Cynthia G. Franklin, Narrating Humanity: Life Writing and Movement Politics from Palestine to Mauna Kea (New Texts Out Now)

Cynthia G. Franklin, Narrating Humanity: Life Writing and Movement Politics from Palestine to Mauna Kea (New Texts Out Now)

Cynthia G. Franklin, Narrating Humanity: Life Writing and Movement Politics from Palestine to Mauna Kea (New Texts Out Now)

By : Cynthia G. Franklin

Cynthia G. Franklin, Narrating Humanity: Life Writing and Movement Politics from Palestine to Mauna Kea (Fordham University Press, 2023).

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

Cynthia G. Franklin (CF): When I consider this book’s beginnings, I think about a confrontation at a conference. I was giving a paper connecting attacks on Hannah Arendt’s alleged incivility and antisemitism in Eichmann in Jerusalem to those being issued against contemporary critics of Zionism. The chair cut me off ten minutes into my presentation. The next day, a conference organizer, clearly reluctant to accept my contribution to a student travel fund, told me he had heard that my behavior was scandalous, and my talk inappropriate. These responses to my presentation enacted the very phenomenon I was describing. They got me reflecting on how consequential life writing is in shaping understandings of who counts as human, what counts as civil, and how foundationally these categories depend upon structures of dehumanization. They also got me reflecting on the need not simply to denounce Zionism, but also to foreground Palestinians’ narratives.

The conference experience led me to apply to a 2013 Faculty Development Seminar sponsored by the Palestinian American Research Center. That trip to Palestine took me away from writing and moved me into projects that felt more pressing than a book on how understandings of the human are shaped by stories. Upon returning from Palestine, I undertook the coediting of a special issue of Biography on “Life in Occupied Palestine” with Brahim Aoude and Morgan Cooper (work that involved another few trips to Palestine). I also joined the Organizing Collective of the US Campaign for the Academic and Cultural Boycott of Israel (USACBI), and worked intensively on academic boycott resolutions, and supported Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) students on divestment initiatives. During this time of editing and organizing, Israel mounted its 2014 assault on Palestine. As they revised their essays, contributors to the Biography issue were losing family members, friends, and homes. Meanwhile, in the United States, Steven Salaita, my USACBI comrade, was fired from his position at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, allegedly for tweets denouncing this horrific violence. This same year, at the University of Hawai‘i, I started a Students and Faculty for Justice in Palestine (SFJP) organization, and a Decolonial November series, which brings out Palestinian writers and organizers to build solidarity from Hawai‘i to Palestine as two interconnected sites resisting occupation and settler colonialism. 

Immersion in these organizing projects involved community building founded on shared political commitments. But I also was learning about how movement politics provides new as well as resurgent ways for thinking about human being and belonging. This learning returned me to the project that became Narrating Humanity. I realized that the stories, and ways of being, that came out of participation in these movements made up the story I most wanted Narrating Humanity to tell. As I returned to writing this book, it became more than a scholarly project. It became one that aims to honor movements and organizers who think about human being and becoming in ways that provide alternatives to hegemonic narratives of the human, those that naturalize and legitimate intersecting structures of settlerism, racial capitalism, and heteropatriarchy.

... Narrating Humanity explores how life writing can be mobilized to resist as well as perpetuate hegemonic forms of dehumanization that underwrite state violence.

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

CF: This book explores life writing texts that have catalyzed or respond to contemporary crises in the United States concerning the status of the human. Through chapters focused on Hurricane Katrina (Dave Eggers’ Zeitoun, Carl Deal and Tia Lessin’s Trouble the Water), Black Lives Matter (Ryan Coogler’s Fruitvale Station, Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between the World and Me, Patrisse Cullors and ashe bandele’s When They Call You a Terrorist), Palestine solidarity (Salaita’s Uncivil Rites and website essays), and Native Hawaiian sovereignty (stories coming out of the movement to protect Mauna Kea), Narrating Humanity explores how life writing can be mobilized to resist as well as perpetuate hegemonic forms of dehumanization that underwrite state violence. I contend that life narratives that participate in liberatory political movements can help us to envision ways of being human based on queer kinship, inter/national solidarity, abolitionist care, and decolonial connectivity among humans, more-than-humans, land, and waters. 

I approach the life writing texts under consideration through the analytic of “narrative humanity”—a formulation indebted to Samera Esmeir’s “juridical humanity.” I conceived this term to theorize the range of historically variable but persistently ideological generic and narrative conventions and codes that, emerging from Western colonial contexts, create exclusionary understandings of the human. In Part 1 of the book, I analyze possibilities and limitations of narrative humanity in resisting processes of dehumanization; in Part 2, through attention to what I call “narrated humanity,” I look to how life writing texts can help narrate into being understandings of the human inspired by political movements that are based on radical care and relationality. I explore narrative forms and genres that have not yet been codified in literature, and that emerge out of and advance movements in the making. Narrated humanity—and here the shift from the noun “narrative” to the verb “narrated” is indicative—offers formulations of the human that are still in process. In Part 3, I continue this exploration by introducing the term “grounded narrative humanity.” I conceive this term to describe a system of narrative humanity that emerges from understandings of the human that are normative within Indigenous worldviews, or what Yellowknives Dene scholar Glen Sean Coulthard theorizes as “grounded normativity.” Stories based in grounded narrative humanity that emerge from Indigenous-led movementsposit a distinctly anticapitalist and decolonial understanding of the human as normative and as part of an ongoing story, one in which humans and more-than-humans exist in reciprocal, caring, and nonhierarchical kinship. 

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

CF: I approach this study as a scholar of life writing who comes at the field sideways. Even as this book takes as its premise the importance of analyzing representations of lives and complements my work coediting Biography, my main concern is not with debates and directions in life writing studies. Rather, I see this primarily as an American studies project with a twofold orientation toward movement politics and literary criticism. Taking a transdisciplinary approach, I build on my first two books, Writing Women’s Lives: The Politics and Poetics of Contemporary Multi-Genre Anthologies and Academic Lives: Memoir, Cultural Theory, and the University Today, which also take up the relationship between life writing and participation in political movements, and which also investigate interrelations between academic work and activism. My commitment to engaged scholarship in Narrating Humanity draws upon, and I hope extends, my support for BLM and my participation in solidarity work for Palestinian liberation (as a white, Jewish anti-Zionist American) and for a decolonial Hawai‘i (from my position as a settler).

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

CF: I write in conversation with scholars in American studies, life writing studies, critical ethnic studies, Indigenous studies, settler colonial studies, university studies, Black studies, Palestine studies, feminist studies, queer studies, literary and film studies, and cultural studies. However, my most sincere hope is that Narrating Humanity will contribute to the movements this book seeks to uplift. Learning from the writers and activists in this study, I have come to write side by side with them in my own acts of narrated humanity, refusing boundaries between autobiography, community-based activism, and literary and cultural criticism. I hope that those reading this book will keep company with them, and with me, in a journey toward materializing more just, capacious, and joyful ways of human being and belonging.

J: What other projects are you working on now?

CF: I am conceptualizing a monograph on narratives of decolonial love that will continue Narrating Humanity’s attention to collective forms of radical care, expansive forms of kinship, and movement solidarities. I am interested in what the term “colonial love” might mean (in what ways might it equate and not equate to colonial violence?), and in interrelations between decolonial love and abolitionist forms of care. For USACBI, we are in early stages of exploring how to reignite a campaign to boycott study abroad in Israel, and to support academic boycott initiatives. As part of my ongoing work for SFJP@UH, I am organizing visits to Hawai‘i for the coming academic year with Malak Mattar and Sherene Seikaly.

J: In what way is Palestine a through-line in this book?

CF: Although thematically central only to the fourth chapter, on Steven Salaita and the BDS movement, Palestine is the heart of this book, and is woven into each of its chapters. In the Introduction and Chapters 1 and 2, it serves as a moral compass, one that registers failures in narrative humanity’s formulations of the human and demonstrates how memoirs can break from movements with which they are aligned. For example, in Chapter 2, Ta-nehisi Coates’ relationship to Palestine evidences how his memoir departs from BLM. At the same time, attention to Oscar Grant’s story (in Chapter 2) and Cullors’ relationship to Palestine (in Chapter 3) provides a way to trace BLM’s commitments to international solidarity. As the book progresses—in Chapter 5 (on the Native Hawaiian-led movement to protect Mauna Kea) and in the postscript—Palestine becomes a greater focus as I consider the power and importance of stories that build solidarity from Hawai‘i to Palestine. Palestine is vital to the story this book tells of how, in the face of crushing violence, humans continue to rise, together, and breathe into being old and new stories of human and more-than-human becoming and belonging.

 

Excerpt from the book (from Chapter 4, pp. 145-49) 

Memoirs work within a tradition of liberal humanism insofar as they represent their authors as complex individuals constituted in relation to their time and place. And yet, in the Palestinian context—if not, as previous chapters show, uniquely so—such uses of narrative humanity are not merely liberal. Because they counter the dehumanization on which the Israeli state depends, Palestinian memoirs do not merely open a multicultural umbrella. Almost all of narrative humanity’s pathways cast Palestinians as terrorists, as inhuman others, and as security threats. In such a world, for a Palestinian father to narrate his nurturing love for his son and for other children, and to express the joy of imagining and then entering a world animated by kindness, care, and harmony (“nursing visions of the unimagined, just out of view but always there” [Salaita, “Palestine in the Revolutionary Imagination”]), counts as a world-upending, decolonial practice.

In Uncivil Rites: Palestine and the Limits of Academic Freedom (2015), a memoir catalyzed by his 2014 firing from a tenured position at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign (UIUC), Salaita continues this love story to and for his son—and for all children, including those under siege in Palestine. He responds to interconnected issues surrounding his firing: the colonial and racist violence inherent to institutional demands for “civility”; the dehumanization of Palestinians and the Palestinian exception to academic freedom and free speech; the undue influence of Zionism in the United States and the criminalization of the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions (BDS) movement; the white supremacy and militarism of US and Israeli settler colonial societies; the corporatization of the university and its systematic undermining of Indigenous studies and solidarities. Through telling a family story, Salaita mobilizes the liberal tenets of narrative humanity toward transformative ends and advances the BDS movement and the Palestinian struggle for justice. Not simply anticolonial but also decolonial, his memoir supersedes Zionist efforts to circumscribe his and all Palestinians’ life stories. 

Accompanying its contextually radical elements of narrative humanity are Salaita’s acts of narrated humanity. Sometimes contributing to the memoir’s father-son narrative and at other times more explicitly political, these instances of narrated humanity further Salaita’s work to support a free Palestine as a parent, scholar, teacher, member of the USACBI Organizing Collective, and, in the tradition of Edward Said, intellectual in exile. As his genre-bending memoir combines autobiographical elements that are profoundly political with political analysis that is deeply personal, Salaita does not merely expand understandings of the human and the civil. Instead, he reconfigures the human as he exposes an articulated set of oppressive conditions in the United States and Palestine/Israel. Through deployments of narrated humanity, Salaita reworks and provides alternatives to forms of narrative humanity that, in the name of civility, support settler violence. In a post to his website written in response to the Israeli army’s execution of beloved Palestinian American journalist Shireen Abu-Aklehon May 11, 2022, Salaita remarked of the endlessness of the settler’s violence, “It is the only way he knows how to be a good citizen. And it is the only way, in the end, he can imagine a meaningful existence” (“Why Did Israel Execute Shireen Abu-Akleh?”). Salaita’s memoir exposes and refuses such formulations of citizenship—ones that make settlers into what Ali Musleh calls “human-weapon ensembles”—while embracing both a way of being human that is instead based on inter/nationalism and radical forms of empathy and equality. 

In the latter part of this chapter, as I explore Salaita’s website entries, I look to how this decolonial way of being human comes more sharply into focus once Salaita leaves academe and moves more fully into modes of narrated humanity in which he asserts his newfound freedom. No longer willing to combat a four-continent blacklist, Salaita began work as a school bus driver. He also started a website which frees him to write what and when he wants and to reach out to his large social media following (over 55,000 on Twitter, almost 20,000 on Facebook). In postings to this site, as a father and caretaker of schoolchildren, he continues to extend his filial love to all children, and to tell family stories with elements that increasingly shift them from narrative to narrated humanity. These entries provide glimpses of what a decolonial mode of life writing can look like as they participate in and promulgate Angela Davis’s insight that rather than an achieved or achievable destination or state of being, “freedom is a constant struggle.”

Before turning to a section on BDS that prepares for my discussion of Salaita’s life writing, I want to situate myself in relation to this chapter’s concerns. Since participating in 2013 in a faculty development seminar in Palestine, my work has come to include a focus on Palestine. I grew up in a white Jewish home and in a white Christian neighborhood, both Zionist by default. In college, and then as an American Studies and life writing scholar located in Hawai‘i, I developed an antipathy to settlerism and Zionism. I contribute what I can to Kanaka Maoli, or Native Hawaiian, decolonial movements, and advocate for the call from Palestinian civil society to boycott Israeli academic institutions. Acting in solidarity for a free Palestine has also involved using the privileges that come with being tenured, Jewish, and white in a university with only a small and ineffective (though vociferous and well-funded!) Zionist presence: to host and teach the work of Palestinian scholars, writers, and activists; to help organize events bringing Palestinians into conversation with Kanaka Maoli student activists; and to work on academic boycott resolutions and divestment initiatives. 

Through these efforts, I have come to know Steve (as I will refer to him in the more personal moments in this chapter) not only as a scholar and leading proponent for BDS, but also as a comrade and friend. The Zionist website Canary Mission’s description of me as Steve’s “avid supporter” is an attempted aspersion in which I take pride (“Cynthia Franklin”). I began working with Steve when we were both organizing with the Academic and Community Activism Caucus of the American Studies Association (ASA), to pass a Resolution to Boycott Israeli Academic Institutions, which, after years of groundwork, was adopted with overwhelming support from the membership in 2013. In 2013, I also joined the Organizing Collective of USACBI, which included Steve as a member (he has since moved to the USACBI Advisory Board). Based on this work, I was happy to be part of a group that David Lloyd brought together to nominate Steve for the 2016 ASA Angela Davis Award, which recognizes scholars who have made an outstanding contribution to the public good, and to celebrate with Steve and other comrades in Denver when he received this award. I also invited Steve to Hawai‘i in 2017 for “Decolonial November” (more on this later), a visit that inspired students to join the University of Hawai‘i’s Students and Faculty for Justice in Palestine organization (SFJP@UH) and participate in ongoing inter/national exchanges. Steve stands as a beacon for me and students and faculty I work with. His politics are principled, uncompromising, and courageous. He also is kind, decent, and compassionate. Steve exemplifies how it is possible to uphold humanism and value the human in ways that work within, against, and beyond narrative humanity, in practices of decolonial love, and in collective pursuit of freedom and justice. 

In attending to how Steve does this through genre-mixing engagements with both narrative and narrated humanity, and how his involvement in the BDS movement informs his writings, my commitments to him and to BDS are personal and political. They take this book into a more explicit crossing over from literary, cultural, and life writing studies into personal narrative, and engaged scholarship. In part, I attribute this move to what I have learned from Steve. In his attention to form as well as content, as his work advocates for better ways of being human, it not only reinvigorates the maxim that the personal is political—it also illuminates ways the political is personal. In this chapter, by blurring the lines between life writing studies and life writing, and between scholarship and activism, I explore possibilities that open for politically engaged cultural criticism when it includes attempted acts of narrated humanity. 

In taking this approach, I flip Said’s formulation, “never solidarity before criticism” (Representations of the Intellectual, 32), specifically conceiving of how to act in solidarity not only as a critic, but also as a comrade and as an ally. Putting solidarity before criticism does not mean that I am withholding criticisms that would challenge my arguments. It does, however, mean not attempting to do research or tell stories that cross lines I would not venture beyond as a movement participant. And it also means being willing to test my academic freedoms and cross lines of “professionalism” or “civility” in order to exist “in a contradictory relationship to the academy,” as graduate student ‘Ilima Long put it on an Arab Studies Quarterly conference panel we organized on solidarity. It means being willing to call out university administrators using a tactic my brilliant and badass student ‘Ihilani Lasconia named, on that same ASQ panel, “shame, blame and follow the money” (Lasconia). It also means putting what close-reading skills and audiences I have access to as a literary critic into the service of supporting not only movements in which I believe, but also those I respect and am connected to through political solidarity, friendship, and love.

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.