Lâle Can, Spiritual Subjects: Central Asian Pilgrims and the Ottoman Hajj at the End of Empire (New Texts Out Now)

Lâle Can, Spiritual Subjects: Central Asian Pilgrims and the Ottoman Hajj at the End of Empire (New Texts Out Now)

Lâle Can, Spiritual Subjects: Central Asian Pilgrims and the Ottoman Hajj at the End of Empire (New Texts Out Now)

By : Lâle Can

Lâle Can, Spiritual Subjects: Central Asian Pilgrims and the Ottoman Hajj at the End of Empire (Stanford University Press, 2020).

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

Lâle Can (LC): In the summer of 2006, I decided to take a break from the Ottoman Archives and to visit the Sultantepe Özbekler Tekkesi, a Sufi lodge I had read about in hundreds of petitions and state-generated documents. I knew from a short article by Grace Martin Smith that this modest Central Asian lodge had retained a trove of registers with information about the hajjis who had passed through its doors in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The shaykhs at Sultantepe had dutifully recorded the guests’ names, provenance, occupations, dates of arrival and departure, and personal details that provided glimpses into a rich history that was difficult to uncover in government records. After many visits, many attempts to gain access to these unique sources, many attempts to integrate unpublished hajj narratives into my research, and many years of thinking about the ways that Sufi spaces and texts facilitated long-distance travel, I knew that the only way I could write about this book was to let pilgrims be my guides. But if it was these hajjis and the community at Sultantepe that motivated me write this book, I was not always prepared for the complex questions about law, belonging, and rights that their experiences brought to light. 

In crafting the ensuing study of migration, law, religious authority, and patronage, it was important to me to keep the subjects of my study—and their communities and networks—at the center of my analysis. Whereas inter- and transimperial histories often start by invoking global processes and ruptures or stories about people who made it into archival sources because they were in some sense exceptional, I chose to begin and to end the book in the courtyard of this lodge amidst scenes of daily life. In part, this was to illustrate that the hajj was not something happening in a distant province at a set time of year, but a ritual woven into the structure of Ottoman communities. It was also meant to root the history of hajj connections in a place that readers could envision as a nodal point in a network that mediated tense experiences and provided new arrivals with support. By taking readers with me, up the steep hill in Üsküdar to Sultantepe, I hoped to introduce them to the shaykhs who helped new arrivals find jobs, healthcare, and steamer tickets. I also wanted them to meet the lodgers who came and went, sometimes tens of times over tens of years. In the context of the formidable hardship pilgrims faced as they traveled Istanbul, I wanted to show how this lodge would have offered some respite, some sense of familiarity and home. At the same time, I wanted to paint a finer grained picture of this space of connection, which included a beautiful old magnolia tree that marked the passing of seasons and was a quiet observer of the large-scale changes that impacted the quotidian rhythms of life between 1869 and 1914.

Not quite Ottoman and not quite foreign, Central Asians derived a type of subjecthood based on the Porte’s novel claim of protection via the caliphate.

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

LC: Spiritual Subjects is a study of global hajj, nationality reform, and international law that traces how pilgrimage-related migration paved the way for Central Asians to become Ottoman subjects and, later, Turkish citizens. It follows people from Russian and Chinese Turkestan and explores how Ottoman assertions of caliphal power in the Hamidian and Young Turk eras reconfigured the sultan’s relationship to Muslims from abroad. By integrating research from the Ottoman Foreign Ministry Office of Legal Counsel and its engagement with international law, the book traces how the Porte (the central government) sought to counter the proliferation of Muslims seeking extraterritorial rights and privileges by denying their rights to European protection, and then claiming that they were subject to the exclusive protection of the Ottoman caliph. Not quite Ottoman and not quite foreign, Central Asians derived a type of subjecthood based on the Porte’s novel claim of protection via the caliphate. Their status defied both contemporary legal classifications of Ottoman and foreigner and the categories that historians have used to analyze imperial subjecthood. 

Among the book’s contributions, I believe three are particularly important. First, it disaggregates a range of developments studied under the rubric of pan-Turkism and pan-Islamism. For example, it shows how Ottoman patronage and repatriation of pilgrims to Russian and Chinese Turkestan were often driven by concerns about policing and public order—not political-religious ideology or ethnic kinship. Similarly, it demonstrates that the Porte’s claim to being the exclusive protector of Bukharans and other “protected peoples” was a response to legal imperialism, not an attempt to vie for Central Asians’ hearts and minds. Second, through a focus on pilgrimage accounts, petitions, and Sufi lodges, the book highlights the important role of Islamic texts and spaces in facilitating both travel to the empire and integration into Ottoman communities. Third, by calling our attention to the many dead ends hajjis faced in their attempts to benefit from extraterritorial rights, Spiritual Subjects counters the view that competing jurisdictional sovereignty increased legal opportunities for subjects with contested or ambiguous nationalities. Imperial competition, I argue, often led to a narrowing of legal horizons—especially for people from informally colonized lands in Asia. 

By tracing pilgrims’ trajectories and their attempts to engage with different regimes of protection, Spiritual Subjects presents a new history of the hajj. This includes revisiting much conventional wisdom about the caliphate and recognizing the burdens and limits of this institution. This is clearest when we examine the inability of the Porte to establish a firm nationality boundary, and when we trace the ways that claims of “spiritual” protection and sovereignty translated into material responsibilities that strained the coffers of the bankrupt empire.

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

LC: As an active participant and beneficiary of early efforts to promote Inter-Asian research (supported by the Social Science Research Council), I started this project armed with questions about how to think about Ottoman history in a broader Asian context. This has been a line of continuity in the projects I have taken on, and helps me counter what I find to be frustrating about the dominant, reductive paradigms concerning ideas of Muslim loyalty and ideology, as well as imperial patronage and legitimacy. It also informs my interests in the vast regional linkages between hajj, migration, law, and imperial belonging that I discuss in articles in Modern Asian Studies and the International Journal of Middle East Studies. This book also directly connects to a volume I co-edited, which includes pioneering scholarship on Ottoman engagement with international law.

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

LC: This book was a labor of love; it connected a complex family history to intellectual interests in ways that I try to explain in the preface. In addition to Ottomanists and historians of the hajj, I hope that scholars of Islamic history, migration, international law, and citizenship will read the book, and assign it in undergraduate and graduate courses. In terms of impact, I hope that it helps historians to think about writing Ottoman history from what Engseng Ho refers to as an outside-in approach: in this context, how attention to people from outside the empire allows us to productively disaggregate concepts many take for granted in a field—including the very category of “Ottoman” itself. 

When readers tell me they can visualize the magnolia tree at Sultantepe, and the pilgrims passing through Istanbul, I feel that I have succeeded in writing Central Asians into history in ways that extend beyond merely being pawns in great power rivalries, or as masses of undifferentiated subjects traveling during the steamship era. I hope the book inspires graduate students to find projects that will at times keep them up at night (with questions and excitement) and stories they are committed to reconstructing in ways that feel true to the subjects of their inquiry. 

J: What other projects are you working on now? 

LC: As a senior fellow at the Koç University Center for Anatolian Civilizations, I am working on a new project on Ottoman exile in the long nineteenth century. Right now, I am investigating practices of forced relocation and their impact on what I term a culture of exile. In a sense, I am working on the flip side of mobility and considering what it meant to be Ottoman from the perspective of those who were cast out of society and rendered immobile. The project opens up exciting questions about visions of justice, imperial space, and the affective traumas of displacement. 

J: What are some books that have inspired you along the way?

LC: This is a very partial list, but as an undergraduate, I adored The Mantle of the Prophet, and the gorgeous prose that Roy Mottahedeh used to bring the mullah Ali Hashemi and modern Iranian history to life. As a graduate student, I found much inspiration in Leslie Peirce’s Morality Tales, an exquisite microhistorical account of law, gender, and society in sixteenth-century Aintab. In the growing field of inter-Asian history, I read and re-read Engseng Ho’s The Graves of Tarim and learned so much from how he approached mobility and diaspora through registers and scales that extended seamlessly across oceans. My advisor Robert McChesney’s Waqf in Central Asia: Four Hundred Years in the History of a Muslim Shrine, 1480-1889 offered a model of scholarship on Central Asian history, which I saw as a book that would stand the test of time. More recently, everything Sarah Abrevaya Stein writes about extraterritoriality is an inspiration. I am also a huge fan of Dominique Kirchner Reill’s work, which subverts conventional wisdom on the end of empire, the rise of nationalism, and support for fascism through a history set in what she evocatively calls the “ghost city” of Fiume (today’s Rijeka). In readings related to my new project, I am really excited by the work of social historians such as Noémi Lévy-Aksu, Ufuk Adak, Cengiz Kırlı, Nadir Özbek, Gülhan Balsoy, and Can Nacar, and how they engage with and historicize “order,” prisons, corruption, taxation, and gender and labor history. 

 

Excerpt from the book (from Chapter 5, “From Pilgrims to Migrants and De Facto Ottomans,” pp. 149-153)

The entire old East was in these streets. Turkestanis with their scant, round trimmed beards, prominent cheekbones, their faces strained by asceticism and piety, their hands clasped in their long-sleeved shawl robes, having come in who knows which year’s hajj caravan—just like storks separated from their flock—ended up staying in a corner of this city [İstanbul]. Chinese Muslims, married in Ayvansaray or Hırka-i Şerif [Mosque] and becoming heads of households, their limbs by custom still finding our clothes strange, [mixed with] people of the Caucasus in black kalpaks, their waists tightened with belts with silver buckles, [and] Yemenis, wrapped in white cloaks, their figures reminding old hajjis of Arafat . . .

Ahmed Hamdi Tanpınar, Beş Şehir (Five Cities)

In the busy commercial districts that lead from the Süleymaniye Mosque Complex down to Mahmutpaşa—where many Central Asians found lodging and work at Istanbul’s inns, workshops, and coffeehouses—there are still businesses for hajj and umra services, with names that evoke Bukhara and Turkestan. Despite a recent surge in labor migration from Central Asia—bringing men and women to take care of Istanbul’s elderly and to work in its service industries—the connections between places like Bukhara, Greater Istanbul, and Arabia no longer make much sense, and for most city dwellers, the existence of Bukharan hajj businesses is probably little more than a curiosity, if that. 

But during the early life of famed novelist Ahmed Hamdi Tanpınar (1901–62), the connections between Central Asians and the hajj were still clear. As he wrote in his essay collection Beş Şehir, Turkestanis were part of the diverse Muslim cosmopolitan community that populated Istanbul and connected—an “old East,” Arafat—and to the hajj (fig. 10). Into the mid-twentieth century, when one visited the city, it would be commonplace to see Bukharan and Kashgari hajjis gathered by the steps of Yeni Camii, near the hans where they worked and bachelor houses where they resided or near the lodges of Üsküdar and Eyüp Sultan, where they had forged small communities. At the end of empire, Central Asians and Indians would be gathered in and around the Zawiya al-Uzbakiyya (Uzbek Sufi Lodge), just off the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem—the route that led Jesus to his crucifixion. In the midst of the Arabic being spoken in the busy streets, one would likely hear Turki, Persian, and Urdu and notice the code switching that is a feature of conversation among multilingual people. In Tarsus, migrants from the Ferghana Valley would be milling about the Türkistan Tekke, a Sufi lodge established long before steamship routes eclipsed the overland roads leading through Anatolia into Greater Syria. In Medina, Bukharans could be found at any number of the guesthouses established between the early modern and modern era, one just off the Prophet’s Mosque. In each setting, their distinctive silk and velvet hats and robes (doppi, chopon) would give away that they originated from somewhere else, their accents in Turkish and Arabic hinting that they were not quite Ottoman.

Unlike Muslim migrants and refugees (muhacirin) who fled persecution and war in the Balkans, Caucasus, and Crimea and sought shelter in the sultan’s domains, the nature of nineteenth-century Central Asian migration was, as Tanpınar suggested, ad hoc. Bukharans, Andijanis, and Kashgaris did not arrive en masse, and were not processed by special refugee commissions, and resettled in Rumeli, Anatolia, or Arab provinces, where they were expected to become productive and loyal citizens of their adopted homeland. Rather, they were travelers like Nur Muhammed (who we met in Chapter 2)—people who came in small waves and stayed behind after completing their pilgrimage and who straddled the fine line between Ottomans and foreigners that the Porte began to draw in 1869. Their stories are often scattered and lost or overshadowed by accounts of people at the center of diplomatic struggles over nationality and protection, the masses of problem subjects whom the Porte sought to repatriate, and pan-Turkists who reshaped how the Turkish Republic understood its historical connections to Central Asians. 

This chapter looks at the hajjis who stayed behind after completing the hajj and became Ottomans. I begin by working back from the onset of the First World War—when the abrogation of the Capitulations sparked a rush of applications for legal naturalization—and investigate two forms of pilgrimage-related migration and paths to Ottoman subjecthood. In the first part of the chapter, I examine the process of granting nationality to long-term residents and denizens—referred to in governmental sources as telsik (a new term for naturalization)—and argue that the abrogation of the Capitulations facilitated the formalization of a type of extralegal belonging that had emerged after 1869. I call this status de facto subjecthood and use it to refer to persons who lived for all intents and purposes as Ottomans, even though they were not Ottoman legal nationals. My analysis entails distinguishing between foreigners perceived as outsiders and foreigners as people with non-Ottoman legal nationality. While this is a distinction that often gets lost in translation, it is important for understanding how Central Asians became integrated into Ottoman societies and why they were able to bypass—not necessarily via subterfuge—legal restrictions on the rights of ecnebi. De facto subjecthood existed not simply because people exploited legal loopholes but because the central government could not achieve consensus on what it meant to be a foreigner and was not willing to enforce many of its own regulations. 

Tracing the connections between hajj and migration sheds light on a fuller range of Asian mobilities and challenges the commonly held view that Central Asian migration to Ottoman lands was driven primarily by ethnicity. There is a reason why Bukharans, Turkestanis, and Kashgaris settled in cities along hajj routes like Istanbul, Damascus, Jerusalem, Mecca, and Medina rather than “Turkish” cities. This becomes clearer in the second part of the chapter, as we move to the Holy Cities and examine an understudied form of state-sponsored migration and subsidized residence termed mücaveret. The experiences of Central Asians in the Hijaz raise questions about nationality and imperial belonging in “exceptional” provinces that impel us to reconsider what it meant to be a Muslim foreigner or to become Ottoman in a polity that was legitimized by the caliphate and ruled through difference.

De Facto Ottomans

For the Andijani native Hacı Sahib, who migrated to Istanbul in the early 1900s, becoming Ottoman was a process that was a long time in the making. Sometime before or after completing the hajj, he had settled in Eyüp—perhaps hesitant to return to the Ferghana Valley, which was still shaken by the 1898 uprising and subsequent Russian reprisals. Once the hajji accumulated sufficient capital, he opened a prayer-bead business and married an Ottoman woman, Fatma Tevhide Hanım, the daughter of a local coffeehouse proprietor. Together they had two little girls named Naime and Nebiye. As he built a new life in the Ottoman capital, Hacı Sahib held on to his Russian identity papers and passport, ne olur ne olmaz (just in case). Like many of his countrymen, Hacı Sahib may have made the calculation that he could one day stand to benefit from foreign nationality. If he were to expand his business,for example, capitulatory privileges would allow him to compete with European proteges in ways that Ottoman subjects could not. Given that he could already live and work in the empire without becoming Ottoman, this was the path of least resistance since he otherwise would have to take a costly trip to Russia to legally (per Russia) renounce his subjecthood.

It was only in the days after 9 September 1914, when the government of the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) unilaterally abrogated the Capitulations, that Hacı Sahib seems to have questioned the wisdom of maintaining his foreign nationality. That fall, people in the city began decorating their homes and businesses with flags and banners and turning out to large public rallies to celebrate independence from the onerous capitulatory agreements that had long plagued the empire. When the CUP entered the war on the side of the Central Powers on 29 October, the government’s marshaling of patriotic and antiforeign sentiment only increased. Ottomans throughout Istanbul began to mobilize against foreigners, who were increasingly seen as “dangerous insider[s] in cahoots with non-Muslim traders against the beneficial emergence of a ‘national economy.’” Although it was unlikely that his neighbors or associates regarded him as an insidious outsider, maintaining foreign nationality was becoming a liability rather than an advantage. With two young children and a wife who probably did not want to move from Istanbul to a distant village in Turkestan, he submitted a petition to the Interior Ministry asking to be naturalized. The documentation included a sworn statement that he renounced any future rights to foreign nationality. The process of seeking naturalization—telsik—was followed by a fairly straightforward investigation: Ottoman authorities consulted with intermediaries such as tekke shaykhs in Eyüp and established that the hajji had fulfilled the five-year residency requirement of the 1869 Ottoman Nationality Law and that he was a reputable man with a sound business. His application was swiftly approved: he and his daughters—who had automatically taken the nationality of their father at birth—became Ottomans.

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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.

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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.