of the Cold War – with its global threat of instant urban-
nuclear annihilation – «we have gone from fearing the death of the city to fearing the city
of death» (Lang, 1995, p. 71). As traditional state-vs-state wars in open terrain have
become objects of curiosity, so the informal, «asymmetric» or «new» wars which tend to
centre on localised struggles over strategic urban sites have become the norm (Kaldor,
1999). As Misselwitz and Weizman suggest:
«It is now clear that the days of the classical, Clauswitzian definition of warfare as a symmetri-
cal engagement between state armies in the open field are over. War has entered the city
again – the sphere of the everyday, the private realm of the house» (2003, p. 272).
Far from going away, then, strategies of deliberately attacking the systems and places
that support civilian urban life have only become more sophisticated since World War
II. The deliberate devastation of urban living spaces continues apace. Fuelling it is a
powerful cocktail of intermeshing factors. Here we must consider the collapse of the Cold
War equilibrium; the unleashing of previously constrained ethnic hatreds; the prolifer-
ation of fundamentalist religious and political groups; and the militarisation of gangs,
drug cartels, militia, corrupt political regimes, and law enforcement agencies. We must
address the failure of many national and local states; the urbanisation of populations and
terrain; and the growing accessibility to heavy weapons. Finally, the growing crisis of social
polarisation at all geographical scales and the increasing scarcity of many essential resources
must be considered (Castells, 1997, 1998).
To this cocktail we must add the destabilising effects of the United States’ increasing-
ly aggressive and violent interventions in a widening range of nations, and the deleteri-
ous impacts of neoliberal restructuring and «structural adjustment» programmes, imposed
on many nations by the IMF and WTO. Such programmes have added to the sense of
crisis in many cities because they have resulted in the erosion of social and economic secu-
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rity and the further immiseration of the urban poor (and, increasingly, the middle class-
es, too).
All this has happened at a time when the scale of urbanisation is at an unprecedent-
ed global level. During the nineties alone the world’s urban population grew by 36%.
By 2003, 900 million people lived in slums. And the deepening polarisation of cities,
caused by neoliberal globalisation, is providing many conditions that are ripe for extremes
of civil, and militarised, violence (Vidal, 2003, Castells, 1997, 1998). In fact, neolib-
eral globalisation itself operates through a vast scale of violence, exploitation and crim-
inality which works in similarly «rhizomatic» ways to transnational terrorism. «Our own
politicians and businesses sail a strikingly similar pirate sea [to the al-Qaeda network]»,
suggests Keller Easterling:
«slipping between legal jurisdictions, leveraging advantages in the differential value of labor
and currency, brandishing national identity one moment and laundering it the next, using
lies and disguises to neutralize cultural or political differences» (2002, p. 189).
In many cases some or all of these factors have combined in the post-Cold War to force
nothing less than the «implosion of global and national politics into the urban world»
(Appadurai, 1996, p. 152). This has led to a proliferation of bloody, largely urban,
wars. Many of these, in turn, stimulate vast migrations and the construction of city-scale
refugee camps to accommodate the displaced populations (which stood at a global figure
of 50 million by 2002) (Agier, 2002; Diken and Laustsen, 2003).
Appadurai argues that such «new» urban wars «take their energy from macroevents
and processes […] that link global politics to the micropolitics of streets and neighbour-
hoods» (1996, pp. 152-153). He observes that:
«In the conditions of ethnic unrest and urban warfare that characterize cities such as Belfast
and Los Angeles, Ahmedabad and Sarajevo, Mogadishu and Johannesburg, urban war zones
are becoming armed camps, driven wholly by implosive forces that fold into neighbor-
hoods the most violent and problematic repercussions of wider regional, national and glob-
al processes […]. [These cases] represent a new phase in the life of cities, where the con-
centration of ethnic populations, the availability of heavy weaponry, and the crowded
conditions of civic life create futurist forms of warfare […] and where a general desolation
of the national and global landscape has transposed many bizarre racial, religious, and lin-
guistic enmities into scenarios of unrelieved urban terror» (Appadurai, 1996, pp. 152-193,
original emphasis).
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Postmortem City
All of which means that contemporary warfare and terror now largely boil down
to contests over the spaces, symbols, meanings, support systems or power struc-
tures of cities and urban regions. As a result, war, «terrorism» and cities are redefining
each other in complex, but poorly explored ways. Such redefinitions are, in turn,
bound up with deeper shifts in the ways in which time, space, technology, mobility
and power are constructed and experienced in our societies as a whole (Virilio,
1986).
Given all of this, it is curious, then, that warfare and organised political violence
targeting the spaces, inhabitants, and support systems of cities have been persistent-
ly neglected in critical social scientific debates about cities and urbanisation since
World War II (Mendieta, 2001). By contrast, this period has seen vast libraries filled
with theoretical, empirical and policy books addressing urban de-velopment, con-struc-
tion, re-generation, modernisation and growth (Bishop and Clancey, 2003). In 1983
the geographer Ken Hewitt argued that, from the perspective of urban social science,
the «destruction of cities, as of much else, remains terra incognita» (Hewitt, 1983,
p. 258).
Another cocktail of factors can be diagnosed to help explain this neglect. Three
are particularly important. First, a simple, and understandable, desire to forget the
scale and barbarity of urban slaughter in the last century can be diagnosed. For exam-
ple, many wider cultural taboos have inhibited dispassionate, social scientific analy-
ses of the aerial annihilations of German and Japanese cities in World War II (although
these are now slowly being overcome – see Sebald, 2003). In the Anglo-Saxon world,
whilst the «air war» that killed perhaps 1.6 million urbanites in those two countries
is widely glorified and fetishised – what Chris Hables Gray calls «bomber glorioso»
(1997, p. 87) – equally powerful taboos, and the instinct to self-censor, have meant
that the perspective here has been overwhelmingly aerial. The annihilated cities,
and the hundreds of thousands of carbonised dead on the ground, barely exist at all
in these popular narratives. When they are represented, huge controversy still ensues.
The victims of more recent US bombings in Kabul and Baghdad have been ren-
dered equally invisible and uncounted by the ferocious power of Western propagan-
da and self-censorship. An «information operations» campaign has also emerged that
leads US forces to bomb any independent TV station that has the temerity to show
the civilian carnage that results, on the ground, even with so-called «precision strikes»
– the inevitable reality behind the repulsive euphemisms of «collateral damage» in
urban bombing.
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Stephen Graham
Second, Ryan Bishop and Gregory Clancey (2003, p. 64), have recently suggest-
ed that modern urban social science in general has shown marked tendencies since
World War II to directly avoid tropes of catastrophism (especially in the west). They
argue that this is because the complete annihilation of urban places conflicted with
its underlying, enlightenment-tinged notions of progress, order and modernisa-
tion. In the post-war, Cold War period, especially, «The City», they write, had a
«heroic status in both capitalist and socialist storytelling» (ibid., p. 66). This worked
against an analysis of the city as a scene of catastrophic death. «The city-as-target»
remained, therefore, «a reading long buried under layers of academic Modernism»
(ibid., p. 67).
Bishop and Clancey also believe that this «absence of death within The City also reflect-
ed the larger economy of death within the academy: its studied absence from some dis-
ciplines [urban social science] and compensatory over-compensation in others [histo-
ry]» (ibid.). In disciplinary terms, the result of this was that the «urban» tended to remain
hermetically separated from the «strategic». «Military» issues were carefully demarcated
from «civil» ones. And the overwhelmingly «local» concerns of modern urban social sci-
ence were kept rigidly apart from (inter)national ones. This left urban social science to
address the local, civil, and domestic rather than the (inter)national, the military or the
strategic. Such concerns were the preserve of history, as well as the fast-emerging disci-
plines of international politics and international relations. In the dominant hubs of
English-speaking urban social science – North America and the UK – these two intellec-
tual worlds virtually never crossed, separated as they were by disciplinary boundaries,
scalar orientations, and theoretical traditions.
The final factor stems from the fact that urban social science finished sediment-
ing into modern intellectual disciplines during the Cold War. During this time, urban
annihilation, always minutes away, was simply a step on the way to a broader, species-
wide, exterminism (Mumford, 1959, Thompson et al, 1982). This also seems to have
inhibited critical urban research on place annihilation. Waves of secrecy and para-
noia about the urban-targeting strategies of the super powers further worked to under-
mine critical analysis of what nuclear Armageddon would actually mean for an urban-
ising planet (Vanderbilt, 2002). And the inevitable vulnerabilities of cities to nuclear
attack were exploited by a wide range of interests seeking to radically decentralise,
and de-urbanise, advanced industrial societies (Farish, 2003; Light, 2003). As
Herbert Muschamp has argued, cities were, in many ways, «among the casualties» of
the Cold War years (1995, p. 106).
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2. See, for example, Catterall (2001), Mendieta (2001), Safier, (2001), Prodanovic (2002), Coward
(2002), Berman (1996), Diken and Laustsen (2002), Lang (1995), Farish (2003), Vanderbilt (2002),
Davis (2002), Schneider and Susser (2003), Cole (2003), Bishop and Clancey (2003), Gregory, (2003),
Bollens (2001), Graham (2003, 2004 a, b, c).
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Stephen Graham
are reconstituted, in parallel, into stretched, transnational webs which intersect, and
constitute, the same sets of strategic urban sites, so this imperative will only gain
more momentum.
It follows that there is an urgent, parallel, need for the real recent progress in devel-
oping a critical geopolitics. (Ó Tuathail, 1999) to move beyond an exclusive concern
for nation-states, international relations, and international terror networks. Critical geopol-
itics must also become sub-national. This is necessary so that the increasingly crucial roles
of strategic urban places as geopolitical sites can be profitably analysed. A blizzard of ques-
tions provides fuel here. For example, on our rapidly urbanising planet, how do the
control, targeting, destruction, and reconstruction of urban sites intersect with chang-
ing geopolitical structures and discourses? How are cities, and urban everyday life, being
affected both by the umbilically connected interplay of terror and counter-terror? What
roles do constructions, and imaginations, of «homeland» and «non-homeland» cities play
within the emerging US «Empire», a hegemonic neoliberalism, and a proliferation of
sites and sources of resistance (Hardt and Negri, 2000)? What place do the systems of
mobility, communication, infrastructure and logistics that are so central to contempo-
rary urban life play, as targets and weapons, within the emerging crisis? How does the
urbanisation of terrain influence the «asymmetric wars» that are emerging which pitch
high-tech Western and U.S. forces against both poorly equipped local fighters and anti-
globalisation movements? Finally, what are the prospects for creatively blending critical
urban and geopolitical theory to match the parallel rescaling of political violence and
urbanism in today’s world?
In sum, this essay has been written in the belief that both a specifically geopolitical
urbanism, and a specifically urban geopolitics, are now urgently required. A construc-
tive dialogue between such usually separated research communities would, I believe, open
up many extremely promising avenues for theory, analysis and activism. What follows is
designed to help such a dialogue along. To achieve this, my simple aim is to help illus-
trate the inseparability of war, terror and modern urbanism. I do this by revealing a range
of «hidden histories» of what I call the «dark side» of urban modernity – the propensity
for urban life to be attacked, destroyed or annihilated in acts of organised violence.
«Biologists have prepared ‘red books’ of extinct or endangered species; ecologists have
their ‘green books’ of threatened habitats. Perhaps we need our ‘black book’ of the places
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Postmortem City
destroyed or nearly destroyed by human agencies. Actually it would take many books and
street maps packed with remembrances to record the settlements, neighbourhoods, and
buildings in those places destroyed in recent wars» (Hewitt, 1987, p. 275).
Arguably, humankind has expended almost as much energy, effort and thought to
the annihilation and killing of cities as it has on their growth, planning and con-
struction. Such city annihilation or urban warfare requires purposive work. It needs
detailed analysis. Often, it involves «scientific» planning and operational strategy-
making of extraordinary complexity and sophistication. Thus, it is necessary to
assume that a continuum exists connecting acts of building and physical restruc-
turing, on the one hand, and acts of all-out, organised war on the other. By way of
mapping the diverse ways in which place annihilation is utterly intrinsic to both
urban modernity, and modern urbanism and planning, I offer below a range of ten
illustrative «tales».
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Stephen Graham
European cities and regions into submission in the mid-forties. The latter work even
involved the founder of Central Place Theory, that seminal economic geographer, Walter
Christaller – star of any school human geography course. He was employed by the
Nazis to rethink the economic geography of an «Aryanised» Eastern Europe, a process
linked directly to the planned starvation and forced migration of millions of people (Aly
and Heim, 2002; Rössler, 1989).
Mock German and Japanese housing units, complete with authentic roofing mate-
rials, furniture, and clothing, were erected in Nevada to allow the incendiaries that
would later burn Dresden and Tokyo to be carefully customised for their intended
targets (Davis, 2002, pp. 65-84). «The combustibility of Japanese dwellings was well
illustrated by tests made in this country», recalled the US Strategic Bombing Survey in
1947 (a, p. 72):
«Four buildings were constructed: two in “typical Japanese fashion” {and} the other two
to comply with the latest Tokyo fire regulations […]. The four structures were set on fire
to determine the time necessary for their destruction. Those constructed in “typical Japanese
fashion” burned to the ground in 12 minutes; those constructed in accordance to Tokyo
fire regulations were consumed in 32 minutes.»
The USSBS was the apogee of the systematic evaluation of the «success» of urban
planning for mass death. In it, thousands of operation scientists, architects, engineers
and urban statisticians pored over every urban bomb blast in Japan and Germany in
an effort to improve the «efficiency» of the city-killing process. To predict the effects
of the «A»-bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, a «Japanese village» was even con-
structed – again in Nevada – complete with all sorts of realistic Japanese-style build-
ings and infrastructures (Vanderbilt, 2002).
Similarly grim work goes on and on. More recently, the US and Israeli militaries
have co-operated to construct and run a kind of shadow urban system of complete
cities, replete with authentic «Islamic» features, in order to train the marines and sol-
diers who invaded Baghdad, Basra and Jenin (Graham, 2003).
It is also scarcely realised that demographers, statisticians, geographers, architects
and planners have been central to Israel’s efforts to deepen its control over the three-
dimensional spaces of the Occupied Territories. Their analyses and prescriptions have
helped to shape the annexing of Palestinian land, the construction of walls and «buffer
zones», the mass bulldozing of houses, the ethnic cleansing of selected areas, the con-
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struction of carefully located Jewish settlements and access roads, or the appropriation
of water and airspace (Weizman, 2004; Graham, 2003).
«One of the achievements of the great wave of modernization that began in the late eighteenth
century was to incorporate urbicide into the process of urban development […]. Its victims,
along with their neighbourhoods and towns vanish without a trace» (Berman, 1996, p. 181).
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Stephen Graham
Weizman, 2003). In the process «Haussmann draped a façade of theatres, cafes and
shops over boulevards laid out for the benefits of the troops who might be called upon
to quell civil disturbance» (Muschamp, 1995, p. 105).
Thus, the anti-urban rhetoric of ruling élites tended to see both colonised and
«home» cities as morally toxic hotbeds of unrest that needed to be «regularised»
and disciplined through similar, violent, urban restructuring efforts. «If strategic
urban design previously focused on strengthening the city’s peripheral walls and
fortifications to keep out the enemy», write Misselwitz and Weizman:
«here, since the enemy was already inside the city, the city had to be controlled from
within. The city fabric itself, its streets and houses, that had to be adapted accordingly […].
Military control was exercised on the drawing board, according to the rules of design, fash-
ion and speculative interests» (2003, p. 272).
Here there are sometimes striking continuities between the colonial and supposed-
ly «postcolonial» city. In an episode that sadly would be repeated in the same city 56
years later by the Israelis, in 1936, the British took 4,200 kilos of explosives to the
refugee camp in Jenin and destroyed a whole quarter of the town. This was an act of
collective punishment at the continuing resistance to their occupation of Palestine
(Corera, 2002). A similar process of urban remodelling by demolition, aimed at
undermining resistance, occurred in Jaffa in the same year.
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Postmortem City
to sow death with bombs upon sleeping towns», he wrote (1935, pp. 8-9). His
response to the «sinister apotheosis» of death and destruction heralded by aerial
warfare was the total demolition of the old city, and its replacement by a modern
utopia specifically designed to be «capable of emerging victorious from the air war»
(1935, pp. 60-61).
Post 9/11 – an event which seemed to underline the extreme vulnerability of sky-
scrapers – it seems painfully ironic that the dreams of that arch celebrator of skyscrap-
ers were, in fact, partly intended to reduce the city’s exposure to aerial annihilation.
The famous modernist architectural theorist Sigfried Gideon – who was strongly influ-
enced by Le Corbusier’s views – argued in 1941 that:
«the threat of attack from the air demands urban changes. Great cities sprawling open to
the sky, their congested areas at the mercy of bombs hurtling down out of space, are invi-
tations to destruction. They are practically indefensible as now constituted, and it is now
becoming clear that the best means of defending them is by the construction, on the one
hand, of great vertical concentrations which offer a minimum surface to the bomber and,
on the other hand, by the laying out of extensive, free, open spaces» (1941, p. 543).
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Stephen Graham
be delivered to sustain «the swift flow of modern traffic for the play of light and air».
Meanwhile, in Germany, the closing stages of World War II saw Third Reich plan-
ners preparing to totally disperse the City of Hamburg – which had been so devas-
tated by the fire storm raids of 1943 – as a test case in the wholesale «deurbanisa-
tion» of German society. When the founder of the Bauhaus, Walter Gropius, returned
to Germany in 1947, to advise on post-war reconstruction, he argued that the urban
devastation in Germany meant that it was «the best place to start breaking up cities
into home towns and to establish small-scale communities, in which the essential
importance of the individual could be realised» (Kostof, 1992, p. 261).
Thus, in a way, the total bombing of total war – a massive act of planned urban
devastation in its own right – served as a massive accelerator of modernist urban plan-
ning, architecture and urbanism. The tabula rasa that every devoted modernist craved
suddenly became the norm rather than the exception, particularly in the city cen-
tres of post-war Europe. As a result, to use the words of Ken Hewitt (1983, p. 278),
«the ghosts of the architects of urban bombing – (Guilo) Douhet, (Billy) Mitchell,
(Sir Hugh) Trenchard, (Frederick) Lindemann – and the praxis of airmen like
(“Bomber”) Harris and (Curtis) LeMay, still stalk the streets of our cities.»
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Stephen Graham
nomic development, «hygiene», and the improvement of a city’s image (see, for exam-
ple, Patel et al., 2002).
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Postmortem City
Terror vs. «War on Terror»: City-Targeting, Orbital Power, and New Wars
«While at one time war elsewhere guaranteed peace at the centre of the empire, now the
enemy strikes precisely and more easily at the centre […]. War abroad no longer guaran-
tees peace at home» (Eco, 2003, p. 7).
«Cities are especially vulnerable to the stresses of conflict […]. City-dwellers are particularly at
risk when their complex and sophisticated infrastructure systems are destroyed and rendered
inoperable, or when they become isolated from external contacts» (Barakat, 1998, p. 12).
All of which leads neatly to our eighth vignette: a brief analysis of the central role of
cities and urban spaces within the current «third world war» pitching «super terror-
ism» against counter terrorism. Five brief points need to be stressed here.
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Stephen Graham
Thus, the murderous 9/11 attacks simply turned banal capsules of everyday, inter-
urban mobility into anti-urban cruise missiles. A massive perversion of everyday mobili-
ty systems orchestrated for saturation real-time coverage, these attacks brought an over-
whelmingly symbolic and mediatised act of urban mass murder to a devastating conclusion
(Graham and Marvin, 2001; Luke 2004).
Similarly, the deliberate US bombing of electrical systems in Kosovo in 1999, and Iraq
in 2001 – often using graphite «soft» bombs designed to generate massive short circuits
and fires – led to a vast pressure on those societies by effectively de-electrifying, and de-
modernising, them (Graham, 2004a). Between 1991 and 2003, for example, as a result
of the bombing and the following sanctions, Iraq was a modern, highly urban society
forcibly «relegated to a pre-industrial age» by state violence (United Nations, 1999, cit-
ed in Blakeley, 2001, p. 32). Even a leading US Air Force planner had to concede that
this direct targeting of so-called «dual-use» (military/civilian) electrical infrastructure in
1991 «shut down water purification and sewage treatment plants. As a result, epidemics
of gastroenteritis, cholera, and typhoid broke out, leading to as many as 100,000 civilian
deaths and the doubling infant mortality rates» (Rizer, 2001). Over the next decade, over
500,000 Iraqi civilians were to die because the war and the sanctions forced a modern,
urban society to live without the basic, life-sustaining systems that are needed to keep it
alive. This was a classic case, as Ruth Blakeley (2001) has put it, of «bomb now, die later.»
As US forces move into the new terrain of «cyber war» or «computer network attack»
so they have developed detailed knowledge of the software systems that sustain basic, every-
day infrastructure in potentially adversarial cities and states. In 2002, Major General Bruce
Wright, Deputy Director of Information Operations at the Joint Warfare Analysis Center
at Dahlgren (Va.), revealed that his team «can tell you not just how a power plant or rail
system [within an adversary’s country] is built, but what exactly is involved in keeping
that software system up and making that system efficient» (cited in Church, 2002).
The Urbanisation of War: Cities as Refuge from Orbital and Aerial Hegemony
«Some people say to me that the Iraqis are not the Vietnamese! They have no jungles or
swamps to hide in. I reply, “let our cities be our swamps and our buildings our jungles”»
(then Iraqi foreign minister, Tariq Aziz, October 2002, quoted in Bellamy, 2003, p. 3).
Second, the relative anonymity of urban life renders cities as the last sites of refuge from
the globe-spanning, high-tech military omnipotence of US surveillance and killing. The
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complex, congested and contested terrain below, within, and above cities is seen by many
within the US military as a set of physical spaces which limit the effectiveness of high-
tech space-targeted bombs, surveillance systems, and automated, «network-centric»
weapons. These derive their power from the United States’ massive dominance in space-
based satellite targeting, navigation and surveillance (Graham, 2004b). Such weapons
and information systems have been deliberately developed in the last 30 years, under
the auspices of the so-called «Revolution in Military Affairs», to ensure that the US remains
a pre-eminent global military power with «full spectrum dominance» over its potential
challengers (Gray, 1997). The widespread urbanisation of potential «battlespace» is
therefore seen to reduce the ability of U.S. forces to fight and kill at a distance (always
the preferred way because of their «casualty dread» and technological supremacy).
And, as is being revealed in the Iraqi guerrilla war, urban warfare is also seen to necessi-
tate a much more labour-, and casualty-intensive way of fighting than the US is used to
these days.
«The long term trend in open-area combat is toward overhead dominance by US forces», writes
Ralph Peters (1996, p. 6), an influential US observer of what might be termed the urbanisa-
tion of war. «Battlefield awareness may prove so complete, and «precision» weapons so wide-
ly available and effective, that enemy ground-based combat systems will not be able to survive
in the deserts, plains, and fields that have seen so many of history’s main battles.» As a result,
he argues that the United States’ «enemies will be forced into cities and other complex terrain,
such as industrial developments and inter-city sprawl» (1997, p. 4).
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candidly characterises the role of the US military within the emerging neoliberal
«empire» with the USA as the central military enforcer (although he obviously does-
n’t use these words) (Hardt and Negri, 2000). «Our future military expeditions will
increasingly defend our foreign investments», he writes, «rather than defending [the
home nation] against foreign invasions. And we will fight to subdue anarchy and
violent ‘isms’ because disorder is bad for business. All of this activity will focus on
cities.»
Such urban warfare «expeditions» have been central to the United States’ post-
Cold War strategy. In a parallel process of what might be termed the «urbanisation
of war» (Graham, 2004c, Part II), they are also the basis for the intensifying efforts
of Israeli forces to systematically demodernise Palestinian cities. All these aggressions
have devastated, and immiserated, the fragile systems that allow urban societies to
function. Arguably – at least in the case – the attacks have been so comprehensive
and complete that we have witnessed a case of «urbicide» – the denial, or killing, of
the city (Graham, 2003, 2004d; Safier, 2001; Berman, 1996). Thousands of dwellings
have been demolished. Infrastructure systems have been systematically ripped up by
the claws of bulldozers. And whole refugee camps deemed to be the symbolic or actu-
al centres of resistance to occupation – both through the horrific programme of sui-
cide bombing in Israeli cities, and other means – have been bulldozed in the culmi-
nation of brutal urban battles. Urban areas have had the life literally strangled out
of them by extending arrays of checkpoints, curfews and barriers, combined with
the progressive annexation of water resources and the destruction and annexation
of agricultural land. The Palestinian population has been brutalised like never before,
with 2,194 civilians killed between September 2000 and October 21st 2003 alone
(Graham, 2004d).
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Thus, such rhetoric conveniently lumps together the residents of whole nations
as sources of «terrorism». As Derek Gregory (2003, p. 311) has shown, such language
sustains the demodernisation, as well as demonisation, of whole Islamic or Arab urban
societies. By «casting out» the subject civilians of those cities, these people, crucial-
ly, are «placed beyond the privileges and protections of the law so that their lives (and
deaths) [are] rendered of no account.» In then forcibly creating a kind of chaotic
urban hell, through state terror, violence, and the deliberated destruction of mod-
ern urban infrastructures, this violence, perversely, produces what the discourses
depict: an urban world «outside of the modern, figuratively as well as physically» (ibid.,
p. 313).
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the resurgent «them» and «us» boundaries that are (re)emerging in the wake of 9/11,
the «war on terror», and the drive for «homeland security» (Sassen, 1999). What
future for urban multiculturalism, or for the global-local flows of migration and
diaspora formation, in a world where «the rhetoric of ‘inside’ needing protection
from external threats in the form of international organizations is pervasive» (Dalby,
2000, p. 5)?
Ironically, 9/11 itself symbolised that this telescoping of the world’s political vio-
lence into the city (and vice versa) was now inescapable. «If it existed, any comfort-
able distinction between domestic and international, here and there, us and them,
ceased to have meaning after that day» (Hyndman, 2003, p. 1).
On the one hand, then, the 9/11 attacks can be seen as part of a fundamentalist,
transnational war, or Jihad, by radical Islamic movements against pluralistic and het-
erogeneous mixing in (capitalist) cities (Buck-Morss, 2003). This loosely affiliated
network of radical Islamic terror organisations needs to be considered as one of a
large number of social movements against what Castells calls the «new global order»
(2004, p. 108). Heterogeneous mixing of ethnicities and religious groups holds no
place within umma, the transnational fundamentalist Islamic space that these move-
ments are struggling to establish (Castells, 2004, p. 111). Thus, it is notable that
cities that have long sustained complex heterogeneities, religious pluralism, and mul-
tiple diasporas – New York and Istanbul, for example – have been prime targets for
catastrophic terror attacks. Indeed, in their own horrible way, the grim lists of casu-
alties on that bright New York day in September 2001 revealed the multiple diaspo-
ras and cosmopolitanisms that now constitute the very social fabric of «global» cities
like New York. As Watson writes:
«global labor migration patterns have […] brought the world to lower Manhattan to serv-
ice the corporate office blocks: the dishwashers, messengers, coffee-cart vendors, and office
cleaners were Mexican, Bangladeshi, Jamaican and Palestinian. One of the tragedies of
September 11th 2001 was that it took such an extraordinary event to reveal the everyday
reality of life at the heart of the global city» (2003, p. 109).
On the other hand, Bush’s neoconservative and neoimperial «war on terror» also
problematises such urban cosmopolitanism. It, too, undermines both the possibili-
ty, and the legitimacy, of city-based democratic pluralism and dissent against the «new
global order». In asserting a binaried split between «the civilised and savage through-
out the social circuitry», the «war on terror» rhetoric of the Bush regime, and the
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policies based on it, have produced a «constant scrutiny of those who bear the sign
of ‘dormant’ terrorist» (Passavant and Dean, 2002, cited in Gregory, 2003). It
has also «activate[d] a policing of points of vulnerability against an enemy who inheres
within the space of the US» (ibid.).
A «domestic front» has thus been drawn in Bush’s «war on terror». Sally Howell
and Andrew Shryock (2003) call this a «cracking down on diaspora». This process
involves deepening state surveillance against those seen to harbour «terrorist threats»,
combined with a radically increased effort to ensure the filtering power of national
borders (Molotch and McLain, 2003; Andreas and Biersteker, 2003). After
decades when the business press triumphantly celebrated the «death of distance»,
or the imperative of opening borders to the «free» movements of neoliberal global-
ization, post 9/11, «in both political debates and policy practice, borders are very
much back in style» (Andreas, 2003, p. 1).
Once again, then, nations, as well as strategic cities, are being (re)imagined as
bounded, organised spaces with closely controlled, and filtered, relationships with
the supposed terrors of the outside world. Global geopolitical tensions, and attempts
to bolster «homeland security», have telescoped into policies shaping immigration
controls, social policies addressing asylum seekers, and local policies towards multi-
cultural and diasporic communities in cities. In the US, for example, national immi-
gration, border control, and social policy strategies have been dramatically remod-
elled since 9/11 in an:
«attempt to reconstitute the [United States] as a bounded area that can be fortified against
outsiders and other global influences. In this imagining of nation, the US ceases to be a
constellation of local, national, international, and global relations, experiences, and mean-
ings that coalesce in places like New York City and Washington DC; rather, it is increasing-
ly defined by a “security perimeter” and the strict surveillance of borders» (Hyndman,
2003, p. 2; Anderson, 2002).
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«Every generation has a taboo and ours is this: that the resources upon which our lives have
been built are running out» (Monbiot, 2003, p. 25).
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can be thought of as «weapons» or «armored cars for the urban battlefield». The design
and marketing of such vehicles, he argues – with their names like «Stealth» and «Warrior»
– needs to tap into, and address, their consumers’ fears about contemporary urban life
(cited in Rampton and Stauber, 2003, p. 138).
Post 9/11, it is now clear that advertisers have been deliberately exploiting wide-
spread fears of catastrophic terrorism to further increase sales of highly-profitable
SUVs. Rapaille has recently been urging the main auto manufacturers to address
the fact that «the Homeland is at war» by appealing to buyers’ most primitive emo-
tions (ibid., p. 139).
Second, the SUV is being enrolled into urban everyday life as a defensive capsule
or «portable civilization» – a signifier of safety that, like the gated communities into
which they so often drive, is portrayed in advertisements as being immune to the risky
and unpredictable urban life outside (Garner, 2000). Such vehicles seem to assuage
the fear that the urban middle classes feel when moving – or queuing in traffic – in
their «homeland» city.
Subliminal processes of urban and cultural militarisation are going on here. This
was most powerfully illustrated by the transformation of the US army’s «Humvee» assault
vehicle into the civilian «Hummer» just after the first Iraq war – an idea that came from
the Terminator film star (and now California Governor) Arnold Schwarzenegger (who
promptly received the first one off the production line). Andrew Garner writes that:
«For the middle classes, the SUV is interpreted culturally as strong and invincible, yet
civilised. In the case of the middle class alienation from the inner city, the SUV is an
urban assault vehicle. The driver is transformed into a trooper, combating an increasing-
ly dangerous world. This sense of security felt when driving the SUV continues when it is
not being driven. The SUV’s symbols of strength, power, command and security becomes
an important part of the self-sign […]. With the identification of enemies within our bor-
ders, this vehicle has become a way of protecting members of the middle class from any
threat to their lifestyle» (2000, p. 6).
Finally, the fact that SUVs account for over 25% of US car sales has very real impacts
on the global geopolitics of oil. With their consumption rates of double or triple
normal cars, this highly lucrative sector clearly adds directly to the power of the neo-
conservative and ex-oil executive «hawks» in the Bush regime to drive forward the
above-mentioned strategy of colonisation by dispossession. This is especially so as they
have operationalised their perpetual «war on Terror» in ways that are helping the
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USA to secure access to the huge, low-priced, oil reserves that the United States argues
it needs to fuel its ever-growing level of consumption. (Currently these stand at 25.5%
of global consumption to sustain a country with less than 5% of the world’s popula-
tion).
Clearly, then, the profligate oil consumption and militarised design of SUVs «takes
on additional significance in the light of the role that dependency on foreign oil
has played in shaping U.S. relations with countries in the Middle East» (Rampton
and Stauber, 2003, p. 139).
«The economic, cultural and military infrastructure that undergrids US Middle
East policy will not be so easily undone», writes Tim Watson, «and without its whole-
sale reform or dismantling, Islamic terrorists will not so easily disappear» (2003, p.
110). As with the cosmopolitan nationalities of the dead, then, so the events of
9/11, in their own way, reflect and symbolise the deep connections between urban
everyday life and city form and the violence spawned by geopolitical conflict and impe-
rialist aggression. Watson writes that he has been haunted since 9/11 by images of
the hundreds of vehicles abandoned, never to be recovered, at rail stations by com-
muters to the twin towers in the states of New York, Connecticut and New Jersey.
«These symbols of mobility» became, instead:
«images of immobility and death. But these forlorn, expensive cars and SUVs also represent a
nodal point between the US-domestic economy and a global oil market in which Saudi, Kuwaiti,
and Iraqi production is still so important» (Watson, 2003, pp. 110-111).
«A Geopolitics of Urban Decay and Cybernetic Play»: Popular Culture Blurs with
Military Strategy
«War is the new psychotropic. War precludes our doubts. War preserves our right to pur-
sue overabundance. War closes the circle. It creates anxiety; it cures anxiety. It defines
our alienation; it resolves our alienation» (Hart, 2003, p. 16).
Our final vignette centres on the ways in which the neglect of place annihilation in
urban social science has left the connections between today’s cities, and the curious
obsession with ruined cities and post-apocalyptic urban landscapes in contemporary
popular culture, largely unexplored. This is important because cities are unmade and
annihilated discursively as well as through bombs, planes and terrorist acts. As vari-
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ous electronic media become ever-more dominant in shaping the tenor of urban cul-
ture, so their depictions of cities crucially affect collective notions of what cities
actually are, of what they might actually become.
Increasingly, in these post-modern times, cities are depicted as sites of ruina-
tion, fear and decay, rather than ones of development, order or «progress». As
long ago as the mid-sixties, Susan Sontag observed that most sci-fi films, for exam-
ple, are about the «aesthetic of destruction, the peculiar beauties to be found in
wreaking havoc, making a mess» (1966, p. 213). Crucially, this means that millen-
nia-old «link between civilization and barbarism is reversed: City life turns into a
state of nature characterised by the rule of terror, accompanied by omnipresent
fear» (Diken and Laustsen 2002, p. 291).
This shift taps into a century or more of apocalyptic, anti-urban, literature and films
– from H.G. Wells’s War in the Air to vast ranges of atomic-age and cyberpunk fiction.
All of this predicts, in its own way, the final victory of weapons of annihilation over
the very possibility of a conventional urban life (Franklin, 1988). Adding to this, a
swathe of recent post-apocalyptic films have so shaped the collective culture of urban-
ism that the stock response to the 9/11 catastrophe was that «it was just like a scene
in a movie!» Whilst their output paused after 9/11 they are now back in full flow
(Maher, 2002). Mike Davis has argued that the 9/11 attacks:
«were organised as epic horror cinema with meticulous attention to the mise-en-scène. The
hijacked planes were aimed precisely at the vulnerable border between fantasy and
reality […]. Thousands of people who turned on their televisions on 9/11 were con-
vinced that the cataclysm was just a broadcast, a hoax. They thought they were watch-
ing rushes from the latest Bruce Willis film […]. The «Attack on America», and its sequels,
«America Fights Back» and «America Freaks Out», have continued to unspool as a suc-
cession of celluloid hallucinations, each of which can be rented from the video shop:
The Siege, Independence Day, Executive Action, Outbreak, The Sum of All Fears, and so on»
(2002, p. 5).
Indeed, the complex links between virtual, filmic, and televisual representations of
city-killing, and actual acts of urban war, are becoming so blurred as to be almost indis-
tinguishable. At least amongst US forces, the real targeting of cities is being remod-
elled as a «joy stick war». This operates through «virtual» simulations, computerised
killing systems, and a growing distantiation of the operator from the sites of the killing
and the killed. In the process, the realities of urban war – at least for some – start to
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blur seamlessly with the wider cultures of sci-fi, film, video games and popular enter-
tainment (Thussu and Freedman, 2003).
As war is increasingly consumed by a voyeuristic public, so digital technologies
bring the vicarious thrills of urban war direct to the homes of news-hungry consumers.
Consumption of the Iraq war by people in the US, for example, offered a wide range
of satellite image-based maps of the City as little more than an array of targets, to be
destroyed from the air, in newspapers or on media websites. Thus:
«The New York Times provided a daily satellite map of Baghdad as a city of targets. On the
web, USA Today’s interactive map of “Downtown Baghdad” invited its users: “Get a satel-
lite-eye view of Baghdad. Strategic sites and bombing targets are marked, but you can
click on any quadrant for a close up”. The site also included images of targets “before”
and “after” air strikes. The Washington Post’s interactives invited the viewer to ‘roll over
the numbers to see what targets were hit on which day; click to read more about the tar-
gets» (Gregory, 2004b, p. 29).
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«media coverage and terrorism are soul mates – virtually inseparable. They feed off each
other. They together create a dance of death – the one for political or ideological motives,
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the other for commercial success. Terrorist activities are high profile, ratings-building
events. The news media need to prolong these stories because they build viewership and
readership» (cited in Rampton and Stauber, 2003, p. 134).
Claire Sponster terms the particular obsession with decayed cityscapes within cyber-
punk depictions on urban futures a «geopolitics of urban decay and cybernetic play».
Whilst these have moved beyond the common sci-fi obsession with post-nuclear
cities during the Cold War:
«the physical settings of [such] cyberpunk stories look strikingly like the setting of any post-
holocaust story: blighted, rubble-strewn, broken-down cityspaces; vast terrains of decay,
bleakness, and the detritus of civilization; and the near complete absence of a benign and
beautiful nature» (ibid. 253).
The vast array of «virtual reality» and simulation games, where players can be masters of
urban annihilation, further demonstrate the blurring of the actual and virtual killing of
urban places (and their inhabitants). Three ranges of games are relevant here.
First, there are simulated urban construction games – like the SimCitiesTM series.
In these participants endlessly construct, and destroy, cityscapes in repeated cycles
of virtual urban cataclysms (Sponster, 1992; Bleecker, 1994). One SimCityTM intro-
duction and guide available on the Web describes the fascination with virtual urban
destruction amongst players thus:
«My name is Dr Wright and I will be your guide and teacher as you set out to create bustling
cities of sprawling urban wastelands. As Mayor, the choice is yours. Let’s start off by destroy-
ing Tokyo! Studies show that nine out of ten mayors begin their careers with a frenzy of
destruction […]. Another curious fact about SimCityTM mayors is that one disaster is
never enough. The reasoning goes something like this: ‘gee, that monster was great, but
there must be half a dozen buildings still standing. I wonder what it would take to destroy
EVERYTHING!’ […] Simply point at the disaster(s) of your choice and push B to activate
it» (original emphasis).
Second, there are virtual combat games designed to allow western users to «fight»
enemies in far-off cities. These provide omnipotent players with «realistic» – and often
devastated – (usually Middle Eastern) cities in which to annihilate racialised and dehu-
manised enemies again and again. The rhetoric and marketing of such games, echo-
ing George Bush’s nationalistic discourses of «protecting freedom» and «ensuring
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democracy», imply that the task of the player is to infiltrate these cities to rid the world
of «terrorists» and so «fight for freedom».
The urban war of your choice – Black Hawk Down (Mogadishu), Gulf War I, Gulf
War II, the LA Riots, a myriad of urban «anti-terrorist operations» – can thus be elec-
tronically simulated and consumed as entertainment. The comments of participants
are very telling here. For example, a Black Hawk Down player admits that «those graph-
ics are so sweet you can almost feel the bullets whiz past your head and ricochet off
walls around you. The scenery is good although if you are spending time admiring
it then you’re already dead!» Another gushes:
«when you’re trapped in the middle of a hostile situation and completely surrounded, it real-
ly does get the heart pumping […].When I first jumped into a helicopter, took off, saw the
enemy in the city streets below and then activated the helicopter’s mini-gun it was such a rush!
I also enjoyed being able to use gun emplacements and firing massive mini-guns from the chop-
pers and watching the empty shell casings bouncing off the tin roofs [of “Mogadishu”] below!»
A third range of games brings urban war to the «homeland». Here the challenge is
to destroy terrorists who are in the process of unleashing instant and unknown catas-
trophes on Western cities. One user of the «Tom Clancy Rainbow Six Rogue Spear
Platinum» urban warfare game describes its challenges. «Urban Operations really
add to the gameplay», he says, «with missions in live public areas (London
Underground, open-top markets, etc.). You can even shoot out the lights! [The spaces
are] full of public people. And if a stray shot should kill any member of the public...
Game Over!» (comments taken from amazon.co.uk; original emphasis).
«The human race is, and has always been, ruin-minded» (Macaulay, 1964, p. 264).
«The ruins are painful to look at, but will hurt more in the long run if we try not to see»
(Berman, 1996, p. 185).
«Wounded cities, like all cities, are dynamic entities, replete with the potential to recuper-
ate loss and reconstruct anew for the future» (Schneider and Susser, 2003, p. 1).
To conclude this extended essay, it is strikingly clear that urbanists and urban
researchers can no longer neglect either attempts to deny, destroy or annihilate cities,
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or the «dark» side of urban modernity which links cities intimately to organised, polit-
ical violence. In this «post 9/11» and «post-war on terror» world, urban researchers
and social scientists – like everyone else – are being forced to begin addressing their
taboos about attempted city-killing, place annihilation, «urbicide», and the urbani-
sation of war. In a parallel process, international relations theorists, geopolitical
researchers, and sociologists of war, are being forced to consider urban and sub-
national spaces as crucial geopolitical sites, often for the first time.
As a result, researchers in both traditions are now, once again, starting to explore,
and excavate, the spaces and practices that emerge at the intersections of urbanism,
terrorism and warfare There is a growing acknowledgement that violent catastrophe,
crafted by humans, is part and parcel of modern urban life. A much needed, specifical-
ly urban, geopolitics is thus slowly (re)emerging which addresses the telescoping con-
nections between transnational geopolitical transformations and very local acts of vio-
lence against urban sites. This emerging body of work is trying to unearth, as Diken
and Laustsen put it, «the way in which discipline, control, and terror coexist in today’s
imaginary and real urban geographies» (2002, p. 291).
As an exploratory synthesis, this essay has developed a particularly broad per-
spective of the ways in which the purposive destruction and annihilation of cities, in
war, terror, planning and virtual play, are utterly interwoven with urban modernity.
Two conclusions are apparent from this wide-ranging discussion:
First, as the gaze of critical urban social science starts to fall on the purposive ruina-
tion and annihilation of place, so this synthesis underlines five, related, urban research
challenges. First, the research and professional taboos that cloak the geopolitical and
strategic archaeologies, and spatialities, of modern urbanism must be undermined,
and understood. Second, the «hidden», militarised histories and spatialities of mod-
ern urban planning and state terror must be excavated and relentlessly exposed.
Third, the characteristics of city spaces and infrastructures that make them the choic-
es par excellence of those seeking to commit terrorist acts require detailed analysis,
as do the impacts of these acts on the shape, condition, and imagining of cities and
urban life. Fourth, the telescoping, transnational connections between the geopoli-
tics of war and «empire», and political economies of production, consumption, migra-
tion, the media, and resistance require rigorous theorisation and analysis. And final-
ly, the fast-growing, and usually hidden, worlds of «shadow» urban research, through
which the world’s military perceive, reconstruct, and target urban spaces must be
actively uncovered.
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Our second conclusion, of course, must be politically, rather than analytically, nor-
mative. This reflects the palpable risk that a global polarisation will emerge around the
two alternative fundamentalisms that currently so threaten to destabilise, and devastate,
our world. The clear imperative here is to forcibly reject both of the racist, masculinist fun-
damentalisms which are currently locked in a globe-spanning circle of intensifying
atrocity and counter-atrocity. As Rosalind Petchesky has argued, these offer a choice
between «the permanent war machine (or permanent security state) and the reign of
holy terror» (cited in Joseph and Sharma, 2003, p. xxi). Untrammelled, the self-per-
petuating cycles of atrocity between urban terror and state counter-terror, that these dis-
courses legitimise and sustain, offer up an extremely bleak urban future indeed. This,
perhaps, is the ultimate urban dystopia? For it is crucial to realise, as the Israeli-Palestinian
quagmire demonstrates, that informal terror and state counter-terror tend to be umbil-
ically connected. In the end, they tend, tragically, to be self-perpetuating in an endless
circle of intensifying atrocity (Graham, 2004d). As Zulaika argues:
3. This paper was published in a slightly different version in City, vol. 8, no. 2, 2004. It also draws on
some text from Stephen Graham’s chapters in his edited book Cities, War and Terrorism (2004). The
author would like to acknowledge the support of the British Academy, without which the research that
led to this essay would not have been possible. Thanks also to the referees of the paper for their valu-
able comments. All the usual disclaimers apply.
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Stephen Graham
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THE DEATH
OF THE CITY AND
THE SURVIVAL OF
URBAN LIFE
Richard Ingersoll
85
The Death of the City and the Survival of Urban Life
ly on top of the burial sites of the ancestors to keep the memory close at hand. In ancient
Egypt, the only buildings of true permanence were pyramids and funeral temples. Castel
Sant’Angelo, built in 125 as the mausoleum for Emperor Hadrian, still dominates the
banks of the Tiber as Rome’s most invincible pile of masonry. The necropolis is in
truth the real city, and the ephemeral world of traffic and commerce, the expendable
realm of residences with TVs, computers, and refrigerators, is a mere shadow of it. Still
we continue to call the places where we live «cities», and think of them as being alive,
in as much as they support life. A city like Barcelona seems very lively, while one like
Houston, seems not so. But this is at most metaphorical opinion. The city has always
been dead and in many ways was intended for the dead.
That said, I must address the matter of the presumed «death of the city», which
invites automatic associations of disaster: the meltdown of Cernobyl, kamikazes in
New York and Madrid, the bombs of Baghdad and Kabul, the floods of Dakka and
Dresden, the earthquakes of Kobe and Los Angeles, the hurricanes in Miami and
Havana. There is a grand history of urban catastrophes, natural and anthropogenic
(and even theogenic, if we consider the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah). Many cities
seem to have disappeared with a minimum of trauma, the neolithic Anatolian city of
women, Catal Hoyuk, for instance, was apparently abandoned without violence in the
fifth millennium, as was the ancient Mexican cult site of Teotihuacan around 200 AD;
the ancient capital cities of Tell-el-Amarna and Khorsobad were both abandoned with
the death of their respective rulers. Although the cities we know at this time seem so
intransigent, and it is hard to imagine their disappearance, most cities in history at
some time stop supporting life. The planet is studded with remarkable monuments
to cities that have expired: Ur, Angkor Vat, Machu Pichu, Palmyra, Fatehpur Sikri.
But of course it was never the city itself, which is inert and inorganic, that died. No
matter how damaged it might have become, like Pompeii buried in volcanic soot, or
London reduced to ashes, the city as a place remained, rooted to its genius loci, or spir-
it of place. It was life forms that left these places. In most cases, such as post-confla-
gration London in 1666, life returned almost as soon as the crisis was over. Jerusalem,
for instance, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, has been destroyed
17 times; on one occasion, Emperor Hadrian, after razing the city, decided to refound
it with a Roman plan and a new name, Elia Capitolina, in the attempt to erase its his-
toric identity and its antipathy to the Roman regime. But despite the repeated destruc-
tion, life has somehow always returned to Jerusalem, continuing to this day to be a
perpetual source of both inspiration and enmity.
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Richard Ingersoll
87
The Death of the City and the Survival of Urban Life
88
Richard Ingersoll
crete forms, while the concrete masses themselves resemble colossal sarcophagi, devot-
ed to no single individual in particular but to the collective urban existence that came
to an end. The largest piece of land art ever realized – it covers 40 hectares – Il
Cretto, by mounding over the town, conveys a universal expression of grief. It remains
a memorial to the lost city, inert, inorganic, yet still hauntingly evocative of the
genius loci. An icon of the notion that the city is dead.
To speak of the «death of the city» today comprehends the traumatic breaks in life
forms mentioned above but ultimately addresses the ontological question of whether
a phenomenon once known as «the city» can still exist. And although this essential-
ly semantic issue does not concern the dramatic loss of human life in wars, earth-
quakes, and nuclear disasters, it is nonetheless the most disturbing theory, because
it threatens the interpretation of how we live in the present. The end of cities was pre-
dicted, without great philosophical pretensions, by the American architect Frank
Lloyd Wright in the thirties, when he advocated the «disappearing city», an endless
rural settlement with good transportation infrastructure and occasional urban func-
tions at the freeway interchanges. The current advance of urbanization and demo-
graphic escalation, coupled with the increasing ephemeralization of communication
and transport, has in fact led to a form of urban life that in Wright’s words is: «every-
where and nowhere».
Only 100 years ago, less than 10% of the world lived in cities; today more than
50% live in what can be called «urbanized territories». If the trend toward urbaniza-
tion continues, by 2050 it is estimated that 70% will inhabit such conditions, and if
time endures for a few more generations after that, it is possible that the entire
world will be urbanized. It follows that the success of sprawled urban development
will lead to a completely interconnected system that converts the planet into a sin-
gle world city. Because at the same time of the great increment in urban popula-
tions, the divisions between cities are disappearing. Jean-Jacques Rousseau was per-
haps the first to identify such a phenomenon, when he noticed that mid-18th century
Switzerland seemed to be a single city occupying the valleys, interrupted sporadical-
ly by the natural features of the mountains and lakes. The contemporary megalopo-
lis was theorized and named by Jean Gottman in the fifties when considering the
urban consolidation of Boston, New York, Philadelphia and Washington, and has
since been identified throughout the more developed parts of the world. Currently
the largest megalopolis, Tokyo-Yokahama has a population greater than Switzerland,
estimated at 33 million inhabitants. Paris during the past 40 years has followed a
89
The Death of the City and the Survival of Urban Life
90
Richard Ingersoll
During the late 20th century, to maintain the economy of the aristocratic image
of a city of palaces, the lagoon’s coast at Mestre and Marghera was completely destroyed
by industrial development, creating the densest and most polluted petro-chemical
district in Italy. The water that is still being sucked from the underground sources
for industrial purposes has jeopardized the stability of the islands. Meanwhile the reg-
ular floods, up to 100 days per year, have made Venice an even more amphibious
place than it was in its origins.
After 20 years of preparation, the solution to prevent the flooding of Venice has
been approved. Known as the «Moses Project», it would create a barrier that auto-
matically springs into place with the influx of high tides. The project has been strong-
ly promoted by Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, who participated in the founda-
tion ceremony in November 2003. It has met with serious opposition, however, from
civic and environmental groups, and it was rejected for financing by the EU com-
mission. The Moses Project does nothing to eliminate the source of the sinking and
the industrial exhaustion of the lagoon, and it remains an absurdly expensive tech-
nique for saving a city that in so many ways has already lost its capacity to support
life. The municipal government, which is opposed to the project, has decided sim-
ply to raise the major embankments half a meter to the level of the flooding.
The real death of Venice, however, is not due to calamities of nature and industry,
but to the city’s success as a place of beauty and desire within a globalized leisure cul-
ture. When one travels to Venice, it stimulates an enchanted reminder of what the city
was like before automobiles, and it is difficult not to get caught up in the myth of
civic life represented by piazzas, bridges, churches, and palaces. One leaves the main-
land behind to appreciate La Serenissima’s slowed down pace. It is also evident, how-
ever, that we are not alone in our visit, and that the city’s economy can only survive
by becoming a postcard of its past glory. While during the past 30 years Venice’s pop-
ulation has declined from 170,000 to less than 65,000, masses of tourists have invad-
ed the floating city, reaching the current staggering figure of 14 million per year.
Although the carnival has been revived in the name of civic ritual, it in fact has become
part of the exploitational culture of globalization. Citizens can no longer maintain
their identity amid such hordes of revelers. The commodification of the image of
Venice has made it one of the most sought-after tourist sites but has at the same time
completely alienated its remaining inhabitants, who gradually are becoming more or
less like the tourists themselves. Although most of its fabric is still genuine, the city is
quickly becoming a representation of itself with no life other than tourism.
91
The Death of the City and the Survival of Urban Life
Françoise Choay caused some controversy a few years ago when she suggested that
a facsimile of Venice should be built somewhere else for tourists so that the real Venice
could continue its life undisturbed. There are many copies of Venice, the most recent
a gambling casino in Las Vegas called The Venetian, which provoked the previous
mayor of Venice, Massimo Cacciari, to wonder how he could patent the city to pro-
tect it. One of the replicas of Venice that is the most charming is in the theme park
called «Italia in Miniatura» in the suburbs of Rimini (about two hours south of Venice).
Perfect replicas of Venetian palaces at 5/8ths scale, modeled in silicon, have been
arranged like stage sets along a 40-centimeter deep Grand Canal. A soundtrack sup-
plies the calls of seagulls and voices from the windows. The seven-minute boat ride
ends with a visit to a mini-Piazza San Marco (missing the famous pigeons), and while
it does not permit the same sort of intimacy with real urban life, it is better main-
tained and managed than today’s real version. Nothing can replace the experience
of the authentic Venice, but when the authentic starts to become a simulation of itself,
the endless reproduction of an image, the experience of «Italia in Miniatura» may
not be that different. Choay observed that the appreciation of the facsimile of the
Caves of Lascaux was equal or perhaps greater than that of the real caves nearby which
have been closed to the general public. While this may be true, the complexity of a
city like Venice is in fact not duplicable. No matter how full of tourists it has become,
one will always find the grain of civic truth in its piecemeal fabric. In the meantime
there is no productive work left in the city, and no matter how authentic its build-
ings and monuments might be, Venice will never be able to retain urban life without
an employment base.
Since the heat wave of last summer, the question of survival has become more than
a casual topic of conversation. It is not only cities that will die but the biological life
in them. The noticeable climate changes of the last 20 years, and of the last century,
seem to indicate the irreversible onslaught of global warming. The greatest produc-
tion of heat in this age of accelerated entropy in fact derives from urbanization. Cities
like Curitiba, Portland, Freiburg, and Barcelona, have made notable advances in con-
fronting their ecological problems at a regional level, while dealing with the distri-
bution of resources at a more local scale. But it will require the development of
these exceptional programs for transportation, centralized heating and cooling, bike
paths, solar energy, and nature protection on a global level to make a difference in
the balance of greenhouse gases. Suffice it to say that most of the world is not doing
enough to make a difference. My country, which consumes over 30% of the world’s
92
Richard Ingersoll
resources with only 6% of its population, has been living beyond it means in terms
of the ecological footprint per person – and other countries are hoping to arrive at
the same level of well-being, not to mention the billion inhabitants of China. There
is no doubt that the race against the human influences on climate change is being
lost.
Thus the survival of urban life depends not so much on maintaining any particu-
lar form of a city, as it does on the ability to create relationships of responsibility for
the use of resources in an urban territory. Three criteria always return for me in terms
of the survival of urban life: 1) treating infrastructure as art, meaning its conversion
into a social and aesthetic resource; 2) compensating nature with every act of urban
intervention; and 3) crossing programs to guarantee the anthropological equiva-
lent of biodiversity. Civic consciousness, the sort that used to thrive in piazzas, needs
to find its place in the contemporary urban world, not in a Piazza San Marco flood-
ed with acqua alta and tourists, but in a context more like the one we are using here,
that may be more indifferent or even virtual. The city is dead, and we must contin-
ue to honor its memory, so that urban life may survive.
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94
TRAUMAS URBANOS:
URBANIZACIÓN FUERA
DE CONTROL,
URBANISMO EXPLOSIVO
EN AMÉRICA LATINA
Jorge Mario Jáuregui
125
Urbanización fuera de control
Pero hay momentos históricos precisos que se prestan más para que ese inadmisi-
ble exceso se produzca. Por este motivo, es necesario encontrar (a través de inter-
venciones urbanas consistentes) algo que permita la conexión, que posibilite articu-
lar las diferencias cuando éstas se tornan intolerables. Cuando se verifica un fuerte
vacío, un trauma inadmisible (la «ciudad partida», por ejemplo) surge la exigencia
de restitución de conexiones, a partir de proyectos de estructuración capaces de arti-
cular lo estratégico (la cuestión urbana considerada a largo plazo) con intervencio-
nes puntuales, específicas, capaces de responder a las mayores urgencias.
Ese encuentro con la disociación (en el caso de la ciudad partida) puede retornar
como un real más disociativo y destructivo aún (es el caso del control del narcotráfico
en las favelas de Río). Se trata siempre del encuentro de los humanos con esa diso-
ciación, pero, a pesar de que no haya nunca «encuentro complementario» (pues la
representación no coincide con la cosa), de cualquier forma, ese real es el motor para
los movimientos, para una elaboración donde no se puede dejar que la disociación
sea excesiva «de más», porque puede tornarse destructiva, como vemos en el proce-
so en curso hoy en Río de Janeiro, en el que, pese a la implantación de programas de
estructuración urbanístico-social, la disociación se dejó avanzar hasta un punto de difí-
cil retorno.
Este proceso de integración creciente a escala mundial, caracterizado por la for-
mación de una red global de megaciudades interconectadas y esparcidas por toda la
superficie del planeta, que determina una nueva topografía, establece también una
nueva condición de centralidad. Esto vale tanto en el plano macro-continental, como
en el plano local (en el interior de cada estructura urbana). En las dos escalas, lo que
se percibe es la formación de nuevas geografías de centralidad; en un caso, una red
metropolitana de nodos; en el otro, una configuración rizomática de la ciudad, rizo-
ma entendido como un tipo de estructuración que no implica una relación sintética
entre los elementos, que rehúsa la noción de orden jerárquico, que posee la cuali-
dad del patchwork, una heterogeneidad radical.
La evidente paradoja actual en el plano de lo urbano es que, mientras la tele-
mática maximiza el potencial de dispersión geográfica, el proceso económico de
globalización impone una lógica que requiere lugares estratégicos dotados de enor-
mes concentraciones de infraestructura, de mano de obra y de edificaciones
específicas. Pero la combinación de nuevas capacidades de organización, nuevas
tecnologías y nuevos sectores de crecimiento provoca, en los países de América
Latina, tanto nuevas centralidades como igualmente un enorme incremento de la
126
Jorge Mario Jáuregui
127
Urbanización fuera de control
En este contexto, los proyectos de escala urbana deben poder funcionar como un
modulador del intercambio entre cada sector específico y la ciudad como un todo,
poniendo en evidencia la importancia de las relaciones entre los lugares, los usos esta-
blecidos y los flujos (de circulación, de información, de mercancías).
En las actuales condiciones simultáneas de interconexión planetaria, urbanización
descontrolada y exclusión social, las acciones urbanas no pueden renunciar a pro-
yectar algún sentido, a especular con respecto a órdenes y esquemas potenciales, a
imaginar formas de direccionamiento mirando la ciudad contemporánea como un
proceso cuyo orden, complejo, siempre en mutación, demanda nuevos dispositivos
conceptuales e instrumentales para poder operar.
El desafío consiste en componer espacios de flujos determinados por la inclusión
en las redes mundiales, con la consolidación de centralidades existentes manifiestas
o latentes (la ciudad de los lugares), apuntando a mejorar el desempeño de la estruc-
tura urbana en su conjunto. Esto implica la búsqueda de niveles de coherencia dife-
renciados, singularizados mediante el manejo de las intensidades, a través de las cone-
xiones que deben ser realizadas.
Lo que es característico de este medio conductor que son las megaciudades es la
gran dinámica del fenómeno urbano en el nuevo marco del capitalismo mundial inter-
conectado, donde cada punto del territorio se determina por una superposición de
lógicas aparentemente aleatorias, en las que es necesario revelar su forma de inci-
dencia en cada caso.
Para poder operar en este medio, lo que se demanda es la capacidad de lectura
de la estructura de cada lugar de intervención, donde lo que es relevante, más que
las cuestiones de escala y medida, es el tipo de relaciones que los diferentes sectores
mantienen entre sí y con el entorno, así como sus condiciones de centralidad y acce-
sibilidad, que serán necesariamente alteradas por las intervenciones. En esta lectura
es especialmente relevante el análisis de las condiciones de borde y de frontera entre
los diferentes sectores urbanos reconocibles y entre las diferentes partes de cada sec-
tor; las líneas de fuerza que atraviesan los lugares; los patrones que organizan ciertas
zonas con mayor intensidad que otras; las transiciones del espacio público al priva-
do; los pasajes de espacios abiertos públicos a espacios cerrados semipúblicos, etc.
El desafío radica en asumir nuevos parámetros de diseño determinados por las pre-
existencias ambientales y las particularidades de la cultura comunitaria de los habi-
tantes, sus deseos y aspiraciones y su mundo de referencias simbólicas, muy diferen-
tes a los vigentes en la ciudad formal.
128
Jorge Mario Jáuregui
Una visión aérea de Río de Janeiro, Buenos Aires, Caracas, São Paulo, Ciudad de
México y sus áreas adyacentes nos muestra una gran mancha, un tejido que se desin-
tegra gradualmente, se descompone y se esparce sin fin, salvo en aquellos lugares
excepcionales que son los bordes de ríos, lagos, bosques o la línea del mar. Los via-
ductos en este escenario son los ríos artificiales de los cuales hablaba Louis Kahn, y
que como tales, unen y separan, generando nuevas condiciones de accesibilidad o ais-
lamiento.
Al mismo tiempo, los antiguos centros locales se deterioran o se renuevan, según los
casos, y surgen vacíos internos por paralización de actividades debido a la aparición de
nuevas lógicas tecno-productivas y a modificaciones en las condiciones de acceso.
En estas grandes ciudades, se trata de la articulación de la ciudad de los lugares
con la ciudad de los flujos, de reestructurar y consolidar mallas, realizar nuevas cone-
xiones, dar carácter a las perturbaciones, fortalecer lugares con identidad, reforzar
y/o crear nuevas centralidades, incorporar las inversiones ya realizadas y dotar a las
periferias de equipamientos de prestigio. Todo esto teniendo en cuenta que la imbri-
cación del tejido urbano, de las infraestructuras de circulación y comunicación, de los
usos establecidos y de las demandas de la población, sólo puede ser considerada des-
de una perspectiva multidisciplinar.
La cuestión es cómo, actuando desde una equilibrada consideración de la relación
coste-beneficio, puede ser generado, a partir de la articulación planeamiento estra-
tégico-diseño urbano, un espacio de calidad que no anule la inscripción de las comu-
nidades territoriales, y guiar las acciones en la dirección de la conectividad general
de la estructura de la ciudad.
Hoy podemos verificar tanto una tendencia en la dirección de la exacerbación de
los conflictos, como –y al mismo tiempo–, una «inevitabilidad de la coexistencia» en
este mar de signos que son las megaciudades de tres tipos de espacios urbanos dife-
renciados:
• Espacios generados por procesos de acumulación y sustitución tradicionales, don-
de pueden identificarse algunas piezas arquitectónicas sobre un fondo anónimo,
llegando a constituir centralidades (cuando logran una cierta masa crítica) a tra-
vés de la condensación y superposición de funciones y modos de vida. En estos tipos
de espacios, la imagen urbana es el resultado de la acción de una comunidad inte-
raccionando en un determinado territorio a lo largo de un período de tiempo, según
criterios y normas que están permanentemente siendo adaptados y renegociados.
Estos sectores urbanos, identificados como «centro» o «barrios», presentan carac-
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Urbanización fuera de control
terísticas que los definen como la imagen «visualizable», registrable, y que puede
ser «retenida», de la ciudad.
• Espacios que escapan al control del poder público (o donde éste es muy frágil) y
que ocupan grandes extensiones de la superficie de los municipios, constituyendo
«áreas fuera de control», con sus propias «leyes» y «códigos». En algunos casos, la
actuación en estos contextos puede requerir la utilización de una «metodología
de guerra», o de «planeamiento contra desastres». En estos espacios sin calidad, el
papel del diseño urbano para determinar una nueva imagen es fundamental, tan-
to para contribuir a la re-significación general del sistema urbano, como para la
mejora de la calidad de vida de los que se ven obligados a vivir allí por falta de
alternativas. El diseño urbano en estas circunstancias tiene como finalidad princi-
pal instaurar la dimensión del espacio público como ámbito de calidad y no sólo
como provisión de servicios, equipamientos e infraestructura. En este sentido, urba-
nizar favelas significa forzar el caos buscando inscribir puntos de singularización
con capacidad de producir efectos no sólo en el área de intervención, sino sobre
un amplio entorno. Estos sectores de la malla urbana, en muchos casos sin «regis-
tro» en los mapas catastrales oficiales, constituyen la imagen «noire» de la sociedad,
aquello de lo que no se quiere saber; no-lugares, intervalos, «tiempos a sufrir» en
los desplazamientos a través de la ciudad. Sin embargo, simultáneamente, son espa-
cios para lo nuevo, para nuevas posibilidades de «hacer ciudad», agujeros para la
creatividad, para la innovación urbanística y la experimentación social. Lugares don-
de se imbrican lo que está «en proceso», en devenir, en mutación, con la riqueza
de relaciones sociales y la gran permeabilidad de lo comunitario y de lo individual,
que proveen la base, el material a ser trabajado apuntando hacia su articulación
en la ciudad, y la configuración de una nueva imagen urbana, que promueve nue-
vas posibilidades de convivencia.
• Espacios relacionados con proyectos «de autor», demandados por el poder de gran-
des corporaciones (nacionales o multinacionales, públicas o privadas), generalmen-
te derivados de programas «temáticos» tales como parques de entretenimiento,
exposiciones internacionales, reciclaje de áreas portuarias, centros históricos, barrios
«típicos», etc. Ellos ocupan puntos estratégicos del territorio y están desconecta-
dos (voluntariamente o no) de la estructura urbana, constituyendo, en general,
«islas de fantasía» en el archipiélago de la ciudad. En este tipo de espacios, las imá-
genes tienden a tornarse verdaderamente «commodities».
Estos tres tipos de espacios tienden a permanecer desarticulados entre sí, mante-
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Urbanización fuera de control
La combinación de estrategias
Una no habitual combinación de estrategias a lo largo del tiempo es normalmente la
forma de optimizar la relación entre necesidades y posibilidades de enfrentarlas.
La construcción de una estructura básica para vivir, o de un comedor popular, pue-
de llevar dos días y, en otros casos, la transición de refugio a vivienda terminada pue-
de demorar décadas. Esto obliga a repensar la comprensión de la urbanidad en el sen-
tido tradicional del término, apuntando a una «urbanidad» definida por acumulación
y densidad de procesos socio-espaciales, que incorpora algunas reglas mínimas de
orientación y ordenación.
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Jorge Mario Jáuregui
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Urbanización fuera de control
que su entorno. El trabajo en estas áreas de la ciudad implicaba hasta hace pocos
años atrás riesgos de baja y media intensidad: casos de Vidigal, Salgueiro, Fernão
Cardin, Fuba-Campinho, etc. Existía siempre un ambiente institucional que arti-
culaba la publicidad política y había una cierta autonomía para el ejercicio de la
acción individualizada.
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Jorge Mario Jáuregui
tores que intervienen, con una coordinación eficaz de las distintas esferas del poder
público y con una gran movilización social, en la cual el papel de los «medios» es
fundamental. Es necesario promover el debate desde todos los ángulos.
Caracas, Venezuela
El problema de las barriadas populares se articula con el problema de los inmigran-
tes, de los extranjeros y con el éxodo. Es un lugar de disputa política entre el gobier-
no y la oposición y también un fenómeno de gran escala. Una única «favela» (entre
las tantas que existen) en Caracas tiene un millón de habitantes y una alta densidad
(favela de Petare). Para actuar en estas circunstancias, puede requerirse una «meto-
dología de guerra», pues se trata de territorios de conflicto armado no convencio-
nal, como expresión de lo social degradado.
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Urbanización fuera de control
El debate
¿Se trata de una salida por la vertiente ética o por la de las producciones deseantes?
Tanto Deleuze como Negri coinciden en destacar el poder de los «agenciamientos».
El arquitecto es un «reterritorializador» en un ambiente general de desterrito-
rialización. Como existe una fuerza desterritorializadora en el territorio (las áreas
informales son áreas de guerra y la guerra es desterritorializadora), la estructura
es de acoso permanente. El arquitecto discute la fuerza de la desterritorialización
desde la perspectiva de cómo los sujetos se apropian del territorio. La «Franja de
Gaza» como un lugar donde Israel ataca y Hammás ataca es un territorio en dis-
puta. ¿Cuál es la salida? ¿Cómo repensar las «Franjas de Gaza», de una ciudad
donde algunas de ellas son mayores que las mismas franjas integradas? Se trata de
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Jorge Mario Jáuregui
Pero el arquitecto no es aséptico, tiene que negociar con las condiciones del territo-
rio, escucha las demandas de los habitantes e interviene en las correlaciones de fuer-
zas. Y encuentra una tipología de actuaciones, analiza los límites de las potencialida-
des y los riesgos. Es necesario prestar mucha atención al «espacio público», esa especie
de tierra de nadie (cuando la hay) carente de mantenimiento, elaboración estética y
hasta de función.
Mapas de supervivencia
¿Cuál es el mapa del arquitecto? ¿Cuáles son sus geometrías? ¿Cómo un mapa es
obligado a replegarse? ¿Cómo moverse en un lugar que no se puede fotografiar, en
el que no se pueden pasar 24 horas seguidas?
El arquitecto no debe tener miedo de la guerra, porque la ciudad burguesa, la de
los dispositivos de auto-apartación (la de los barrios cerrados, la de las calles privati-
zadas) como mecanismo militar y simbólico de segregación, crea ya la metáfora de la
guerra. Y hasta porque del otro lado (del lado de los clandestinos), ellos inicialmen-
te se insertaban en el lugar, pero hoy, en la era del celular, es el lugar de las faccio-
nes.
Gran parte de esta problemática fue creada en América Latina por los poderosos
desde la época de la Colonia. Se trata de bio-política (no sumisión a las lógicas domi-
nantes) contra bio-poder (poder de las instituciones y de las redes; control de la
magnitud de los problemas, que a partir de un momento dado acaban escapando al
control).
Así, el arquitecto es, en el drama urbano contemporáneo, un cuerpo expuesto al
riesgo que tiene que aprender a desplegarse y replegarse y, trazando el mapa del
riesgo, actuar desde dentro, formulando un proyecto de estructuración que conside-
re la lógica de la ciudad como un todo, articulada con intervenciones puntuales con-
cretas e inmediatas. Lo que implica captar la estructura del trauma en la ciudad.
137
LA REHABILITACIÓN
DEL CENTRO
HISTÓRICO DE LA
HABANA: UNA OBRA
ESENCIALMENTE HUMANA
Eusebio Leal Spengler
Notas introductorias
Narrar la historia de lo acontecido en el Centro Histórico de La Habana, en lo refe-
rente a su rehabilitación, es hacer un viaje en la memoria, imprescindible para la
comprensión de nuestra labor actual.
El camino recorrido ha sido fértil y profuso en cuanto a la interacción con dife-
rentes experiencias de otras latitudes, pero lo hecho es, sobre todo, el resultado de
lo que va exigiendo la cotidianeidad, la búsqueda de soluciones y alternativas pro-
pias, novedosas, en unos derroteros que implican aprender haciendo, una práctica
que nos aleja de la tentadora e inoperante «torre de marfil», refugio sólo de teorías.
Finalizada la década de los setenta, sensibilizados con el patrimonio de la ciu-
dad, comenzamos a realizar una obra de promoción para crear entre la propia ciu-
dadanía el sentimiento de apropiación de aquellos valores difíciles ya de distinguir
en un contexto de degradación generalizada. La mayoría de los inmuebles habían
sido sometidos a un largo y constante proceso de transformación tras el éxodo que,
a mediados del siglo xix, protagonizaron las clases pudientes hacia otras zonas que
más tarde serían el ensanche natural de la ciudad. Se organizaron conferencias y reco-
rridos, se escribieron artículos en la prensa plana, se hacía una fiesta de la imagina-
ción ante un hallazgo arqueológico.
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La rehabilitación del centro histórico de La Habana
Antecedentes
La urgencia de proteger edificaciones y monumentos históricos, de profundizar y
divulgar la cultura y la nacionalidad cubanas, fueron demandas del núcleo de inte-
lectuales de vanguardia de la Cuba de los años treinta del siglo xx. Muchas batallas
contra la desidia oficial se libraron de manera puntual. Una de las mayores victorias
de aquel movimiento liderado por el doctor Emilio Roig de Leuschenring sería, en
1938, la fundación de la Oficina del Historiador, institución que representaría a
partir de entonces la cultura habanera e impulsaría la nacional y americana en su
sentido amplio, o sea, continental.
La comprensión actual de los valores del Centro Histórico y la necesidad de su
conservación se deben también, en gran medida, a la existencia de esta Oficina, de
la cual nacieron los pilares de la protección al patrimonio en su íntima relación con
el concepto de identidad nacional. Tras la desaparición del historiador Roig, la obra
de la institución continuó a partir del compromiso de su ejemplo personal.
Reconocida plenamente por el Estado cubano, la Oficina alcanzó una nueva
dimensión en la mañana del 11 de diciembre de 1967, cuando se me encomendó la
misión de coordinar, al frente de ella, las labores de restauración del antiguo Palacio
66
Eusebio Leal Spengler
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La rehabilitación del centro histórico de La Habana
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Eusebio Leal Spengler
El modelo de gestión
A la proyección sociocultural que venía desarrollando la Oficina, se sumó, enton-
ces, una visión económica que posibilitaría acelerar un proceso que demandaba agi-
lidad por la índole y gravedad de los problemas acumulados. Las nuevas circunstan-
cias locales, nacionales y mundiales hacían necesaria una eficiencia mayor en el
aprovechamiento de los recursos, y una mejor organización con la intención de
multiplicar y provocar sinergias que garantizaran la sostenibilidad de una obra que
no sólo comprende la recuperación de los edificios, sino que también implica y va
dirigida, principalmente, a los habitantes de La Habana Vieja y de toda la ciudad.
De manera que la evolución natural de los conceptos, la variación del escenario
nacional e internacional, los avances en el campo de las ideas y de la economía, la
revolución tecnológica y el proceso de globalización creciente modificaron los enfo-
ques de la acción. Usamos mecanismos novedosos dentro del contexto cubano, que
tuvieron en cuenta elementos de la economía moderna, conducidos por los princi-
pios del desarrollo social y cultural sostenible.
Fueron trazadas las premisas inaplazables en la aplicación de nuestro nuevo mode-
lo de gestión: voluntad política al más alto nivel que propicia la rehabilitación, reco-
nocimiento de una autoridad única institucional para conducir el proceso de reha-
69
La rehabilitación del centro histórico de La Habana
70
Eusebio Leal Spengler
rehabilitador, según la estrategia general. En este caso, son paradigmas los edificios
Emilio Bacardí, la antigua Lonja del Comercio y el Gómez Vila, en la Plaza Vieja.
El nuevo modelo de gestión de recursos ha propiciado que, en las últimas dos
décadas, el conjunto de bienes y servicios del Centro Histórico produjera como ganan-
cia 150 millones de dólares invertidos en el propio territorio y en obras realizadas
en otras partes de la ciudad. De esa forma, el 45 % de esos recursos se destina a pro-
yectos productivos, el 35 % a programas sociales y el resto a colaborar con otros
sitios de La Habana y la nación, con lo cual reafirmamos que sin Patria no hay Centro
Histórico.
El crecimiento económico ha sido progresivo, y cada año se prepara el presupues-
to del siguiente, teniendo en cuenta la producción del anterior. De estos planes de
inversión participa además el Gobierno municipal, donde se analizan, de acuerdo
con las estrategias de desarrollo, las necesidades y urgencias para preparar un plan
que equilibre los destinos de los recursos.
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La rehabilitación del centro histórico de La Habana
Eso sólo puede pasar en un proceso revolucionario, solamente puede ocurrir en Cuba.
En todas las ciudades históricas que conozco cuando se modifica el uso de los luga-
res y se alteran los precios de los terrenos y del edificio son otras clases las que vuel-
ven como conquistadoras a ocupar lo que una vez abandonaron. En La Habana no
es así. Hemos tenido también el valor político de hacer nuestra obra transformado-
ra trayendo a los turistas a vivir a un Centro Histórico habitado, sin temor ninguno,
a dialogar y a convivir en el seno de una comunidad, porque pensamos que nuestra
idiosincrasia nacional es proclive al acercamiento entre las personas. Tal vez el mes-
tizaje que nos define, la condición insular que en épocas pasadas limitaba la comu-
nicación, generó en nosotros esa curiosidad permanente, ese sentido tan propio de
la hospitalidad, que hace que el visitante reconozca como principal virtud del país a
su gente.
Frente al impacto que supone la avalancha turística, los rasgos de identidad deben
protegerse y al mismo tiempo estimularse, en el sentido de propiciar un ambiente
donde las familias, los jóvenes, los profesionales, la población, se relacionen de for-
ma natural con los visitantes. De esa manera, frente a uno de los más prestigiosos hote-
les está el hogar materno infantil, frente a la preciosa inmobiliaria está la más bella
escuela, frente a la más bella escuela, el espléndido hotel, y cerca de todas las institu-
ciones culturales, ésa es la doctrina. Si hubiésemos hecho lo contrario habría sido fácil
construir una Disneylandia en La Habana Vieja, un parque temático donde se habrí-
an distribuido uniformes y disfrazado a la gente del barrio, cantando falsos pregones
por las esquinas y vendiendo recuerdos. Todo eso habría sido fácil. El desafío verda-
dero está en salvar el patrimonio de la humanidad, y el principal patrimonio es la
humanidad misma. Nos alejamos, pues, de tendencias folkloristas y apostamos por un
clima de integración y mutuo respeto y enriquecimiento espiritual.
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Eusebio Leal Spengler
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La rehabilitación del centro histórico de La Habana
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Eusebio Leal Spengler
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La rehabilitación del centro histórico de La Habana
por su fuerte direccionalidad, enlaza la zona de las plazas principales con el Parque
Central de La Habana.
A la vez que con nuestras acciones rehabilitadoras, restauradoras y de regenera-
ción socioeconómica se salva una amplia zona perimetral del Centro Histórico,
otras nos permiten avanzar hacia La Habana Vieja profunda, como las que se ejecu-
tan en las calles Amargura, Teniente Rey y Muralla. Un hito importante de la labor
actual se concentra en la Manzana 148, y su vecino antiguo Convento de las Teresas,
así como todo lo que acontece alrededor del antiguo Convento de Belén y en el barrio
de San Isidro.
Los resultados de esta obra esencialmente humanista que se gesta en el Centro
Histórico de La Habana han merecido el reconocimiento, en primer lugar, de la
ciudadanía, cuya apropiación es el mayor estímulo para quienes trabajamos a favor
del patrimonio. No solamente la población residente, principal beneficiaria de lo
logrado, aquilata los esfuerzos y resultados, el pueblo de toda la ciudad y el del país
también consideran como suyos los monumentos rehabilitados, sitios irreemplaza-
bles para nutrirse de historia y de cultura, al tiempo que reviven sus esperanzas de
recuperar lugares históricos de otras zonas de la Isla. «Rutas y Andares», así hemos
nombrado el programa a través del cual miles de familias cubanas han constatado,
in situ, cada verano, la riqueza del proyecto revitalizador. A tal efecto, se abren al
público los gabinetes de Restauración y Arqueología, las oficinas de proyectos, obras
en construcción, museos temáticos, etc.
Por sus responsables contribuciones en el campo de la arquitectura, el urbanis-
mo, la sociedad, y el medio ambiente, la obra de rehabilitación del Centro Histórico
de La Habana ha merecido premios y reconocimientos en certámenes nacionales e
internacionales convocados por prestigiosas instituciones. Podemos mencionar el
Concurso Internacional Somos Patrimonio, del Convenio Andrés Bello; los premios
Dubai; el europeo de Arquitectura Philippe Rotthier, el UNESCO Ciudades por la
Paz, Metrópolis, Stockholm Partnerships for Sustainable Cities; el de la Asociación
para la Gerencia de Centros Urbanos, radicada en Valencia; el de la Real Fundación
de Toledo, con la presidencia de honor del rey Juan Carlos de Borbón; y el Nacional
de Restauración, otorgado al Castillo de San Salvador de La Punta.
Cooperación internacional
En la década de los ochenta, la restauración de los primeros inmuebles puso al des-
cubierto una necesidad real: se requería la presencia de personas especializadas
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Eusebio Leal Spengler
que dominaran el delicado trabajo de recuperar los vitrales embellotados, las profu-
sas rejas de balconaduras y guardavecinos, los muros de cantería, los alfarjes y arte-
sonados de madera, los trabajos de yesería, las pinturas murales milagrosamente con-
servadas bajo innumerables capas de encalado, elementos fundamentales de un
discurso arquitectónico agredido por el paso del tiempo y por la insensibilidad de
quienes nunca lo supieron apreciar.
Temprana fue la comprensión de España en este sentido, cuando en nuestro
encuentro en Lanzarote con la arquitecta María Luisa Cerrillos, a principios de los
noventa, se impulsó la idea de crear una Escuela Taller en el Centro Histórico de La
Habana, a partir de un proyecto de cooperación, que, sin duda, sigue las huellas de
la tradición que los monjes jesuitas desarrollaron cuando fundaron en la América
colonial las primeras escuelas de oficios.
Vincular el aprendizaje y el trabajo es una doctrina ennoblecedora, reconocida
anticipadamente por José Martí y aplicada en nuestra praxis cotidiana, por lo que la
experiencia de la Escuela Taller Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos se precia de haber for-
mado a cientos de jóvenes en oficios especializados de la restauración, a los que se
les garantiza empleo, desde la etapa de la enseñanza, en el sistema de empresas de
restauración que administra la Oficina del Historiador.
También la Agencia Española de Cooperación Iberoamericana colaboró en otros
proyectos significativos; tal es el caso de la cofinanciación en la restauración del
antiguo monasterio de San Francisco de Asís, la Alameda de Paula, primer paseo
intramural de La Habana y la Casa de las Cariátides, en el Malecón capitalino. Una
participación notable tuvo también en la creación del Plan Maestro para la
Revitalización Integral de La Habana Vieja, con la financiación del sistema de infor-
matización del equipo y la asesoría inicial del arquitecto Fernando Pulín.
Agradecemos su ayuda a personas de diversas latitudes que nos visitan y ofrecen
sus brazos solidarios, y a organizaciones como la Fundación Humanitaria Dr. Trueba,
tan sensibilizada, desde un inicio, con la labor asistencial de las instituciones de salud
fundadas en nuestro Centro Histórico.
Con el auge que tomó el proyecto autofinanciado e integral para la recupera-
ción de La Habana Vieja a partir de 1994, nuestro Centro Histórico se ha converti-
do en un modelo para el mundo, fundamentalmente porque es el único sitio don-
de se enaltecen no sólo las virtudes arquitectónicas de las edificaciones, sino también,
y en primera instancia, a los seres humanos que las habitan, con sus anhelos, nece-
sidades y esperanzas.
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La rehabilitación del centro histórico de La Habana
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Eusebio Leal Spengler
A partir de ese concepto, las ciudades italianas Viareggio, Livorno, Arezzo, Rieti, Siena,
Venecia, Bérgamo y Lucca, la Zona del Cuero, la provincia de Florencia y las regiones
de la Toscana y del Lacio han intervenido en alrededor de 70 proyectos, entre los que
destacan, en el tema de la salud: el Policlínico Principal de Urgencias, la Clínica de
Medicina Natural y Tradicional, el Centro Comunitario de Salud Mental, la Casa del
Abuelo de San Isidro, y la Residencia Protegida para la Segunda Edad de Cuba y Muralla;
en el sector educacional, la Casa del Pedagogo, el apoyo a las escuelas primarias Quintín
Banderas, Israel Cabrera y Carlos Manuel de Céspedes y a la secundaria básica Enrique
Galarraga. La población residente en el territorio también se beneficia con proyectos
como los talleres de Bombas de Agua y de Talabartería, el alumbrado público del barrio
de Jesús María, y el apoyo a la Empresa de Servicios Comunales Aurora y a los Sistemas
de Información Geográfica del Centro Histórico y del Gobierno Municipal, entre otros.
Bajo este esquema de cooperación multilateral, se destaca la participación del País
Vasco con la presencia del Ayuntamiento de Vitoria Gasteiz y Euskal Fondoa, en la
rehabilitación del segundo inmueble para viviendas protegidas para la tercera edad
dando impulso a la idea de sistematizar en el territorio este servicio, y del Centro
Tecnológico Vasco LABEIN, para el desarrollo de tecnologías de diagnóstico de las
edificaciones; también la colaboración de la Diputación y Ayuntamiento de Córdoba,
a través de FAMSI, con el apoyo a los gabinetes de restauración de bienes muebles y
de arqueología, y el fortalecimiento a los servicios de atención a invidentes. Resalta
además el aporte de COSUDE (Agencia Suiza para el Desarrollo y la Cooperación),
destinado al teatro infantil en la Capilla de la Orden Tercera de San Francisco de
Asís, y a otros proyectos. Y los de Cuba Cooperación (Francia) y la región de Valonia
(Bélgica), con los proyectos de la Fundación Víctor Hugo y la rehabilitación del
Palacio Conde Cañongo, para viviendas de interés social, respectivamente.
Gracias a la cooperación del Reino de Bélgica, a través del PNUD, el sensible sec-
tor de la vivienda en el Centro Histórico de La Habana cobra un novedoso e impor-
tante impulso. Su destacada participación ha hecho posible iniciar un programa de
construcción de viviendas que en su primera etapa contempla el levantamiento de
siete nuevos edificios.
Canadá también ha contribuido con los programas de viviendas de interés social,
así como con la ejecución del taller y tienda de bicicletas, y el apoyo al desarrollo
cultural de los niños.
La colaboración de Francia se ha dirigido al sector de la vivienda; destacan la
ayuda ofrecida por las organizaciones no gubernamentales GRET, Villes en Transition
79
La rehabilitación del centro histórico de La Habana
80
Eusebio Leal Spengler
81
La rehabilitación del centro histórico de La Habana
82
Eusebio Leal Spengler
que refleja muchas ciudades, esa ciudad donde hoy es posible dar una lección com-
pleta de la historia de la arquitectura y del urbanismo, y no sólo para hablar de un
pasado glorioso, sino también de un esperanzador futuro. El duro proceso de la trans-
culturación ha quedado impreso en el rostro pétreo de su arquitectura y en el carác-
ter de quienes la habitan, y nos corresponde a nosotros la inmensa tarea de transmi-
tirlo a las generaciones venideras.
83
TRAUMAS URBANOS:
LA PÉRDIDA DE
LA MEMORIA
Josep Maria Montaner
59
Traumas urbanos: la pérdida de la memoria
Nueva York
Un ejemplo emblemático de borrado de memoria es el de Battery Park en Nueva York,
analizado por Christine Boyer: un lugar de situación estratégica y privilegiada de
Manhattan, en el que estaba prevista la construcción de vivienda social según el Master
Plan de 1979, se decidió convertirlo en un gran centro comercial y de negocios, pro-
yectándolo como un escenario cinematográfico y creándose una falsa memoria. Una
vez terminado, durante cinco días se promovieron fiestas y celebraciones de inaugura-
ción en 1988, que crearon una falsa tradición como legitimación retórica, sin historia,
que intenta tapar la memoria de lo que allí existió y de lo que allí se había previsto.
Otro ejemplo emblemático es el de la tematización de uno de los enclaves más repre-
sentativos de Nueva York, Times Square. Este distrito, que en los años ochenta se había
60
Josep Maria Montaner
Los Ángeles
Los Ángeles, la ciudad mítica de Hollywood, la que para Reyner Banham en su libro
Los Angeles. The Architecture of Four Ecologies (1971) era el modelo de ciudad paradi-
síaca y moderna, de golpe, en los años noventa, se reveló como un modelo de disto-
pía, el lugar de segregación y enfrentamiento social, el ejemplo de la maquinaria más
perfecta del borrado sistemático de la memoria anarquista, socialista y alternativa a
lo largo del siglo XX. Los conflictos sociales y étnicos latentes tuvieron su eclosión en
los «riots» de 1992.
En sus libros, Mike Davis y Norman M. Klein han rescatado la tradición de las nove-
las distópicas y del cine negro que a lo largo de todo el siglo xx ya habían presenta-
do Los Ángeles como lugar de la violencia, la desintegración y del colapso civil, en
definitiva, como el más privilegiado escenario del apocalipsis permanente.
Las autopistas y edificios emblemáticos de Los Ángeles son una respuesta a esta
realidad conflictiva: de una ciudad llena de una pobreza que oculta y de una diver-
sidad étnica a punto de estallar. Por ello las autopistas han arrasado y atravesado
barrios que quedan ocultos al recorrido del automóvil. Otro ejemplo, el Hotel
Buenaventura de John Portman, en Los Ángeles, por su morfología, accesos y apar-
camientos, puede alardear de que desde él es imposible ver a los vecinos residentes
en los barrios de alrededor.
Barcelona
Otro caso evidente es la sistemática destrucción de los tejidos sociales con memoria
y conciencia de clase, tal como se ha ido produciendo en la ciudad de Barcelona.
61
Traumas urbanos: la pérdida de la memoria
62
Josep Maria Montaner
mos minimizar que, además de primar la memoria dominante, a duras penas se reco-
noce la recientemente llegada memoria de los inmigrantes procedentes de otras
culturas.
Berlín
El Berlín actual es otro caso emblemático, especialmente en la Potsdamer Platz, en
el que se han borrado los vestigios de memoria urbana, con una voluntad totalmen-
te contraria al desarrollo de la identidad y especificidad de Berlín. Y en este caso sí
que estamos tratando de una ciudad duramente destruida por el trauma de una
guerra y por la herida de la división del muro. Ciertamente, en algunos casos, tal
como les sucede a las personas, las colectividades prefieren olvidar los episodios
más pesados de su pasado.
El conjunto de la Potsdamer Platz, realizado por firmas arquitectónicas interna-
cionales de prestigio, es un ejemplo de borrado de los vestigios previos –en este caso
la memoria ignominiosa del muro– y de segregación, con una morfología que lo
aísla expresamente del Kulturforum y del resto de la ciudad.
En todos estos casos –Los Ángeles, Nueva York, Barcelona, Berlín– se da una
paulatina injerencia del sector privado en la gestión de un espacio público, que se
vuelve lugar de control y de normas. El edificio Sony Plaza, con la plaza cubierta
que es corazón de la Potsdamer Platz, es un ejemplo emblemático de esta privatiza-
ción del espacio público, en el cual sólo se potencian las actividades de consumo y
se prohíbe cualquier acción lúdica o reivindicativa, como tocar música, hacer mani-
festaciones, venta ambulante, mendigar, ir en bici o patines, llevar globos o sentarse
en las escaleras.
Esta injerencia en el control del espacio y de los sistemas públicos, gestionados
por la seguridad privada, ha encontrado sus fenómenos de legitimación en los lamen-
tables ataques del nihilismo terrorista –11 de septiembre de 2001 en las Torres Gemelas
de Nueva York; 11 de marzo de 2004 en los ferrocarriles de acceso a Madrid–.
Ciertamente, estos atentados a lo urbano y colectivo como blanco de la violencia y
del fanatismo han transformado los modos de vida urbanos. Es emblemático el cam-
bio de mentalidad, de la confianza a la desconfianza, que se produjo en Tokio tras
el ataque al metro con gas tóxico en 1995. Una cultura tradicional e isleña de la
confianza se transformó en una cultura del miedo y la desconfianza hacia el otro, el
extraño, el inmigrante. Las puertas de las casas, muchas de ellas hasta entonces abier-
tas, quedaron cerradas con llave.
63
Traumas urbanos: la pérdida de la memoria
Conclusiones
Cada vez que se arrasa la vida comunitaria y el patrimonio existente, se produce un
proceso de impostación de una falsa memoria sobre la memoria que había existido.
Es un valor reconocido que los grandes operadores financieros e inmobiliarios exi-
gen terrenos en su estado óptimo: habiendo borrado toda construcción en él para
poder implantar una ciudad genérica y homogénea. Y aunque se admite que este
borrado sistemático de culturas y memorias crea heridas físicas y psicológicas en la
población, se considera que es un «mal menor» o un «efecto colateral» que se exige
sea asumido. Es la misma manera que se utiliza al crear barrios cerrados o «gated
communities»: toda la naturaleza existente, incluidos árboles, vegetación y lagos,
debe ser sustituido por una capa vegetal nueva, nuevas plantaciones y agua en cir-
cuitos cerrados. Un proceso de sustitución continua que no puede aceptar ninguna
preexistencia y que con el manto vegetal, los árboles, los edificios históricos y los espa-
cios públicos tradicionales se llevan para siempre la memoria urbana. Y si se pierde
la memoria, también se pierde el sentido.
Bibliografía
Banham, Reyner, Los Angeles. The Architecture of Four Ecologies, Allan Lane, Londres 1971; Penguin,
Nueva York 1971.
Boyer, M. Christine, The City of Collective Memory, MIT Press, Cambridge (MA) 1994.
Corboz, André, Le Territoire comme palimpseste et autres essais, Les Éditions de l’Imprimeur,
Besançon 2001.
Davis, Mike, City of Quartz. Excavating the future in Los Angeles, Verso, Nueva York/Londres
1990; Vintage, Nueva York 1992. Edición castellana: Ciudad de cuarzo. Arqueología del futuro en
Los Ángeles, Ediciones Lengua de Trapo, Toledo 2003.
García Vázquez, Carlos, Berlín-Potsdamer Platz. Metrópoli y arquitectura en transición, Fundación
Caja de Arquitectos, Barcelona 2000.
Klein, Norman M., The history of forgetting. Los Angeles and the Erasure of Memory, Verso, Nueva
York/Londres 1997.
Montaner, Josep Maria, Las formas del siglo xx, Ed. Gustavo Gili, Barcelona 2002.
Muxí, Zaida, La arquitectura de la ciudad global, Ed. Gustavo Gili, Barcelona 2004.
Schatz, Adam, «The American Earthquake: Mike Davis and the politics of disaster», Lingua
Franca, febrero de 1997.
Solà-morales, Ignasi de; Costa, Xavier (eds.), Metrópolis. Ciudades, redes, paisajes, Ed. Gustavo
Gili, Barcelona 2005; especialmente los textos de Joan Ockman y Kok-Meng Tan.
64
`LOCK
LIVING`.
PAISAJES URBANOS
DE LA SEGURIDAD
Francesc Muñoz
En julio de 2001, bastante antes de los atentados del 11 de septiembre en Nueva York,
la empresa Visionics Corporation instaló por primera vez el sistema de reconoci-
miento facial Face it en un espacio público de la ciudad de Tampa, en Florida. El sis-
tema, que actualmente ya ha sido incorporado en la mayoría de aeropuertos, shopping
malls y contenedores de ocio de Estados Unidos, constaba de 36 cámaras de vigilan-
cia dispuestas en la zona nocturna de Ybor City, visitada por unas 150.000 personas
durante las noches de los fines de semana. Face it permitía reconocer los rasgos facia-
les de los visitantes y enviarlos en tiempo real a un sistema computerizado que, actuan-
do como central de datos, comparaba las imágenes recibidas con las fotografías de
delincuentes existentes en los archivos policiales. A partir de un 85% de similitud
con los rasgos faciales registrados, el individuo en cuestión era considerado «sospe-
choso», y los agentes de policía podían ser enviados al lugar para verificar el pareci-
do y su identidad real.
Los atentados del 11 de septiembre de 2001 en Nueva York y sus posteriores
correlatos en Madrid (2004) y recientemente en Londres (2005) han tenido una con-
secuencia directa en lo que se refiere a la vida en las ciudades del mundo occidental:
la rapidez con la que las medidas y dispositivos de seguridad se han situado a la cabe-
za de las políticas de gestión de la ciudad, con un rango y jerarquía que, si bien ya exis-
227
‘Lock living’. Paisajes urbanos de la seguridad
tían de facto, como lo muestra el ejemplo de Tampa, nunca se habían hecho tan explí-
citos.
De hecho, durante los últimos años del siglo xx, diversos trabajos ya habían deja-
do clara la importancia que las políticas de protección, defensa y fortificación del espa-
cio urbano estaban alcanzando en las ciudades. Desde campos diversos, de la arqui-
tectura a la sociología, de la antropología a la reflexión desde el mundo del arte, la
percepción del entorno urbano como un territorio progresivamente bajo vigilancia
era una diagnosis compartida que llevaba a valorar no pocos riesgos futuros para la
vida social en las ciudades.
Mucho antes de los atentados que han marcado la actualidad mediática durante
los últimos cuatro años, ya se había planteado cómo las formas tradicionales, más
físicas y tangibles, de protección –el muro, el vigilante, el perro o la alambrada–
habían sido progresivamente sustituidas por sistemas de vigilancia y control quizá
menos visibles pero mucho más sofisticados –el satélite, la cámara de vigilancia, los sis-
temas de alarma vinculados al reconocimiento de huellas dactilares y del iris, o las
regulaciones específicas para el uso del espacio público–. De hecho, la aparición de
estas nuevas formas de protección y vigilancia urbana, de esta infraestructura de
seguridad, nunca suplantó completamente las anteriores. Más bien, y dependiendo
del tipo de espacio urbano en cuestión, se fueron desarrollando metodologías para
la gestión de la seguridad urbana que combinaban elementos de los dos modelos: no
era por tanto difícil encontrar barrios de la ciudad donde la fortificación más eviden-
te se había ya instalado como una característica definitiva del paisaje1 y, al mismo tiem-
po, otras áreas donde un paisaje en apariencia sin proteger se hallaba en realidad bajo
vigilancia con sistemas integrados de protección telemática y, sobre todo, cámaras y
circuitos cerrados de televisión.
Un escenario ciertamente más asociado a la ciudad americana pero que, a finales
de la década de 1990, se encontraba ya suficientemente representado en Europa
con experiencias bastante significativas: la televigilancia en los transportes públicos
holandeses; la presencia policial y la vigilancia con cámaras en los barrios periféricos
de las ciudades francesas con una fuerte presencia inmigrante magrebí; o la progre-
sión exponencial de los circuitos cerrados de televisión en los espacios públicos de la
1. Un trabajo excelente en ese sentido es el de Camilo José Vergara (1999), quien fotografió en diferen-
tes momentos ciudades y suburbios en Estados Unidos mostrando unos espacios urbanos cada vez más
fortificados, donde las alambradas de espino eran un elemento recurrente en todo tipo de lugares tanto
públicos como privados.
228
Francesc Muñoz
mayoría de ciudades británicas desde 1995. Una progresión que hacía que, en 1999,
un habitante urbano pudiera ser filmado una media de 330 veces al día por diferen-
tes sistemas de vigilancia que, con un total de un millón y medio de terminales en
2001, suponían entonces una ratio de una cámara por cada 60 habitantes en las zonas
urbanas de Gran Bretaña (Norris y Armstrong, 1999).
Pero quizás era en los espacios públicos de las ciudades donde mejor se mostraba
el protagonismo que la gestión de la seguridad empezaba a tener en las políticas urba-
nas. Tanto es así, que la producción de paisajes de seguridad iba de la mano de una
sofisticada gestión de la vida social urbana, que se apoyaba en procesos como la espe-
cialización de los espacios públicos, utilizados de forma intensiva como superficies
dedicadas al ocio y al consumo. La afortunada frase de la socióloga norteamericana,
Sharon Zukin (1998), la domesticación por capuccino de los espacios públicos, hacía así
referencia a un proceso de escala global: cómo las actividades, comportamientos y
usos permitidos en el espacio público se entendían desde la política urbana como un
elemento que se debía regular, gestionar y administrar, por este orden. De hecho, esta
regulación del espacio público no era más que un requerimiento básico para garan-
tizar las condiciones de seguridad. Una seguridad que, al mismo tiempo, era necesa-
ria para mantener el funcionamiento de unos espacios públicos entendidos progre-
sivamente como un confortable espacio resort.
Éste era el contexto en el que se comenzó a plantear la política de la tolerancia cero
en la ciudad de Nueva York. La lucha contra la delincuencia y la inseguridad urbana
llevó a su alcalde, Rudolf Giulliani, a poner progresivamente en práctica durante la
década de los noventa medidas de control policial basadas en el ejercicio de una
fuerte represión de los actos delictivos, independientemente del tipo de delito que
hubiera sido cometido. El éxito de las políticas de tolerancia cero, medido mucho más
atendiendo a la reducción de los índices de criminalidad urbana que no al aumento
exponencial de la población de las prisiones, fue configurando así un escenario don-
de el desarrollo de la fortificación urbana y la aparición de paisajes de defensa (Gold
y Revill, 2000) eran simplemente rasgos puntuales de un modelo de gestión de la
ciudad mucho más amplio y complejo. Un modelo orientado hacia la garantía de las
máximas condiciones de seguridad en los centros urbanos. Una ecología del miedo, tal
como la llamó el periodista norteamericano Mike Davis, se había extendido así en las
ciudades norteamericanas, donde, hoy en día, no es extraño encontrar proyectos urba-
nos diseñados y coordinados prácticamente en su totalidad por los departamentos
locales de policía.
229
‘Lock living’. Paisajes urbanos de la seguridad
2. El ejemplo de Santiago de Chile es paradigmático en ese sentido, con la instalación de los llamados
botones de pánico en el centro urbano donde predomina la actividad comercial. Unos dispositivos simila-
res a los botones de paso en los semáforos o a los teléfonos de SOS de las autopistas permiten enviar una
señal de alarma en caso de peligro. La señal es recogida y enviada a las fuerzas de seguridad, que per-
manecen atentas en una serie de torres vigía estratégicamente colocadas rodeando el centro urbano.
230
Francesc Muñoz
231
‘Lock living’. Paisajes urbanos de la seguridad
otra manera, la seguridad urbana no deja de ser un objeto de consumo más y, en ese
sentido, habría devenido un elemento con capacidad para diferenciar estatus econó-
micos y sociales o bien definir estilos de vida distintos. De acuerdo con esta propues-
ta, vivir «seguro» –protegido + defendido + vigilado– se habría convertido en un valor
añadido para la vida urbana, de forma que las áreas urbanas «seguras» tendrían un
plus de valor urbano y económico: de alguna manera, los sistemas y actuaciones en
seguridad evidenciarían el estatus superior de un lugar urbano y el visitante enten-
dería que se encuentra en un área importante o central de la ciudad en tanto en cuan-
to fuera encontrando los elementos formales que visualmente explicitan los paisajes
de la seguridad: de las entradas protegidas a los circuitos y cámaras de televisión; de
las regulaciones de acceso a las restricciones de uso.
Por tanto, la explicación para la proliferación de los paisajes de la seguridad
sería de raíz mucho más económica que otra cosa y estaría vinculada al consumo y a
la visualización del valor de un área urbana. Es ciertamente por eso que en las comu-
nidades cerradas (gated communities), tan comunes actualmente en el norte y sur de
América, cualquier elemento que pueda restar valor a la propiedad es excluido de
la visión. Así ocurre, por ejemplo, con determinados modelos de automóvil, asocia-
dos a un nivel de ingresos medio, cuyos propietarios, si bien no han de renunciar a
su vehículo, sí deben comprometerse a no exponerlo a la vista si quieren habitar en
la comunidad. En el mismo sentido, Andrew Kirby (2002), en sus estudios sobre
comunidades cerradas en Arizona, muestra cómo en algunas de ellas, al muro que
separa la urbanización del exterior –y que puede explicarse perfectamente en tér-
minos de protección– siguen otros muros interiores que separan barrios e incluso
unas casas de otras. Como el mismo autor plantea, más que proteger, estos peque-
ños muros interiores tienen una función diferente: limitan y distinguen el valor eco-
nómico que tiene la propiedad.
Los barrios residenciales de casas unifamiliares son, de hecho, un entorno donde los
paisajes de la seguridad adquieren un claro protagonismo. En el caso del Estado espa-
ñol, los nuevos barrios suburbanos de casas aisladas o en hilera no incluyen muros para
separarlos del entorno pero sí que son diseñados ofreciendo elementos de defensa y segu-
ridad. Los búnkeres y refugios que algunas compañías inmobiliarias incluyen en sus
promociones complementando casas y jardines representan un caso extremo, pero los
sistemas de seguridad y vigilancia son uno de los productos de mayor demanda entre las
empresas de seguridad. Entre ellos, destaca el llamado por los proveedores «kit están-
dar de seguridad doméstica», compuesto por tres elementos: un detector volumétrico,
232
Francesc Muñoz
3. Las empresas de seguridad que operan en España incrementaron su volumen de negocio en un 45%
entre 1996 y 2001: de alrededor de 1.000 millones de euros en 1996 a 1.562 millones en 2001. Los
cuerpos de seguridad privada se incrementaron hasta llegar a los 100.000 efectivos en 2002. Esto
significaba el doble de trabajadores que en 1996.
233
‘Lock living’. Paisajes urbanos de la seguridad
«Con esta cámara, usted sólo tiene que cambiar el canal en su televisor para ver qué está
ocurriendo en cualquier otra habitación de su hogar, utilizando su mando a distancia,
como si fuera otro programa de televisión… suficiente para ver desde su comedor si su
hijo duerme plácidamente en su habitación.»
234
Francesc Muñoz
En su libro Loft Living (1982), la socióloga Sharon Zukin discutía hace años los
primeros procesos de elitización 4 en Nueva York como dinámicas directamente aso-
ciadas a la renovación urbana y al cambio en el estilo de vida de las clases medias loca-
les. Un estilo de vida que empezaba a hacerse evidente a través de pautas de consu-
mo nuevas: de la percepción positiva de vivir downtown al éxito de la nouvelle cuisine,
pasando por las renovaciones en naves industriales y antiguos talleres que dieron
lugar a los famosos lofts.
Como se ha dicho antes, el creciente desarrollo de las políticas de seguridad aso-
ciadas al diseño y al uso de la ciudad pueden también entenderse como dinámicas
directamente asociadas a cambios en los estilos de vida. El uso de ambientes urba-
nos seguros constituye un signo de éxito económico, en unos casos, o de pertenen-
cia e identificación social, en otros, y crea así nuevos contenidos y valores a la hora
de definir la cultura urbana. En paralelo, el diseño de entornos seguros es un ele-
mento clave para garantizar el valor urbano de los espacios tanto públicos como pri-
vados. Como se ha dicho, cuanto más segura se presente un área urbana, mejor per-
cibida y valorada será por los visitantes y habitantes.
Ésta puede ser una explicación del altísimo nivel de estandarización que tanto
las políticas como los sistemas de seguridad están alcanzando actualmente en las
áreas urbanas de lugares bien diferentes del planeta. La extensión y el alcance glo-
bal de estos paisajes de la seguridad merecen aún una última reflexión.
En la medida en que el espacio urbano se modela de acuerdo con los requerimien-
tos de las políticas de seguridad, éste va perdiendo grados de complejidad y diversi-
dad que lo podrían caracterizar como un escenario múltiple y variado en términos
de uso y funciones. De hecho, los criterios técnicos asociados a las políticas de segu-
ridad no persiguen otra cosa que asegurar soluciones de predictibilidad, regularidad
y linealidad en el uso y el carácter del espacio urbano. Por otra parte, es bien cono-
cido cómo mientras los espacios urbanos diversos y complejos obligan a una gestión
de la seguridad ciertamente costosa y complicada, los lugares especializados, donde
4. Se utiliza el concepto propuesto por la geógrafa Luz Marina García Herrera (2001) como sinónimo
del neologismo «gentrificación», traducción literal del término inglés «gentrification». Se trata del famo-
so término acuñado por la socióloga británica Ruth Glass en 1964 para referirse a los procesos de susti-
tución de población en áreas urbanas centrales como resultado de las operaciones de renovación. De
acuerdo con García Herrera, ante la ambigüedad y connotaciones diversas de los términos con los que
este fenómeno ha sido traducido hasta ahora –potenciación, recualificación social, aburguesamiento,
aristocratización,…–, la idea de «elitización» quizá sea la fórmula que mejor sintetice la naturaleza y con-
tenido del fenómeno.
235
‘Lock living’. Paisajes urbanos de la seguridad
Bibliografía
236
Francesc Muñoz
237
CITY AS STAGE:
SPECULATION AND
CATASTROPHE IN
THE BOMBAY BLASTS
Vyjayanthi Rao
95
City as Stage
specificity of Mumbai could be presented to New York through the link of serial attack,
it was an invitation to think otherwise very different urban conditions through a famil-
iar trope.
But the problem is that even while they may promote «empathy» between very
diverse cities, such equivalences seem to confirm the logic espoused by people like
Samuel Huntington that pits civilizations against each other – in this case «civiliza-
tions» as diverse as the Judeo-Christian West and «Hindu» India against a putatively
common, global enemy even if these connections are never explicitly made in part
because the attacks on Bombay, the first attacks of a serial kind, never garnered the
kind of world attention that such sorts of events do these days, post 11th September.
The fact remains that these sorts of serially coordinated attacks are still quite rare
and, in my view, might provide the grounds for thinking through some interesting
political, social and physical issues confronting our urban world today. Among such
serial attacks, we can count Bombay/Mumbai (first in 1993 and less dramatically in
August 2003), the Tokyo Underground gas attack in 1995, New York in 2001, Madrid
and Istanbul in 2004.
Most specifically, in relation to the theme of this panel, we should note that the
commemorative valence of such events – that is the capacity of events that attack the
body of the city (which I shall explore further on) to create memory or com-memore –
is extremely diverse and should be thought through carefully if for no other reason
than as a way of reflecting on the genealogies of the general and the particular in
relation to contemporary modernisms. More often than not, within the discourses
of the social sciences, this relationship is thought through in a highly historicist
manner, informed by binaries like north-south, modern-traditional, etc. While I broad-
ly agree with Nigel Thrift’s appeal for a less apocalyptic view of the contemporary city,
I believe that carefully tracing the recollection and imagination of such traumas might
actually help us to move away from various sorts of problematic, historicist readings
that render false equivalences on the one hand and exaggerated differences on the
other between modern, urban situations.
Thus, for example, the memory culture surrounding the destruction of the World
Trade Center Towers and the subsequent repair of the city is substantially different
from that surrounding the Bombay blasts. My attempt here will be to try to move
beyond the more obvious, culturalist explanations in thinking these events togeth-
er. In this regard, I am reminded of the work of Zarina Hashmi, a New York based
Indian Artist, who recently produced a series of wood-cut prints of nine «cities» wound-
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Vyjayanthi Rao
ed and injured by calculated acts of war – among the cities included are two non-cities
– the UN safe haven of Srebrenica and Jenin while the others were Sarajevo, Grozny,
Kabul, Baghdad, Beirut, Ahmedabad and New York. The prints are representation-
ally divided into several types – first there are the cities like Sarajevo, Kabul, Baghdad
whose geo-bodies are familiar to us through satellite images, whose specific natural
and infrastructural features are depicted as cuts on the body. This also applies to the
images of Grozny and Ahmedabad, which are less familiar in the news but equally
subjected to destruction. As far as the camps are concerned, the wound is the very
thickness and unnatural shapes of the boundaries of these places – cut by geo-poli-
tics and multilateral calculations which Zarina then fills in with gridded streets in
the case of Jenin and with coffins in the case of the UN safe haven (or rather unsafe
haven) of Srebrenica. Finally, the depiction of New York is entirely monumental,
where the memory of wound and attack is reduced to two solid, vertical black blocks.
In another series of wood-cuts, Zarina similarly depicts Jerusalem Al-Quds, its divi-
sion among national and colonial interests in a manner that foregrounds its unrep-
resentability – she uses a simple black line and carves out the geographical coordi-
nates of Jerusalem on the wood-cut. These attempts at producing such representations
are subtle and powerful insofar as they convey meaning through condensations of
various kinds which in turn produce resonances and connections among disparate
places, apparently not linked to one another at a local level.
These are representations of a new global, cultural history through the produc-
tion of new kinds of connections. But what I want to develop is a meditation on a
different sort of art, an art of speculative urbanism that seems to arise out of situa-
tions of attack and that seems to undergrid and connect the modern histories of cities
as diverse as Mumbai, New York, Madrid, Tokyo. This art is connected specifically with
the place of infrastructure in the imagination of the modern city (or its invisibility
as the case may be) and the subtle, underground capacity of infrastructural systems
and their functioning to act as flows for memory and recollection and for our under-
standing of what constitutes the modern in the contemporary moment.
The amorphous, ambiguous nature of the South Asian city in urbanist literature
provides an interesting point of departure. Unlike most other regions, the city in
modern South Asia has been the site of considerable ambivalence. If there is anything
normative about the city in South Asia, it is rather the rejection of its specificity as a
social space and its portrayal, either positively or negatively (depending upon the
stripe of anti-colonial nationalist thought) as merely an engine of modernization and
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City as Stage
development. As the historian and political scientist Partha Chatterjee has claimed
recently, there was never an «organic» imagination of the desired, modern Indian
city of the future leaving it bereft of the sort of normative modernist moorings that
are foregrounded both in colonialist thought (such as the Apartheid city in South
Africa) as well as in other sorts of nationalist traditions elsewhere that celebrate the
city as a site of freedom. What specifically happens to this imagination in the con-
text of the kinds of attacks, like the serial blasts, that attempt to take on the city as a
geo-body is a question of interest.
In a longer version of my work on the events of 1993, I work out of the particu-
lar space of the serial attacks on Bombay/Mumbai to think through the powerful cur-
rents of spatial reformatting that have been sweeping the city since the early nineties
under the aegis of specific, neo-liberal initiatives to transform Mumbai into a global
city. I connect the demolition (or at least the symbolic demolition) of the city’s key
commercial and national sites – including the historic Bombay Stock Exchange build-
ing, the headquarters of the national airline carrier, Air-India, the Regional Passport
Office as well as the city’s transport systems including the suburban bus and railway
systems (which form the city’s spine, both literally and symbolically) to a larger pro-
gram of demolition that ripped through the city throughout the nineties and con-
tinues into the present under the auspices of a new infrastructural and cadastral
politics. I attempt to think of the kinds of memory politics unleashed by these polit-
ical and calculated acts of demolitions that fill space in new ways but leave subter-
ranean wounds that are symbolically equivalent to those unleashed by destructive
acts. There is, in other words, a way in which memory emerges not just in the act of
violence but in literal acts of re-collecting the fragments that might help us under-
stand the complexities of historic cities as sites and repositories of memory.
These politics, supported by the necessary changes in property laws and urban
regulation (including in Mumbai the systematic subversion of rent control laws and
the urban land ceiling act as well as other colonial legacies that imagined the city as
a «singular site controlled under the authority of a master plan or an optimal ecolo-
gy of pieces») are reshaping cities throughout India today. Aided by multilateral insti-
tutions like the World Bank, Mumbai has been implementing mega-infrastructural
projects like the MUTP (Mumbai Urban Transportation Project) and more recently
the Mumbai Urban Infrastructure Project (a vague collection of massively disruptive
projects that are reinscribing the symbolic geography of the city both explicitly and
implicitly because of their spectral echoes in the realms of dehousing and popula-
98
Vyjayanthi Rao
tion transfers on very large scales). Indeed the mantra of infrastructure is everywhere
– it has been deployed, for example, in the election campaign of the ruling party in
the form of the slogan «bijli-sadak-paani» (electricity-roads-water) which in turn echoes
earlier election promises of «roti-kapda-makan» (food-clothing-shelter) that were
part of the government’s promises in the era of the socialist state. These campaigns
are facilitating the ripping apart of existing urban fabrics for the insertion of new
systems, on the ground, above the ground and under the ground (and sometimes at
all three levels simultaneously). Newspapers abound in tales like the one about peo-
ple riding the Delhi Metro on the day of its inauguration (Jan 1st, 2003) and refus-
ing to get off, as if transfixed by the new experience of the underground. In Mumbai
the construction of 55 flyovers all over the city within the last five years has funda-
mentally transformed not only the visual experience of the city but also brought
new visibility to both the possibilities of a «vertical city» the «city on the ground», to
its infractions and possibilities (an «overexposed city» in a slightly different sense than
that used by Virilio). The vertical city, for those familiar with Mumbai, was being
constructed simultaneously in the northern reaches of the city, away from the trans-
forming global centre in the form of fantastical and somewhat grotesque, post-mod-
ern towers and complexes housing the ITES and BPO industries – call-centres and
software development outfits along with new experiments in leisure and retail expe-
riences that are schooling a new, upwardly mobile middle-class into becoming new
sorts of urban social collectivities.
That this new urbanism should have been inaugurated in the mixture of blood,
glass and concrete that erupted on that Black Friday (as Friday, March 12th, 1993
has come to be known in Mumbai) seems both perverse and, in a curious way, fitting
in with a larger transformation in the production of post-colonial space, mixed as it
actually is with concrete and glass among other materials. The growth of Indian cities
in the colonial era was largely tied to one of two patterns – the military model that
was based on blasting through the recalcitrant «native» city, making visible its secrets
and lies (as in the case of Lucknow) or the tabula rasa model, followed in the con-
struction and provisioning of port cities like Bombay, Madras and Calcutta. The spec-
tral effects of these models continue to reverberate in the new urbanism directed
largely against the poor and against minorities. But perhaps equally significant are
the swathes of urban developments that are encircling historic cities, cities in their
municipal logics, constituted typically by an inwardness and intramural political and
social culture. These developments are in turn facilitated by a new imaginary geog-
99
City as Stage
raphy carved around «Zones» – Special Economic Zones, Agricultural Export Zones,
etc. that are envisioned as points of interchange and switching in a national system
of mobilities – of roads, waterways and airways, which in turn are imaged through the
geometric forms of triangles, corridors, quadrilaterals, etc.
I will have to leave for later a more detailed analysis of the relationship between
these forms of urbanism and the post-bourgeois phase of capitalism best character-
ized by the new avatars of the TNC and the presence of the new «Orgman». As a num-
ber of scholars have noted, these new avatars are dependent upon softwares and «devices
working on «just in time» principles of fluid and continuous synchronization» (as Steve
Graham and Simon Marvin have put it) or on the principles of adjustment and the
amplification of adjustment between distributed sites as architect Keller Easterling puts
it. I note this here as part of a larger attempt to track the tie between new capital, mil-
itary action and the deployment of militaristic efficiency (as noted by Sekula in Fish
Story, the archetypical symbol and driver of capital in our era – the container – is, like
many other such drivers and devices, a product of military research in its relentless
quest for efficiency) into civilian enterprise and space. The generation of value has
the hallucinatory quality found in Marx’s theory of the commodity as fetish. Yet, what
is produced and extracted as value not only depends crucially upon destruction but
makes this destruction transparent in fields as diverse as logistics and contemporary
memory culture. Value here is created through the very movement of the goods them-
selves, through their incessant redistribution as parts or wholes which underlies all mas-
querades of efficiencies, through the reformatting of destroyed productions, environ-
ments and built forms (including, for example, bunkers and oil rigs, dumping grounds
and other brownfields) into useful, productive and happy spaces. It is in this context,
where seas of urbanism anchor and hold down capital (even to the extent of turning
the liquidity of the oceans into hard, solid surfaces that act in turn as factories and in
turn as incarcerators) that the impress of terror (as Derrida puts it in a recent inter-
view) in the empiricist sense of impress as that which allows for an empirical apprehen-
sion of the event, takes place. Which brings me back to Mumbai 1993…
The blasts of 1993 are widely believed to be an act of revenge by certain groups
belonging to the minority Muslim community, offered as a response to the destruc-
tion of a 16th century mosque in Ayodhya in Northern India on December 6th 1992.
This event was immediately followed by riots in several parts of the country, the
most severe of which occurred in Mumbai in December 1992 and January 1993.
The «riot», as a form of collective social violence has a specific genealogy in South
100
Vyjayanthi Rao
Asia, which is quite well known through the writings of historians on colonialism, sec-
ularism and the historical formation of majorities and minorities. While riots can and
do break out simultaneously across cities, their scale is intimate, marking out specific
territories and specific bodies for violation, leaving in their wake half-destroyed neigh-
bourhoods and injured lives. Retaliation is swift, almost instantaneous, setting into
motion a blindness that is nevertheless guided by the insight of specific targets, specific
angers and specific grievances. The riot therefore seems to work, in the moment
and in the aftermath, through certain evidentiary holes that spawn multiple narra-
tives and implode time, space and memory into singular formations of silence or
testimony. This dominant modality was ruptured fundamentally in the serial blasts
of 1993 and I’d like to take up the last part of my presentation with the question of
what this rupture means for the ways in which we think about cities and specifically
about the categories of the modern and the post-colonial rather than offer an abstract
meditation on terror and violence as such.
In August 2003, ten years after the 1993 blasts, Mumbai was once again targeted
by two serial blasts, both placed in taxicabs directed to and parked in crowded loca-
tions. The bombings immediately recalled 1993 to residents of the city but this time
they participated in an economy of international terror, as Mumbai joined the list of
several cities thus attacked (but once again, they appear to use the city as a stage or
a proxy site to take on the problem and paradox of the minority in the democratic
space of a nation divided at birth). These attacks, like others of a similar orchestrat-
ed, coordinated nature – including of course the attacks on the World Trade Center
and the Pentagon, the Tokyo Underground attacks in 1995 and more recently the
Madrid bombings share several features in common – first, as Virilio observes in The
Landscape of Events, what is new about such attacks is that they mimic the strategies
of WWII aerial bombing without the complete erasure of constructed space and bring
to the fore the notion of tabula rasa as the site at which terror impresses, imprints
itself. The capacity of violence to com-memorate – to create memory or to stimulate
imagination – thus takes place on a carefully prepared ground (an act that has its
echoes in the targeted destruction of the Mosque by Hindu political activists in
1992 which Keller Easterling has referred to as an instance of violent «site prepara-
tion»). Second, the shock of seriality and the illusion of simultaneity mimics the
very features that make infrastructural systems work as systems but with the opposite
effect of freezing the system, the connections that make the city work within its munic-
ipal limits and within a municipal logic. Third (a point connected to the first), these
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City as Stage
acts impose a new aesthetics of seeing, exposing the city as a connected whole, even
whilst lying prone, as it were, in its blasted, battered form.
This effect is particularly central to understanding the symbolic links between
these acts and our understanding of the modern in the contexts of the specific cities
that have been targeted and beyond. For my claim is that another way of under-
standing these acts is to think of them as excavating the modern, both in contexts in
which modernization as a process linked to the homogenizing power of infrastruc-
ture (and its concomitant ability to bestow universal citizenship) is an always incom-
plete process (as in the case of the post-colonial, «developing» city such as Mumbai)
as well as in the contexts of the always, already modern (as in the case of the Tokyo
Underground or the World Trade Center) of which infrastructure is the symbolic cap-
ital and, moreover, quite literally, infrastructure is the archive of the modern in the
many senses of the term archive.
Japanese writer Haruki Murakami’s fascination with the Underground as the sym-
bolic site of the modern is expressed in his explorations of the Tokyo Underground
gas attacks as acts that signal repressions within the national psyche precisely because
they are conducted through the literal medium of a hyper-modern and absolutely sophis-
ticated Underground system. Similarly, the ruins of the destroyed city on the ground are
contrasted with a largely intact and transparently conductive sewer system underground
in the post-war Vienna portrayed in Carol Reed’s cinematic adaptation of Graham
Greene’s The Third Man (this underground system is transparent and modern precise-
ly because of the multiplicity of meanings that can flow smoothly through it – disease
and corruption as well as the possibilities of cleansing and uprooting of evil).
The use of infrastructural materials – the subway, the skyscraper and the street –
the connective tissues of urban life whose very thingness enables the flows that are
central to the very possibility of the city itself – is a new strategy that turns the city
itself into weapon. Paradoxically, it is also through these destructions that the uni-
versal goals of liberal modernity are exposed and brought to light and, in a strange
way, fulfilled through the forced rupture of space with what Virilio has called the ques-
tion of time – «the regime of transhistorical temporality derived from technological
eco-systems». As Ryan Bishop and Gregory Clancey observe in their article «The
City as Target, or Perpetuation and Death» cities seem to achieve their status as
global cities insofar as they become targets. How should we think of these assertions
and observations of the symbolic structure of this increasingly dominant form of vio-
lence (or at least this form of violence that has captured global imagination since
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Vyjayanthi Rao
9/11 so strongly that every instance appears as a repetition of that originary event).
How then to account for the specificity of systemic transformations in the particular
geographies of violence that are unfolding the world over? My intuition is to turn to
the material specificities of the transformations in the links between urbanism and
the infrastructural systems necessary to sustain global capital in its current forms. As
cities lose particularity and become modern in the moment of their collapse (rather
than becoming modern in the normative sense), the problem of the city as the nor-
mative site of democracy, as an alternative to the nation-state as a political form for
membership and allegiance comes to the fore once again.
Awash in seas of urbanism in all the ways that several scholars and practitioners
have been demonstrating, the city as municipal entity is losing particularity and becom-
ing a stage for the work or violence and for the violent production of seemingly ancient
memories. It also becomes a stage for assemblages, experiments and rearrangements
to happen at scale and for the polis-demos connection to get made and unmade in a
provisional, experimental and ephemeral fashion, defeating both our normative and
historical understandings of cities. It is no accident that cities are increasingly con-
cerned with and worry about strategies of selectively preserving built forms and refor-
matting those forms through the softwares of «heritage» even as the city as a spatio-
temporal system can no longer be walled off and protected from interactions with
urbanic hinterlands, both near and distant (in fact it is interesting to observe that
architectural strategies of preservation in the post-WWII period oscillate between the
bland neutrality of modernist architecture and the erasure of centuries of accre-
tions in favour of architectural forms that supposedly reflect more «authentic» nation-
al identities). All this is of course happening against the backdrop of fundamental
transformations in the territorial organization of power and sovereignty. Yet, the pecu-
liar forms of excavating modernity by blasting open its material archives has yet to
receive proper attention by social scientists. The dialectical movement between
«vectoral» urbanism across the open spaces outside of cities politically understood and
the city, driven by the role of material, infrastructural transformations hides a cer-
tain darkness that travels between and across these vectoral corridors. This movement
also freezes the city as territory in an era of such viral circulations. Violence is an archae-
ological tool in excavating and interrogating the modernity of these new systems. It
seems crucial then to tie the question about the limits of the city (which is increas-
ingly becoming louder among urbanists) to questions about the territorial organiza-
tion of power and sovereignty and universality of infrastructure as archive.
103
TRANSVERSALS OF
TRAUMA THROUGH
URBAN AFRICA
AbdouMaliq Simone
Urbanization itself often seems traumatized, as cities no longer appear to get away
with seeming as if they were capable of enticing or inculcating residents into discer-
nible modes of intersubjectivity or an ethos of conviviality and mutuality. Cities have
largely become ex-cities – commodified renditions of social thickness or exceptions
to the predominant conceptions of what cities should be. Fractured and fractious,
polynucleated and dispersed, the sectored definitions that arranged different social
categories of residents into recognizable territories of operation, work, and residen-
ce give way to more diffuse, jumbled up urban formations that intertwine various kinds
of actors, commerce, practices, and resources into proximities that seemingly have
few substantive connections, but many points of view and parasitical possibilities eli-
ding justice – something both constantly perturbed and stabilized.1
239
Transversals of Trauma through Urban Africa
At the same time, cities often become more available to modes of settlement and
use capable of elaborating themselves according to rhythms and inclinations that may
be subject to many different kinds of constraints but without great specification as
to what they can or should look like. Thus these ways of being in and using the city
are allowed to unfold in ways that need not be integrated into some overarching
and systemic logic of urban development or governance.2 While much of what unfolds
is mere compensation for the lack of connection these modes of settlement have to
other, usually more resourced spaces of the city, these diverse ways of living in and
using the city often find ways of inserting themselves into under-regulated spaces or
in activities whose productive and profit-making capacities come to depend upon
substantial informalization.3
While cities increasingly demonstrate the ability to persist with extensive fragmen-
tation and divergence – particularly as less urban space and workers can now gene-
rate greater percentages of gross city product – we know little about what transpires
at an increasing number of interfaces and divides.4 What kinds of leakages, interchan-
ges, and affective fields transverse across spaces within a city increasingly demarca-
ted according to different logics, infrastructures, regulations, histories, and aspira-
tions. With increasing differences in the speeds at which diverse spaces are marketized,
developed, discarded, and remade, how do these temporalities rub up against each
other. How do varying positions, logics and possibilities circulate?
For this question, we have much to learn from African cities. We know African
cities can be the intense compaction of bodies, temporalities, dreams, delusions,
and sediments of failed plans and improvisations wound so tight that nothing is able
2. Amin, Ash, «Spatialities of Globalization», Environment and Planning A, vol. 34, no. 3, March 2002, pp.
385-399; Boeri, Stephano; Prodi, Romano and Koolhaas, Rem, Uncertain States of Europe, Skira edito-
re, Milan 2003; Brenner, Neil, «Beyond state-centrism? Space, Territoriality and Geographical Scale in
globalization studies», Theory and Society, vol. 28, no. 2, 1999, pp. 39-78; Cox, Kevin, «Territoriality,
Politics and the ‘Urban’», Political Geography, vol. 20, no. 6, 2001, pp. 745-762; Sandercock, Leonie,
Cosmopolis II: Mongrel Cities of the 21st Century, Continuum, London, New York 2003.
3. Augustin, Laura M., «A migrant world of services», Social Politics, vol. 10, no. 3, Fall 2003, pp. 377-
396; Kesteloot, Christian and Meert, Henk, «Informal spaces: the geography of informal economic
activities in Brussels», International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, vol. 23, no. 2, 1999, pp. 231-
251. MacGaffey, Janet; Bazenguissa-Ganga, Rémy, Congo-Paris: Transnational Traders on the Margins of
the Law, Indiana University Press, Bloomington, Ind., in association with the International Africa
Institute, London 1999; Nordstrom, Carolyn, Shadow Powers: The illegal, the illicit, and the invisible,
University of California Press, Los Angeles, Berkeley, London 2003.
4. Thrift, N., «Afterwords», Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, vol. 18, no. 2, April 2000,
pp. 213-255.
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AbdouMaliq Simone
5. Ferguson, James, Expectations of Modernity: Myths and Meanings of Urban Life on the Zambian Copperbelt,
University of California Press, Berkeley, Los Angeles 1999; Geschiere, Peter and Nyamnjoh, Francis,
«Capitalism and Autochthony: The Seesaw of Mobility and Belonging, Public Culture, vol. 12, no. 2, May
2000, pp. 423-452; Gore, Charles and Pratten, David, «The Politics of Plunder: The rhetorics of order
and disorder in Southern Nigeria», African Affairs, vol. 102, April 2003, pp. 211-240; Mbembe, Achille,
On the Postcolony, University of California Press, Los Angeles, Berkeley, London 2001; Roitman, Janet,
«The Garrison-Entrepôt», Cahiers d’Etudes africaines, vol. XXXVIII, no. 2-4, 1998.
6. Athanasiou, Athena, «Technologies of humanness, aporias of biopolitics, and the cut body of huma-
nity», Differences: A journal of Feminist Cultural Studies, vol. 14, no. 1, Spring 2003, pp. 125-162; Levin,
Thomas Y.; Frohne, Ursula and Weibel, Peter (eds), CTRL [Space}: Rhetorics of Surveillance from Bentham
to Big Brother, MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass 2002; Massumi, Brian, A Shock to Thought: Expressions after
Deleuze and Guattari, Routledge, London, New York 2002; Lianos, Michallis, «Social control after
Foucault», Surveillance and Society, vol. 1, no. 3, 2003, pp. 412-430; Mukerji, Chandra, «Intelligent Uses
of Engineering and the Legitimacy of State Power», Technology and Culture, vol. 44, no. 4, October 2003,
pp. 655-676.
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Transversals of Trauma through Urban Africa
7. Personal communication from Professor Rob Stone, Department of Visual Culture, Goldsmiths
University, London.
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AbdouMaliq Simone
the institutions. These struggles are waged between the tendencies of the «liberal whi-
tes» – the well-behaved, well-spoken, properly dressed – and the «radical blacks» –
the rude, recalcitrant, and promiscuous. What perhaps always lurked behind this
urban theater was a violence that came to dominate the nineties, where all lines
were blurred and culpability – despite the current efforts of an international tribu-
nal – will be impossible to disentangle.
The country is the site of one of the international community’s largest efforts at
re-normalization – making things look right again, albeit with 16,900 U.N troops,
special courts, truth and reconciliation commissions, almost seven hundred different
national organizations on peace, youth, women, children, as well as the entire gamut
of international organizations. Rebuilding the country through an array of measu-
res constituting good governance that in turn will promote the confidence and secu-
rity to make both local populations more productive and external investments more
forthcoming is the official story. The vast majority of urban residents of Freetown
either have almost nothing to do or too much to do in the labor intensive tasks of
collecting the day’s water at 2 in the morning or navigating the massive gridlock of
the East End where the real day-to-day, albeit limited, market exchanges take place.
As governance is reorganized, social relationships amongst even those with some
kind of employment and position are dominated by pursuit of money. In meeting
rooms, taxis, bedrooms, bars, churches and mosques, everyone talks almost all the
time about new tricks, new procedures, new opportunities – all which require some
facility at crossing sectoral, familial, class, gender, and ethnic lines. On ministerial
trips abroad, in business delegations, attendance at conferences of all kinds in Europe
and elsewhere, diamonds are never far from the picture.
Freetown, never a big city, nevertheless tried to act as a conventional city, with its
specialized quarters and sectors, its mannerisms and pretentions. That behind all of
this were mechanisms that brought different identities and capacities into a proxi-
mity that enabled stratification from getting out of hand didn’t change the fact the-
re were big families that ruled, that made use of Lebanese merchants to get things
in and out of the country, that Krios Muslims were to pretend either that they were
not Krios, or at least not the majority; that methodists would not try to outspend
Presbyterians, and that good behavior meant no politics. That a well-known Leonean
historian had suggested that there was almost a half-century intertwining of subaltern
gangsters and university students forged through a common celebration of violence
was viewed as a kind of heresy to the predominant sensibility of Freetown, that still
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Transversals of Trauma through Urban Africa
offers a sense of incomprehension of how the city could have been invaded twice,
how so many could have been killed, maimed and raped.
Yet the present pursuit of money, while requiring the cessation of hostilities, must,
in part, assume some of the characteristics of warfare – its valuation of stealth, of a
willingness to be many different things for many different people, of a dismantling
of the highly defined roles and territories that the obsession with good governance
attempts to impose.
Since diamonds are all that Sierra Leone really has, the pursuit of money inevi-
tably centers on either the actual acquisition and sale of diamonds, the trade in the
impressions that diamonds are attainable at certain costs or ease of access, or in the
trade of what the sale of diamonds could bring – i.e., managing the proceeds, facili-
tating remittances, laundering money, manipulating accounts. The diamond busi-
ness itself, despite the nascent Kimberly Accords that seek to better regulate the
industry, remains a murky field of unaccounted transactions, diversions and decep-
tions. It is thus well-suited for an economy of elusive performances and dissimulation,
just as stones themselves rely upon their articulation to various discourses of exagge-
ration. In a cut-throat world of potentially quick and enormous profits, it is impor-
tant for actors in this economy not to display excessive greed, not to introduce debi-
litating competition amongst those who provide potentially new avenues and audiences,
not to be clearly identifiable as entrenched in specific circuits or capacities.
One should also cultivate a certain amount of mystique, of an ability to be belie-
vably daring, and to move on quickly, avoiding a curiosity in evaluating with any sen-
se of gratification the fruits of what one has set in motion. This was certainly the
case with Ibrahim Bah, the purported intermediary between Al-Qaeda and Leonian
diamonds – someone who managed to engender many different stories as to his ori-
gin, his skill, his allegiances, all at the same time, making himself palatable to those
who wanted evidence of strong convictions.
So Freetown is a potent mix of co-impossibilities. There is the impossibility of really
maintaining a conventionally stratified urban society – with its concomitant econo-
mic specializations, differentiated roles and institutions. There is the impossibility
of cross-territorial transversals. For even with its hunting lodges, secret societies, car-
nivals, youth ghettos (where youth from different social classes mingle to take drugs
and fuck), and highly ritualized public life, the potential liminality incumbent in the-
se spaces threatens to elaborate an uncontainable implosive force for which the last
decade’s war operates as a metaphor. In other words, war is not the breakdown of
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AbdouMaliq Simone
order but the reacquisition of a lifestyle that remakes everything by allowing almost
nothing recognizable to exist.
Take an example from Lagos – a huge city situated on a brackish shallow lagoon
drained by four major rivers and interlaced with a series of canals to evacuate over-
flows and waste. At the end of January 2002, nearly two thousand people perished
in the Isolo Canal at Oke-Afa, Ikotun-Egbe and Ejigbo, as well as the Ajao Estate Canal
in Mafoluku. People were fleeing massive fireballs, which to them at the time were
of unknown origin, but soon later determined to be thousands of pounds of explo-
ding armaments stored in the nearby Ikeja Military Cantonment, themselves set off
by a mysterious fire.
Even as mass panic took hold, there was general wonder why so many rushed
into the canals; as most couldn’t swim, what made them believe, even in their panic,
that they could reach the other side. The general conclusion was that, as the canals
were covered in water hyacinth, most believed that the vegetation provided a sound
footing on which to cross. At the same time, even for those able to swim, death could
have come from the extreme toxicity of certain industrial pollutants.
Water hyacinth is one of the most productive plants on earth, as well as one of
the most problematic. The glossy green, leathery leaf blades grow to 20 cm. long
and 5-15 cm. wide, and are attached to petioles that are often spongy-inflated. The
plant can form impenetrable mats of floating vegetation and numerous dark, bran-
ched, fibrous roots dangle in the water from the underside. It reproduces by seeds
and by daughter plants that form on rhizomes. Individual plants break off the mat
and can be dispersed by winds and water currents. As many as five thousand seeds
can be produced by a single plant. Low oxygen conditions develop beneath hya-
cinth mats impeding water flow and creating breeding grounds for mosquitoes.
It is the very productivity of the water hyacinth – its rhizomatic structure that see-
mingly impedes any limiting effort based on cutting it off from the «roots» – that
accounts for the mixture of fascination and alarm through which it is usually appro-
ached. For the mats are a surface that is both inclusive and structuring of new and
open-ended relationships, providing a series of connections, switches, relays, and cir-
cuits for activating matter and information.
Rescue efforts proved exceedingly difficult as rescuers had to cut their way through
the dense entanglement that had already encompassed individual bodies. It is per-
haps ironic that morphology so capable of spreading itself rapidly across fluid surfa-
ce can so impede another’s mobility. As the reputed criminals, to whom these canals
245
Transversals of Trauma through Urban Africa
have been conceded by local residents, pointed out in the aftermath of the tragedy,
it is not a matter of trying to run across the matted vegetation. Rather, the key is rolling
over, gliding along the surface, allowing the body to do things that it never thought
it was capable of doing.
As one told a reporter from the Vanguard newspaper, the canals had long been
haunted, after all these are conduits to a different world. The question is what is this
different world whose passageways are supervised by ghosts; what are the invisible cir-
cuits of navigation that haunt the city in its present form?
As residents along the Isolo-Oshidi axis poured from their «indented» quarters,
Shogunle, Jakande Estate, Ejigbo and converged on the canals because the layout of
their quarters meant that escape necessarily led them in this direction. Beyond the
matter of people running into each other after years of not being in contact, of per-
sons discovering that they were virtual neighbors, of people extending help and
support on this day and even in the months after, there was also the uncanny ability
of apparent strangers to identify precisely where the dead or where rescuers actually
lived. An invisible architecture of connections, in the wake of this tragedy, has found
various visible forms. Children have been returned to families on the basis of «hun-
ches.» Mutual assistance is now connecting quarters that may be in close proximity,
but due to the topography of the city can be connected through highly circuitous
navigation. There are hundreds of stories of people re-discovering each other, of a
basis for connection in a city whose fragmenting pulls were substantially intensified
in the wake of the disaster.
These examples from Lagos and Freetown, I think, compel us to expand our
notions of urban infrastructure. Urban infrastructure has been conventionally unders-
tood as those elements that articulate and enforce specific structures of connectivity
among residents, and between residents and the urban environment. This infrastruc-
ture provides for the reproduction of life within the city as well as maintains specific
forms of sociality through these specific modes of provisioning. Here, I would extend
the notion of infrastructure to these practices of conjunction, where livelihood, its
reproduction and the creation of opportunity are produced and enacted through
the very intersection of different bodies marked and situated in diverse ways, and whe-
re permutations in the intersection of their given physical existence, their stories, net-
works, inclinations, and trajectories of movement produce specific value and capa-
city. This process of conjunction, generating highly singular social compositions with
a range of singular capacities and needs, both enacted and virtual, always attemp-
246
AbdouMaliq Simone
ting to derive maximal resourcefulness from the most minimal set of elements is what
I call «people as infrastructure.»
Lots of different kinds of activities, modes of production and institutional forms
are intersected to provide provisional possibilities for how people live and make things,
how they use the urban environment and collaborate with one another. The specific
operations and scopes of these intersections are constantly negotiated. They depend
on the particular histories, understandings, networks, styles, and inclinations of the
actors involved. As a result, highly specialized needs arise, requiring the application
of specialized skills and sensitivities that can adapt to the unpredictable range of
scenarios these needs bring to life. Regularities thus ensue from a process of inces-
sant convertibility – turning commodities, found objects, resources, and bodies into
uses previously unimaginable or constrained. As such, the more things urban actors
are willing or able to do, the more adept they become at operating within these inter-
sections.
To circulate through the city means not only to transverse it as a geographical
domain, as a series of distinct quarters, institutions, and times. Rather, to circulate
has come to represent for many African urban youth the ability to pass through and
under the often merely feigned efforts and then usually arbitrary applications of poli-
tical power to define how the city is to be organized and used. Conversely, it also
specifies a sense of regularity within a highly uncertain environment, where it is not
clear what is likely to ensue from the usual prescriptions regarding commitments to
particular ethical, livelihood and social welfare practices. Instead, just as many youth
seize whatever chances may come their way, they also position themselves to be sei-
zed – that is, to be taken into various ensembles of trade, war, migration, proselyti-
zing, and social settlement without having to possess a certain eligibility or genealogy.
Bodies are drained of pasts and characteristics as they also can be imbued with subs-
tantial «undeserved» capacities and authority.
So, local institutions are constantly trying to come up with imaginative ways of
making relations among people with varying degrees of prior connection with each
other, knowing that people are always coming and going. But instead of coming up
with a set of consistent norms and rules by which those incorporated should abide,
localities – be they villages, towns, urban neighborhoods – try to find norms which
best fit the particular hodgepodge of kin, strangers, passers-by, neighbors that they
have on hand. Here, a sense of stability is forged from the very instability of the
compositions and relations of those institutions that try to provide a platform for
247
Transversals of Trauma through Urban Africa
248
EL PALACIO
DE CRISTAL
Peter Sloterdijk
Entre los escritores del siglo XIX que, desde la «atrasada» periferia europea oriental,
contemplaron con una crítica reserva el peligroso avance de los agresivos juegos de apro-
piación del mundo emprendidos por los europeos occidentales, es Fedor Dostoievsky
quien, con la perspectiva que nos da el tiempo, destaca como el autor del diagnóstico
más sagaz. En su relato Memorias del subsuelo, publicado en el año 1864 –y que no cons-
tituye tan sólo el documento fundacional de la moderna psicología del resentimiento,
sino también la primera manifestación hostil contra la globalización (si es que el empleo
de dicho término no es anacrónico en este contexto)–, se halla una expresión que resu-
me, con una fuerza metafórica aún no igualada, el «hacerse mundo» del mundo en el
principio del fin de la era de la globalización: me refiero a la caracterización de la civili-
zación de Occidente como un «palacio de cristal». Al visitar Londres en 1862, Dostoievsky
tuvo la oportunidad de ver en Sydenham el Crystal Palace ,1 que había sido trasladado
1. Más detalles al respecto en: Sloterdijk, Peter, Sphären III: Schäume, Suhrkamp, Frankfurt 2004. Los ecos
literarios de la estancia de Dostoievsky en Londres se encuentran en su suplemento literario de viajes
«Anotaciones de invierno sobre impresiones de verano», 1863, un texto en el que el autor se burla, entre
otras cosas, de los «sargentos primeros de la civilización» de Occidente, de los «progresistas de invernade-
ro», y expresa su angustia acerca del triunfalismo baálico del palacio de la Exposición Universal. Dostoievsky
reconoce ya en la burguesía francesa la equiparación europea occidental y posthistórica entre seres huma-
nos y poder adquisitivo: «La posesión de dinero [es] la más elevada virtud y deber del ser humano».
9
El palacio de cristal
allí después de albergar la Exposición Universal de 1851, y que en aquel mismo año vol-
vía a albergarla, y asoció el escepticismo que dicho edificio le inspiraba con la aversión
que le provocó la lectura de la novela de Chernichevsky ¿Qué hacer? (1863). En este libro,
de clara tendencia optimista y prooccidental, célebre en su tiempo, y cuya influencia se
prolonga hasta Lenin, se proclamaba al Hombre Nuevo que, tras la efectiva resolución
de las cuestiones sociales por medios técnicos, vivía junto a sus semejantes en un pala-
cio comunitario de vidrio y cristal, prototipo de las viviendas comunitarias del Este y
el Oeste. Dicho palacio se concibió como un lujoso caparazón con el interior clima-
tizado; la eterna primavera del consenso había de regir este inmenso invernadero, y
la coexistencia pacífica de todos con todos se daba por sentada. Para Dostoievsky, la
vida en el palacio simboliza la voluntad de los progresistas occidentales de que el pro-
ceso de reticulación del mundo y de propagación universal de la felicidad que ellos
mismos habían iniciado halle su culminación en la ausencia de tensiones que segui-
rá al final de la historia.
A partir de ahí, el motivo del «fin de la historia» inicia su marcha triunfal por la
Modernidad. Los visionarios del siglo XIX, al igual que los comunistas del xx, ha-
bían advertido ya que, al concluir los combates de la historia, la vida social sólo podría
desarrollarse en un espacio interior dilatado, en un ámbito ordenado a la manera
de una vivienda. Todo lo que pueda llamarse historia verdadera –al igual que sus pun-
tas de lanza: el viaje por mar y la guerra de conquista– puede consistir tan sólo en
un conjunto de actuaciones al aire libre. Pero si las luchas históricas desembocaran
en una paz perpetua, la vida social en su conjunto debería quedar recluida en un
caparazón. Si se llegara a esta situación, no se producirían ya nuevos acontecimien-
tos históricos, sino tan sólo accidentes domésticos. ¿Quién podría negar que el mun-
do occidental –y muy especialmente la Unión Europea desde su relativa comple-
ción en mayo de 2004– reúne en sí todos los rasgos esenciales de este amplio espacio
interior?
Este gigantesco invernadero libre de tensiones se ha consagrado a un placentero
culto de Baal para el que el siglo XX ha propuesto el nombre de consumismo. El Baal
capitalista, que Dostoievsky creyó reconocer en la pasmosa visión del palacio de cris-
tal y en las regocijadas masas de Londres, toma cuerpo tanto en el caparazón como
en el desorden hedonista que lo gobierna. En él se formula una nueva escatología
como dogma del consumo. A la construcción del palacio de cristal sólo le puede seguir
la total «cristalización» de las condiciones de vida. Mediante esta expresión, Arnold
Gehlen enlaza con Dostoievsky. El término «cristalización» designa el proyecto de una
10
Peter Sloterdijk
11
El palacio de cristal
2. Para una interpretación de la teoría heideggeriana del tedio en el contexto del desarrollo de la iro-
nía y la ausencia de tensión modernas, cfr. Sphären III: Schäume, op. cit.
12
Peter Sloterdijk
3. Cfr. «Absolute Inseln» en: Sphären III: Schäume, op. cit., cap. 1, sección A, pp. 317-337.
4. Benjamin, Walter, Gesammelte Schriften, Suhrkamp, Frankfurt 1989, vol. 1, pp. 86 y 93.
5. Acerca del motivo del «capitalismo confortable», cfr. Claessens, Dieter y Claessens, Karin, Ka-
pitalismus als Kultur: Entstehung und Grundlagen der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft, Suhrkamp, Frankfurt 1979.
13
El palacio de cristal
duce nada menos que la total absorción del mundo exterior en un interior planificado
en su integridad.
Si se acepta la metáfora del «palacio de cristal» como emblema de las ambiciones
últimas de la Modernidad, se reconoce sin esfuerzo alguno la simetría entre el pro-
grama capitalista y el socialista: el socialismo no fue otra cosa que la segunda puesta
en práctica del proyecto de construcción del palacio. Después de su liquidación, se
ha hecho evidente que socialismo y comunismo fueron estadios en el camino hacia
el capitalismo. Ahora se puede decir abiertamente que el capitalismo es algo más que
un modo de producción; apunta más lejos, como se expresa con la figura de pensa-
miento «mercado mundial». Implica el proyecto de transportar todo el contexto vital
de los seres humanos que se hallan en su radio de acción a la inmanencia del poder
de compra.
6. Cfr. Lévinas, Emmanuel, «La proximité», Autrement qu’être ou au delà de l’essence, Le Livre de Poche,
París 2004 (1978), pp. 129-155.
14
Peter Sloterdijk
las miras puestas en el reparto de beneficios, dan por supuesto que las reglas de jue-
go de la reciprocidad también son evidentes para los demás.
A causa de la densidad, la inhibición se transforma en nuestra segunda natura-
leza. Allí donde se manifiesta, la agresión unilateral adopta la apariencia de una
utopía que ya no se corresponde con ninguna praxis. La libertad para actuar obra
entonces como un motivo de cuento de hadas procedente de la época en que la agre-
sión aún prestaba algún servicio. Toda expansión unilateral demuestra que todavía
existen condiciones previas a la densidad. La densidad conlleva lo siguiente: la fase
en que la praxis unilateral desinhibida tenía éxito ha llegado, en lo esencial, a su
término, sin que podamos descartar alguna que otra secuela violenta. Los actores
han sido expulsados del jardín de Edén en el que se prometía la salvación a los uni-
laterales.
El concepto de telecomunicaciones tiene una gran seriedad ontológica, en tanto
que designa la forma procesual de la densificación. Las telecomunicaciones produ-
cen una forma de mundo cuya actualización requiere diez millones de e-mail por
minuto y transacciones en dinero electrónico por un monto de un billón de dólares
diarios. Este término no se comprenderá bien en tanto que no exprese de manera
más explícita la creación de un sistema mundial de reciprocidad basado en la coo-
peración, esto es, en la inhibición mutua, en el que se incluyen las transacciones a
distancia, las obligaciones a distancia, los conflictos a distancia y la ayuda a distan-
cia. Tan sólo este concepto fuerte de las telecomunicaciones como forma capitalista
de la actio in distans es el adecuado para describir el tono y el modo de existencia en
el palacio de cristal ampliado. Gracias a las telecomunicaciones, se ha realizado por
medios técnicos el viejo sueño de los moralistas de un mundo en el que la inhibi-
ción se imponga a la desinhibición.
Por consiguiente, la esperanza –y que Ernst Bloch me perdone– no es un prin-
cipio, sino un resultado. La esperanza que podemos abrigar en algunos casos, en
el marco de la teoría de procesos, es doble: en primer lugar, el hecho de que los
seres humanos tienen ocasionalmente nuevas ideas que al aplicarse producen
alteraciones en las condiciones de vida, tanto en un microentorno como a gran
escala. De vez en cuando, se encuentran entre ellas grandes ideas con un nivel redu-
cido de efectos secundarios. En segundo lugar, por la constatación del hecho que,
del torrente de ideas que querrían hacerse realidad, dadas unas condiciones de
densidad suficiente, se filtra un poso de ocurrencias factibles que ofrecen algo
mejor, si no a todo el mundo, sí, por lo menos, a muchas personas. La racionali-
15
El palacio de cristal
dad del espacio denso produce el mismo efecto que una secuencia de cedazos encar-
gados de la eliminación de ofensivas unilaterales y de innovaciones que puedan
causar daños inmediatos (semejantes, como si dijéramos, a los delitos que pueden
cometerse en una única ocasión, o en breves series). Su manera de actuar puede
llamarse comunicativa, si se quiere, pero tan sólo en la medida en que se pueda
llamar comunicación a la sustracción recíproca de espacios de acción. El fantas-
ma que aparece ante unos ojos miopes como competencia comunicativa se trans-
forma, tras la disolución de las brumas, en mera capacidad de inhibición recípro-
ca. El tan pregonado consenso de los sensatos es una cáscara que recubre el poder
de inhibirse recíprocamente de toda acción unilateral. También el fenómeno, exce-
sivamente valorado desde un punto de vista moral, del reconocimiento corres-
ponde en lo esencial a la capacidad de hacerse respetar como obstáculo efectivo
o potencial frente a una iniciativa ajena. Jürgen Habermas tiene el mérito de haber
reconocido que la «inclusión del otro» es un procedimiento para la ampliación del
ámbito de aplicación de los mecanismos de inhibición recíproca, aun cuando
haya incurrido en una sobrevaloración idealista de dicho procedimiento y en una
errónea interpretación dialógica; la «inclusión del otro» es, muy al contrario, un
indicio de la tendencia postmoderna a eliminar la acción. De hecho, el estableci-
miento de inhibiciones recíprocas es digno de alabanza por ser el mecanismo civi-
lizatorio más eficaz, si bien habría que tener en cuenta que justo con los aspectos
indeseables e intolerables de la praxis unilateral desinhibida también se elimina a
menudo lo que ésta tiene de bueno.
Sobre este telón de fondo, la globalización de la criminalidad se nos revela ins-
tructiva por lo que respecta a la situación posthistórica. Nos muestra cómo y dónde
la desinhibición activa se impone una y otra vez a las instancias inhibidoras en ámbi-
tos locales. La criminalidad organizada reposa sobre el perfeccionamiento profesio-
nalizado de la desinhibición, que avanza, por así decir, con pasos silenciosos por las
fisuras abiertas en el abrumador entorno circundante; en cambio, la criminalidad
espontánea sólo da fe de la momentánea pérdida de control sobre sí mismo por
parte de individuos confusos que la jerga de los juristas se obstina en llamar autores
del crimen. La criminalidad profesional constituye, fundamentalmente, un sentido
para hallar las fisuras (en el mercado y en la ley), junto con una energía que no cono-
ce el desaliento. Gracias a ella, se siguen cumpliendo las condiciones necesarias
para poder hablar de autoría de los hechos en un sentido satisfactorio desde el pun-
to de vista filosófico. Los criminales organizados de manera eficaz no son víctimas
16
Peter Sloterdijk
17
El palacio de cristal
exterior; los programas generados por la paranoia, faltos de trabajo, se afanan por
cazar al vuelo cualquier indicio de la existencia de un enemigo. La suma de estos
análisis casi teóricos brinda una praxis coherente a los terroristas: al preparar sus
explosiones televisadas, sacan partido, con aguda intuición, de la constitución hiper-
comunicativa del espacio social de Occidente; por medio de invasiones mínimas,
ejercen un influjo sobre la totalidad del sistema, en tanto que lo estimulan, por decir-
lo de algún modo, sobre sus puntos de acupresión.7 Pueden estar seguros de que la
única medida antiterrorista que alcanzaría el éxito, el silencio absoluto de los medios
de comunicación a propósito de los atentados, se frustrará siempre a causa de la
fidelidad de aquéllos a su deber de informar. Por ello, «nuestros» conductos de
excitación transmiten de manera casi automática el estímulo terrorista local a los
consumidores de terror, los ciudadanos mayores de edad del palacio de cristal, de
manera muy parecida a como los conductos de mi sistema nervioso transmiten el
dolor de la quemadura desde las yemas de los dedos hasta el registro general en el
cerebro. Nuestro propio deber de informar garantiza al terrorismo un puesto dura-
dero como arte de hacer hablar de sí mismo. Por ello, los dirigentes del terror, al
igual que todos los conquistadores que los precedieron, pueden equiparar el éxito
con la verdad. El resultado, absurdo o no, se pone de manifiesto en el hecho de
que aparezcan en los medios con una regularidad casi comparable a la de la mete-
orología y los secretos de las mujeres. Aun cuando se trate de un fantasma que en
raras ocasiones se materializa, goza de una consideración ontológica que habitual-
mente se otorga tan sólo a los existentes. En comparación con ello, el hecho de que
los autores de atentados graves reciban la consideración de héroes en extensas zonas
del mundo no controladas por Occidente constituye tan sólo un aspecto secunda-
rio de su triunfo.
Así, el terrorismo ha conseguido ser objeto de «atención» como estrategia de
expansión unilateral en el continente posthistórico. Penetra fácilmente en el cere-
bro de las «masas» y se asegura un espacio significativo en el mercado mundial de
las emociones temáticas. Por ello, y tal como nos mostró Boris Groys mediante aná-
lisis realizados con suficiente sangre fría, el terrorismo está estrechamente empa-
7. Paul Berman se sirve de la comparación con las «picaduras de mosquito»; por desgracia, el autor se
rasca con tanta energía, que le sale una sobreinterpretación del terrorismo islamista como nuevo totali-
tarismo: cfr. BERMAN, Paul, Terror und Liberalismus, Europäische Verlagsanstalt, Hamburgo 2004, p. 32; sin
preocuparse por lo poco afortunado de sus imágenes, añade que las picaduras de mosquito son «parte
de una guerra»; una vez más se emplea la lucha contra los insectos como modelo de la gran política.
18
Peter Sloterdijk
rentado con las artes mediáticas postmodernas, y quizá no haga otra cosa que extra-
er las consecuencias más extremas de las tradiciones del arte transgresor de raíz román-
tica. Desde épocas tempranas, éste trató de forzar el significado mediante agresivas
expansiones de los procedimientos artísticos. Con el desarrollo de tales técnicas a lo
largo del siglo xx, se hizo perceptible que la transgresión no es un indicador de la
grandeza metafísica ni artística de una obra, sino un recurso publicitario tan senci-
llo como efectivo. El famoso arranque de celos de Stockhausen frente a los autores
del drama de Nueva York nos dice más acerca de la verdad de aquel día que toda la
industria literaria dedicada al 11 de septiembre.8
A la vista de todo ello, se comprende por qué el neoliberalismo y el terrorismo son
como el recto y el verso de una misma hoja. Sobre ambas caras se lee un texto articu-
lado con suma claridad:
«Para los audaces, la historia no ha terminado. La unilateralidad es rentable para los que
confían en la agresión. Los elegidos aún pueden contemplar el mundo como una hacien-
da sin dueño, los testigos de la Pura Agresión aún tienen el botín en la punta de la espa-
da. La libertad para atacar es la esencia de la verdad.»
Forzoso es reconocer que todo esto son cantos de sirena, y que no existen suficien-
tes mástiles para amarrar a quienes los escuchan. Esta música de la acción desinhi-
bida es grata a los individuos vigorosos que desean emplear su exceso de fuerza, sea
en la empresa o en la venganza.
La obra de teatro que la coalición de los bienpensantes llama «agresión del fun-
damentalismo» se representa tan sólo en la superficie del escenario mundial; lo que
causa verdadera inquietud es el fundamentalismo de la agresión. Aun cuando parez-
ca pertenecer a una época ya pasada, sus restos se mantienen con virulencia en el
mundo postunilateral. Lo que impulsa a los resueltos agresores, trátese de terroris-
tas, especuladores, delincuentes o empresarios, es el anhelo de transformarse en un
chorro de pura iniciativa en un contexto mundial que emplea todas sus fuerzas para
frenar las iniciativas. El fundamentalismo islámico, que en la actualidad se percibe
como un paradigma de agresividad sin sentido, tiene interés tan sólo en tanto que
componenda mental circunscrita a ámbitos locales, que hace posible el tránsito, siem-
8. Cfr. Lentricchia, Frank; McAuliffe, Jody, Crimes of Art and Terror, University of Chicago Press,
Chicago y Londres 2003, pp. 6-17.
19
El palacio de cristal
20
Peter Sloterdijk
en el siglo VII. Sin embargo, unos y otros tienen que pactar con la época en la que viven
y fingen percibir las redes modernas como su gran oportunidad, y no como quintae-
sencia de las circunstancias que los frenan. Con sus obsoletas filosofías de la acción, unos
y otros nos brindan, a principios del siglo XXI, sendas formas de romanticismo de la agre-
sión. Este romanticismo confunde las fisuras con un espacio libre. Mediante la realiza-
ción de misiones, proyectos y otros gestos, sus actores querrían rescatar la fuerza de la
asimetría de su carácter de golpe adelantado y autosatisfactorio, en una época que se
encuentra ya bajo el primado de la amabilidad, la inhibición, la acción recíproca, la coo-
peración, tanto en Oriente como en Occidente. Sólo se escapan algunas fisuras que
son angostas desde el punto de vista del sistema, aunque numerosas.
Por consiguiente, desde el punto de vista de la teoría de la acción, la «existencia
histórica» puede definirse como participación en un espacio de acción donde el empleo
de un excedente de energías interiores y la realización de la historia mundial en oca-
siones confluían. Un autista presuntuoso como Colón demostró lo que puede conse-
guir un verdadero héroe de la historia; igual que incontables imitadores, se abrió paso
desde la neurosis hasta lo universal. Sin embargo, una vez concluida la «historia», sólo
intentan hacer «historia» aquellos que no comprenden que ésta ha terminado. Así,
aparecen autismos sin salida en el escenario mundial; pero éstos producen un fuer-
te eco en el murmullo posthistórico de los medios de comunicación. El 11 de septiem-
bre ha sido hasta ahora el indicio más claro de posthistoricidad, aunque fueran muchos
quienes, en estado de shock, lo confundieran con un signo de la historia. Marcó una
fecha cuya misma superfluidad es siniestra, una fecha que no apunta a nada, salvo al
mismo día en que tuvo lugar el hecho. Los criminales de septiembre engendraron
una violencia unilateral que no tenía absolutamente nada in petto que pudiera com-
pararse a un proyecto, salvo vagas alusiones a una repetición, alusiones que malos
estrategas han interpretado erróneamente como una amenaza. Una verdadera ame-
naza tendría que adoptar, como todo el mundo sabe, la forma de una «advertencia
armada»,9 y el atentado de septiembre no buscaba ninguna consecuencia, fue una
mera demostración de la capacidad de llevar a cabo un ataque puntual contra el
palacio cristalino; fue una «medida» que se agotó en su misma realización. Tampoco
tenía nada de lucha por un buen fin por medios violentos, pero desgraciadamente
necesarios, como la había enseñado la metaética revolucionaria desde el siglo XIX. El
9. LUTTWAK, Edward N., «Armed Suasion», Strategy. The Logic of War and Peace, The Belknap Press of
Harvard University Press, Cambridge (MA) y Londres 1987, cap. 13.
21
El palacio de cristal
10. Cfr. «Das Empire – oder: Das Komforttreibhaus; die nach oben offene Skala der Verwöhnung»,
Sphären III: Schäume, Plurale Sphärologie, op. cit., cap. 3, sección 9, pp. 801 y ss.
22
Peter Sloterdijk
Por ello, las reacciones no liberales contra el terror son siempre inadecuadas, pues-
to que infravaloran la tremenda superioridad del atacado sobre el atacante; magnifican
el fantasma insustancial de Al Qaeda, ese conglomerado de odio, desempleo y citas
del Corán, hasta convertirlo en un totalitarismo con rasgos propios, y algunos, inclu-
so, creen ver en él un «fascismo islámico» que, no se sabe con qué medios imagina-
rios, amenaza a la totalidad del mundo libre. Dejaremos abierta la pregunta por los
motivos que han conducido a aquella infravaloración y a esta magnificación. Sólo
esto es seguro: los realistas se hallan de nuevo en su elemento; por fin pueden poner-
se, una vez más, al frente de los irresolutos, con los ojos clavados en el fantasma del
enemigo fuerte, medida antigua y nueva de lo real. Con el pretexto de la seguridad,
los voceros de la nueva militancia dan rienda suelta a tendencias autoritarias cuyo
origen hay que buscar en otro sitio; la angustia colectiva, cuidadosamente manteni-
da, hace que la gran mayoría de los mimados consumidores de seguridad de Occidente
se sume a la comedia de lo inevitable. ¿A dónde nos puede llevar todo ello? Los
pasajeros que, desde el 11 de septiembre, en los aeropuertos europeos, tienen que
sacrificar las tijeras para uñas a fin de reducir los riesgos del vuelo han experimen-
tado en sus propias carnes un anticipo.
23
BUT MALICE
AFORETHOUGHT:
CITIES AND THE
NATURAL HISTORY
OF HATRED
Nigel Thrift
Introduction
«You may talk of the tyranny of Nero and Tiberius; but the real tyranny is the tyranny of
your next-door neighbour» (Bagehot, 1856, cited in Lane, 2004, p. 15).
«Perhaps he doesn’t wait even for the end of the conversation, but gets up at the point where
the matter has become clear to him, flies through the town with his usual haste, and,
before I have hung up the receiver, is already at his goal working against me» (Kafka, 1988,
p. 425).
The idea of the city as doomed is one of the common tropes of urban representa-
tion, as Mike Davis (2002) has illustrated at length in one of his latest books.1 For
Davis, the Western city is rapidly coming unglued. It is a runaway train fuelled by
equal parts hubris and fear. It is Roadrunner suspended over the abyss. In tapping
in to this anxious tradition of writing on cities, Davis is hardly alone. For example,
he cites approvingly that rather idiosyncratic Marxist, Ernst Bloch, in equally
1. As well as gleefully adding more such representations to the stock, I might add.
25
But Malice Aforethought
apocalyptic mode, arguing much earlier that, in contrast to the adaptive and impro-
visatory pre-capitalist city, the capitalist city is in a continual state of radical inse-
curity and dread. Transfixed by the idea of a totally safe and calculable environ-
ment, the capitalist city is fixed and unbending in the face of unexpected events:
«it has rooted itself in midair». And so it is heading for a fall; «where technology
has achieved an apparent victory over the limits of nature … the coefficient of
known and, more significantly, unknown danger has increased proportionately»
(Bloch, 1998, p. 307 and 309).
Well maybe. I thought that I would begin this paper by arguing against these increas-
ingly common nightmare scenarios which seem to be so prevalent that they are now
producing all kinds of echoes – such as the growing historical literature on metro-
politan catastrophes.2 I believe that on many dimensions the contemporary Western
city is more robust than it has ever been and I will want to explain why (Massard et
al., 2002). But I am also sure that the inhabitants of Western cities often think the
opposite and I will try to explain why too: my thesis will be that it is not only the images
of war and disaster flooding in from the media that have generated a pervasive fear
of catastrophe but also a more deep-seated sense of misanthropy which urban com-
mentators have been loath to acknowledge, a sense of misanthropy which is too often
treated as though it were a dirty secret.
This is not, I hasten to add, a Panglossian account. I do not think all is well in the
urban world or that all will be well – of course, cities are and will no doubt continue
to be vulnerable to all kinds of catastrophic events from terrorist attacks to earth-
quakes to influenza epidemics. Rather, I want to provide a qualified account which
by excavating the everyday life and varying time signatures of cities might lead the
discussion of the future politics of cities in slightly different directions.
To this end, I will begin the paper by noting that cities often bounce back from
catastrophe remarkably quickly. I will argue that there are good reasons why that is
and, most particularly, the fact that Western cities are continuously modulated by
repair and maintenance in ways that are so familiar that we tend to overlook them
but which give these cities a good deal more resilience than Bloch, Davis, and many
others before and since have been willing to give them credit for.
2. As in the recent conference on metropolitan catastrophes held at the Institute of Historical Research
by the Centre for Metropolitan History which featured a series of historians who were moving their
attention from the battlefield to the city as battlefield.
26
Nigel Thrift
Then, in the second part of the paper, I want to take a more philosophical turn
and start to address why urban inhabitants might have a sense of foreboding about
cities. I am not sure that the evidence would suggest that cities are any more on a
knife edge than they have ever been but a Cassandra tendency seems to infect many
of the recent writings on cities. Why might this be? I want to suggest that this requires
an analysis of the prevailing urban mood. In other words, I want to turn to a consid-
eration of affect arising out of a series of papers I have published recently. In partic-
ular, I will consider the sheer incidence of misanthropy in cities and how it has been
framed since industrialisation. My argument is that it is only by facing this misan-
thropy square on that we can start to understand kindness and compassion. I will want
to argue that a certain amount of dislike of one’s fellow citizens is, given the social-
cum-biological-cum-technological make-up of human beings: the ubiquity of aggres-
sion is an inevitable by-product of living in cities. 3 But I also want to argue that part
of the impetus for the increasing interest in the misanthropic side of cities that may
not celebrate but certainly do not shy away from the darker side of human nature
lies in the fact that modern urban spaces are increasingly seen as themselves impli-
cated in human imperfectibility in that rather more of their substance than was for-
merly acknowledged takes its cue from models of organization that are founded on
the systematic delivery of violence which are so engrained that we hardly notice
their dictates, yet alone understand their origins. Certain kinds of violence have
become engrained in our «natures» by these models of organization and our envi-
ronment now simply confirms these truths.
Then, in the final part of the paper, I want to argue that there is a nascent poli-
tics of foreboding centred around the idea of a politics of hope which involves engag-
ing with the sentiment of compassion but is not thereby sentimental.
In other words, in this paper I want to walk the line, veering between hope and
then pessimism, and then hope again. To begin with I want to argue straightfor-
wardly that, even though «the myth of terrible urban vulnerability endures» (Konvitz,
1990, p. 62) cities are much more robust entities than they are usually given credit
for, continually being re-placed by activities of maintenance and repair.
But then I want to move on to argue, perversely some will say, for a more pessimistic
view of the moral life of cities than is often put forward nowadays in that I do not
3. This is, of course, a classical Freudian point, as is the point made later that destructiveness is very close
to love. Freud’s work acts, fittingly perhaps, as a perpetual undertow in this paper.
27
But Malice Aforethought
believe that advances in material civilization necessarily lead to moral progress. This is
hardly a novel position. After all, it was forcefully put forward by Rousseau in his Fist
Discourse. But, even now, it is still an uncomfortable one, sometimes associated with fas-
cism or various forms of mysticism, and most clearly articulated by an almost forgotten
set of social theorists like Gobineau, Le Bon, Sorel and Schmitt whose politics were not
always attractive, to put it but mildly (Llobera, 2003). However, of late, it is possible to
argue that there has been a largely unacknowledged revival of this kind of thinking as
a result of a number of developments, of which I will highlight just three. First, there has
been a greater and greater interest shown in the biological constitution of human
social orders. Whilst, arguably, a strain of eugenic thinking persists in modern societies
(Duster, 1990), still it has become possible to talk about biology without being imme-
diately accused of determinism and, in turn, to address issues like violence and aggres-
sion and hatred as though they might have biological determinants without immediate
censure. Second, there has been a renewed interest, in the guise of work on so-called
agonistic politics, in forms of politics which are willing to tolerate a depiction of soci-
eties as not premised on the maintenance of shared orders but as, in large part, being
the result of the carving out of very different worlds, worlds which cannot be expected
to reach agreement and which may obdurately disagree because they do not even
share shared premises about the world. Such work argues that politics is about dis-
agreement as much as it is about consensus (Rancière, 1999; Mouffe, 2002).4 Third,
there has been a general falling away of belief in the efficacy of large-scale projects of
social change and their corresponding goals of forging a bourgeois or socialist heaven-
ly kingdom, not just because they so often seem to crush difference but also because
they so often seem to unleash mythopoetic forces that their own proponents do not
seem to understand.5
Then, in conclusion, against this rather sombre background, I want to return to
the later work of Ernst Bloch and argue for a politics of affective «repair and main-
tenance» based around hope. This should not be interpreted as a call for blind opti-
mism. Rather, it is an argument for a politics of disagreement which can still find a
place for a sort of practical utopianism which cleaves to the idea that «the essence of
the world is cheerful spirit and the urge to creative shaping» (Bloch, 1986). Cities
28
Nigel Thrift
may have, as I will argue, a large reservoir of enmity but they also have a surplus of
hope, an unconscious hunger for the future as well as the past.
6. It also points to the fact, often forgotten, that demolition is as much a part of the history of cities as con-
struction. But I know of remarkably little work on this aspect of cities, even after recent traumatic events,
except that centred around sense of loss (e.g. of the byways of pre-boulevard Paris).
29
But Malice Aforethought
cially because all kinds of processes are being intervened in, some of which are pret-
ty easy to deal with quickly (e.g. broken power lines), others of which take far longer
to mend (e.g. broken hearts). Cities, in other words, took hard knocks but with the
aid of all these activities they could get up, dust themselves off, and start all over again.
This is a point I want to develop in more detail.
Repair and maintenance covers a whole host of activities and it has become, if
anything, more prevalent since I was working on the impact of war on cities. To begin
with, Western cities nowadays are populated by large national and international com-
panies which specialise in activities as different as various kinds of cleaning, all forms
of building maintenance, the constant fight to keep the urban fabric – from pavements
and roads to lighting and power – going, emergency call-out to all manner of situa-
tions, the repair of all manner of electrical goods, roadside and collision repair of cars,
and so on. These mundane activities, the quartermasters of urban culture as Loos
(1982) might have put it, may have been neglected by most urban commentators
but it is possible to argue that they are vital, not least because of the large and system-
atised knowledge bases that underpin them which are currently seeing an unparal-
leled expansion. That expansion is taking place in three domains: new materials and
techniques that are extending the service life of all the infrastructure that surrounds
us, new means of presenting and commodifying this knowledge (for example, there
are now substantial degree programmes in topics like logistics and facilities, mainte-
nance and repair), and the fact that what counts as repair and maintenance is con-
stantly extending into new fields (for example, into the biological domain through
activities as diverse as bioremediation – effectively, environmental repair – and the
repair of DNA). To give some sense of the current spread of activities, consider only
the snapshot provided by Table 1. Then, much of the general population is also con-
stantly involved in maintenance and repair. The growth of activities like do-it-your-
self indexes the way in which home maintenance and repair (including the mainte-
nance of gardens, cars, and the like) has itself produced a set of thriving commodity
markets, made up of all kinds of electrical and other goods.7 And, finally, these activ-
ities often involve a high degree of improvisation, even in their most systematised form.
They involve solutions to very diverse situations which still resist standardisation, and
7. See, in particular, Gershuny on the self-service economy. I do not make much of it here but there is
also an obvious connection to the second-hand market which requires repair and maintenance as a mat-
ter of course.
30
Nigel Thrift
so may often retain a good deal of often un- or under- appreciated skill and all kinds
of «underground knowledges».8
8. For example, when Broadband was first introduced, telecommunications engineers would tell each
other of the different solutions and shortcuts they had discovered. Later, their telecommunications
companies provided them with electronic bulletin boards so that this information could be more
widely circulated.
31
But Malice Aforethought
Janitor jobs
Jig and Fixture Builder jobs
Lawn Service Manager jobs
Level I Aircraft Maintenance Manager jobs
Level I Aircraft Painter jobs
Level I Carpenter jobs
Level I Electric/Electronics Technician jobs
Level I Electrician jobs
Level I Facilities Maintenance Manager jobs
Level I General Maintenance Worker jobs
Level I HVAC Mechanic jobs
Level I Operations Research Analyst jobs
Level I Painter jobs
Level I Plumber jobs
Level I Rep., Electro/Mechanical Equipment Field Service jobs
Level I Rep., Electronic Equipment Field Service jobs
Level I Rep., Telecommunications Equipment Field Service jobs
Level I Spares Coordinator jobs
Level II Aircraft Maintenance Manager jobs
Level II Aircraft Painter jobs
Level II Carpenter jobs
Level II Electric/Electronics Technician jobs
Level II Electrician jobs
Level II Facilities Maintenance Manager jobs
Level II General Maintenance Worker jobs
Level II HVAC Mechanic jobs
Level II Operations Research Analyst jobs
Level II Painter jobs
Level II Plumber jobs
Level II Rep., Electro/Mechanical Equipment Field Service jobs
Level II Rep., Electronic Equipment Field Service jobs
Level II Rep., Telecommunications Equipment Field Service jobs
Level II Spares Coordinator jobs
32
Nigel Thrift
33
But Malice Aforethought
What is interesting is that we have little idea if the increasing reach and complexity
of activities like these has made cities more or less vulnerable to catastrophe. Some
«risk society» commentators might argue that their contribution is piffling when com-
pared with the new generation of global risks that are now emerging. But, equally, it
would be possible to argue that cities are constantly adding new circuits of adaptabil-
ity: the city is a knot of maintenance and repair activities which cannot easily be unrav-
elled and which allow it to pick itself up and start again, so to speak, relatively easily.
All we can say at the moment is that modern urban dwellers are surrounded by the
hum of continuous repair and maintenance and that, furthermore, some of the
quintessential everyday urban experiences are generated by them, from the noise of
pneumatic drills boring in to roads to the knock or ring of a repairman come to mend
a broken-down this or that.9 The point becomes even more germane if the emergency
services are added in, with their knowledges of clearing up little but sustained disas-
ters like accidents, fires, and the like, all the way from the actual incident itself to the
smooth running of the aftermath, which may involve all kinds of allied actors from
builders to insurance assessors.10 Again, the sight and sound of these services is a quin-
tessential everyday urban experience.
Recently, this general hum of activity has been powered up by information technol-
ogy. True, the speed and interconnectedness of information and communications tech-
nology may have produced new vulnerabilities but, generally speaking, information and
communications technology has probably made cities more robust by adding more degrees
of redundancy. Simple things like risk analysis and other institutionalised forms of dili-
gence, booking systems, etc. have made the business of maintenance and repair easier
to carry out and, indeed, is beginning to automate at least some of this activity (as in, for
example, the instance of machines that send messages that they are breaking down).
More to the point, in situations of breakdown, whether epic or mundane, the humble
mobile phone has extended the city’s interactivity and adaptability in all kinds of ways
and may well have been the most significant device to add to a city’s overall resilience by
adding an extra thread to the urban knot. In addition, all kinds of knowledges of main-
tenance and repair which are heavily dependent upon information and communications
9. Indeed, the standard devices of novels and films often include repair and maintenance workers as
quintessential minor characters (Woloch, 2003), iconic urban non-icons, from chimney sweeps to
plumbers to car mechanics to window cleaners.
10. This is to ignore the plethora of major incident and disaster recovery plans which are periodically
rehearsed.
34
Nigel Thrift
technologies are coming to the fore, all the way from logistics to disaster planning itself
(which, in certain senses, is a branch of logistics).
I want to argue that this activity constitutes an urban technological unconscious which
helps to keep cities as predictable objects in which things turn up as they are meant to,
regularly and predictably (Thrift, 2004a). Modern Western cities are in many ways mass
engineerings of time and space and this engineering increasingly involves working
with very small spaces (of the order of millimetres) and times (of the order of millisec-
onds). At this scale, this means working on the structure of anticipation, producing a
comforting sense of regularity and a corresponding (and probably amplified histori-
cally) sense of annoyance when things do not play out exactly as it is intended that they
should. In a sense, speed has produced a new landscape of anticipation. Some commen-
tators see this landscape as a threat, likely to institute a new «dromocracy». I am more
ambivalent. It seems to me that it offers possibilities too, and not least in providing rap-
id reaction to problems large and small. Indeed, as information technology systems come
in which are based on continuous updating of information, some degree of capacity to
track and trace and the ability to forecast forward in a very limited way (for example,
through profiling systems), so it seems to me that cities will add another landscape to
their repertoire, one which works a few seconds or minutes or, in extreme cases, hours
ahead of the present and which will add markedly to their resilience. Of course, there
is a new repertoire of risk associated with this landscape of foresight but whether it is
that much larger than many other developments remains to be seen. Computer sys-
tems are vulnerable to attack just like any other system but it is also important to remem-
ber the continuous amount of repair and maintenance which goes into these systems
anyway and reactions to attacks by worms or viruses are rapidly being incorporated
into this burgeoning structure.
Of course, there is a partial exception to this story of relative resilience: cities in the
South. It could be argued that some of these cities are in a recurring state of emergency
(Schneider and Susser, 2003). They have not benefited from many recent develop-
ments in information technology or have even had much risk transferred to them by
the vagaries of uneven development but, whatever the cause, such cities, have much less
in the way of repair and maintenance infrastructure to begin with.11 Writers like Koolhaas
11. Of course, this is a highly debatable statement. In many such cities, it may be that there is more repair
and maintenance infrastructure oriented to the much greater problems of simply reproducing everyday life.
I know of no evidence that would resolve this debate. I am indebted to Stuart Corbridge for this point.
35
But Malice Aforethought
(2003) have celebrated the informality of these cities and argued that they present
a new model of flexibility: I doubt it! It seems more likely to me that these cities,
through general lack of resources, are likely to have less maintenance and repair infra-
structure and that they are forced to make up this deficit through even more acts of
inspired improvisation and the widespread use of informal networks of help like fam-
ily and friends. Of course, in extremis, as in forced acts of «de-modernization» such
as are found in Palestine, repair and maintenance infrastructures may start to break
down completely (indeed, it could be argued that one of the tactics of «urbicide»,
to use Steve Graham’s (2003) felicitous phrase, is to mount an assault on precisely
these structures).
What cities of the South do illustrate is the importance of another kind of repair
and maintenance to which I will return later in the paper. That is what we might call
the social repair occasioned by social networks of various kinds, kin and friendship
networks which may offer a range of support. This is more, so far as I am concerned,
than just so-called «social capital». It is practical political expression.
Dark Feelings
So why, if the evidence for the increased vulnerability of cities is certainly ambiguous,
and even at times downright tenuous, especially when compared with an everyday
event like, say, global traffic carnage (now standing at well over a million killed a year
around the world) does a certain sense of defencelessness and foreboding persist in
the populations of many Western cities? Why is fear of and for the future seemingly
so widespread, to the point where the level of anxiety has touched off what Davis (2002)
calls a whole urban «fear economy» of surveillance and security? Why do so many seem
to feel that their definition of the real is under threat, such that, for example, the
normative relays between personal and collective ethics have become frayed and worn?
To begin to understand this dynamic of unease, we need to stray on to the territory
of affect and begin to think of cities as emotional knots.
I have been involved in investigations of urban affect or mood for a number of years
now but can say that touching this sphere remains an elusive task, not least because
so many definitions of affect circulate, each with their own problematizations. For
example, affect can be understood as a simple or complex biological drive, a pragmat-
ic effect of the pre-cognitive or cognitive interactions of bodies, a set of capacities for
affecting or being affected by, the communicative power of faciality, and so on (Thrift,
2004). In other words, affect is as much a nexus of a set of concerns – with what bod-
36
Nigel Thrift
ies can do, with the power of emotions, with the crossover between «biology» and «cul-
ture» – as it is a finished analytic.
But even given this diversity of focus, we can point to obvious causes of a sense of
defencelessness and foreboding, none of which I would want to gainsay. There is the
evident peril of the current geopolitical conjuncture with all its pitfalls. More impor-
tantly, probably, there is the emotional aftermath of 9/11 and similar terrorist attacks.
Images of these events have probably come to stand for something greater in many
Western city dwellers’ minds, not just the threat to life and limb but also the disrup-
tion of the pace and rhythm of everyday life, the sheer turn-up again-ness of each urban
moment and the quantum of hope that goes with it. Further, these images have been
amplified by the media which has a constitutive interest in presenting them as inher-
ently magnified. Why? Because, fear sells. There is a market in anxiety.12 As Altheide
(2002) shows in his seminal book on the subject, the overwhelming message of news
reports is fear. Further, safety is increasingly promoted through association with fear.
In other words:
«Fear has shifted from concerns with the physical world and the spiritual realm of salva-
tion during the last four hundred years to the social realm of everyday life. It is other peo-
ple but not just immigrants – the historical other that have troubled previous immigrants-
now-solid-citizens; it is the “other”, that category of trouble that can unseat solid expectations
and hopes for a future that can never be realized in what is perceived to be a constantly
changing and out-of-control world. Fear rests on the borders between expectations and real-
izations, between hope and reality» (Altheide, 2002, p. 26).
But I want to go farther in to this sense of the future by considering the typical make-
up of the «unconscious» of the modern Western urban dweller. I shall argue that the
current urban trauma is the particular expression of a more general set of affective
potentials. But I shall not, on the whole, resort to Freudian explanations of this affec-
tive undertow. Rather, I will argue that the contemporary western urban unconscious
consists of sedimented cultural-cum-biological-cum technological (the clumsiness of
these terms themselves suggesting that they are unsatisfactory representations) short-
cuts which produce particular kinds of interactional intelligence, stances towards how
the world is negotiated. Human interactional intelligence is, so far as we know, pred-
12. Indeed, we might see the expectation of danger as constituting a kind of contract with the future
(SALECL, 2004).
37
But Malice Aforethought
icated upon five qualities. First, it assumes sociality. As Levinson (1995) points out,
human is biologically and socially predicated upon co-ordination of action with oth-
ers: «it is cooperative, mutual intersubjectivity that is the computational task that we
seem especially adapted to» (Levinson, 1995, p. 253). So, for example, selfishness
seems to be a secondary characteristic: «people care both about other people, and
about how social transactions occur – not just the outcomes» (Heinrich et al., 2004,
p. 1). Second, and consequentially, human interaction recognizes and privileges the
special kind of intention with which a communicative act is produced. Third, human
assumes the presence of tools which will be actively used and which are assumed to
be active (indeed it is arguable that certain human bodily characteristics like the hand
and associated parts of the brain have co-evolved with tool use). Fourth, human
interaction utilizes a massively extended affective palette which is learnt from birth
(Gerhardt, 2004). Fifth, human because of these characteristics, tends to animistic
thinking which humanizes the environment and assumes that the environment inter-
acts with it on similar terms, rather than as a series of partially disconnected and per-
ceptually very different Umwelts.
This interactional intelligence is perpetually criss-crossed by affect which acts both
as a way of initiating action, a reading of the sense of aliveness of the situation and
an intercorporeal transfer of that expectancy. Affect, in other words, acts as the cor-
poreal sense of the communicative act. In the literature, some prominence has tend-
ed to be given to euphoric affects like happiness, hope, and joy. But, there are a range
of dysphoric affects that also repay attention which have also been studied, like greed,
cruelty and shame. I want to argue that interactional intelligence has therefore both
a positive bias to sociality but also, in part precisely because of this, some misan-
thropic aspects.
One thing which is often neglected about affect is that it involves temporal exten-
sion. Perhaps because Freudian concepts of repression have circulated so widely, it is
often thought that affect is solely concerned with projections of the past. But, there
is every reason to believe that affect is as concerned with projection or thrownness into
the future, as a means of initiating action, as the power of intuition (Myers, 2002),
as a hunger for the future (as found in, for example, daydreams), as a set of fantasies
(for example, concerned with romantic love, which I will address again below), and
as a general sense of physical motility (Balint, 1959).
The rather longwinded preface to this section allows me to argue something about
the nature of interactional intelligence which has often been neglected, namely that
38
Nigel Thrift
although it has a social bias, there is another side to that bias. That is that achieving
sociality does not mean that everything has to be rosy: sociality is not the same as lik-
ing. In particular, it seems likely that from an early age interactional intelligence, at
least in Western cultures, is also premised on exclusion and even aggression. Children
tend to learn sociality and sharing, at least in part, through intimidation, victimiza-
tion, domination and sanction. In other words, the kind of empathy required by inter-
actional intelligence does not preclude a good deal of general misanthropy. Though
it hardly needs saying sociality does not have to be the same thing as liking others. It
includes all kinds of acts of kindness and compassion, certainly, but equally there are
all the signs of active dislike being actively pursued, not just or even primarily as out-
breaks of violence (e.g. road rage or Saturday night fights) but more particularly as
malign gossip, endless complaint, the full spectrum of jealousy, petty snobbery, per-
sonal deprecation, pointless authoritarianism, various forms of Schadenfreude, and all
the other ritual pleasures of everyday life.13
None of this is to say that it is necessary to condone virulent forms of racism or nation-
alism or other forms of mass identification which often involve systematic exclusion
and violence. It is to say, however, that we need to think more carefully about whether
we really have it in us to just be unalloyedly nice to others at all times in every single
place: most situations can and do bring forth both nice and nasty. Perhaps, in other
words, we are unable to resist at least some of the forms of resentment and even cru-
elty that arise from the small battles of everyday life: recent work in the social psychol-
ogy of childhood development, for example, shows how children gradually come to
understand sharing and turn-taking but can also be «happy victimizers» (Killen and
Hart, 1995). However, at some point, most (but by no means all) children link the
two: the pain and loss of the victim begin to modify and reduce the victimizer’s happi-
ness. In other words, they begin to construct a practical morality.
Morality is not, of course, a purely cognitive process. It has strong affective com-
ponents. It is quite clear that all kinds of situations are freighted with affective inputs
and consequences that are central to their moral outcomes which come from affec-
tive histories that arise from complex histories of being victims and of victimization
that produce a sense of fairness and concern that will build into a consensus in some
13. As Dalrymple (2004) points out, some of this may even be excusable, given how few people have any
control over their lives. But certainly, once one starts looking, it is possible to see small acts of cruelty
everywhere.
39
But Malice Aforethought
situations and not in others. How is it possible to apply insights like this to the affec-
tive fabric of cities? That is what I will now begin to attempt to elucidate.
14. The fact that small rural communities are often shot through with feuds and vendettas is convenient-
ly forgotten, yet alone the fact that cities are shot through with eavesdropping and general nosiness:
sometimes I wish that cities were a bit more alienated!
40
Nigel Thrift
we cannot simply explain away this malign background but must learn to tolerate it,
at a certain level at least, as a moral ambiguity which is part and parcel of how cities
are experienced, an ambiguity which cannot be regulated out of existence.
However, I do not want to be misunderstood. This is not to express some cathar-
tic horror of urban humanity in a long tradition which stretches back to at least
Victorian times and no doubt before. It is rather an attempt to write back into social
science accounts of the city a thread of understanding which has for too long been
left to wither, a tradition which briefly flowered in the works of philosophers like
Schopenhauer and Stirner,15 philosophical novelists like Dostoyevsky, and social sci-
entists and political theorists like Le Bon, Sorel, Schmitt and others, but which has
generally been left to novelists and poets to enquire into. This is surprising, not
least because it could be argued that the foundation of social science itself rests on
the response to various religious crises which prompted the production of increas-
ingly secular and societal remedies for what had once been considered theological
and metaphysical concerns: as Comte explained, theology’s «treatment of moral prob-
lems [is] exceedingly imperfect, given its inability … to deal with practical life» (cit-
ed in Lane, 2004, p. 5). Hence, his «system of positive polity».
What seems certain is that the actual expression of the misanthropy has been
more or less excusable as an urban condition through the course of history. Thus,
in eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century England, misanthropy was understood
as a problematic state but certainly not a state that was mad, iniquitous or perverse.
For example, Hazlitt could argue that «there is a secret affinity, a hankering after
evil in the human mind [and] it takes a perverse, but a fortunate delight in mis-
chief, since it is a never-failing source of satisfaction» (cited in Lane, 2004, p. 9).
But by the middle of the nineteenth century, such sentiments were fast becoming
out of fashion in the face of a more pious stance to life which valued a controlled
and benevolent heroism of the everyday and which increasingly regarded people-
hating as a psychological affliction (often, indeed, caused by unrequited love) which
must needs be combated by social programmes and self-restraint, although in
mid- and even late-Victorian literature a series of radical or maudlin haters still con-
tinue to crop up as characters and attitudes, as instanced by authors like Dickens,
15. Thus Schopenhauer argued in On Human Nature that ‘to the boundless egoism of our nature there
is joined more or less in every human breast a fund of hatred, anger, envy, rancour and malice, accumu-
lated like the venom in a serpent’s tooth, and waiting only for an opportunity to vent itself’ while Stirner
wrote of ‘surplus rage’ and of the value of ‘repelling the world’ (cited in LANE, 2004, p. 27).
41
But Malice Aforethought
Brontë, Eliot, Browning, Hardy and Conrad. The turn against misanthropy may
well have been hastened as well by other cultural shifts and, not least, the discov-
ery of evolution and of animal passions that might seem all too natural if not shack-
led by reason (Gay, 2002).
In general, one might argue that this Victorian attitude to intolerance or even
hatred of others as failed civility still inhabits Euro-American cities, leaving a large
amount of surplus enmity as hard to express and likely to be interpreted as a sign of a
subject not fully in control of their behaviour. Western cities are, indeed, chock full
of institutions and mechanisms that are intended to channel and domesticate anger
towards and hatred of others, all the way from institutions of socialization like schools
through to all the paraphernalia of emotional control or appropriate expression that
occur subsequently. But Western cities are also full of outbursts of violence and ran-
cour, all the way from seemingly all but random outbursts of road rage through the
drunken mayhem typical of, say, British cities on a Saturday night, which suggest
that a certain amount of hatred and rancour can still be generated in and by cities
surprisingly easily. I would argue that the sense of defencelessness that is now being
felt in large part is being channelled by and from this underside: it actually consists
of the victimizations of childhood and the run of daily life more generally feeding
back into the city’s fabric as an undertow of spite. It is ourselves turning back on
ourselves. It is the thin veneer of altruism at its thinnest.
But I want to go farther than this and suggest that this sense also arises from the
fact that modern cities are criss-crossed by systems that channel and control anger
and hatred in ways which are likely to produce random outbursts and occasional may-
hem on a fairly regular basis amongst the citizenry which go beyond acts which are
necessarily labelled as «criminal». I want to argue, in other words, that the potential
for different combinations that are brought into existence by cities has, as an inevitable
correlate, a dark side that we have too soon wanted to label as pathological. There
are a number of sides to this problem. First, some of this dark side can be ascribed
to biological pressures that we can only probably abate. Frankly, we cannot tell because
we do not know what kind of animal we are and the range of territorial and other
adaptations we can comfortably make. For example, it is by no means clear what the
range of intuitive spatial behaviour of human beings can be (Levinson, 2003). Second,
many social structures themselves may generate enmity as they try to damp it down,
a point close to Freud’s (2002) argument in Civilization and Its Discontents that civi-
lization is a key cause of antagonism: «society, in trying to protect us from what we
42
Nigel Thrift
43
But Malice Aforethought
the same time very often leads to everyday violence. Here I want to draw on the provoca-
tive work of writers like Lauren Berlant and Laura Kipnis to argue, provocatively I
hope, that militarized imperatives are a part of the structure of the domestic system
(and especially its spatial correlates) and produce and channel a surplus enmity which
cannot easily be satisfied but tends to reveal itself in petty acts of cruelty, as well as
actual violence.
Thus, the figures demonstrate that domesticity is associated not just with love
and care but also with violence so widespread that it is difficult not to believe that it
has a systematic nature based on «happy victimization». For example, in the UK one
in four women will be a victim of domestic violence in their lifetime and domestic
violence accounts for more than a quarter of all violent crime (including over 150
murders each year). In the EU, one woman in five has been at least once in her life
the victim of violence by her male partner and, as in the UK, a quarter of all violent
crimes involved a man assaulting his wife or partner. And this is before we arrive at
the figures for child abuse …
This system cannot be easily undone because, ironically, of the surplus of hope
that also structures the system of domesticity in Euro-American societies in the shape
of the notion and practices of romantic love. There is no doubt that romantic love
has its positive tropisms. It clearly represents a kind of last and best hope in many peo-
ple’s lives, providing an emotional world to which they can escape or which they can
use as a goal to escape to, an imagined future outside of the humdrum world.
«Romance is, quite obviously, a socially sanctioned zone for wishing and desiring, and
a repository for excess» (Kipnis, 2000, p. 43). Thus, as Kipnis (2000, pp. 41-42) points
out adultery is very often a kind of affective escape attempt founded on the notion
of an irresistible romantic love: 20
«Among adultery’s risks is the plunge into a certain structure of feeling: the destabilizing
prospect of deeply wanting something beyond what all conventional institutions of person-
al life mean for you to want. Yes, all these feelings may take place in the murk of an
extended present tense, but nevertheless, adultery, like cultural revolution, always risks
shaking up habitual character structures. It creates intense new object relations at the same
time that it unravels married subjects from the welter of ideological, social, and juridical
20. There is, of course, a rich urban literature founded on the mixing of the practices of adultery with
the contours of the city, all the way from the urban passions of Madame Bovary to the suburban angst to
be found in the novels of Richard Ford. Much the same point can be made with regard to film.
44
Nigel Thrift
commandments that handcuff inner life to the interests of orderly reproduction. It can
invent «another attitude of the subject with respect to himself or herself». In adultery, the
most conventional people in the world suddenly experience emotional free fall: unbound-
ed intimacy outside contracts, law, and property relations. Among adultery’s risks would
be living, even briefly, as if you had the conviction that discontent wasn’t a natural condi-
tion, that as-yet-unknown forms of gratification and fulfilment were possible, that the world
might transform itself – even momentarily – to allow space for new forms to come into
being. Propelled into relations of non-identity with dominant social forms, you’re sud-
denly out of alignment with the reality principle and the social administration of desire.
A “stray”.»
But it is not difficult to argue that romantic love is also oppressive because it blots
out so much of the affective else which may be less intense but socially more impor-
tant, making everything else appear an insufficiency. Yet, in a striking parallel
with misanthropy, anyone who declares themselves incapable of romantic love would
be regarded by the majority of people as abnormal: «all of us [are] allied in fear-
some agreement that a mind somehow unsusceptible to love’s new conditions is
one requiring professional ministrations» (Kipnis, 2003, p. 26).21 Thus, as Kipnis
(2003, p. 3) puts it:
«It’s a new form of mass conscription: meaning it’s out of the question to be summoned
by love, issued your marching orders, and then decline to pledge body and being to the
cause. There’s no way of being against love precisely because we moderns are constitut-
ed as beings yearning to be filled, craving connections, needing to adore and be adored,
because love is vital plasma and everything else in the world just tap water. We prostrate
ourselves at love’s portals, anxious for entry, like social strivers waiting at the ropeline
outside some exclusive club hoping to gain admission to its plushy chambers, thereby
confirming our essential worth and making us interesting to ourselves.»
Yet, at the same time, it would be difficult to deny that romantic love can also con-
tain large amounts of care, compassion and intimacy and it is to values of attach-
ment like these that I now want to turn, values which exist somewhere between the
poles of romantic love and misanthropy but which aren’t quite so demanding, per-
haps, so difficult to live up (or down) to.
21. Though I do not attempt it here, it would be possible to situate misanthropy and romantic love in a
grid which takes passion as one axis and affect as the other. In turn, such a mapping would allow other
kinds of passion ( e.g.the revolutionary passion of the early Marx) to be mapped. See Sørenson (2004).
45
But Malice Aforethought
«When friends and lovers want to talk about “the relationship”; when citizens feel that
the nation’s consented-to qualities are shifting away; when newsreaders or hosts of tel-
evision shows bow out of their agreement to recast the world in comforting ways; when
people of apparently different races and classes find themselves in slow, crowded ele-
vators; or when students and analysands feel suddenly mistrustful of the contexts into
which they have entered in order to change, but not traumatically, intimacy reveals itself
as to be a relation associated with tacit fantasies, tacit rules and tacit obligations to remain
unproblematic.»
22. Comte coined the noun from the Italian altrui (‘to or of others’) and a phrase in French law, le bien,
le droit d’autrui (‘the well-being and right of the other’).
46
Nigel Thrift
But I also believe that a politics of disagreement of the kind formulated by writers like
Rancière (1999) can take the practice of altruism under its wing and forge a critical
politics of feeling which is inherently optimistic (Berlant, 2004) but also realistic;
that is, it does not demand too much – which is not, of course, the same as saying
that it demands nothing at all! Thus, in what follows, I will want to argue that it is
possible to think about a practical politics of the maintenance and repair of the
city’s structure of kindness. In turn, such a politics can begin to understand rather
better what makes cities tick.
So far, we have mainly considered the temporal politics of foreboding, the sense
that round the corner lies something rotten, something to be fearful of. But there
is another kind of temporal politics that is also possible, a politics that amplifies
the sense that around every corner is an opportunity – to open up and take hold of
the future, to endow it with values like care and compassion, to value expectancy. I
want to begin to open up this problem by returning to the work of Ernst Bloch.23
For Bloch is probably best known not for his apocalyptic comments on cities but
for his much later work on the politics of hope.24 Bloch was concerned with a tem-
poral sense that he called «hope». For Bloch, «hope» signed a kind of thirst or hunger
for the future, a venturing beyond, a forward dreaming which mixes informed dis-
content with an ineluctable forward tendency: «a heap of changing and mostly
badly-ordered wishes» (Bloch, 1986, p. 50). What Bloch wanted to foreground
was a politics of anticipation, a feeling of striving towards the future, an eager look-
ing-forward and reaching forth, a source of fresh strength, a production of the New,
a dawning. And, for Bloch, this fresh strength could be mapped: it would be found
particularly amongst youth, in times on the point of changing, in moments of cre-
ative expression, and so on.
Using this framework amongst others, I want to turn to the embryonic politics of
this paper by considering some of the ways in which an active, so-called «prosocial»
everyday form of kindness might be installed in cities as a value which goes beyond
«simple» civility. This would not consist simply of the installation of good manners,
as in certain middle-class mores, or of the inculcation of a kindness militant, as in cer-
23. I could no doubt have fixed on other authors than Bloch. For example, there is Levinas’s extended
commentary on war and peace in Totality and Infinity, and especially his explorations of exteriority and
enjoyment which stresses the constitutive role of the future (Caygill, 2002). But I prefer Bloch’s more
concrete approach.
24. Though it has to be said that this work is prefigured in numerous ways in Bloch (2000).
47
But Malice Aforethought
tain religions, or the installation of a forced state project, as in the proposals to build
up «social capital» being proposed by many governments around the world currently.
Rather, it would be a way of producing generosity in the body from the start by empha-
sizing what Bloch calls «productivity», the construction of a new horizon out of the sub-
conscious, the conscious and the not-yet-conscious. Writing from another context,
Diprose (2002) has called the ethical correlate of this kind of transhuman approach,
which privileges emergence and becoming,25 «corporeal generosity» but I think that
this phrase runs the risk of falling back into the domestic model of kindness that I am
concerned to escape, a model that too often ignores the fact that force and violence
permeate political life and, to an extent at least, define politics as a domain and that
mean, to use a classically Weberian insight, that nicely-honed ethical actions do not
necessarily lead to morally desirable consequences (Walker, 1993). This is not, then,
intended to be some starry-eyed account. I am quite clear that such a stance would
not only be utopian in the worst sense but may also be trying to act against the basic
features of interactional intelligence.
Of course, it would be possible to argue that certain kinds of generosity are being
installed in cities continually in the many daily acts of everyday life. For example, a
mother instructs her child not to pull another child’s hair. Or someone helps a frail
person to cross the road. But I want to go a little farther than this in that it seems to
me that a kind city has to work on a number of dimensions, not all of which are con-
ventionally «human».26 Kindness has to be extended to other kinds of urban denizen,
including animals. More to the point this kindness has to be built into the spaces of
cities. Thus cities have to be designed as if things mattered, as if they could be kind
too. Cities would then become copying machines in which a positive affective swirl
confirmed its own presence.
So what kinds of relationships should be possible in cities, given that there is rather
more misanthropy than commentators are willing to own up to, and equally rather
too much romantic love? 27 I have tried to argue that too little has been made of kind-
25. Though I am aware that Diprose is intent on exposing a more general debt to life in a way that is
reminiscent of both Bergson and Bloch.
26. I want to understand the city as an organisation that exceeds the human, conventionally defined, at
every juncture. My sense of kindness therefore exceeds the human, in part because the human has
become bogged down in precisely the kinds of stay-at-home ethics that I am most concerned to avoid.
In particular, in what is by now a familiar move, I will be stressing the importance of ‘thingness’ as a
determinant of human relationality.
27. Perhaps, indeed, the two are linked in much the same way as loneliness and communication.
48
Nigel Thrift
ness and compassion as a means of structuring cities in the race for a higher plane
which just isn’t there. In turn this suggests a twofold political task. On one side, we
obviously need to continue to pursue a conventional macropolitics of urban care
which draws on the deep wells of caring and compassion that currently typify many
cities, the result of the often unsung work put in by the employees of various welfare
systems, all manner of voluntary workers, and the strivings of an army of «carers». On
the other side, we need an affirmative micropolitics of productivity which attempts
to inject more kindness and compassion into everyday interaction, the arena on which
I will concentrate (Thrift, 2004). In other words, I want to think of kindness as a
social and aesthetic technology of belonging to a situation, rather than as an organic
emotion.
To illustrate the point, I want to return initially to the military. For what is clear is
that the military demonstrates the way in which kindness and compassion is able to
be systematically generated and amplified by war – but, generally speaking, in small
combat groups only. In these groups, which usually consist of six to ten «buddies»,
people routinely look out for each other, even die for each other, bound together by
learned mechanical behaviour and tight social bonds which are able, at least to an
extent, to banish fear (Holmes, 2003; Ferguson, 2004). Indeed, it has been argued,
ironically, that these tight-knit groups are the bedrock of the deployment of success-
ful armed force; their intense sociality acts as a structured means of producing death.
Many other social orders have this same intensity but that intensity sometimes seems
to summon up too much love/hate. Which is why, perhaps, lighter touch forms of
sociality are now receiving so much attention, what one might call, following Latour
(2004), «gatherings». These can be counted as attempts to privilege a little more expec-
tation of involvement which do not, however, try to go over the affective top, to contin-
ue the military metaphor. These are attempts to foster the expectation of civility which
do not try to set their hopes too high. These are attempts to construct affective short-
cuts which can add a little more intensity.
But how to assemble this lighter-touch urban politics of assembling intimacy, kind-
ness and compassion, understood as social and aesthetic technologies of belonging?
This practice of «relational aesthetics» (Bourriaud, 2002, 2003) is a difficult one
to uncover.28 For a start, it can easily be confused with other agendas, for example
28. Yet, it can be said that it is being pursued by a whole series of authors interested in the politics of sin-
gularity, from Agamben through Deleuze to Zizek, though often in radically different ways.
49
But Malice Aforethought
in attempts around the world to build «social capital» or simply to enforce civility, as
in the United Kingdom’s current war on anti-social behaviour. 29 Then, compared
with other forms of politics, it can appear to be such a faint proposition that it may
seem to be hardly worth pursuing (Bennett, 2001). And finally, it operates in a
domain of hope and expectation which is hard to see and whose results may be hard
to discern until long after the event. It operates in the background – which is, of
course, the point.
That said, I want to highlight four of these gatherings as an envoi, gatherings which
are mobile, often times ambiguous, and which encompass a multivalent host of forms.
In each case, as I have argued elsewhere, the gathering operates as much in the pre-
cognitive realm as the cognitive, based around forms of expression which are not con-
ventionally regarded as political but which may well conjure up all kinds of sometimes
ill-formed hopes and wishes which can act to propel the future by intensifying the
present. This proto-political domain of added strength aforethought, of a politics of
readiness, of what Lefebvre called the politics of small achievements, is now hoving into
view as a much more explicit site of political effort than in the past, one which has
much more time for affect since it is in this domain that so much affect is generated
(see, for example, Connolly, 2002, Thrift, 2004b).
The first gathering concerns the domain of politics itself. In the past, politics has often
been considered to be a case of building local coalitions which are able to be assembled
into ever larger movements which in time will become political forces in their own right.
But I am struck by how many recent forms of politics do not necessarily have this goal in
mind. They are determinedly local and have no necessary expectation of wider involve-
ments. An example might be the growing number of urban environmental struggles
based on fauna and flora that has usually been considered as mundane and/or dispos-
able but for which people may have considerable affective bonds, or on leisure activities
like gardening which require considerable expressive capacities but, until recently, have
been seen as without the right kind of cultural authenticity. Another example might be
the choice of minor key targets for political action which are unexpected but have grip,
such as garbage (Chakrabarty, 2002) or even paving stones (Massey, 2001). These are
forms of politics that attempt to boost expressive capacities.
29. Which, in a number of its emphases, seems to me to show just how misanthropy can bubble up as a
formal government policy. Even as many indicators of such behaviour (e. g. vandalism) seem to be in
decline, this policy is forging ahead.
50
Nigel Thrift
The second gathering is the city’s light-touch, partially engaged, partially disen-
gaged modes of social interaction. Long derided as the fount of blasé attitudes or cyni-
cism or various other forms of alienation, 30 it might just be that they can be perceived
as something quite different if they are understood as spaces of affective display and
style in the manner recently argued by Charles Taylor (2004), as a kind of continu-
ously mobile sphere of public opinion expressed as much through mood as through
any definite cognitive process:
«Spaces of this kind become more and more important in modern urban society where large
numbers of people rub shoulders, unknown to each other, without dealings with each oth-
er, and yet affecting each other. As against the everyday rush to work in the Metro, where
others can sink to the status of obstacles in my way, city life has developed other ways of being,
as we each take our Sunday walk in the park or as we mingle at the summer street festival or
in the stadiums before the playoff game. Here each individual or small group acts on their
own, but with the awareness that their display says something to others, will be responded
to by them, will help build a common mood or tone that will color everyone’s actions»
(Taylor, 2004, p. 168).
Taylor shows that these light-touch gatherings 31 are different from their nine-
teenth-century forebears in a number of ways. Most particularly, through the power
of the modern media, they often rely on audiences dispersed beyond the space of the
immediate event. But what seems clear is that these gatherings can constitute a
binding affective force which, though «not enframed by any deeply entrenched if
common understanding of structure and counterstructure» can still be «immensely
riveting, but frequently also wild, up for grabs, capable of being taken over by a host
of different moral vectors …» (Taylor, 2004, p. 170).
A third gathering is the institution of friendship. It seems to me that in the end it
is the kind of lighter touch social relationship signalled by the notion of «friend» that
probably has most to offer cities in making them resilient. Of course, the notion of
«friend» has changed historically over time (Bray, 2004; Pahl, 2000; Traub, 2002;
Vicinus, 2004) from the remarkably intense relationships signalled by the term in
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries but I think that it is possible to suggest that
30. Though it is important to point to the more positive contributions of Benjamin and Kracauer.
31. Though I do not go into it here, there is a whole literature on the profusion of ‘familiar strangers’
dating from the work of Milgram which shows up a similar kind of shadow presence.
51
But Malice Aforethought
the looser ties of friendship and conviviality, and the kind of stance implied by the
term now, have had the most to offer in keeping cities resilient and caring. For, in
the end, cities have survived trauma because they are concentrations of knowledges
of routine as found in activities like repair and maintenance, and the kind of ener-
gy and resourcefulness which has a large part of Bloch’s quality of hope engrained
within it, mediated by mundane but crucial social ties like friendship.
Friendship has three main things to recommend it. First, it is still widespread.
For all the stories of the demise of sociality in alienated Western cities, the evidence
suggests that friendship is still thriving, though inevitably mediated by all kinds of fac-
tors such as stage in life course (Pahl, 2000). Then, the practice of friendship offers
a model for intimacy and compassion which is achievable and which offers an auto-
matic reaction to distress: a friend acts to help. It offers, in other words, a model of
the future in which bad, even terrible, things may still happen but one in which «my
friends will still be there for me». At its best, the help of friends is often given auto-
matically as a subconscious attachment to a situation. Finally, it can be shown that
these kinds of networks do work when catastrophe beckons. For example, in a recent
brilliant book, Eric Klinenberg (2003) has looked at the way in which the popula-
tions of two relatively alike areas of Chicago reacted to the catastrophe of the week-
long 1995 heat wave in which over 700 died. In one area, the death toll was low, in
another it was high. The difference could be explained by a number of factors includ-
ing poor or unresponsive public services but also, pivotally by the actions of friend-
ship networks. In one area, these were active and acted as both glue and as a means
of social maintenance and repair. In the other area, no such networks existed and
the area proved correspondingly brittle.
Again, it is important not to be starry-eyed. Friendship can involve all kinds of neg-
ative emotions and tensions. It may involve quite high degrees of competition. It does
not necessarily do anything to lessen social divides.32 But friendship can also form a
kind of moral community, whose power should not be underestimated in its reach-
ing across.
32. Although this is often very difficult to know. For example, a recent UK survey showed that 94% of
white Britons said that most or all of their friends were of the same race, while 47% of ethnic minority
Britons said white people form all or most of their friends. 54% of white Britons did not have a single
black or Asian person that they considered as a close friend while 46% had at least one such friend (The
Guardian, 2004). But debate then raged about whether these results were actually a bad or a good indi-
cator, given the overall ethnic make-up of the population and its spatial distribution.
52
Nigel Thrift
33. Indeed, love may be part of the problem, insofar as it provides us with a vision of the world which
we cannot possibly live up to.
53
But Malice Aforethought
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56
¿QUÉ HAY DE NATURAL EN UN
DESASTRE NATURAL?:
CIENCIA, CONCIENCIA
Y SOCIEDAD O EL RETO
DE UNA SOSTENIBILIDAD
FUERTE EN EL SIGLO XXI
Joaquín Tintoré Subirana
Introducción
El medio ambiente es, a principios del siglo xxi, uno de los temas de mayor inte-
rés para toda la sociedad, y es evidente la relación entre medio ambiente, desastres
naturales, economía y sociedad. Esto indica, sin duda, una mayor concienciación
sobre los efectos del desarrollo de las últimas décadas y una preocupación por las
condiciones del planeta que legaremos a nuestros hijos. El medio ambiente del
planeta Tierra es un sistema extremadamente complejo del que únicamente ahora
empezamos a comprender algunos procesos o mecanismos y fenómenos muy ele-
mentales.
¿Qué hay de natural en un desastre natural?: ¿Por qué nos planteamos esta pre-
gunta? ¿Por qué este contexto de ciencia, conciencia, sociedad y sostenibilidad?
Para intentar responder a estas preguntas, partiremos del análisis de la complejidad
del medio ambiente del planeta y consideraremos el nuevo papel de la ciencia en la
sociedad del siglo xxi junto con la necesidad de unos planteamientos éticos centra-
dos en los principios del desarrollo sostenible. Éstos son los elementos esenciales
sobre los que deberemos reflexionar, elementos que nos deberían permitir compren-
der mejor el porqué de los desastres naturales, garantizando el estado del bienestar
actual sin comprometer el de las generaciones futuras.
139
¿Qué hay de natural en un desastre natural?
140
Joaquín Tintoré Subirana
141
¿Qué hay de natural en un desastre natural?
1. http://www.ipcc.ch/.
142
Joaquín Tintoré Subirana
143
¿Qué hay de natural en un desastre natural?
se vuelven hacia los científicos buscando respuestas a problemas muy diversos que
afectan, además, a ámbitos tan variados como la salud, la nutrición o el medio ambien-
te, entre otros. Este cambio en la percepción de la ciencia está ligado a una nueva
concepción de la investigación que se percibe cada día más como una actividad ya
integrada en nuestra sociedad. Y es que, efectivamente, la sociedad es cada día más
culta, cada día más consciente de la necesidad de potenciar una investigación inde-
pendiente y de calidad, para así poder consolidar y extender el estado del bienestar.
Ahora bien, es preciso incrementar significativamente los presupuestos de investiga-
ción, la masa crítica de investigadores y, en paralelo, potenciar o crear estructuras
de gestión ágil y eficaz.
Al mismo tiempo que los investigadores aceptan su nuevo papel, es importan-
te que la sociedad conozca, aunque sea de forma superficial, los avances que se
alcanzan y que sea, por tanto, también consciente de la complejidad del sistema
de estudio, el medio ambiente del planeta, sistema para el que, por ejemplo, no
conocemos en muchos casos dónde pueden encontrarse los valores límite de un
gran número de variables que nos deberían permitir establecer si estamos alcan-
zando valores umbral por encima de los cuales los costes de reparación podrían
ser cuantiosos.
El término «desastre natural» sugiere también una aceptación sin crítica de un
mito cultural e ideológico muy enraizado (Blaikie et al., 2003). Sin embargo, el avan-
ce en el conocimiento se ha traducido, por ejemplo, en que, a principios del siglo
xxi, los científicos son cada día más capaces de avanzar en la predicción de fenóme-
nos ambientales concretos, aunque es evidente que aún queda mucho camino por
recorrer. En este sentido, un gran número de ciudadanos cuestionan ya el mito sobre
el carácter divino o «natural» de los desastres naturales, y sostienen, en cambio, que
los fenómenos naturales extremos no son desastres mientras no quede expuesto un
grupo vulnerable de personas.
El futuro pasa por ser todos bien conscientes, como ciudadanos de un planeta
cambiante,2 del nuevo papel de la ciencia y el conocimiento en la sociedad del siglo
xxi. No únicamente en casos de crisis (sanidad, medio ambiente, alimentación, etc.),
sino como un elemento que garantiza independencia y rigor gracias a la existencia
de un sistema de evaluación de la calidad internacionalmente aceptado. En otras
palabras, «Strong science for wise decision».
144
Joaquín Tintoré Subirana
145
¿Qué hay de natural en un desastre natural?
que, como consecuencia de los atentados del 11 de septiembre de 2001 o los más
recientes aquí en España del 11 de marzo de 2004, se ha tomado conciencia de que
todos somos más vulnerables a los desastres en general, ya sean de origen terrorista,
tecnológico o ambiental. El riesgo ya no es únicamente un concepto abstracto y
lejano en el espacio que afecta a determinados países, sino que el riesgo se ha insta-
lado en la vida de todos los ciudadanos del mundo.
Volviendo a centrarnos sobre los riesgos ambientales, la sociedad empieza a ser
consciente y a aceptar la existencia de unos riesgos ambientales determinados. Es evi-
dente que esto es mucho más cierto en aquellas zonas especialmente afectadas por
desastres naturales que en zonas donde prácticamente no existen, pero ha habido,
sin duda, una evolución positiva en los últimos años. Ahora bien, es imprescindible
que se establezcan unos criterios técnicos claros que deben ser conocidos y divulga-
dos, y crear unos mapas de riesgos accesibles a todos los ciudadanos. En paralelo a
estas iniciativas, sería conveniente exigir de forma activa a los poderes públicos que
se instauren medidas para minimizar estos riesgos, creando estructuras sólidas, esta-
bleciendo canales de intercambio de información, así como elementos de coordina-
ción y jerarquía imprescindibles para garantizar un funcionamiento óptimo en cual-
quier condición. Esto implica, obviamente, dotar económicamente y apoyar
activamente la creación y mantenimiento de este tipo de estructuras.
Como hemos comentado al principio, es importante señalar la naturaleza distin-
ta de los riesgos a los que se enfrenta la sociedad en relación con el medio ambien-
te. En efecto, es importante distinguir entre los riesgos naturales, intrínsecos a la
variabilidad natural de un medio complejo, potencialmente sometido a maremotos,
ciclones y terremotos (por citar tres ejemplos que no podemos en ningún caso con-
trolar) de los riesgos industriales, ligados en este caso a la actividad humana y que,
desgraciadamente, como hemos podido ver en el caso del vertido del buque Prestige,
pueden tener consecuencias desastrosas sobre el medio ambiente, la economía y la
sociedad. Éstos son precisamente los conceptos principales del desarrollo sostenible.
De hecho, en todo análisis de riesgos es importante tener presente estos dos aspec-
tos, el primero ligado al componente aleatorio del riesgo relacionado con la variabi-
lidad del medio natural, y el segundo, ligado a la vulnerabilidad relacionada con las
consecuencias más o menos graves dependiendo de la presencia de personas o bie-
nes en el lugar donde se produce el fenómeno natural.
Otro aspecto relevante es la importancia de una coordinación efectiva. No insis-
tiremos aquí sobre este factor que es, casi diríamos, trivial o evidente para el ciuda-
146
Joaquín Tintoré Subirana
dano o el investigador, pero mucho menos patente cuando entramos en la esfera polí-
tica, en la que en muchos casos las responsabilidades están compartimentadas, celo-
samente selladas y los flujos de intercambio de información o medios son casi ine-
xistentes. Recordemos, a modo de ejemplo, las conclusiones muy duras de la Comisión
creada en EE. UU. para analizar las actuaciones de los distintos equipos de seguridad
durante el 11 de septiembre: equipos de policía, bomberos, 112, cuerpos de seguri-
dad propios, etc., y según la cual se apreciaron fallos importantes de comunicación
y coordinación. Es éste un problema general que debe de abordarse desde estructu-
ras jerárquicas claras, ya que sino, las distintas responsabilidades de departamentos
diferentes pueden dar lugar a nuevos fallos de coordinación en el futuro.
Aquí es importante reseñar la diferencia entre desastres ambientales puntuales
en el tiempo, como por ejemplo el vertido de la mina de Aznalcóllar en España en
1998, y desastres extensos en el espacio y el tiempo, como el vertido del buque Prestige.
En el primer caso, el vertido fue puntual en el espacio, por lo que la fase «durante
el desastre» se redujo relativamente y los esfuerzos se dirigieron desde un primer
momento al análisis tanto de los efectos como al diseño de estrategias de recupera-
ción. En cambio, en el caso del vertido del buque Prestige, la fase «durante el desas-
tre» duró más de tres meses (desde el 18 de noviembre en que se hundió el buque,
hasta mediados de marzo, cuando se «auto-disolvió» el Comité Científico Asesor) y
durante esta misma fase se iniciaron ya también los trabajos de la fase «después del
desastre», consistentes en minimizar los efectos sobre las costas y el litoral. La coe-
xistencia de las dos fases incrementa la complejidad de las actuaciones (Orfila et
al., 2004).3
«Durante un desastre natural lo mejor es no pensar». Este tipo de frases es fre-
cuente entre los expertos en gestión de catástrofes y evidencia la necesidad de un tra-
bajo previo muy riguroso que permita, en el momento del desastre, minimizar los
riesgos mediante acciones y escenarios de actuación previstos de antemano. Volvemos,
por tanto, al punto anterior, por lo que no insistiremos.
En otras palabras, el trabajo previo de establecer protocolos de actuación y pla-
nes de contingencia ante diferentes escenarios es esencial, igual que es imprescindi-
ble una coordinación jerarquizada de medios y responsabilidades. La experiencia
reciente del vertido del buque Prestige, hundido frente a las costas de Galicia el 18
de noviembre de 2002, junto a la de otros vertidos ocurridos en España en la última
3. http://www.imedea.uib.es/goifis/Otros/Prestige.
147
¿Qué hay de natural en un desastre natural?
década, nos deberían hacer reflexionar sobre los mecanismos empleados, la coordi-
nación entre administraciones locales, regionales o del estado, «re-analizar» las
decisiones técnicas tomadas, etc.
Otro aspecto esencial «durante» es la transmisión de la información, que debe ser
completa y veraz. Sin embargo, es un aspecto de la máxima complejidad, por los dis-
tintos ámbitos involucrados, las relaciones entre información, poder y ética,4 espe-
cialmente críticas en un episodio de desastre natural.
Un aspecto común a todas las observaciones anteriores se refiere a la importan-
cia de las ciudades y la necesidad de estructurar las respuestas teniendo bien pre-
sentes las distintas estructuras de población y creando mecanismos de flujo de infor-
mación y medios entre estas estructuras (Pelling, 2003). Cabe resaltar igualmente
las contribuciones con datos cuantitativos y proyecciones de futuro de Brauch (2003)
sobre la relación entre urbanización y desastres naturales en el Mediterráneo, con-
siderando principalmente la importancia del crecimiento de la población y el cam-
bio climático en el siglo xxi y presentando sugerencias para reducir la vulnerabili-
dad y mitigar los impactos de los desastres naturales en el Mediterráneo.
148
Joaquín Tintoré Subirana
suministro de agua para evitar infecciones. Todo esto fue posible gracias a una planificación
previa, a la existencia de una estructura sólida y bien preparada y a una ciudadanía
consciente de los peligros y que confiaba en la organización política establecida para estos
casos.
La experiencia histórica muestra la importancia y la necesidad de los dos tipos de
estructuras (gubernamentales y no gubernamentales), y de hecho, cuando uno de los
dos tipos falla, se produce de forma natural un cierto trasvase de competencias e inicia-
tivas entre las mismas. Por ejemplo, ante una estructura política débil, la sociedad civil
se articula y emprende iniciativas de adaptación al desastre. Un ejemplo dramático es el
ocurrido el 10 de julio de 2000 en Manila, Filipinas, cuando 300 personas murieron debi-
do a un corrimiento. Pero no era un corrimiento de tierras o de barro, sino de basuras
(Pelling, 2003).
En un contexto distinto, pero igualmente de interés para el análisis, debe con-
siderarse la respuesta y movilización excepcional de los pescadores y mariscadores
gallegos o los miles de voluntarios involucrados durante 2002 y 2003 en la limpie-
za de las costas gallegas ante la catástrofe del vertido del buque Prestige. La socie-
dad civil dio, sin duda, una lección de organización y profesionalidad, empleando
sus propias embarcaciones y diseñando nuevas herramientas para retirar el crudo
que invadía las zonas costeras. Sin embargo, en relación con los voluntarios, con-
viene tener presente para el análisis posterior de los expertos que, en algunos momen-
tos, responsables políticos indicaron que estaban más pendientes de atender a la
riada de voluntarios que a coordinar verdaderamente la minimización del impac-
to. También es interesante resaltar que un país cercano como Francia no recurrió
en ningún momento a voluntarios sino a personal especializado. Bien es verdad que
las zonas afectadas fueron bien distintas.
Estos ejemplos y muchos otros de la literatura nos muestran la importancia de
la sociedad civil durante los desastres naturales. Sería importante que la misma socie-
dad civil mantuviese igualmente algún nivel de actuación en las fases anterior y
posterior, exigiendo, por ejemplo, que las administraciones no bajen la guardia.
149
¿Qué hay de natural en un desastre natural?
6. Diccionario Rae: «Ciencia: conocimiento cierto de las cosas por sus principios y causas. Conciencia:
conocimiento reflexivo y exacto de las cosas».
7. Center for Research on the Epidemiology of Disasters, http://www.cred.be. Disaster, Hazard, Risk,
and Emergency Management Virtual Research Centers, http://hrrc.tamu.edu/hrrc/related-
sites/Centers.html.
150
Joaquín Tintoré Subirana
8. Natural disasters: counting the cost, World Bank, 2004, http://web.worldbank.org/Wbsite /External
/News/0, contentmdk:20169861~menuPK:34457~pagePK:34370~piPK:34424~theSitePK:4607,00.html.
151
¿Qué hay de natural en un desastre natural?
desastres naturales, en el año 2001 se dieron unas 700 catástrofes naturales en el glo-
bo terrestre, con un coste en pérdidas económicas del orden de 36.000 millones de
dólares, según un estudio de diciembre de 2001 de Munich Re, uno de los reasegu-
radores mundiales más importantes.9 En el año 2000 habían sido 800. Los fenóme-
nos principales fueron tormentas de viento e inundaciones, que contribuyeron en
un 91% de las pérdidas económicas, ya que la actividad de los huracanes fue supe-
rior a la normal. Otro dato importante es que, cada año, 750 millones de personas
sufren anualmente los efectos de inundaciones.10
152
Joaquín Tintoré Subirana
cia previa parece indicar que es más factible conseguir la movilización local cuando
se parte de un gran tratado o acuerdo internacional. Un ejemplo de esto son las cono-
cidas Agendas 21 locales,13 instrumentos de nivel local establecidos en el Protocolo
de Kyoto. Es importante también descender hasta el nivel del individuo, de cada
uno de los ciudadanos de este planeta; y es responsabilidad de los científicos trans-
mitir la complejidad del planeta en sus distintas formas, pero es responsabilidad de
todos aprender a traducir los buenos sentimientos en acciones y renuncias eficaces
(Delibes de Castro, 2001). Para acabar, es igualmente imprescindible que, una
vez establecidos los estándares técnicos basados en el mejor conocimiento existente
y creados los mecanismos para la implementación de los mismos, los gobiernos se
responsabilicen de hacerlos cumplir con el apoyo de la sociedad civil.
En otras palabras, es imprescindible considerar el medio ambiente como un tema
estratégico para el futuro de la humanidad. Reflexionemos sobre cómo era este pla-
neta hace dos generaciones y cómo será dentro de otras dos. ¿Qué estamos legando
a las generaciones futuras? Es ya imprescindible tomar conciencia de la importancia
y la necesidad ineludible de considerar el medio ambiente y los recursos naturales
como un tema estratégico, un tema de Estado por encima de consideraciones polí-
ticas. Y hay, efectivamente, espacio para todos. Empleando una de esas divisiones
cómodas de la sociedad: los políticos y las distintas administraciones, garantizando
el derecho de todos los ciudadanos a la calidad ambiental (según el artículo 45 de
la Constitución Española) y exigiendo responsabilidades cuando sea necesario; los
científicos, ejecutando una investigación de calidad internacional y proporcionan-
do, siempre que sea posible, respuestas a los requerimientos de la administración,
pero siempre, también, desde planteamientos éticos centrados en mejorar el bie-
nestar de las generaciones actuales y futuras (estos principios deben mantenerse
tanto en los planteamientos teóricos como en la práctica); finalmente, la sociedad
civil, ejerciendo cada día con mayor fuerza y profesionalidad «una presión demo-
crática para que todos podamos vivir en un medio ambiente realmente sostenible»
(en palabras de Josep Ramoneda).
Conclusiones
Después de analizar la relación entre los desastres naturales y la variabilidad del medio
ambiente del planeta, de haber mostrado la complejidad del sistema del que formamos
13. http://www.un.org/esa/sustdev/documents/agenda21/index.htm.
153
¿Qué hay de natural en un desastre natural?
Bibliografía
Blaikie, Piers; Cannon, Terry; Davis, Ian; Wisner, Ben, At risk: natural hazards, people’s vul-
nerability and disasters, Routledge, Londres 2003.
Brauch, Hans Günter, Urbanization and natural disasters in the Mediterranean: population growth
154
Joaquín Tintoré Subirana
155
LA CIUDAD
EN CONFLICTO
Rafael Vila-sanjuán
Ruanda simboliza como ningún otro conflicto reciente la imagen de una guerra cruen-
ta donde la humanidad pareció olvidar todo sentimiento humano. Su capital, Kigali,
es probablemente uno de los nombres que nos viene a la memoria cuando recorda-
mos el genocidio que en 100 días de terror aniquiló a un millón de ruandeses, vícti-
mas del odio y la persecución racial. Sin embargo, en contra de la larga lista de ciu-
dades que podrían encabezar los conflictos que desde finales de los ochenta se han
encargado de demostrarnos lo caliente que estaba el mundo al final de la guerra
fría, Kigali no fue ni mucho menos el escenario donde el genocidio se llevó su peor
parte.
No. El genocidio fue básicamente una persecución sin cuartel en el campo y en
las casas, seleccionando, por familias o una a una, a sus víctimas con nombres y ape-
llidos, como los perros de caza persiguen a sus presas hasta descuartizarlas. Y tuvo lugar
en Cyangugu, en Butare, o en tantas y tantas otras prefecturas de un país eminente-
mente agrícola y rural. En contra de lo que pueda parecer, no fueron tropas occi-
dentales, a pesar del horror y el espanto que allá por el año 1994 llegaba cada día a
nuestras pantallas de televisión, quienes pusieron fin a las masacres. Fueron las fuer-
zas rebeldes tutsis que batallaban contra el gobierno hutu las que consiguieron poner
fin al genocidio. Y sólo cuando tomaron Kigali, la capital, el genocidio paró.
159
La ciudad en conflicto
160
Rafael Vila-sanjuán
do en color o blanco y negro. Aunque no medien más de 25 años, entre unas imáge-
nes y otras la guerra cambió.
Según las estadísticas, a finales del siglo xix, cuando las guerras se dirimían entre
ejércitos regulares en el campo de batalla, se calcula que nueve de cada diez víctimas
eran militares. Esta proporción se invirtió a lo largo del siglo xx, de forma que poco
a poco el número de víctimas entre los no combatientes era cada vez mayor. En la
actualidad, de cada diez víctimas tan sólo una es militar o combatiente, y ya hay
quien asegura que la mejor forma de salvarse en nuestros días de las consecuencias
de la guerra es ser militar. Por tanto, la población civil ha pasado de ser víctima de un
conflicto a ser en la actualidad el principal objetivo en la mayoría de los conflictos en
marcha. Por su relación, el ciudadano ha pasado a ser un valor estratégico y, con él,
la ciudad se ha hecho todavía más vulnerable.
Bagdad (Irak) es uno de los casos más recientes que mejor puede ilustrarnos. Desde
que el gobierno americano declarara oficialmente el final de la guerra, el número
de víctimas no ha cesado, y es muy superior desde entonces al registrado durante el
tiempo en que oficialmente la guerra todavía se consideraba como tal. La toma de
Bagdad se había planificado como el objetivo necesario que pondría fin a una gue-
rra, produciría un cambio de poder y automáticamente acabaría con el conflicto de
manera gradual hasta desembocar en un proceso de paz. Todo estaba planeado según
el guión que ha convertido estas guerras modernas en espectáculo televisivo, pero lo
cierto es que la verdadera batalla continúa en el corazón de la ciudad, en sus barrios
de consulados y embajadas, en los centros de mayor afluencia y en el corazón comer-
cial. Una de las principales consecuencias es que sus ciudadanos son hoy más vulne-
rables que nunca a la violencia indiscriminada. Vivir hoy en Bagdad, como en Grozny
(Chechenia), es un riesgo, porque la ciudad ya no puede ofrecer protección a sus
ciudadanos.
Frente a los conflictos donde las partes encuentran en la ciudad su razón estraté-
gica, aunque suene paradójico, hay otras ciudades que existen sólo porque el con-
flicto las justifica: las crea, las mantiene y en muchos casos desarrollan todo un siste-
ma social cuya única razón es el propio conflicto. Paralelo en el tiempo a la guerra
en Irak y no excesivamente lejos, en Darfur (Sudán), el conflicto se libra en un entor-
no rural, completamente diferente. Aquí la violencia masiva entre milicias proguber-
namentales y grupos armados de oposición se ha dirigido contra una población cam-
pesina a la que se ha desposeído de sus tierras y de sus casas, forzándola a abandonar
el ganado y el resto de sus escasos recursos. En total, dos millones de desplazados
161
La ciudad en conflicto
que huyen del terror de la guerra en busca de la única posibilidad que tienen de sobre-
vivir: agruparse en torno a pequeñas concentraciones de población donde las orga-
nizaciones de ayuda internacional pueden llegar a proporcionarles asistencia. Así,
de la noche al día, un poblado de apenas un millar de habitantes puede convertirse
en una nueva ciudad de extensión inabarcable. Son campos de miles, incluso cientos
de miles de desplazados, donde también, de la noche al día, se tienen que organizar
los servicios básicos para que las condiciones de higiene y salud, y la falta de alimen-
tos o refugio no generen una catástrofe mayor a las propias consecuencias del con-
flicto. Son nuevas ciudades que nacen como consecuencia del conflicto, de la perse-
cución y de la huida, y que se establecen en torno a la ayuda.
Poco a poco, la vida en estos campos de refugiados y desplazados se va organizan-
do como cualquier otra concentración de gente. A medida que se van cubriendo las
necesidades básicas de supervivencia, las relaciones sociales y comerciales van apare-
ciendo poco a poco. En Occidente, donde la realidad de los campos queda habitual-
mente lejos, mucha gente sigue sorprendiéndose cuando comentas que en el inte-
rior hay «hoteles» –que, por supuesto, no tienen nada que ver con los estándares que
nosotros manejamos–: unos metros cuadrados sobrantes en una tienda de campaña
sirven para alojar a gente que viene de visita, o que frecuenta el campo cuando ya se
han establecido otro tipo de necesidades. Los campos empiezan a desarrollar vida pro-
pia, primero servicios básicos, que cada una de las personas presta en función de sus
capacidades, y progresivamente se van convirtiendo en una nueva urbe, con sus líde-
res locales, sus calles y negocios. Son nuevas ciudades, monstruos construidos como
refugio temporal, que en muchos casos acaban configurando una nueva población
que permanecerá en el tiempo.
En medio de todos estos conflictos, la acción humanitaria juega un papel primor-
dial, no sólo proporcionando asistencia, sino también procurando proteger los dere-
chos de las víctimas y crear lugares donde haya ciertos espacios de humanidad en
medio de la barbarie. La acción humanitaria nace con el mundo viejo, el de las bata-
llas entre ejércitos, con el único objetivo de paliar el sufrimiento innecesario de las
víctimas en el campo de batalla. Su función también ha cambiado, adaptándose a estos
nuevos retos y reivindicando espacios de seguridad para aquellos que huyen de la
tragedia. A finales de los sesenta, con la desaparición de las economías nacionales
hacia una economía global, la guerra, en general, dejará de librarse por la posesión
del territorio. La preocupación principal de los estados será interior, y en el mundo
de la descolonización la batalla se librará por el control de los recursos y la econo-
162
Rafael Vila-sanjuán
mía. Es una época caracterizada por nuevas guerras basadas en la identidad y cuya
estrategia militar utiliza el desplazamiento de la población y la desestabilización, con
el fin de deshacerse de aquellos cuya identidad es distinta y fomentar el odio y el
miedo. En este marco, la neutralidad ya no implica necesariamente silencio, y se
hace imprescindible utilizar la fuerza de la opinión pública para movilizar el poder
político y poner fin al sufrimiento innecesario. Así nace el «sinfronterismo».
Nuestro siglo, el xxi, ya es el de la guerra total, tanto por la capacidad de las moder-
nas armas de destrucción como por lo que concierne a toda idea de preservar a los
civiles. Desde la responsabilidad como humanitarios, ¿cómo asumir la protección de
las víctimas en este nuevo entorno más allá de adecuar la asistencia a los nuevos
retos? Es probable que lo que tengamos que hacer demande un ejercicio valiente
como entonces, y evitar el sufrimiento inútil de las nuevas víctimas requiera ahora pro-
poner una nueva relación entre el poder y los ciudadanos, nuevas normas que regu-
len el conflicto y la ciudad.
163
LET THE DEAD BE
DEAD: MEMORY, URBAN
NARRATIVES AND THE
POST-CIVIL WAR
RECONSTITUTION OF BEIRUT
Maha Yahya
In a 1999 conference in Beirut entitled Memory for the Future, a prominent local politi-
cian and former candidate for parliament declared: «We should let the dead be dead.
It is the only way forward.» Coming at the tail end of three days of discussion in which
the post-war experiences of Lebanon, Rwanda, South Africa, and France and the role
of memory in post-war reconciliation were discussed, compared and contrasted, this
statement seemed quite remarkable for the purported pragmatism it presented.
The Lebanese civil wars ended in 1990. Fifteen years of protracted violence (1975-
1990) left approximately 200,000 dead, around 300,000 injured and 800,000 per-
manently displaced in a population of around 3.5 million.1 The state was marginal-
ized and lost its physical, institutional and territorial control over the country. The
capital Beirut was severely fragmented and partially demolished, its historic center
and the areas extending out from it transformed into a no man’s land between the
1. There are no official figures yet of the total number of dead and injured. The length of the conflict
and its episodal nature meant that for example the total number of those killed in specific massacres,
especially those that targeted informal human settlements such as Tell ez Zaatar or the Palestinian camps
of Sabra and Chatila, can never be determined since the number of inhabitants was not known.
Moreover, as is common in most conflicts, the game of numbers was also critical to the process of the
war with each side inflating and conflating figures according to their needs.
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Let the Dead be Dead
warring factions. A large portion of those displaced settled in the informal settlements
of its southern suburbs that witnessed unprecedented growth during the war years.2
Lebanon’s infrastructure was also significantly damaged. The World Bank and other
international agencies estimated total financial losses at $25 billion, real per capita
income half of what it was prior to the war while an estimated 200,000 professionals
and skilled workers had emigrated out of the country. 3 Another 17,000 citizens remain
missing.
In this post-civil war context the city and nation obviously had to be thought
anew – what was important in this process was who thinks? Who acts? Who still
speaks for whom? How was the disaster of a long civil war addressed through the
work of the city’s planners and what image of the city was implicit in its post-war
reconstruction? Given the legacy of the civil war – that is the penultimate point at
which the official markers of national identity were violently challenged by a mul-
titude of alternate voices – those questions acquired a certain critical urgency.
This became manifestly clear in 1992 in a series of conflicts, which erupted over
different spaces in Beirut.
This paper will examine the place of the dead and of memory in the post-civil-
war reconstitution of Beirut’s urban and architectural landscape. I use a particular
reading of one specific conflict over a small mausoleum in Beirut’s city center to
inform and structure my analysis of the contemporary context for Lebanese nation
building and the centrality of Beirut, the capital city for that project.
2. During the long years of the war successive population displacements in various parts of Lebanon and
of Beirut took place under violent conditions. See YAHYA, Maha, Forbidden Spaces Invisible Barriers: Housing
in Beirut, unpublished PhD dissertation, Architectural Association, London 1994, for detailed accounts
of population displacements and resettlements, housing strategies and territorial divisions during the 15
years of civil strife, and YAHYA, Maha, «Reconstituting Space, The Aberration of the Urban in Beirut», in
KHALAF, Samir and KHOURY, Philip (eds.), Recovering Beirut, Urban Design and Post War Reconstruction, E.J.
Brill, New York 1993, for a concise description of the fragmentation of urban territory during the years
of civil conflict.
3. It is not clear whether this includes actual material damage to infrastructure etc. only or has considered
losses incurred from the loss of potential capital investment in the country over the period of the war.
108
Maha Yahya
revealed by war bombing that partially destroyed the building in which it was situ-
ated, was rapidly claimed to be a shrine housing the remnants of a Muslim Shi’a
mosque caretaker. Hizbu’llah 4 quickly cordoned off the structure and the build-
ing was declared a religious monument, thus indestructible under the mandate of
Solidere. For the following weeks, nearby inhabitants transformed the structure into
a small shrine for «pilgrims» from around the city, especially its southern suburbs
where the majority of the city’s Shi’a population lives. 5 As stories of strange events
and miracles were being reported in city cafes and parlors, rumors of voices, sight-
ings of ghosts, and the inability of those in charge of demolition, despite repeated
attempts, to destroy the building proliferated in the local press. 6 Reports of the
broken hinges of the first bulldozer, the shattered motor of the second, failed dyna-
mite attempts and the smell of orange blossom filtering through cracks in the wall
recurred in these articles. A short while later it emerged that even though the
structure, a seventeenth century Mamluk building, was indeed a tekkiya dedicated
to a religious figure Ibn Arraq, he had been a Muslim Sunni rather than a Muslim
Shi’a. Ironically, his effective hatred for Shi’as had led him to condone their death
by any means!!
4. Hizbu’llah or the «Party of God» was founded by a group of dissidents from Amal, the main «repre-
sentatives» of the Muslim Shi’as, in the summer of 1982 during the Israeli invasion of Lebanon and the
siege of Beirut. Initially called Islamic Amal, the militia was publicly launched as Hizbu’llah in 1984.
Between 1984-1991, and in the absence of state institutions, Hizbu’llah created an interconnected sys-
tem of NGOs. These provide a variety of social services which include health care, the maintenance of
sewerage and infrastructure, the construction and paving of roads, education etc. During the war years,
these services helped Hizbu’llah consolidate its territorial control over parts of the southern suburbs of
Beirut and establish the organization as serious political contender in the country. See NORTON, A.R.,
Amal and the Shi’a Struggle for the Soul of Lebanon, University of Texas Press, Austin 1987; SHARARAH,
Waddah, Dawlat Hizb Allah: Lubnan mujtama‘an Islamiyan (The State of Hizbu’llah: Lebanon as an Islamic
Society), Dar An-Nahar, Beirut 1996 and YAHYA, Maha, op. cit., 1994.
5. Shi’as and Sunnis are the two major sects in Islam that emerged after the death of the prophet
Mohamed as a result of a conflict over who would succeed him as the leader or Caliph of the Muslim
world. In general the Shi’as as a sect have been considered as the underdogs and have faced persecu-
tion at the hands of different political dynasties including the Ottomans. In some parts of the world rem-
nants of this conflict persist to this day with adherents of a conservative strand of Sunni Islam accusing
the Shi’as of being heretics (such as the Wahabis in Saudi Arabia). In Lebanon these divisions are not
really in evidence and tend to flare up only at times of extreme sectarian tensions – and even then
amongst small sectors of society.
6. The person in charge of demolition relayed to me at the time that they had avoided using live ammu-
nition and dynamite in the vicinity of the mausoleum and had resorted to bulldozers instead because
they were afraid of damaging it (private interview, May 1992).
109
Let the Dead be Dead
Several questions are brought to the fore by this incident. The most obvious and
immediate question is why would Hizbu’llah rush to proclaim a shrine in an area
where the Shi’a community, a traditionally rural population that began to migrate
into the city at the turn of the century, was not historically present and thus did not
own property? How does one interpret this incident in the framework of post-civil-
war reconciliation and more specifically in the scope of proposed urban/architectur-
al schemes for this country? Why this turn to the supernatural at this precise juncture
in time and who were those ghostly specters haunting the [re]consolidation and
[re]construction of the nation and of national identity?
7. Al Taef is the name of the city in Saudi Arabia where negotiations between all the parties, both inter-
national and Lebanese to end the war took place. The Taif accord (1990) addressed the disproportion
in political representation in the country, which traditionally occurs along religious lines. Allotment of
parliamentary seats became equal amongst the two main religious groups; Muslims and Christians. More
importantly, article 53 of the agreement, made the appointment of the ministerial cabinet, previously
part of the executive powers of the presidency, one of the duties of the prime minister. The post of the
Prime Minister itself, also once a presidential prerogative, is now appointed by parliament. For a well
articulated evaluation of these accords and their impact on inter-communal living in Lebanon see
BEYDOUN, Ahmed, The Torn Republic: The fate of the Lebanese formula after al Taef, Dar An-Nahar, Beirut 1999
[in Arabic].
8. Since the French mandate period Lebanon was often referred to in popular culture and tourist
brochures as the Paris of the East and the Switzerland of the Orient. The former metaphor specifically
was used to justify Lebanon’s overwhelming focus on its service industry which by 1975 made up close
to 2/3 of the economy.
110
Maha Yahya
rebuild their capital.» Similarly Beirut’s historic core was described as the «national
heart» of the country, thus linking the rejuvenation of both economy and nation to
the rebuilding of the center of the city.9
This dual role identified for Beirut; that is the need to project the nation both
externally and internally also presented a conundrum for the planners involved in
the project; a tug of war between the denationalization of urban space inherent to
contemporary global capitals, and the need to «nationalize» a once fragmented city
and the capital of the country. While the denationalization of the city demands a
certain abstraction, the nationalization of urban space requires its grounding in ter-
ritory and history. In other words, contrary to the assertions of much recent litera-
ture around the homogenous, universal and abstract character of national identity
and citizen, the assertion of national identity takes on «particular» or «modular» forms
of citizenship.10
Consequently, to [re]claim Beirut’s position on the global scene and project a
cohesive image to the outside world, the historic center and with it the city’s identi-
ty, had to be de-territorialized, «liberated» from all existing codes and reference points
to both past and present. Lebanon’s national identity had to be projected through
the city center as a comprehensible whole, as its capital Beirut became a node in a
network of global cities identified by Saskia Sassen, as cities that no longer depend
on their immediate hinterlands for their economies.11 Inside many of those global
cities a new politics of centrality and marginality is created with massive investments
in downtowns and little resources in the peripheries. To claim this position, Beirut’s
city center had to be transformed – to paraphrase Marx’s famous discussion of mon-
ey – into a purely ideal mental form necessary for understanding the ultimate abstrac-
tion of capital.
Internally, the reconstruction plans for the city center of Beirut were informed by a
series of primary political and economic concerns. To re-establish its political dominance
which was severely undermined through 15 years of war, the state had to enact its terri-
torial imperative in a physical space not implicated in the territories of any of the war-
9. Interestingly enough, this project whose first public incarnation appeared in 1991, is the first attempt
by any Lebanese architect since the establishment of Lebanon as an independent nation-state in 1920
to imagine and represent a vision of Lebanese identity.
10. GOSWAMI, Manu, Producing India: From colonial economy to national space, University of Chicago Press,
Chicago 2004.
11. SASSEN, Saskia, The Global City: New York, London, Tokyo, Princeton University Press, New Jersey 1991.
111
Let the Dead be Dead
ring factions. Two large urban development projects were launched for Beirut: the first
Solidere or the Lebanese Company for the Development and Reconstruction of the Beirut
Central District and the second Elyssar meant to undertake the reorganization of the
city’s southern suburbs that contained the city’s largest informal settlements.12 The city
center had to be «recovered» from the vagaries of war as the locus upon which the state
could express its existence and spread its hegemony in opposition to the fragmentation
of national space induced by the war. At the same time, the area of Ouzai, a mix of pub-
licly and privately owned land that grew during the war into the largest informal hous-
ing settlement in the city housing predominantly lower-class Shi’a war-displaced or eco-
nomic migrants, was directly identified with the chaos and the absence of the state during
the war years. While the first project was to signal the «recovery» of pre- war Beirut’s
position of eminence in the region, the second proposal was to index the «liberation»
of the city from the effects of this conflict. In what follows, this paper will elaborate on
the reconstruction of the city center and speculate about its relationship to Elyssar. The
discussion of the city center project will focus on two aspects only; the location of mem-
ory in the urban policies and architectural iconography that were used and their con-
comitant reinterpretation of rights to the city.
Urban Actors
Post-war reconstruction of the city center included a variety of local urban actors repre-
senting the public and the private sectors as well as local inhabitants.13 In addition, local
militias in control of areas occupied by displaced populations also played an active role
in initial negotiations around the center. However, not all of these actors played an equal-
ly effective role. In short, the CDR hired Dar el Handasah Consultants14 (DAR) to redesign
the center. At the same time, members of Oger Liban, Prime Minister Hariri’s private
12. Prime Minister Hariri was the prime mover of both of these projects. His interest in both areas pre-
dates the post-war period to 1983 when a brief lull in fighting led many to believe that the conflict was
over. However in the absence of a comprehensive development, reconstruction and reconciliation plan
for the city and the country these projects remained piecemeal and further consecrated the class and
economic divisions in the country. See YAHYA, Maha, 2005 for an assessment of post-war reconstruction
policies on social developments in the country.
13. In addition to CDR, public sector representatives included the Beirut municipality, the Directorate
of Urban Planning (DGU), and the General Directorate of Antiquities (DGA); the private sector com-
prised mainly Oger Liban, as well as the property owners, tenants and the different trade associations;
and civil society included various NGOs namely concerned with architectural heritage.
14. Dar el Handasah Consultants is the largest Engineering Company in the Middle East and ranks
eighth in the world.
112
Maha Yahya
The Plan
As presented, this project proposed a radical reconstitution of the city center at the
procedural as well as the programmatic and design level. A private real estate
company, Solidere, was created to reconstruct the area within boundaries that
had been delineated in past plans. This company had a dual basis: an imported
model and local planning laws. The format of the company was based on a model
created in Saudi Arabia for the renovation and reconstruction of areas surround-
ing the holy shrine in Mecca.17 However, the general provisional laws for a real
estate company already existed in Lebanese urban planning laws as well as in the
articles of establishment of the CDR. Initially envisioned as a public-private part-
nership for the purposes of large scale urban renovation and regeneration, these
laws were amended in 1991 to allow the total privatization of the reconstruction
of the city center.18 Under the new formula, property boundaries were eradicated
15. Al Fadel Challak, the founder and director of Oger Liban, the company founded and owned by
Prime Minister Hariri (1982), and the head of the Hariri Foundation (1984) was appointed as the head
of CDR. Until April of 1992, Mr. Challak maintained his office at Oger Liban, when the CDR moved
officially to its main office in the renovated Sérail complex, also a gift (at a cost of 5 million dollars) from
Mr. Hariri.
16. These meetings held at different venues around the city including the Order of Architects and
Engineers generated considerable debate and dissent around the project. See SALAM et al., 1994, for fur-
ther details.
17. Real Estate Holding Companies (REHCO) were formed in Saudi Arabia for the development and
rehabilitation of different cities such as Mecca, Medina and Riyadh. Several formulas for public-private
participation in these companies were tried. Beirut followed the Mecca model. (for further information
please see UPPER COUNCIL FOR THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE CITY OF RIYADH, Bornamaj Tatouir Mantakat Kasr
el Hokom; Al Marahal Al Thaletha (Program for the Development of Kasr el Hokom Area; Phase Three), Riyadh
1995; YAHYA, Maha, op. cit., 1994.
18. Two arguments were used to justify this action. The first was that the financial inability of the state
to undertake the reconstruction of the damaged infrastructure would cause significant delays in post-
war rehabilitation and delay the process of investment in the country. The second was that the inter-
twined property and tenure relationships, namely the parcelization of land due to inheritance and the
tangled web of tenant rights resulting from outdated rental laws, and complicated by the passage of 17
years of war would hinder if not completely stall the reconstruction process.
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Let the Dead be Dead
and ownership transferred to the company.19 50% of the shares of the company
distributed amongst current property owners in a ratio equivalent to the value of
their property.20 The remaining 50% of the shares would be bought by investors,
none of whom could control more than 10% of the shares at any one point.
At the programmatic and design levels, the proposed plan included a quasi-com-
plete overhaul in the urban and architectural character of the area as well as in its
economic functions. In brief, the city center, 119.1 hectares of an existing urban
fabric, named by the planners as the «traditional» Beirut Central District (BCD)
was supplemented with an additional 45.8 hectares of land reclaimed from the sea.
Relying on a synthesis of picturesque planning and Haussmanian civic monumen-
talism, the plan is marked according to its planners by «the themes of grandeur
which mark the center of a capital city; the «Grand Axes»; high buildings; new roads
and boulevards; the new city park; the public and religious buildings.» These
three parallel «grand» axes cut through nodes deemed of «national significance»;
the two Sérails or the military barracks constructed by the Ottomans in the 19th
century and today housing the prime ministry and the CDR; the Place de L’Etoile,
with the parliament and national library, all constructed between 1926-1930 dur-
ing the French mandate over Lebanon; and the Place des Martyrs, named after
the Arab nationalists that were hung by the Ottomans in 1916 and considered
one of the most major public spaces in the city.
In addition to all religious edifices and a select number of residential build-
ings, these venues formed the crux of the preservation, conservation and renova-
tion aspects of the project.21 The company also instated a selective program for
19. Select property owners were allowed to retain ownership of their properties according to very strict
criteria.
20. Legal commissions were formed for the sole purpose of estimating the financial value of the said
properties. Accusations of gerrymandering followed. With minimal venue for appeal, owners had little
choice but to accept whatever estimates were made. One of the main problems regarding this process
was that estimates were based on the value of the land at the time – that is substantially destroyed prop-
erties in a derelict part of town and not on the potential value of centrally located property once recon-
struction began. Moreover, Solidere’s current financial crisis, caused in part by tremendous overspend-
ing on infrastructure and a general recession in the country, has led to a considerable loss in the value
of its shares, generating further losses for those property owners.
21. According to the country’s cultural heritage laws, which date back to the French mandate period,
only structures prior to 1750 are considered as historically significant and therefore automatically pre-
served. In part this has created a situation where land is considered far more valuable than the building
that stands upon it, a fact that has led to the avid destruction of the city’s heritage followed by the con-
struction of new structures in a process of constant self-renewal.
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Maha Yahya
22. Solidere was accused of destroying sites of significant archeological interest for developmental pur-
poses. Moreover, much available evidence points to the fact that the «recuperation» of buildings was
equally mercantile. See SADER, 1998.
23. In addition, smaller businesses also deemed inappropriate for the center such as barbers, grocery
vendors etc. were prevented from returning to the center through complex, and in some instances, pro-
hibitive rules for the recuperation of previously owned or rented properties. As the lawyer for the com-
pany stated in an interview «we made sure that undesirable functions did not return to the area»
(Solidere lawyer, private interview, 1997).
24. These 4,000 individuals were squatting in abandoned buildings, especially in the Wadi Abu Jamil
area, throughout the war. Most of those, namely of Shi’a origin, had been displaced from homes either
in villages in the south of the country or from areas in the eastern (and for part of the war period pre-
dominantly Christian) part of the city. Most of those families took the money that they were given as
compensation and moved to the southern suburbs, either the informal settlements along the Ouzai
area or more recent developments along the former Green Line and in Hay el Sullum also in the south-
ern suburbs.
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Let the Dead be Dead
the center and its socio-urban context and redefined, once more, rights of access
to the city.25
This attitude towards identity and rights is further betrayed in the politics of rep-
resentation utilized in the project. With the eradication of the existing fabric of the
city, and the voiding of the social content of property, architecture’s relationship to
the sociopolitical context within which it is being implemented is not addressed. At
the urban level, representations of the center envisage it with no apparent links to
the rest of the city or country. Beirut is erased, the center presented as an exclusive
entity floating in a non-existent city. A perspectival tradition dominates the plan-
ning process, with the organization of facades to be looked at and vantage points to
see from. The streets are wide and clearly visible, terminated by high towers from
which one can have a totalizing view of the whole city, while the daily practices of cit-
izens who survived 17 years of civil war are simply eradicated from the drawing.
According to Mr. Challak, the president of CDR at the time, «...if you have a strong
central power, the streets of the city are wide. They are straight. When political pow-
er collapses, they change into winding streets with dead ends.» One then wonders if
what is desired is the eventual extension of this apparent order, of the center to the
rest of the city.
More critically perhaps, assigned the status of an object: a symbol and a signifier,
the architecture of the project regresses into a picturesque pastiche and fabricated
motifs supposedly reflective of various communities. Descriptions of the three main
axes of the project recall the «modern» capitals of Europe and America. Paris is evoked
through the Champs Elysées, which cuts through Borj Square; Washington through
the Sérail complex now Capitol Hill; New York, through the mini-Manhattan on
land reclaimed from the sea. This language, used to describe the project, seemed to
be subscribing to the collective memory of expatriate Lebanese to entice them back.26
Yet the iconographic images, which were used, plundered the city’s fabric for motifs
25. For a more elaborate discussion of the question of property rights see YAHYA, Maha, «Let the Dead be
Dead: Memory, Architecture, Urban Narratives and Post-Civil War Nation Building in Beirut», in BENDER,
Thomas, CINAR, Alev (eds.), Locating the City: The Idea, Place, Politics, and Everyday Practice of the Urban,
University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, forthcoming 2005.
26. Lebanon has a history of immigration, which dates back to the turn of the century, and especially the
period of WWI, when famine struck the area. While exact figures for the numbers of émigrés during the
war are not available, foreign ministry sources indicate that about eight million Lebanese of different gen-
erations reside in various parts of the globe. Of particular interest to the government were the financially
affluent expatriates, many of whom reside in the major capitals of Western Europe and the US.
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Maha Yahya
ostensibly representative of this elusive national identity. The architecture of the Saifi
urban village for example sought components from Ottoman and French mandate
residential buildings located within the same area such as arches and columns. These
were used as surface ornaments, with no connection to the structures behind them.
At the same time, Beirut’s last remaining medieval souks are destroyed in the name
of creating a new center for the city, and then reconstructed under the guise of
«preserving» its Mediterranean identity.
The drive informing these «recuperative» initiatives was not the preservation
of a particular urban fabric or a specific lifestyle or the restoration/conservation
of one period in the city’s history. It was about the preservation of elements deemed
emblematic of one aspect of identity, a selective plundering that saw in the center’s
historic structures components open to interpretation and renewal deemed nec-
essary for the nostalgic recall of a bygone past, or the emphatic assertion of a con-
temporary condition. The cumulative impact of these actions is a patchwork cen-
ter with renovated pedestrian and office areas from the French mandate period,
and a series of isolated monuments, historic and religious, standing amidst large
stretches of empty land and parking lots. More critically, by isolating the religious
edifices from the urban fabric and daily living rhythms that once enveloped them,
these structures were transformed literally and metaphorically into icons of the
post-war era.
While the project de-contextualizes architecture by eradicating the city’s historic
fabric, the proposed structures manipulate scenery, ornament, and façade to create
a site loaded with historical allusions. The project of memory in this instance is
quite selective in the details of what it includes and what it omits. In an attempt to
create the modern space of Lebanese identity, difference is suppressed and details
are forgotten in the actual renderings of the project. The architect omits the more
immediate past to reach out to an idyllic and revered time, the eternal past just wait-
ing to be rediscovered, the designated pre-war «golden age» of Beirut. Beirut, accord-
ing to its planners is to «regain» its status as a Mediterranean port city, the gateway
between the east and west. This past discussed as if it simply existed, overlooks the
fact that it is actually a paralyzed past that is being plundered. In trying to create an
image for the state and a locus of power, difference is eradicated under the guise of
unification. Memory thus is not about addressing the trauma associated with nei-
ther the civil wars, nor the strife over national identity and belonging to the city.
Memory is now about closure of that past, about forgetting, that is the replacement
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or displacement of that past with another. The conflicts over the meaning of Lebanese
nationality which have plagued the country since inception are not questioned, while
persisting attempts by all the religious communities in Lebanon to fabricate a polit-
ically distinct and almost sovereign «imagined community» of their own are abjured.
More importantly, by rejecting multiple notions of identity as a precondition for recon-
struction, the state preempts the multiple experiences that different communities
have undergone. The fragmentation enforced by the war, and the coercion implicit
in peace-generated homogeneity, is in this sense commensurate.
These representations present a self-enclosed narrative, be it programmatic or
historical, which uses perspective to close and seal the rest of the city whenever it
can. Urbanity and national identity are transformed into a complete picture with a
constructed past and future. The past here is transformed into a question of repre-
sentation and not of responsibility; and here the representation voids private mem-
ories and painful histories. The present is simply foreclosed, bracketed outside the
image.
27. HALBSWACHS, Maurice, On Collective Memory, University of Chicago Press, Chicago 1968.
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Maha Yahya
ducted by researcher Yasmin Arif into the impact of the Solidere reconstruction
project on the current residents of the downtown, recurring tropes of loss and deser-
tion at the end of the war rebound. In the words of Abu Fouad, «For us the older
generation who grew up together, no matter what will happen to the Burj now, we
don’t care. What we care for is the years that were gone from our lives, and now,
after the war, we look back and realize that all the places that we remember are no
longer there – they are a desert land now.» His wife continues, «… there was war
but it was safe [here]… it was very stable… When you look around now, you see
only destruction and despair… there is no one anymore. The people that you talked
to will also have gone by the end of the month. I am here today, but I don’t know if I
will be here tomorrow.»28
In these instances, individual memories and acts of remembrance intertwine
in complicated and unpredictable ways with the declared need to «forget» the
war, to erase it from collective existence. Lebanon’s history is isolated in the proj-
ect to the temporal/topographic sites of institutional significance, transformed into
the nation’s sites of memory; sites which according to Pierre Nora, emerge when
there is a perceived break with the past, whilst the politics of everyday city life are
totally eradicated. History and memory are represented as purely temporal and
chronological rather than spatial and relational. History is used to privilege par-
ticular readings of political identity and national subjectivity as «real». Arrival into
this «national» history, as represented in the project, erases not only the past of
the viewer but also that of alternative communal histories. «I am here today but I don’t
know if I will be tomorrow.»29
However, knowing the past is no longer, if it ever was, confined to the compul-
sory time frames of national historiography – the reality is that the nation is not, if
it ever was, the site or frame for memory, and national history is no longer the
measure of what people know of their past. Official attempts to channel memories
constantly face the intangible and unexpected surfacing of the past, not only in indi-
28. ARIF, Yasmin, Presentation on Research Findings, Center for Behavioral Studies, American University of
Beirut, Beirut 1997. See also SAWALHA, Aseel, Remembering the Good Old Days: The Reconstruction of Urban
Space in Post-war Beirut, unpublished PhD dissertation, The City University of New York, New York 2002.
This theme of loss and disorientation brought about by the post-war reconstruction of the center is
echoed in novels of the period. See for example BARAKAT Hudá, The Tiller of the Waters, Dar An-Nahar
Press, Beirut 1998.
29. Monumental was Nietzsche’s derogatory epithet questioning any version of history calling itself per-
manent and everlasting.
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vidual narratives, but also in the form of haunting, in the return of the ghost
which as Gordon points out only comes into play when memory cannot recall the
violent event it has been subjected to. 30 What could the emergence of the ghost
around the Mamluk mausoleum, in the interstices of the city center and in the midst
of ongoing demolitions no less, represent but the ghost’s insistence on justice by
bringing into view the thousands of dead and «disappeared» and displaced for
whom no place could be found in the project? 31 Can one not read this act per-
haps as a symbolic protest against a program that was extending the politics of exclu-
sion enacted by warring factions during the war into the reconstruction and rec-
onciliation process? For, as Derrida suggests, to speak of ghosts is to also address
the questions of inheritance and of different generations. 32 Leaving aside for the
moment, Hizbu’llah’s political interest at the time in establishing a territorial
foothold in the city center, the wide-scale currency of the ghost in the city epito-
mizes the furtive and ungraspable visibility of the invisible, a demand for justice
and ethics from both the future and the past by the ghost, which «begins by coming
back». 33 Read from this perspective, this event can be interpreted as both a rejec-
tion of the post-war reconstruction approach which relied on the suppression of
varying rights and claims to the city.
This incident drives us to rethink the location of the city in memory and its
role in the process of defining modernity and national identity. By virtue of its his-
torical and topographic position, Beirut’s city’s center inaugurated a crisis of rep-
resentation for successive post-war governments – for many to possess its image,
was tantamount to possessing the future (and history) itself. In this sense this
project became emblematic of an ambiguous kind of political imagery. In the absence
of a clearly defined national identity, the project strove to construct an ideal space
for a post-war society redefined selectively and along singular class lines. Through
30. GORDON, Avery, Ghostly Matters: Haunting and the Sociological Imagination, University of Minnesota
Press, London, Minneapolis 1997.
31. In fact, the reconstruction of the center required the subsequent re-displacement of the 4,000 indi-
viduals who were squatting in the center, mainly to the southern suburbs which is controlled in large part
by Hizbu’llah. The large majority of visitors to the mausoleum were those squatters and inhabitants from
the southern suburbs.
32. DERRIDA, Jacques, Specters of Marx: The State of Debt, The Work of Mourning and the New International,
trans. Peggy Kamuf, Routledge, New York 1994, p. 21.
33. This particular narrative and the visual and discursive forms it took are very influenced by the particular
history of the Shi’a community in Lebanon both during the Ottoman Empire and the French mandate.
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Let the Dead be Dead
it from responsibility towards its citizens. The coupling of the state and of private
capital in Beirut produced a powerful historicist discourse that acts upon urban
space and population. However, the historicism of this discourse fails to grapple
with the challenge that cities pose. By this I mean the question of spatiality that
the city highlights. Not only is the urban built environment defined by its position
as a nodal point in the geographical landscape of capital, the very organization of
the city as society entails spatial divisions and relations and not distinctions between
different stages in the march of history. What sets middle-class neighborhoods apart
from slums is not time but space; not just physical space but also the space of pow-
er. One manifestation of the problem that the historicist discourse encounters in
dealing with the socio-spatial organization of the city is that, despite the promise
of a new beginning that this state of emptiness created by the project offered, the
development of the downtown today represents a purified, ideal space for a neo-
liberal phantasm that remains unable to reconcile the multiple needs of a plural-
istic and un-integrated society. While transitory cohabitation is occurring, namely
in dense commercial spaces focused on consumption, these have yet to open the
way for a more substantive project of social reconciliation in the city. As a recent
study on around 2,000 car users indicates, around 70% of those visiting the city
center were from within its municipal boundaries (around 50%) and adjacent
Mount Lebanon (another 20%).36 Furthermore, a large majority of residences in
the city center are currently occupied by expatriate populations that visit the city
periodically.37
Another manifestation of this historicist discourse is the problem posed by what
Ashis Nandy calls the «unintended city» that is the city that was never part of the
formal «master plan» but always implicit in it. This «unintended city» is com-
prised of the large and growing number of poor living in the informal settle-
ments and inadequately organized areas in Beirut’s various suburbs; inhabitants
who provide the cheap labor and services without which the «official» city could
36. This study, undertaken in July 2003 by transportation experts on a sample of around 2,000 cars,
should not be treated as a scientific study. Rather it should be considered as a relevant indicator of visi-
tors to the area.
37. According to Solidere employees around 60% of residences in the Saifi «Urban Village» are owned
by local Lebanese and the remaining 40% are expatriates and Gulf Arabs. These percentages change
when examining new residences constructed along the coastline of the area and which are primarily
owned by Gulf Arabs and Lebanese expatriates (private interview, May 2004).
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not survive. 38 Exploited and disenfranchised, the existence of this other cannot be
acknowledged by the official city as part of itself. Viewed from the lens of postwar
reconstruction often taken to mean modernization, this displaced and evicted mass
of Lebanon’s growing urban poor refuses to «bow out of history», and exhibits a
consistent willingness to return and «illegitimately» occupy large public spaces. The
refusal to «bow out of history» points to a general problem intrinsic to the nation-
state’s historicist discourse of modernization – the inability of its linear narrative to
acknowledge the spatiality of historical processes, the uneasy coexistence of the mod-
ern and the «traditional», the intrusion of the rural into the urban, the combined
emergence of official and unintended cities. The city’s historical geography of pow-
er, culture, and society resists its representation as evolution and development.
From this perspective Elyssar, the large development project for the informal settle-
ments in the southern suburbs of Beirut and all negotiations over its future are part
and parcel of a redefinition of urban citizenship; one which includes diverse forms
of identification with Lebanon as a nation, and Beirut as a city. In the process of jux-
taposing the projects, a series of questions are raised about the notions of center
and periphery or the rural and urban. The permeability of spaces and their con-
stant appropriation and mutations also questions the viability of discussing city bound-
aries, especially in places such as Lebanon where the city is the country.
38. Even though a number of informal settlements have existed in and around the capital Beirut since
the fifties their number and size have risen considerably in the post-war era. Unacknowledged and ille-
gal, at best tolerated, these settlements and the informal market that has sprouted within them have
been making up for the inefficiencies of public land management. This informal sector has proven adap-
tive and responsive and has been providing a large segment of the urban population with buildable
urban land. Most house populations displaced during the war, populations displaced by large- scale
infrastructure and development projects such as highways, low-income populations with limited access
to the housing market, and migrant workers whose number increases and decreases along with the num-
ber and size of real estate and other development in the country. In the absence of a comprehensive sur-
vey, existing data on the size and demographic characteristics of these areas is sporadic at best. The infor-
mal settlements along the coastal zone of the southern suburbs are said to house around 60,000-80,000
individuals. See CHARAFEDDINE, Wafa, Formation des Secteurs «Illégaux» dans la Banlieue-Sud de Beyrouth,
Mémoire pour le Diplôme d’Études Superieures Specialisé en Urbanisme (DESS) Institut D’urbanisme
de l’Académie de Paris, Université de Paris VIII, Paris 1985; CLERC, Valérie, Les Principes d’action de l’ur-
banisme: Le projet Elyssar face aux quartiers irréguliers de Beyrouth, unpublished PhD dissertation, Université
Paris VIII, IFU, 2002; Yahya, Maha, op. cit., 1994.
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