Truce for now: Fatah's Azzam al-Ahmed celebrates with Hamas's PM in the Gaza Strip Ismail Haniya in Gaza City. 23 April. Photo: Getty
Show Hide image

Israel-Palestine: this is the anti-peace process

If the Israeli government was at all committed to a two-state solution, it would have welcomed the agreement between the PLO and Hamas.

If you were in Israel over the past week or so you could be forgiven for thinking a war had broken out, rather than a reconciliation agreement. The Israeli government was outraged at the announcement on 23 April of the deal between the Palestinian rival organisations Fatah and Hamas. It formally withdrew from peace negotiations and issued an array of sanctions. Yet, despite its professed anger, Israel will benefit, regardless of whether the Palestinian pact fails or thrives.

The accord will open the way for the formation of a unity government in Palestine; elections are now scheduled for later this year. For the leader of the Palestinian Authority, Mahmoud Abbas, who is 79, this is a last chance to salvage his legitimacy. He is long past the end date of his elected term, and the most visible legacy of his flagship policy – the peace process – has been an increase in Israeli settlements.

Hamas, the militant Islamist faction governing the Gaza Strip, is in an even weaker position. The Syrian civil war and the overthrow of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt have deprived it of international allies, and inside Gaza weariness with Hamas rule grows. Reconciling with Fatah and joining the Palestine Liberation Organisation (PLO) brings Hamas back into the diplomatic game.

Israel, meanwhile, is in the unusual position of gaining from the agreement regardless of whether the deal unravels or not. If it succeeds, Israel will have a more representative partner to deal with. If it fails, Israel will reap what it can from Palestinian disunity.

If the Israeli government was at all committed to a two-state solution, it would have welcomed the agreement: for years, it has complained that Abbas has not been a credible partner because he represents “less than half of his people”. Moreover, Hamas’s unconditional accession to the PLO signals a quiet acceptance of the PLO’s old commitments, including recognition of Israel’s 1967 borders.

Despite consistently painting the Islamist movement as the devil incarnate, Israel has co-operated with Hamas in the past: for instance, when making prisoner exchanges, and when reaching a ceasefire at the end of 2012 in which Hamas cracked down hard on rival militant groups in Gaza.

For now, Israel is using the agreement as an excuse to shift the full blame for the failure of peace talks on to the Palestinians. Although it has reacted similarly to reconciliation attempts in the past, this time it is spurred on by tensions inside its own governing coalition. The uneasy alliance between the Israeli hard right and centrists gained stability through the abortive peace talks: they gave right-wingers something to rally against without challenging Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu directly, and they legitimised the centre’s participation in the hard-right government. At the same time, centrists agreed to turn a blind eye to construction of settlements in exchange for the right’s support for reforms to limit the special privileges granted to Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community.

The Hamas-Fatah deal has helped the Israeli government maintain its unity: the centre is now absolved from pressure to push for peace talks, and the right will gain greater support for settlement-building.

Israel would rather see a fractured Palestinian Authority that is just functional enough to manage the occupation on its behalf. It will therefore do everything it can to make the pact fail. It’s up to Fatah and Hamas to prove it wrong.

This article first appeared in the 01 May 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The Islam issue

Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko
Show Hide image

Ruin porn: the art world’s awkward obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture

Deserted fairgrounds, disused factories and forgotten military bases may look cool, but are we fetishising the remnants of such a cruel history?

Armenia, where one side of my family is from, was one of the first members of the USSR, annexed by Russia in 1922. A few years ago, when I visited this little country that perches precariously in the south of the Caucasus, I was struck most by its Soviet architecture.

Although its landscape is a hotchpotch of medieval Orthodox churches, a smattering of Persian-era domes, and brutalist concrete, it was the latter that particularly stuck out. From unfelled statues of Stalin to giant tower blocks spelling out the letters “CCCP” from a bird’s-eye view (well, half spelt-out – construction stopped partway through, with the fall of the Soviet Union), I’ve never forgotten it.

Perhaps it was so compelling because such stark physical symbols make recent history all the more tangible. A history still profoundly affecting the country of my ancestors (and all post-Soviet and communist states). But also, it just looked really cool.


Mixed air corps, Mongolia. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Eric Losito

It’s a bit passé now to mock the hipster obsession with reclaimed industrial detritus, exposed pipes and bare concrete. An aesthetic – that of a post-industrial wasteland, but a chic one – which has gripped western cities for years, and crept worldwide.

But it could be this tendency to find disused stuff visually intriguing, and a morbid fascination with cruel regimes, which has led to the art world’s obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture. A whole wave of artists and photographers have been poking around the eastern bloc’s architectural graveyard in recent years.

Late last year, we saw the hugely popular disused Soviet bus stop series by photographer Christopher Herwig, echoing photographer Sergey Novikov’s equally absorbing collection of abandoned Soviet cinemas from 2013.

Following Russian filmmaker and photographer Maria Morina’s “Atomic Cities” project four years ago, London-based artist Nadav Kander explored the “aesthetics of destruction” in his exhibition, Dust, in 2014, snapping “radioactive ruins” of secret cities on the border between Kazakhstan and Russia. The same year, Moscow photographers Sasha Mademuaselle and Sergey Kostromin travelled to the disputed region of Abkhazia, capturing fragments of its deserted infrastructure.


Fighter aviation regiment, Mongolia. Photo: Eric Losito
 

And photojournalist Anton Petrus’ now iconic pictures of Chernobyl’s abandoned amusement park have long been an internet favourite, as have numerous haunting images of Pripyet – the city famous for lying deserted following the nuclear disaster.

Jamie Rann, a lecturer in Russian at Oxford University, has written that the quality and technical accomplishment of most of this photography make the style more “ruin erotica” than “ruin porn” (the tag being used by some critics), but argues: “The enormous online popularity of this genre . . . combined with their voyeuristic, almost exploitative feel, certainly has something porny about it.”

The latest exploration of Soviet society’s skeletons can be found at the Power & Architecture season at London’s Calvert 22 Foundation. In an exhibition called Dead Space and Ruins, we see abandoned military bases and formerly mighty monuments, forgotten space ports freezing in the tundra, the ghost of an entire unused, unfinished city in Armenia lying derelict.



The unfinished "ghost city" built in Armenia to house earthquake survivors (water added by artist). Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Vahram Aghasyan

The works are beautiful, but do they feed in to this zeitgeisty lust for Soviet ruins?

One of its curators, Will Strong, laments this trend. “I was keen that this didn’t become like a kind of ‘ruin lust’, ‘ruin porn’ thing; this slightly buzzwordy term that there is at the moment, this kind of fetishisation of dead space,” he tells me.

“This history is incredibly loaded, and it did not end in 1991. To sort of fetishise it in the very bourgeois western way of, ‘oh yeah, look at all this wonderful Soviet architecture, isn’t it fantastic?’ Obviously a lot of people who lived in that time hated it . . . a lot of people were very miserable under these regimes, so it’s important not to forget that.”


Gym at the Independent Radar Centre of Early Detection, Latvia. Photo: Eric Losito

He adds: “It’s more a point of reflection on how buildings were designed, what their legacy is, what their narrative is, and who the people are who live with that story. This show looks at the aftermaths of when utopia hasn’t been delivered.”

This view is echoed by the Moscow artist, Danila Tkachenko, whose work is featured in the exhibition. “It is rather a metaphor for the future, not the past,” he says. “It represents an image of a possible future. When there is a visualisation of this issue [utopia], it evokes a response in people; they see this utopia in their lives . . . There is disappointment in all utopias.”


The world's largest diesel submarine, in Russia's Samara region. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko

His Restricted Areas series explores great behemoths of European communism left to lie forgotten in the tundra of remote regions in and around Russia and Kazakhstan: the world’s largest diesel submarine, like a beached whale in the snow; a giant satellite, thatched with antennae, built to communicate with Soviet bases on other planets some day; the deserted flying saucer-like communist headquarters in a region of Bulgaria. The structures hover in blank, white space, making the photos appear black-and-white.


Deserted observatory, Kazakhstan's Almaty region. Photo: Danila Tkachenko
 

Anton Ginzburg is an artist who grew up in St Petersburg in the Eighties as the Soviet Union was disintegrating. He believes studies like his film, Turo, of disused modernist constructions in the post-Soviet bloc, appeal to people’s connection to history. After all, picking through the architectural carcasses of former societies isn’t exactly a new thing:

“Russian culture is still haunted by its Communist past, and constructivist architecture is a decaying shell for its ghosts. It is an active reminder of the recent history,” he reflects. “Perhaps [its appeal] is a mixture of memento mori, with its thrill of beauty and destruction, along with a Romantic tradition of contemplation of Greek and Roman ruins.”

(Anton Ginzburg Turo teaser from Visionaireworld on Vimeo.)

The Power & Architecture season is on at the Calvert 22 Foundation, London, from 10 June-9 October 2016. Entry is free.

Anoosh Chakelian is deputy web editor at the New Statesman.