Michael Francis Laffan, Under Empire: Muslim Lives and Loyalties Across the Indian Ocean World, 1775-1945 (New Texts Out Now)

Michael Francis Laffan, Under Empire: Muslim Lives and Loyalties Across the Indian Ocean World, 1775-1945 (New Texts Out Now)

Michael Francis Laffan, Under Empire: Muslim Lives and Loyalties Across the Indian Ocean World, 1775-1945 (New Texts Out Now)

By : Michael Francis Laffan

Michael Francis Laffan, Under Empire: Muslim Lives and Loyalties Across the Indian Ocean World, 1775-1945 (Columbia University Press, 2022). 

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

Michael Laffan (ML): Even if I had not elected to term it such, I had long had a strong sense that it was possible to write a connected history of the Indian Ocean from its southern and central latitudes, while still considering the strong pull of Hadramawt and Egypt alongside Mecca for so many Muslims who came under the direct authority of the British Empire in the nineteenth century. At the same time, I wanted to factor in both the earlier place of Dutch empire and the subsequent appeal of the Ottoman and then the Japanese ones—especially for Indonesia, where much of my earlier work is grounded. Of course none of this was clear to me in the beginning. I had been motivated in part by sheer curiosity about the once Malay speaking communities of Cape Town and Colombo, which I have been able to visit and revisit over the last few years. As an Australian the former place was particularly intriguing to me. The (introduced) flora and indeed people are rather familiar, to say the least, and there is something about the environment in general that made me start to rethink my own national history, which also has its own rather unusual connection to the Indian Ocean world.

... it places the Ottoman state less in an antagonistic role vis-à-vis Britain than one of an imagined partner acting for Muslim interests ...

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

ML: The book opens two of its three constituent parts (“Western Deposits” and “Muslim Mediations”) by considering stories of forced and then seemingly unforced migrations between what is now eastern Indonesia, Sri Lanka, and most especially Cape Town. In what follows thereafter, it places the Ottoman state less in an antagonistic role vis-à-vis Britain than one of an imagined partner acting for Muslim interests, at least before the Russo-Turkish Wars that saw Abdulhamid II take advantage of many older aspirations expressed by Indian Ocean Muslims concerning the primacy of his office as Caliph. Here, I engage with recent work concerning the imaginings of Southeast Asians abroad, most notably that of Ronit Ricci, as much as that charting the vicissitudes of people of Hadrami background in Southeast Asia. Certainly, the latter captured a lot of attention in the past few decades—from Ulrike Freitag and Engseng Ho to the more recent Nurfadzilah Yahaya—though my concern is to emphasize their local roots even as they made appeals to Istanbul. In so doing, I try to turn a little sideways to look at both the local Indonesians drawn to the Hadrami community and their sometime fellow travelers from Egypt, Sudan, and Tunis.

In some ways, too, I wanted to give more flesh to some of Cemil Aydin’s explorations of the complex origins of both Islamic and Asian anti-Westernism and the very idea of the Muslim world, for I think Indonesia offers the ideal space for thinking about both forms of confraternity in global history, particularly when we see (in part three, “Eastern Returns”) how many erstwhile proponents of pan-Islam in the 1910s and 1920s became enthusiasts for Japan in the 1930s, if not for the Greater East Asian Co-prosperity Sphere, while it lasted.

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

ML: Having tackled more recondite questions of orientalist assumptions about Indonesian history and thus its religious character, this was something of a return to, and expansion of, the themes of my first book, where I was thinking about the impacts of travel and longing for a homeland, though in several of the newer oceanic cases we see the impossibility of return and thus the necessity for building new community abroad. This is most clearly in evidence in South Africa, where the forced migrants of past eras under the Dutch East India Company were crucial leaders of the emerging Muslim community that the British chose to read as “Malay”, despite their origins being more Indonesian and indeed broadly Afro-Indian.

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

ML: Well, I hope that readers can deal with my efforts to try and keep everybody in the story in the hope that fresh connections can be made to people who have otherwise been forgotten. Otherwise, we will keep treading in the same furrows, offering the same characters for various national or glorified imperial histories. On the other hand, too, I would hope that the fresh attention to the exilic experience of Ahmad Urabi and, just as importantly, his fellow deportees to then British Ceylon, will be of interest to students of the Middle East. Naturally, in treating so broad a swathe of time and space, some might blanch at the whole package—there is a lot of inside baseball as one reviewer noted—but I also hope that the tripartite structure of the book will invite more detailed dives for graduate students and even advanced undergraduates more focused on African, Sri Lankan, or Southeast Asian concerns.

J: What other projects are you working on now?

ML: As I hinted with regard to my own country’s connection to the Indian Ocean, and even South Africa, my new project concerns the surprisingly complex history of a very small atoll south of Java—that of Cocos-Keeling, a community of mostly Malay-speaking Muslims which has been administered by Australia since the 1950s. Settled in the 1820s, and largely by forced migration by way of Cape Town in the first instance, it saw the visits of Charles Darwin, querulous American whalers, regular cyclones, a cable station built by Chinese workers in 1902, an unwelcome German raider in 1914, and (yes) Japanese bombers in 1942, not to mention hundreds of military personnel from across Asia, Africa, and Europe. My hope is to rechart the early years of the islands’ history until the transition to Australian rule, focusing more on the family lineages of the workers than the pseudo-Scottish dynasty that claimed them as its own. Almost.

J: Could you tell us about the front cover of the book?

ML: In some ways I am a bit sheepish about the front cover. For my book on the history of Orientalist and reformist framings of “Indonesian Islam,” more often called Islam Nusantara these days, I found an image drawn by a Muslim for a Dutch scholar depicting his imagining of an Arab saint, and yet I did not really talk about it as the sort of framing device I could have made it. Once again I have found something that spoke to me in retrospect. This time it is a painting of a “Malay priest” made by the celebrated South African artist Irma Stern in 1931 and now held in the Rupert Museum in Stellenbosch. The question for me now, though, is: Who was it? I think this may well be something that can be discovered in time through her papers. For now, though, and despite the misapplied rubric of “priest,” I am glad to have an image that conveys an appropriate sense of dignity that still speaks to us today, past the experience of exile and apartheid.

 

Except from the book (from the Introduction, pp. 1-6)

The Arab with the Turkish Buttons 

On November 9, 1920, Salih bin ʿAbdat, a twenty-two-year-old resident of the lush hill town of Buitenzorg, otherwise known as Bogor, in West Java, boarded a train for the hour and half journey down to Batavia, the stifling capital of the Netherlands East Indies. It is hard to know whether he would have been confident or nervous. There is surely no record of what class of ticket he purchased, and thus whether he sat with other so-called “natives” or among those identified as “foreign orientals”, occupying a carriage closer to that of the Europeans in first class with its electric fans. The humidity would have been oppressive in any case. Sweat beaded on the brows of many passengers soon after the towering volcano Gunung Salak disappeared into the morning haze behind them.

Once at Batavia, with its canals and tramways, we do know that Salih presented himself for an interview with Josiah Crosby (1880-1958), the Acting Consul General for Great Britain. Already an old hand in Southeast Asia, Crosby had spent many years at Bangkok and had just been seconded from a fresh appointment to Saigon. Salih hoped that Crosby would grant him a visa in order to make a much longer journey across the Indian Ocean via Colombo to Aden, at the opening of the Red Sea. From there he would sail northeast along the South Arabian coast to the port of Mukalla, and then continue by camel up to the hinterland oasis corridor of Hadramawt.

This would not be his first journey to the striking environs of South Arabia where patches of agriculture and mud brick compounds offered water and a modicum of cool security between desert and towering cliffs. Salih claimed a wife and residence in one such redoubt the village of Ba Bakar. Lying at the western end of the long wadi, it was controlled from the town of Shibam by a governor appointed by Sultan Sir Ghalib b. ʿAwad al-Quʿayti (r. 1910-22). Sultan Sir Ghalib was seldom there, though. His whitewashed palace stood on the coast at Mukalla and looked away from Hadramawt toward India, and Hyderabad in particular, whence his family’s wealth derived. It was by virtue of the loyal military service of his forebears to a string of fabulously wealthy nizams that they had been able to recreate a small corner of the Raj in the land of their ancestors.

Ghalib’s passport had been issued to Salih on August 6, 1918, perhaps soon after the young man’s previous arrival in the land that was similarly of his paternal ancestors. For Salih had been born in Batavia and spent his childhood between there and Bogor, speaking Malay as well as Arabic. When dressed in the same sort of sarung worn on both sides of the Indian Ocean, he would have been hard to distinguish from many of his Indonesian relatives, Javanese and Malay among others, but he would still have stuck out to his Arab ones as being muwallad jawa: Southeast Asia born. Salih was surely not wearing a sarung the day he called on the British consul. Based on the photograph he supplied, dressed in a modern white suit topped off by a cocked red fez with a black tassel, Salih was the epitome of the modern young Indies Arab. Such youths and their mentors were oriented to Egypt, another protectorate of the British empire for the moment, with its opportunities, its rhetoric of Muslim equality for Arab and non-Arab alike, and its booming literary and journalistic scene. 

Many such trouser-clad young men—and soon a number of skirted women—were graduates of the modernist Irshad School, founded at Batavia in September 1914 by an African teacher, Ahmad Surkati al-Ansari (1875-1943), and bankrolled by the local Dutch appointed “Captain of the Arabs,” ʿUmar Manqush. Although Salih could not have started his schooling at the Irshad School, his father’s voluble support for both men and their egalitarian movement would have seen him invest in a suite of modern languages. They included Dutch and English at a minimum to negotiate business both in the Indies and en route to the hallowed homeland or watan of Hadramawt.

The problem for Salih, however, was that his father shared something with Manqush that no money or clothing could change. As the descendant of a relatively lowborn member of the larger Ba Kathir moiety—whose own sultan was landlocked in the central wadi town of Say’un—Salih’s modern learning and his Indies wealth were seen as a threat to the elite sayyids who claimed descent from the Prophet and who, as inviolable mediators between princes, effectively controlled the valley of Hadramawt and the ways thither. To some sayyids, young Salih was barely more than a “native” (watani), and he should have known his place—it being one of social immobility. If they met on the streets of any major town of Java, where Arab men were vastly outnumbered by thousands of women and men of several Asian communities—Javanese, Sundanese, and Chinese for starters—a reverent greeting and inhaling of the perfumed hand would have been due to the sayyid. Salih could never have hoped to marry one of their sequestered daughters.

Such expectations had caused Surkati, a Sudanese outsider trained in Ottoman Mecca, to establish his own school. This move was quietly welcomed by some Dutch officials appointed to monitor their Muslim subjects. On the other hand, the political relationship between the sayyids and Britain had only grown during the Great War, when the Netherlands was neutral, and in opposition to the continuance of Ottoman authority over Arabia. Once the Ottomans entered the war on the side of Germany, many Irshadi Arabs and like-minded Indonesians, as they were starting to call themselves, remained sympathetic to Turkey and its sultan, whom they respected as the modern caliph of Islam. By contrast two particularly prominent sayyids—Muhammad b. ʿAqil of Singapore and ʿAli b. Shahab of Batavia (a.k.a. Habib ʿAli Menteng)—convinced the British in both cities, and thus Aden, that fez-wearing youths like Salih were not merely Turcophiles, but pro-German enemies of the Union Jack and likely Bolsheviks. 

Before his interview with Salih, Crosby perused the ever-lengthening list of Arabs supplied by Habib ʿAli, since updated by his visa application: 

Saleh bin Salem Bin-Abdat. Born in Batavia. Address, Buitenzorg. 

A reckless anti-British preacher. In conversation in the habit of condemning Great Britain and of impressing upon the Arabs (both members and non-members of the Al-Irshad Society) that the principal aim of the Society is to see the Hadramaut free from the grip of Great Britain to whom the country was sold by the Sa[yy]ids.

Upon being advised by certain Arabs against being to too [sic] reckless in his anti-British preaching, he replies that he has nothing to fear as he feels sure to be able to move about freely with Al-Gaity’s passport which he holds. His father Salim bin Awad Bin-Abdat, resident at Buitenzorg, is one of the strongest supporters of the Al-Irshad Society and is an intimate associate of Manggesh [sic: Manqush] while he himself is highly respected by Manggesh despite his age.

In his interview Salih—whose slightly mismatched eyes subtly mirrored those of the consul—did not present in so hostile a manner. He denied “strenuously” that he was “in any way anti-British.” Still, there was the slightly worrying matter of his dress. As Crosby observed:

He happened at the time to be wearing in his coat buttons the device of the star and crescent stamped upon them. I asked him why he chose to exhibit the national Turkish emblem in this manner, whereupon he professed ignorance of the fact that the device in question had any connection with Turkey at all! (The same type of button is largely stocked in the local bazaar and is much in vogue with the native public here. The possibility exists that the sale of it may in itself be a form of pro-Turkish propaganda.)

While hardly likely that such sales were Turkish propaganda, Salih could not have been ignorant of the powerful symbolism of his buttons. If they didn’t suggest an allegiance to Turkey, saddled with a suite of occupiers after the 1918 Armistice of Mudros, they most decidedly invoked an Islamic identity in 1920. And it was an increasingly global one that wedded all manner of local struggles against a ubiquitous colonialism: British, Dutch, French, Italian, and American. Few places were free in Africa and Asia. Empire was the rule. 

Crosby—who later embarrassed himself as the pro-Japanese consul at Bangkok in 1942—had already expressed his doubts about the biased information that he had been receiving from Bin Shahab. He decided to issue Salih with a visa because of his youth and the hearsay of the charges against him. The young Arab could travel. But he would be watched, and ultimately with reason. In 1924, his paternal kinsmen—ʿUmar and Salih b. ʿUbayd Bin ʿAbdat—would attempt to build a state of their own centered on the tiny fortified town of al-Ghurfa, which lay between Quʿayti Shibam and Kathiri Say’un, eventually allied by British agreement in 1937. Starved of resources by the Japanese occupation of Java in 1942, the Bin ʿAbdats held on to their patch of the wadi until 1945 when Britain sent troops over from Hyderabad, and as yet more Indian soldiers were being mobilized to help the Dutch regain control of Java from nationalists who had declared independence two days after Japan’s surrender.

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.