Jeremy F. Walton, Muslim Civil Society and the Politics of Religious Freedom in Turkey (New Texts Out Now)

Jeremy F. Walton, Muslim Civil Society and the Politics of Religious Freedom in Turkey (New Texts Out Now)

Jeremy F. Walton, Muslim Civil Society and the Politics of Religious Freedom in Turkey (New Texts Out Now)

By : Jeremy F. Walton

Jeremy F. Walton, Muslim Civil Society and the Politics of Religious Freedom in Turkey. New York: Oxford University Press, 2017. 

Jadaliyya (J): What made you write this book?

Jeremy F. Walton (JFW): Before I first traveled to Turkey in 2003, I was consistently struck by the compulsive omnipresence of “the State” in conversations with friends and colleagues from Turkey. A nexus of emotions—awe, anxiety, affection, apprehension—pervaded these accounts. For a citizen of the United States such as myself, nursed on the thin political milk of libertarian assumptions about state practice, this was fascinating and provocative. The face of the Turkish state—to adapt Yael Navaro-Yashin’s vivid phrase—had a strong profile, even abroad. Yet when I began to sojourn in Turkey more regularly, I recognized that the shadows cast by this profile could not entirely account for the array of initiatives that animated Turkish public life, particularly in my adopted home megalopolis, Istanbul. I found that the domain of activity and affiliation political theory comprehends as “civil society” was robust and multi-faceted, especially in relation to Muslim identity and community. The state was not absent from this domain, by any means, but its imperatives were not hegemonic or uniform. As I began to conduct more focused research, I discovered that even the figure of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, whose craggy features remain the most prominent face of the state, could inspire defensive admiration in one breath and sharp criticism in the next. I concluded that the emphasis on the state and its mandates in literature on Islam in Turkey—understandable though it may be—is insufficient. My book is a modest response to this insufficiency.

J:  What particular topics, issues, and literatures does the book address?

Such practices, ranging from conference-hosting to charitable aid, from novel forms of Qur’anic interpretation to the restorative nostalgia of Neo-Ottomanism, both mimic and destabilize statist ideologies of Turkish national space and history.

JFW: On a conceptual plane, my book delineates the constitutive relationship between two modes of political power, statist sovereignty and (neo)liberal governmentality, that saturate and orient the field of Turkish civil society, its discourses, and the initiatives of Muslim organizations within it. While (neo)liberal governmentality in relation to Islam registers the power of broader discourses of “religious freedom” in Elizabeth Shakman-Hurd’s sense, it is necessarily framed by political traditions of Kemalist statist sovereignty, which, in turn it has reframed. Accordingly, my theoretical ambit encompasses a plethora of literatures, ideas, and arguments: Foucauldian, Marxian, and Schmittean theories of political power; recent anthropological work on the affinities between civil society and neoliberal governance; critical studies of secularism, with their interrogation of liberal premises about religion and religious freedom; and, above all, ethnographic research on Islam in Turkey and beyond. As my exposition develops over the course of the book, I also plumb the distinctive spatial and temporal practices that have emerged within Turkish Muslim civil society. Such practices, ranging from conference-hosting to charitable aid, from novel forms of Qur’anic interpretation to the restorative nostalgia of Neo-Ottomanism, both mimic and destabilize statist ideologies of Turkish national space and history.

These abstract concerns shuttle through and invigorate my portrait of approximately twenty specific Muslim civil society organizations, based principally in Istanbul and Ankara. As a backdrop to my ethnographic narrative, I first survey the broader field of public Islam in Turkey in order to illuminate the continuities and tensions among a variety of modalities of Muslim religiosity: statist/bureaucratic Islam, mass Islam, partisan Islam, and consumerist Islam, as well as civil Islam. Following this, I focus on three distinct groups that have achieved institutionalization and prominence within civil society: the Nur Community (Nur Cemaatı), a loosely-knit piety movement centered on the theological oeuvre of Bediüzzaman Said Nursi (1877-1960); the Gülen Movement (Gülen Hareketi, also known as “Service,” or Hizmet), a transnational network of NGOs, private businesses, and schools devoted to the teachings of Fethullah Gülen (b. 1941), now outlawed and demonized in Turkey as the “Fethullahist Terror Organization” (Fethullahçı Terör Örgütü, FETÖ); and Alevism (Alevilik), the political and civil movement dedicated to Turkey’s Alevis, who practice a distinct form of Islam that integrates aspects of Twelver Shi’ism with a unique tradition of practice based on communal participation in the ritual known as the cem. My explicit juxtaposition of Sunni Islam, in the form of the Nur Community and the Gülen Movement, and Alevism is one of the book’s defining features, as most scholars of Islam in Turkey tend to focus on either the dominant strains of Sunni Hanafi practice, including a variety of Sufi orders (tarikatlar), or on Alevism.

J: How does this book connect to and/or depart from your previous work?

JFW: Muslim Civil Society and the Politics of Religious Freedom in Turkey is the final avatar and outcome of my extended research on Islam, secularism, and civil society in Turkey, which began with my dissertation fieldwork in 2005-2007. As such, it is an integration and elaboration of the welter of commitments, puzzles, dilemmas, and concerns that coursed through and structured my relationship to Turkey. In earlier articles, I focused on two topics that receive a more fine-grained, exhaustive treatment in the book: the waxing of Neo-Ottomanism as an ideological lens through which to comprehend the past and present of both the Turkish nation and the city of Istanbul, and what I have called “the civil society effect” the utopian conception of civil society as an inherently apolitical domain that is uniquely suited to social and religious authenticity and autonomy. In the final chapter of my book, I forward a new critique of Neo-Ottomanism by tracing how Neo-Ottoman images of Istanbul exclude Alevi residents of the city in both systematic and tacit ways. My development of the civil society effect in the book also benefits from extensive “concept work” in relation to the temporal and spatial practices and characteristic chronotopes that emerge within the domain of civil society.

J: Who do you hope will read this book, and what sort of impact would you like it to have?

JFW: While scholars of contemporary Turkey are the most immediate audience for the book, I hope that it will speak to a capacious readership for whom Turkey is not merely an “example,” but a provocative site within which global political debates over Islam and the public sway of religion are highly textured and tensile. Hopefully, anthropologists of religion and Islamic Studies scholars will find much to ruminate on and to appreciate in my exposition. More expansively, I hope that my overarching concern for the relationships among state practice, civil society, and religion in neoliberal times will interest and inspire all readers who aspire to comprehend the complexities, contradictions, and settlements of religion and public life today.

J: What other projects are you working on now?

JFW: Just as Turkey’s trajectory shifted with jolting rapidity in recent years, so too did my own. Both the geographic and temporal horizons of my life and research have become more expansive—they now incorporate not only Turkey, but much of the Balkans and central Europe as well. In 2016, I began a position as the leader of the Max Planck Research Group, “Empires of Memory: The Cultural Politics of Historicity in Fromer Hapsburg and Ottoman Cities,” at the Max Planck Institute for the Study of Religious and Ethnic Diversity in Göttingen, Germany. The kernel of this ambitious project was my interest in Neo-Ottomanism; this seed has since sprouted into an interdisciplinary evaluation of the forms of memory, amnesia, duration, and lapse that define the legacies of imperial pasts in the present. In a recent publication, I initiate this endeavor through a comparative examination of Ottoman “sites of memory” both within and outside of contemporary Turkey.

J: How do you expect your book to be read in the future?

JFW: A final word on the context of the book’s publication is apposite, even urgent. I set out to write an ethnography, but I find that I have written a history. In the wake of the coup attempt of 15 July 2016, many of the institutions with which I conducted research—all of those affiliated with the Gülen Movement—have been declared illegal and dismantled, their assets seized by the Turkish state. More generally, Turkish civil society, both Muslim and otherwise, has been severely curtailed in the ongoing state of emergency, a phrase that amounts to an ironic pun at this point. It is far beyond my capacity to evaluate the causes and consequences of the coup attempt without succumbing to the pitfalls of speculation. And while I have not been directly affected by the coup attempt and its aftermath, the public smearing, summary dismissal, and, in several cases, imprisonment of friends, colleagues, and former interlocutors has fundamentally changed my relationship to a place that I continue to admire and esteem passionately. In retrospect, my ethnography took place in a Turkey that no longer exists, and my book is a chronicle of this Turkey, less than a decade gone, which shimmers mirage-like today. I hope that readers in the future will seek out my book in order to explore and comprehend the Turkey that recently was, in order to meditate on the Turkey that is, and that might have been.

Excerpt from the book:

On a wind-swept afternoon in March 2014, a dolmuş (shared taxi) conveyed me to the sleepy central Anatolian town of Hacıbektaş, located on the northern periphery of Cappadocia, the lunar landscape of carved rock churches, antique underground cities, and Daliesque lithic formations that is one of Turkey’s premier tourist destinations. Hacıbektaş is not a typical stop on the itinerary of the international trekkers who traipse across Cappadocia throughout spring, summer, and autumn, a fact that its built environment clearly reflects: It is a modest conurbation of single family homes and apartment buildings, bereft of the tourism-fueled glitz and luxury found elsewhere in the region. On one weekend each August, however, the town overflows with visitors, who arrive to participate in the annual Hacı Bektaş Veli Celebrations, a commemoration of the 13th Century Sufi saint who bestowed his name on the town, and whose tomb complex remains its central site and sole claim to distinction.

According to his hagiography, Hacı Bektaş was a direct descendant of the Seventh Shi’a Imam, Musa Kazim, and, therefore, a sayyid, a direct descendent of the Prophet Muhammad, as well. The eponymous Bektashi Sufi Order, which remains prominent in the Balkans—especially in Macedonia, Kosovo, and Albania—stems directly from his influence, although the order itself was founded by one of his later disciples, Balım Sultan. In Turkey today, Hacı Bektaş is the cardinal patron saint of Alevis—one of the most prominent Alevi institutions in Turkey, the Hacı Bektaş Veli Anatolian Culture Foundation (Haçı Bektaş Veli Anadolu Kültür Vakfı; HBVV), bears his name—and the annual summer festivities in the town of Hacıbektaş are equally a public pageant of and for Alevism.

The effervescent atmosphere that descends on the town briefly each summer was absent on the late winter day of my visit to Hacıbektaş, although a mixed chorus of rowdy street dogs and campaign buses blasting political jingles in anticipation of nation-wide municipal elections later in the month created an incongruous din in the near-empty streets. I headed directly to the tomb complex, which dominates the center of the town. As I walked up the slight incline toward the mausoleum, I gazed with mild curiosity at a battery of souvenir shops, which offered every variety of Hacı Bektaş- and Alevi-related curio for sale, including some surprisingly politicized fare, such as small rugs featuring the iconic image of the Turkish socialist revolutionary Deniz Gezmiş, who was executed by the state in 1972. In response to my curiosity, a clutch of merchants raised their eyes hopefully from lukewarm cups of tea—clearly, I was one of the only potential marks that day. In the square opposite the entrance to the tomb complex, an elderly woman insistently pressed a “wishing stone” (dilek taşı) into my hands, which, she promised, would guarantee my future good fortune under the auspices of Hacı Bektaş, provided that I offer her a few lira in exchange. A few moments later, a middle-aged man hailed me in broken French, and continued enthusiastically to proclaim his devotion to Hacı Bektaş in Turkish once he recognized my fluency; before parting, he rolled up the shirt sleeve of his left arm in order to display a tattoo of Zülfikar, Ali’s famous scimitar, with pride.

As I passed through the oversize aperture of the entrance to the tomb complex, I was keenly aware that I was entering a space of the state, as well as a religious space. The bronze plaque above the archway announces this explicitly: The official name of the site is the “Hacıbektaş Veli Museum of the Culture and Tourism Ministry of the Turkish Republic” (T.C. Kültür ve Türizm Bakanlığı Hacıbektaş Veli Müzesi). The status of the tomb complex as a museum, under the administration of the Culture and Tourism Ministry, is a major of complaint for many Alevis, especially due to the admission fee required of all visitors. Although admission is nominal—the charge in March 2014 was three lira, approximately 1€/$1.25—many Alevis object to the symbolic indignity of having to pay to enter a space that is, for them, one of pilgrimage (ziyaret) and devotion. After making my own deposit of three lira at a kiosk in the outer courtyard, I entered the museum, where a curious congeries of spatial practices occupy the same place.

The complex is broadly divided into two sections: the rectangular inner courtyard of the tekke, or dervish lodge, and the cemetery surrounding the mausoleum of Hacı Bektaş. For the most part, the warren of rooms that forms the tekke is now recognizably a museum. Within this section of the complex, glass vitrines display distinctive ritual objects of the Bektashi dervishes, including lutes, oil lamps, the ceremonial axe of the dedebaba (the highest ranking dervish, or halife, of the order at a given time), and the distinctive headwear of dervishes, the Hüseyin-i Taç, or “Crown of Hüseyin,” which is divided into twelve sections to represent the Twelve Shi’a Imams. Bilingual panels in Turkish and English describe the central beliefs and practices of Bektashism and Alevism, including the cem and other forms of ritual circumambulation (semah); elsewhere, black-and-white photographs depict the final generation of Bektashi dervishes, prior to the prohibition of Sufi orders and closure of dervish lodges during the early Republic. One of the larger rooms of the lodge still hosts occasional cems and other types of semah, although these events are explicitly framed as “folkloric performances” as opposed to religious rituals. A plaque on the wall indicates that museum visitors can arrange in advance to see a semah, but only if they can assure that no less than forty audience members will be in attendance. On the opposite side of the lodge, the museum curators have created a simulacrum of the lodge’s kitchen, complete with several mannequin cooks, who stoically stir a formidable cauldron beneath poorly-simulated candle light.

Hacı Bektaş Veli’s mausoleum is located in a shady graveyard directly behind the lodge. Here, the definitive spatial practice of the museum—pedagogic display—is less evident than it is in the rooms of lodge. Like the burial grounds of countless other prominent Sufi sheikhs, especially those who established or inspired their own orders, the tomb of Hacı Bektaş is surrounded by the graves of other prominent dervishes and devotees of the order. A large number of Bektashi sheikhs are buried within the mausoleum that houses Hacı Bektaş’ tomb, and one of his most prominent disciples, Balım Sultan, who was responsible for organizing the Bektashiyya as formal Sufi order, is interred in a separate mausoleum just steps away.

Upon entering the mausoleum, the spatial practices of tomb visitation (ziyaret) partially supersede those of the museum. Shoes are removed at the mausoleum’s entrance, replaced by blue plastic bags. Women cover their heads with shawls, if they are not already veiled. Voices become muted as visitors pass through the anteroom of the mausoleum and emerge into the central chamber. Here, both the distinction between and the mutual configuration of religious spatial practices and those of the museum are dramatic. The walls of the mausoleum feature photographs and exhibits similar to those located in the lodge, though the commentary that accompanies them is much more subdued. At the hour of my visit, there were some ten to fifteen other people present in the mausoleum. Singly and in pairs, they crowded the small space directly in front of Hacı Bektaş’ coffin and quietly recited devotional prayers (dualar), their arms bent at the elbow and hands curled upward in characteristic fashion. Simultaneously, however, the museum guard stationed in the mausoleum answered my questions about the history of the town in a loud voice, unaffected by the otherwise devotional context. As I was about to depart, a middle-aged man approached the guard with his two young sons. He gingerly began to formulate a question (which I recorded in my field notes later that day): “We were going to perform prayer here (namaz kılacaktık)…” “No,” the guard replied, “that’s forbidden here. This is a museum, not a mosque (Yok, yasak, burası müzedir, cami değil).” And yet, remarkably, the museum does include a functioning mosque, the lodge mosque (tekke camii), located in one corner of the rectangular inner courtyard; when I arrived at the museum, approximately fifteen elderly men were in the midst of performing the noonday prayer in the mosque, led by the resident imam, a trained religious functionary appointed to the mosque by the Directorate of Religious Affairs (Diyanet İşleri Başkanlığı; DİB) in Ankara. I corralled the imam after the collective prayer had ended, and ultimately spoke with him for well over an hour—he estimated that approximately ten to twenty men, including several Alevis, perform prayer in the lodge mosque daily.

The simultaneous prohibition on prayer (namaz) in the mausoleum of Hacı Bektaş and its sanctioning in a different place, the lodge mosque, gesture to the dense nexus of spatial practices that cohabit the museum-tomb complex. Both museum and mosque are spaces of the state in Turkey, but they are also very different places in Michel de Certeau’s sense, which authorize different modes of spatial practice. In the mausoleum/museum, practices that would normally be appropriate to Muslim tomb visitation (ziyaret) are explicitly monitored by the guard, an avatar of state authority. Although a certain type of individualistic, prayer-like invocation, dua, does occur within the mausoleum, this type of prayer, unlike namaz—the routinized, mandatory prayer that Muslims perform five times daily—is not subject to state circumscription and regulation. In other words, dua, the type of prayer that is allowable within the space of the museum-mausoleum, is not a spatial practice defined by a certain type of place, the mosque. Namaz, on the other hand, is inextricable from the place of the mosque. To perform namaz in a space of the state that is not a mosque is unthinkable, forbidden, yasak; therefore, within the museum complex as a whole, the spatial practice of namaz can only occur within a place that is explicitly defined as a mosque. The sequestration of namaz within the lodge mosque of the Hacı Bektaş Veli Museum dramatically expresses the spatial logic of laicism in Turkey. Within this hybrid place, both museum and mosque, statist sovereignty in relation to Islam achieves expression both through the prohibition of a practice (namaz) and through the exceptional sanctioning of this same practice in a different place. Rarely does the logic of sovereignty as a that the principle which “decides on the exception,” in Carl Schmitt’s famous formulation, achieve such articulate spatial illustration in relation to religious practice.

New Texts Out Now: Mandy Turner and Cherine Hussein, guest eds. "Israel-Palestine after Oslo: Mapping Transformations in a Time of Deepening Crisis." Special Issue of Conflict, Security & Development

Conflict, Security and Development, Volume 15, No. 5 (December 2015) Special issue: "Israel-Palestine after Oslo: Mapping Transformations in a Time of Deepening Crisis," Guest Editors: Mandy Turner and Cherine Hussein.

Jadaliyya (J): What made you compile this volume?

Mandy Turner (MT): Both the peace process and the two-state solution are dead. Despite more than twenty years of negotiations, Israel’s occupation, colonization and repression continue–and the political and geographical fragmentation of the Palestinian people is proceeding apace.

This is not news, nor is it surprising to any keen observer of the situation. But what is surprising–and thus requires explanation – is the resilience of the Oslo framework and paradigm: both objectively and subjectively. It operates objectively as a straitjacket by trapping Palestinians in economic and security arrangements that are designed to ensure stabilization and will not to lead to sovereignty or a just and sustainable solution. And it operates subjectively as a straitjacket by shutting out discussion of alternative ways of understanding the situation and ways out of the impasse. The persistence of this framework that is focused on conflict management and stabilization, is good for Israel but bad for Palestinians.

The Oslo peace paradigm–of a track-one, elite-level, negotiated two-state solution–is therefore in crisis. And yet it is entirely possible that the current situation could continue for a while longer–particularly given the endorsement and support it enjoys from the major Western donors and the “international community,” as well as the fact that there has been no attempt to develop an alternative. The immediate short-term future is therefore bleak.

Guided by these observations, this special issue sought to undertake two tasks. The first task was to analyze the perceptions underpinning the Oslo framework and paradigm as well as some of the transformations instituted by its implementation: why is it so resilient, what has it created? The second task, which follows on from the first, was then to ask: how can we reframe our understanding of what is happening, what are some potential alternatives, and who is arguing and mobilizing for them?

These questions and themes grew out of a number of conversations with early-career scholars – some based at the Kenyon Institute in East Jerusalem, and some based in the occupied Palestinian territory and elsewhere. These conversations led to two interlinked panels at the International Studies Association annual convention in Toronto, Canada, in March 2014. To have two panels accepted on “conflict transformation and resistance in Palestine” at such a conventional international relations conference with (at the time unknown) early-career scholars is no mean feat. The large and engaged audience we received at these panels – with some very established names coming along (one of whom contributed to this special issue) – convinced us that this new stream of scholars and scholarship should have an outlet.  

J: What particular topics, issues, and literatures do the articles address?

MT: The first half of the special issue analyzes how certain problematic assumptions shaped the Oslo framework, and how the Oslo framework in turn shaped the political, economic and territorial landscape.

Virginia Tilley’s article focuses on the paradigm of conflict resolution upon which the Oslo Accords were based, and calls for a re-evaluation of what she argues are the two interlinked central principles underpinning its worldview: internationally accepted notions of Israeli sovereignty; and the internationally accepted idea that the “conflict” is essentially one between two peoples–the “Palestinian people” and the “Jewish people”. Through her critical interrogation of these two “common sense” principles, Tilley proposes that the “conflict” be reinterpreted as an example of settler colonialism, and, as a result of this, recommends an alternative conflict resolution model based on a paradigm shift away from an ethno-nationalist division of the polity towards a civic model of the nation.

Tariq Dana unpacks another central plank of the Oslo paradigm–that of promoting economic relations between Israel and the OPT. He analyses this through the prism of “economic peace” (particularly the recent revival of theories of “capitalist peace”), whose underlying assumptions are predicated on the perceived superiority of economic approaches over political approaches to resolving conflict. Dana argues that there is a symbiosis between Israeli strategies of “economic peace” and recent Palestinian “statebuilding strategies” (referred to as Fayyadism), and that both operate as a form of pacification and control because economic cooperation leaves the colonial relationship unchallenged.

The political landscape in the OPT has been transformed by the Oslo paradigm, particularly by the creation of the Palestinian Authority (PA). Alaa Tartir therefore analyses the basis, agenda and trajectory of the PA, particularly its post-2007 state building strategy. By focusing on the issue of local legitimacy and accountability, and based on fieldwork in two sites in the occupied West Bank (Balata and Jenin refugee camps), Tartir concludes that the main impact of the creation of the PA on ordinary people’s lives has been the strengthening of authoritarian control and the hijacking of any meaningful visions of Palestinian liberation.

The origin of the administrative division between the West Bank and Gaza Strip is the focus of Tareq Baconi’s article. He charts how Hamas’s initial opposition to the Oslo Accords and the PA was transformed over time, leading to its participation (and success) in the 2006 legislative elections. Baconi argues that it was the perceived demise of the peace process following the collapse of the Camp David discussions that facilitated this change. But this set Hamas on a collision course with Israel and the international community, which ultimately led to the conflict between Hamas and Fateh, and the administrative division, which continues to exist.

The special issue thereafter focuses, in the second section, on alternatives and resistance to Oslo’s transformations.

Cherine Hussein’s article charts the re-emergence of the single-state idea in opposition to the processes of separation unleashed ideologically and practically that were codified in the Oslo Accords. Analysing it as both a movement of resistance and as a political alternative to Oslo, while recognizing that it is currently largely a movement of intellectuals (particularly of diaspora Palestinians and Israelis), Hussein takes seriously its claim to be a more just and liberating alternative to the two-state solution.

My article highlights the work of a small but dedicated group of anti-Zionist Jewish-Israeli activists involved in two groups: Zochrot and Boycott from Within. Both groups emerged in the post-Second Intifada period, which was marked by deep disillusionment with the Oslo paradigm. This article unpacks the alternative – albeit marginalized – analysis, solution and route to peace proposed by these groups through the application of three concepts: hegemony, counter-hegemony and praxis. The solution, argue the activists, lies in Israel-Palestine going through a process of de-Zionization and decolonization, and the process of achieving this lies in actions in solidarity with Palestinians.

This type of solidarity action is the focus of the final article by Suzanne Morrison, who analyses the “We Divest” campaign, which is the largest divestment campaign in the US and forms part of the wider Palestinian Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement. Through attention to their activities and language, Morrison shows how “We Divest”, with its networked, decentralized, grassroots and horizontal structure, represents a new way of challenging Israel’s occupation and the suppression of Palestinian rights.

The two parts of the special issue are symbiotic: the critique and alternative perspectives analyzed in part two are responses to the issues and problems identified in part one.

J: How does this volume connect to and/or depart from your previous work?

MT: My work focuses on the political economy of donor intervention (which falls under the rubric of “peacebuilding”) in the OPT, particularly a critique of the Oslo peace paradigm and framework. This is a product of my broader conceptual and historical interest in the sociology of intervention as a method of capitalist expansion and imperial control (as explored in “The Politics of International Intervention: the Tyranny of Peace”, co-edited with Florian Kuhn, Routledge, 2016), and how post-conflict peacebuilding and development agendas are part of this (as explored in “Whose Peace: Critical Perspectives on the Political Economy of Peacebuilding”, co-edited with Michael Pugh and Neil Cooper (PalgraveMacmillan, 2008).  

My first book on Palestine (co-edited with Omar Shweiki), Decolonizing Palestinian Political Economy: De-development and Beyond (PalgraveMacmillan, 2014), was a collection of essays by experts in their field, of the political-economic experience of different sections of the Palestinian community. The book, however, aimed to reunite these individual experiences into one historical political-economy narrative of a people experiencing a common theme of dispossession, disenfranchisement and disarticulation. It was guided by the desire to critically assess the utility of the concept of de-development to different sectors and issues–and had a foreword by Sara Roy, the scholar who coined the term, and who was involved in the workshop from which the book emerged.

This co-edited special issue (with Cherine Hussein, who, at the time of the issue construction, was the deputy director of the Kenyon Institute) was therefore the next logical step in my research on Palestine, although my article on Jewish-Israeli anti-Zionists did constitute a slight departure from my usual focus.

J: Who do you hope will read this volume, and what sort of impact would you like it to have?

MT: I would imagine the main audience will be those whose research and political interests lie in Palestine Studies. It is difficult, given the structure of academic publishing – which has become ever more corporate and money grabbing – for research outputs such as this to be accessed by the general public. Only those with access to academic libraries are sure to be able to read it – and this is a travesty, in my opinion. To counteract this commodification of knowledge, we should all provide free access to our outputs through online open source websites such as academia.edu, etc. If academic research is going to have an impact beyond merely providing more material for teaching and background reading for yet more research (which is inaccessible to the general public) then this is essential. Websites such as Jadaliyya are therefore incredibly important.

Having said all that, I am under no illusions about the potential for ANY research on Israel-Palestine to contribute to changing the dynamics of the situation. However, as a collection of excellent analyses conducted by mostly early-career scholars in the field of Palestine studies, I am hopeful that their interesting and new perspectives will be read and digested. 

J: What other projects are you working on now?

MT: I am currently working on an edited volume provisionally entitled From the River to the Sea: Disintegration, Reintegration and Domination in Israel and Palestine. This book is the culmination of a two-year research project funded by the British Academy, which analyzed the impacts of the past twenty years of the Oslo peace framework and paradigm as processes of disintegration, reintegration and domination – and how they have created a new socio-economic and political landscape, which requires new agendas and frameworks. I am also working on a new research project with Tariq Dana at Birzeit University on capital and class in the occupied West Bank.

Excerpt from the Editor’s Note 

[Note: This issue was published in Dec. 2015]

Initially perceived to have inaugurated a new era of hope in the search for peace and justice in Palestine-Israel, the Oslo peace paradigm of a track one, elite-level, negotiated two-state solution is in crisis today, if not completely at an end.

While the major Western donors and the ‘international community’ continue to publicly endorse the Oslo peace paradigm, Israeli and Palestinian political elites have both stepped away from it. The Israeli government has adopted what appears to be an outright rejection of the internationally-accepted end-goal of negotiations, i.e. the emergence of a Palestinian state based on the 1967 borders with East Jerusalem as its capital. In March 2015, in the final days of his re-election campaign, Israeli Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, visited the Jewish settlement of Har Homa in Palestinian East Jerusalem, which is regarded as illegal under international law. Reminding its inhabitants that it was him and his Likud government that had established the settlement in 1997 as part of the Israeli state’s vision of a unified indivisible Jerusalem, he promised to expand the construction of settlements in East Jerusalem if re-elected. And in an interview with Israeli news site, NRG, Netanyahu vowed that the prospects of a Palestinian state were non-existent as long as he remained in office. Holding on to the occupied Palestinian territory (oPt), he argued, was necessary to ensure Israel’s security in the context of regional instability and Islamic extremism. It is widely acknowledged that Netanyahu’s emphasis on Israel’s security—against both external and internal enemies—gave him a surprise win in an election he was widely expected to lose.

Despite attempts to backtrack under recognition that the US and European states are critical of this turn in official Israeli state policy, Netanyahu’s promise to bury the two-state solution in favour of a policy of further annexation has become the Israeli government’s official intent, and has been enthusiastically endorsed by leading ministers and key advisers.

[…]

The Palestinian Authority (PA) based in the West Bank also appears to have rejected a key principle of the Oslo peace paradigm—that of bilateral negotiations under the supervision of the US. Despite a herculean effort by US Secretary of State, John Kerry, to bring the two parties to the negotiating table, in response to the lack of movement towards final status issues and continued settlement expansion (amongst other issues), the Palestinian political elite have withdrawn from negotiations and resumed attempts to ‘internationalise the struggle’ by seeking membership of international organisations such as the United Nations (UN), and signing international treaties such as the Rome Statute, the founding treaty of the International Criminal Court. This change of direction is part of a rethink in the PA and PLO’s strategy rooted in wider discussions and debates. The publication of a document by the Palestine Strategy Study Group (PSSG) in August 2008, the production of which involved many members of the Palestinian political elite (and whose recommendations were studiously discussed at the highest levels of the PA and PLO), showed widespread discontent with the bilateral negotiations framework and suggested ways in which Palestinians could ‘regain the initiative’.

[…]

And yet despite these changes in official Palestinian and Israeli political strategies that signal a deepening of the crisis, donors and the ‘international community’ are reluctant to accept the failure of the Oslo peace paradigm. This political myopia has meant the persistence of a framework that is increasingly divorced from the possibility of a just and sustainable peace. It is also acting as an ideological straitjacket by shutting out alternative interpretations. This special issue seeks a way out of this political and intellectual dead end. In pursuit of this, our various contributions undertake what we regard to be two key tasks: first, to critically analyse the perceptions underpinning the Oslo paradigm and the transformations instituted by its implementation; and second, to assess some alternative ways of understanding the situation rooted in new strategies of resistance that have emerged in the context of these transformations in the post-Oslo landscape.

[…]

Taken as a whole, the articles in this special issue aim to ignite conversations on the conflict that are not based within abstracted debates that centre upon the peace process itself—but that begin from within the realities and geographies of both the continually transforming land of Palestine-Israel and the voices, struggles, worldviews and imaginings of the future of the people who presently inhabit it. For it is by highlighting these transformations, and from within these points of beginning, that we believe more hopeful pathways for alternative ways forward can be collectively imagined, articulated, debated and built.