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Whose Right to Jerusalem?

GILLAD ROSEN and ANNE B. SHLAY

Abstract Jerusalem is a city mired in spatial conflict. Its contested spaces represent deep conflicts among groups that vary by national identity, religion, religiosity and gender. The omnipresent nature of these conflicts provides an opportunity to look at Henri Lefebvre’s concept of the right to the city (RTC). The RTC has been adopted and celebrated as a political tool for positive change, enabling communities to take control of space. Based on extensive fieldwork and in-depth interviews, this article explores the complexity of the RTC principles and examines three urban battlefields in Jerusalem — Bar-Ilan Street, the Kotel and the Orient House. The RTC is a powerful idea, providing the opportunity to examine people’s everyday activities within the context of how space can be used to support their lives. Yet Jerusalem’s myriad divisions produce claims by different groups to different parts of the city. In Jerusalem, the RTC is not a clear vision but a kaleidoscope of rights that produces a fragmented landscape within a religious and ethno-national context governed by the nation state — Israel. The growth of cultural and ethnic diversity in urban areas may limit the possibility for a unified RTC to emerge in an urban sea of demands framed by difference. Space-based cultural conflict exemplifies urban divisions and exacerbates claims to ‘my Jerusalem’, not ‘our Jerusalem’. Identity-based claims to the RTC appear to work against, not for, a universalistic RTC.

Introduction The role of community participation is a central focus in urban scholarship (Martin, 2003; Shlay and Whitman, 2006; Ron and Cohen-Blankshtain, 2011). Concerned with the all-encompassing nature of neoliberal politics, many are now asking how popular participation and more vocal community activities can be used to mitigate some of the negative effects of austerity policies and government cutbacks (Brenner and Theodore, 2002; Harvey 2003; Kohl, 2003; Fernandes, 2007). State protection of the free market has pitted the rights of the many against the rights of the few, as evidenced by the myriad protests that have taken place across the globe (Mayer, 2006; 2009; Marcuse, 2009,). Given the backdrop of the rising wave of neoliberalism, it is no wonder that those concerned with escalating inequality have embraced Henri Lefebvre’s right to the city (RTC), a relatively new political concept on the urban scene (McCann, 2002; Purcell, 2002; Staeheli and Dowler, 2002; Harvey, 2003; Mitchell, 2003; Marcuse, 2009; Nagle, 2009; Weinstein and Xuefei, 2009; Parnell and Pieterse, 2010; Carpio et al., 2011; Kipfer et al., 2012).

The RTC is a direct challenge to conventional property rights (Purcell, 2002; 2003; Mitchell, 2003). It argues for democratizing development decisions, by having citizens

This research was supported by a Temple University Summer Fellowship. We are grateful to the numerous respondents for their willingness to speak with us, to Emma Giloth for assistance with our interviews and to several anonymous IJURR reviewers.

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Volume 38.3 May 2014 935–50 International Journal of Urban and Regional Research DOI:10.1111/1468-2427.12093

take power over the production of space. Within this framework, urban citizenry is not rooted in political nationality but in local residency. Originating in Lefebvre’s (1976; 1991; 1996) concern with class segregation and the displacement of poor immigrants and the working class to the Parisian suburbs during the 1960s, the RTC redefines local political membership, challenges capitalistic logic and alters residents’ vision on control over spatial production. Decisions regarding land use must not be made by landowners or elites, but rather by the people most directly affected by them (Purcell, 2002).

The RTC is not a call for local protest to be removed from broader national and international struggles for democracy, economic change and redistribution. Following Marxist theory, control over space is akin to control over the workplace. Like labor organizing, movements for democratic control over land-use activities and the right to appropriate space are connected to broader political strategies because land-use control (in common with control over the labor process) is intrinsic to the human condition (Harvey, 1982; Lefebvre, 1991; Purcell, 2003). Class struggle and revolution are the ultimate solution to the inherent conflict between those who control land use and land users, and those who control the labor process and laborers. In the case of space where land users are largely urban, the right to control space becomes the RTC. It is not a slogan, but part of a political movement for social, political and economic transformation.

But what is this RTC when needs are not rooted in economic and social inequality? What happens when articulated needs are not germane to households’ social and physical reproduction but are relevant to social and cultural reproduction? Can the RTC include concepts of culture and identity as features of democratic place-making? In particular, how are rights negotiated in situations where there exist competing claims to citizenry by groups united by diverse cultural elements and identities? Cultural diversity adds complexity to the RTC with globalization and its attendant intensification of immigration. Whose rights are more ‘right’ in global cities such as London, Paris or Los Angeles, where difference rather than similarity is the standard of urban residency? Cultural and ethnic differentiation adds a dilemma to implementing a right to the (global) city (Harvey, 2003; Purcell, 2003; Fenster, 2005). Equally challenging is applying the RTC to divided cities — where socio-spatial divisions are starkest. Broader geopolitical conflicts are largely characterized by hostile struggles to control space (Bollens, 1998; 2012; Kliot and Mansfeld, 1999; Silver, 2010). Despite differences in their histories and the nature of their conflicts, these divided cities have important similarities such as multi-layered divisions between social groups (e.g. national, ethnic, economic) and sovereignty disputes in which equally valid yet diametrically opposed positions are voiced (Kotek, 1999). Recently the idea that the RTC concept could be applied to the context of divided cites has been postulated (Khamaisi, 2007; Nagle, 2009), but has not been sufficiently explored.

Jerusalem is mired in spatially manifested conflict (Friedland and Hecht, 2000; Klein, 2004; Gazit, 2010; Shlay and Rosen, 2010). It is dually claimed as the capital of the state of Israel and as the future capital of a would-be Palestinian state. Jerusalem is a battleground for those who live within it and for many others around the world who contest its boundaries (Hasson, 2010; Shlay and Rosen, 2010). It is consumed by spatial conflicts over landownership, resource distribution and neighborhood identity. These seemingly irresolvable conflicts are between different groups that vary by national identity, religion, religiosity, gender and sexual identity. Power to control the use of space, and thus to control the everyday experiences of Jerusalem’s residents, represents the power to permit or deny expression of identity. These conflicts — that thwart social expression and coerce behavior — are in part what led Lefebvre to call for the RTC.

Conflicts exist in every city although they may not overtly manifest themselves. Racial and class segregation, neighborhoods suffering from disinvestment, rich and poor suburbs existing side by side, newly rebuilt downtowns glittering above undeveloped areas — all wreak conflict between social groups. However, few cities trump Jerusalem as a site for overt conflict over space. Jerusalem reveals a series of conflicts — among many rival groups (national, ethnic and religious) at multiple sites across the city, but also at differing levels and intensity of state intervention. Another issue concerns the potential

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gap between the appeal of the RTC as an idea promoting greater participation and equality, and its implementation (that might advance anti-democratic values and spatial practices, e.g. increased authoritarianism, inequality and exclusion). In other words, the translation of a right (or a perceived right) to political change into spatial form is not always straightforward and might be perverted from its original objective.

To assess and analyze the various expressions of the RTC, we focus on three Jerusalem-based case studies. The first examines the struggle over Bar-Ilan Street, a site of cultural and ideological conflict between secular and ultra-Orthodox Jews over its use during Shabbat. This location has come to represent a profound division between the groups, reflecting each side’s passions, visions and needs over the image and identity of the road and the city as a whole. The second case is the clash over the Kotel (the remaining portion of the Western Wall of the Second Temple, returned to Jewish control after the 1967 Arab–Israeli war). A major source of ethno-national and religious conflict between Israelis and Palestinians, it is also a site of conflict framed by gender and Judaism (i.e. between Orthodox and non-Orthodox Jews, and between men and women). The third case relates to the Orient House, longtime home of the eminent Husseini family, former headquarters for the Palestinian Liberation Organization in Jerusalem, symbol of demands for a Palestinian state, and closed by the Israeli government during the second intifada. Located in East Jerusalem (around the corner from the famous American Colony Hotel), this case study represents the classic political fault line of the city — the ethno-national divide. The Orient House is a site of tremendous symbolic significance for a future Palestinian state. This research is based on extensive fieldwork and interviews undertaken by the authors with 70 Palestinians, Israelis and others (advocates, planners, politicians, non-profit directors, finance personnel, international aid organizations and academics). These interviews took place between 2006 and 2010; fieldwork undertaken during the summer of 2010 focused on the three case studies.

Bar-Ilan Street: A cultural–religious battlefield Running for approximately 1.2 kilometers, Bar-Ilan Street provides vehicular access from the entrance of the city out to its northern neighborhoods. Yet Bar-Ilan Street is unlike other Jerusalem thoroughfares. It has become an important social concept reflecting a deep cultural divide within Israeli society and between different social groups in Jerusalem. In particular, it has become a paradigmatic term for a collection of far broader issues, ranging from a cultural clash, a struggle for civil rights, participation in and production of public space, and ultimately the very future of Jerusalem.

Two major rival groups are engaged in this battle. The first group represents the ultra-Orthodox Jewish communities (Haredim). Considered fundamentalist in their religious views and practices, the Haredim seek to protect their traditional religious way of life through a range of spatial and social mechanisms of segregation, dictating place of residence, education, marriage, dress, employment and modes of transport (Shilhav, 1991; Gonen, 1995; Hasson, 2001; Rosen and Razin, 2008; Flint et al., 2012). The second group represents secular Jews leading a modern way of life.

Until 1967, Bar-Ilan Street was one of Jerusalem’s peripheral roads. It was a dead- end, leading to predominantly Orthodox (traditional) and ultra-Orthodox (religious- fundamentalist) neighborhoods located at the city’s frontier (where Israel ended and Jordan began).1 After the annexation of West Bank land to Jerusalem and its extensive

1 Ultra-Orthodox is the term usually employed to describe the Haredim, who adhere to literal interpretations of the Bible and Jewish law. They are distinguished by eighteenth-century modes of dress, conservative lifestyles, closed communities and insular forms of living, as well as their refusal to recognize any other forms of Judaism as legitimate. Traditional or modern Orthodox also follow stricter interpretations of the Bible, but are far less conservative and move freely (in terms of modes of attire and behavior) within mainstream contemporary society.

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suburban development in the 1970s and 1980s, it experienced population growth (Shlay and Rosen, 2010). Neighborhoods around it became overwhelmingly ultra-Orthodox. Meanwhile, the Bar-Ilan Street–Shemuel HaNavi junction became an important urban node, connecting western parts of the city to rapidly expanding areas to the north. These areas, however, primarily housed secular residents. As a result of these developments, Bar-Ilan Street became a key artery for secular people traveling through a largely ultra-Orthodox neighborhood.

By the end of the 1970s, the first signs of a cultural–religious struggle became evident. Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath (commencing on Friday at sundown and ending on Saturday night), is considered by Jewish religious groups to be an eternal covenant between God and the Jewish people. For Orthodox Jews, Shabbat is a day of rest during which work (broadly defined to include automobile use) is forbidden.

To honor (or protect) Shabbat, neighborhood ultra-Orthodox groups sought to prevent drivers from using Bar-Ilan Street, as well as other nearby roads including Golda Meir Boulevard (also known as the Ramot road), between sundown on Friday and Saturday night. The year 1988 saw the first signs of protest on Bar-Ilan Street. At first, these were mostly non-violent demonstrations by ultra-Orthodox Jews seeking to close the road. Their main motivation was a desire to prevent a violation of Shabbat and protect their religious way of life in the area from ‘external contamination’ (i.e. exposure to traffic) while residents walked to the synagogues. Demonstrations further escalated in 1991 after the street was temporarily closed.

The battle over Bar-Ilan Street

Changes in municipal and national politics set the scene for an escalating confrontation. The 1993 city council elections and 1996 national elections, and the power shift that accompanied them, catalyzed the clash. A new minister of Transport, Rabbi Itzahak Levi (head of the national religious party HaMafdal), changed rules accepted prior to his term. A member of one public committee explained that ‘his actions put into motion a process that would eventually partly close the street for traffic on Saturdays and Jewish holy days’ (interview, August 2010).

The deep disagreement soon became a real battle. From a secular Zionist point of view, ultra-Orthodox actions lead Jerusalem towards becoming a fundamentalist society more akin to places like Iran and Saudi Arabia. According to this perspective, closing roads endangers human rights and freedom of travel. As a local councilor explained, ‘closing the road dangerously blurs the boundaries of “state and church”, ultimately putting at risk the democratic nature of the state’ (interview, August 2010). Conversely, ultra-Orthodox Jews view secular actions as harassment of local communities’ unique way of life, denying them freedom of faith, and inflicting sacrileges on Jerusalem as a ‘holy city’ and Israel as a Jewish state.

Against a backdrop of sometimes violent clashes, both sides pursued a range of strategies. A Meretz (Zionist left-wing party) councilor described their protest tactics: ‘We organized car caravans that drove back and forth [along Bar-Ilan Street]’ (interview, July 2010). Another Meretz councilor added: ‘There were about 20 people involved [driving the convoys]. It was like a demonstration. But then the ultra-Orthodox got stronger and started throwing stones. They became violent and hurt people’ (interview, July 2010).

A Meretz national leader saw the conflict as an opportunity, an instrument for bargaining with the ultra-Orthodox over rights:

The minority was the ultra-Orthodox. Their way of life was such that it meant that others cannot live with them in their neighborhoods. Jerusalem would lose its liberal decision-making context and culture . . . the idea [was] to have people trade off one desire for another . . . it [would] be used to open up other parts of Jerusalem, for example [to introduce] public transportation and entertainment [on Shabbat]’ (interview, July 2010).

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From an ultra-Orthodox perspective, however, as a councilor for Agudat Yisrael (an ultra-Orthodox party) explains, until the late 1970s it was Orthodoxy (including the ultra-Orthodox) that was on the defensive, fighting to survive after nearly being wiped out by the Nazis in the second world war. However, ‘since the late 1970s we are not fighting to survive but fighting for our rights! It is the non-religious who feel threatened . . . they feel a threat that the seculars will disappear . . . [they] fear they will lose their neighborhoods . . . their fear is connected to hatred’ (interview, August 2010).

A former non-profit director explained how the conflict escalated: ‘On both sides two extreme groups were setting the agenda — 100–200 people in each camp. The [ultra-]Orthodox relied in their action on rabbinical agreement that did not stop the riots and violent clashes . . . and on the secular side Meretz brought in people from Tel Aviv and from other parts of the city to demonstrate. In the name of liberalism and democracy they forced their way in and wanted to “free” the area from ultra-Orthodox hold with no compromise . . . The situation escalated out of all proportion to reality’ (interview, August 2010).

Reality and hidden agendas: What is this battle really about?

The battle reached a climax in the years 1996 and 1997, resulting in a series of appeals to the High Court of Justice. Two public committees were established to examine the situation and propose schemes that would put an end to the deadlock. Following the Zameret Committee’s recommendations, local authorities made a decision to close the street to traffic on Friday evenings and Jewish holy day eves (from 18:30 to 21:00), and on Saturdays and Jewish holy days (from 07:30 to 11:30 and from 17:00 to 20:30). These prayer times were seen as flashpoints, when separation would benefit all sides and uphold public order. Although neither side felt satisfied with this decision, it proved effective in restoring order to the area.

The meaning of this battle varied considerably for the different communities. For some, the Bar-Ilan conflict was about appropriate uses of public space in a city and country where various alternative belief structures exist. As a public space, a street should not be the domain of one social group. For others, it was about the role of space in solidifying community identity and in essence creating community. At another level, the Bar-Ilan battle was a fight over neighborhoods, over whose space was dominant. The conflict thus represents a fight for neighborhood control between the religious and the secular. At a broader level, the battle was part of an ongoing cultural war within government and civil society over the definition of the Jewish state.

An Orthodox national councilor drew attention to the use of public space: ‘The issue is who controls the street . . . who controls the public domain . . . The public should be able to drive through the street, it does not belong to the neighborhood’ (interview, August 2010). According to this view, the road is first and foremost a battleground for rival social groups advocating different values and ideas regarding the use of public space.

Yet for some the boundaries relate to more than physical spaces. For some the battle over the road marked a struggle to create psychological boundaries, reinforce identity and cohesion, and control the flow of people across socio-cultural borders. The actual battle was over territory broader than the road itself, as an Agudat Yisrael (ultra- Orthodox) councilor explained:

Bar-Ilan is a symbol of south Jerusalem becoming Orthodox [ultra-Orthodox]. Roads in the area were the first issue. Bar-Ilan was an old issue . . . the borders are the real issue and problem that needs to be solved. Bar-Ilan was a symbol for the battle over Ramat Eshkol neighborhood . . . a Bar-Ilan issue could be raised in other parts of the city (interview, August 2010).

According to one prominent national-level planning official, Haredi dominance was bad for Jerusalem.

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The Haredim are increasing. They are largely low income. This hurts the tax base, continues a cycle of decline in neighborhoods, precipitates neighborhood change largely based on invasion and success, [they] are always looking to [take over] other sites (interview, November 2006).

A Jerusalem scholar echoed boldly that ‘people don’t want to live in a city strangled by the ultra-Orthodox’ (interview, July 2007).

Yet neighborhood control was a central issue. A Meretz councilor suggested that the issue of road control was part of a wider ultra-Orthodox neighborhood strategy. ‘The problem with the ultra-Orthodox is territory. Bar-Ilan is less important . . . when the religious [ultra-Orthodox] move in, they take over the neighborhood’ (interview, July 2010). Much like deterministic models of urban ecology, Jerusalem politics uses the ideas of invasion and succession to describe the fundamental incompatibility preventing secular residents (plus religious Jews adhering to more moderate interpretations of their faith) and ultra-Orthodox fundamentalists from coexisting.

But the fight over Bar-Ilan Street can be situated in a culture war that has broader implications. As a land-use dispute over the use of public property, the Bar-Ilan disagreement over road access on Shabbat is a conflict over the State of Israel’s representation of that public. Note that the Zameret Committee, whose decision was driven by the aim that ‘no side should be able to declare victory’, as reiterated to us by its chairman Zvi Zameret (interview, July 2010), wanted the supposed compromise to be viewed as a concession to everyone (i.e. the public). From a governance perspective, the street signs erected later telling the public not to drive on the road during Shabbat were viewed by the authorities as a request rather than a demand, although the threat of violence remained for those refusing to comply (ibid.). Today, the street is closed during prayer times, and is avoided by most secular Jerusalemites on Saturdays and holy days. Now highways in the city bypass Bar-Ilan Street and other closed roads and neighborhoods. Ultra-Orthodox dominance in the area has reached a critical point; nobody challenges the notion that Bar-Ilan Street and its surroundings are a part of an ‘ultra-Orthodox city’ within Jerusalem.

Secular Jerusalem’s right to this part of the city has been effectively denied. The ambivalence of the public decree that no side is victorious reflects the national political dynamics over the definition of Israel as a Jewish state, something that is monitored carefully by Jews around the globe. Conflict over this particular location in Jerusalem has local, national and potentially even international ramifications. This battle over the right for religious sanctity of place on Shabbat versus the right for others to use their public space whenever they want is a generic fight over Jerusalem. This RTC is both symbolically and materially reflective of the wider political struggle over space and society.

Whose Kotel? The most enduring symbol for Jews worldwide is the Western Wall (the HaKotel), a retaining wall of the temple built by Herod, located within the Old City. With the partition following the 1948 war, the Old City became part of Jordan. Israel’s lack of access to the Kotel heightened Jewish emotionality over what was known around the world as the ‘Wailing Wall’, a term discredited when Israel conquered the Old City during the 1967 war.

Immediately after the Old City was captured, Israel destroyed 135 Arab homes adjacent to the Kotel, making way for a plaza for Jews to visit and to pray (Abowd, 2001). The Western Wall Heritage Foundation (henceforth HF) was created in 1988 to excavate tunnels to explore the archeology underneath the Kotel; these tunnels are considered the holiest aspect of the Kotel enterprise. In response to popular demand for non-Orthodox prayer spaces, Robinson’s Arch, an area adjacent to the Kotel, has been designated for non-Orthodox worship by Reform and Conservative Jews. More recently,

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renovation has occurred at another Kotel site deep in the Muslim quarter, the Little Kotel. Each spatial expansion has been viewed as an incursion upon Palestinian territory, a form of Israeli imperialism akin to occupation of the West Bank. Israeli claims over the continued redefinition of the Kotel have escalated tensions, manifested as demonstrations, violence, one intifada and threats of others. The Kotel is the epicenter of the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, and questions over ownership and control have generated a litany of chronic grievances.

For Israeli Jews the major problem between 1949 and 1967 was access to the Western Wall. The most urgent and important post-1967 task was therefore securing access to the Old City by rebuilding Israeli Jewish neighborhoods near the Western Wall. As an Israeli non-profit director explains, ‘All that matters is the Kotel; we need unhindered access to Jerusalem, not blocked and threatened. The importance of Jerusalem is tied to being part of the Kotel’ (interview, July 2008).

The Israeli government left control of the Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif (where Islamic holy places are located, e.g. the Al-Aqsa Mosque and Dome of the Rock) in the hands of the Wakf.2 This produced a divided sovereignty arrangement, although formally Israel controls the entire area. In practice the Wakf controls the Temple Mount while Israel controls the Western Wall and access to the Temple Mount. This arrangement solidified the Temple Mount as a major contested ethno-national political space.

According to the Kotel’s education director, 8 million people of all faiths currently visit the Kotel annually (interview, August 2010). Open 24 hours a day (in addition to an online webcam facility), the Kotel is accessible at all times. Yet this apparent accessibility masks a deep conflict over how this site is used and to whom it belongs. The Kotel is a source of conflict between Orthodox and non-Orthodox Jews, and between men and women, a struggle which raises questions over the constituency of the Kotel.

The Kotel has for 25 years been the focus of the efforts of a non-profit organization called Women of the Wall (WoW). WoW works to eliminate differences between the ways men and women are permitted to pray, and seeks to open up the Kotel as an arena for prayer and celebrations for non-Orthodox Jews. The primary rules of the Kotel prescribe what WoW leader Anat Hoffman calls ‘the three Ts’ of the wall: Torah (a part of the Bible), Teffilah (prayer) and Tallit (Jewish prayer shawls). Kotel rules follows those of Orthodox Judaism, whereby women play a limited (some would say a different) role in the rites of Jewish prayer. Following these rules, women and men at prayer (either in an Orthodox synagogue or at the Kotel) are separated by a wall called a Mechitza, dividing the prayer space into two sections along gender lines.

Following Orthodox law, Kotel rules forbid women to hold or read the Torah, the holy scrolls comprising the Old Testament (handwritten in biblical Hebrew on parchment). Praying by women is intended to be largely silent or quiet; women at prayer are usually seen to be moving their lips only without being heard (Chesler and Haut, 2003).

WoW has challenged these rules in several ways. First, it has filed an appeal with the Israeli Supreme Court, arguing that these rules are unconstitutional. Although rulings were initially in favor of WoW, later appeals by the state reversed these decisions. Second, WoW promotes civil disobedience. With each new month, WoW comes to the Kotel as a group to pray using methods which are in direct violation of Orthodox rules for women.3

A concession made by Kotel officials was to designate a prayer space outside official Kotel space, but adjacent to the Temple Mount; Robinson’s Arch provides a beautiful rocky backdrop and ample room to hold several ceremonies simultaneously. Yet this

2 The Wakf is the Islamic trust responsible for administering the Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif. 3 In direct violation of Kotel regulations, WoW women come to the Kotel with a Torah and Shofars (a

Shofar is a ram’s horn, blown to announce the beginning of the new month and at New Year). They wear Tallit, the prayer shawls. They pray out loud and sing. In addition, several women wear Tefillin, leather boxes containing written prayers strapped to the head and other parts of the body, challenging the convention that Tefillin are worn only by men.

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concession is not viewed as a victory by WoW. They view this as a form of segregation, discriminating against both women and the Reform and Conservative movements. They want to be equals at the Kotel, not to be relegated out of sight. WoW activities constitute a form of open rebellion, one considered to be a violation of Orthodox Jewish law and the law of the State of Israel.4

WoW protest has also been the subject of violence (e.g. men throwing chairs at the women). One WoW gathering at the Kotel (at the beginning of a new month, a time of religious significance for Jews) took place against the backdrop of a heavy police presence (deployed on both the men’s and women’s sides of the separation wall). Orthodox men stood on chairs, hurling abuse as WoW members prayed out loud (some women in the group responded in kind). Non-participating women attending prayers also yelled at the WoW group. At the same time, male WoW supporters sang loudly in solidarity, trying to drown out the shouting of the ultra-Orthodox men. Most of the WoW group confined themselves to praying and singing as the disruption went on around them.5

This conflict raises two issues over rights to the Kotel. The first issue is Kotel governance. The second issue is whether the Kotel is a religious, historical or cultural site.

Kotel governance

For Israel, the Kotel is part of the nation state. Its operation is funded by the government. The HF, a non-profit government foundation, funds the digging and maintenance of the Kotel tunnels, a massive project involving archeological excavations beneath the structure and establishing the site as a national heritage site.

The Kotel is under the control of a board headed by the rabbi of the Kotel (Rav-HaKotel), nominated by a board of the Knesset (Israel’s parliament) but ultimately selected by a board of rabbis. According to the Kotel’s education director: ‘The board belongs to everyone [the public] and the board represents everyone. Each board member belongs to a different part of the government office it runs’ (interview, August 2010).

The Kotel board structure suggests that the government is essentially running the place. But government decision-making appears to be largely pro-forma. According to the Kotel’s education director: ‘Decisions are brought to the board to vote on only when there is consensus. If the majority votes and there is no consensus, they wait until there is consensus’ (ibid.). Since Rav-HaKotel is in charge of the board and leads the process of securing consensus, the site is effectively under rabbinical control.

Rabbinical control of the Kotel is debated. One city councilor viewed the site as rabbinically dominated by the Orthodox: ‘The Kotel should not be under rabbinical jurisdiction; It should also involve the Diaspora [i.e. Jews not living in Israel] as a sophisticated way to bring in the Conservative and Reform movements’ (interview, August 2010). Another councilor saw control as the primary issue: ‘With the Kotel, the big issue is who is in charge. Should the Kotel be under rabbinical authority or under the City of Jerusalem?’ (interview, August 2010). According to WoW leader Anat Hoffman: ‘The state has in effect privatized control over the Kotel to the HF, that does as it wishes with public funding’ (interview, August 2010).

4 WoW executive director Anat Hoffman was arrested in June 2010 for openly carrying a Torah at the Kotel, and banned from the site for 30 days pending criminal charges.

5 WoW protestors have taken to donning the prayer shawls known as Tallit; Orthodox Judiaism forbids women to wear (what are considered exclusively male) prayer shawls. To enforce this, Kotel rules forbid women from wearing a generic type of Tallit customarily worn by men. To protest against this restriction, WoW members have begun wearing this explicitly forbidden type of Tallit. Arrests have been made. Kotel management has begun screening women, refusing access to those wearing these garments.

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Others thought rabbinical control was appropriate. According to an Israeli policy advisor, ‘The Kotel is a religious place and should be run by the rabbis. [It] is not a historical place but a Jewish place. So we have to obey the laws of the rabbis’ (interview, August 2010). Another city councilor regarded rabbinical control as democratic because the Orthodox are religious, while others are not: ‘In Israel, Jews don’t have to be involved in a Jewish community. The Kotel is a battle between the religious and non-religious’ (interview, August 2010). Thus, justification for rabbinical control can depend on whether a person views the Kotel as a religious, national or historical place.

Other opinions also suggest that the conflict is viewed as a struggle between religious and non-religious people. According to a former high-ranking planning official: ‘In the Kotel, to see women wearing Tallit (prayer shawl) is a sacrilege. The battle of the Kotel is seen in a normative framework. It is seen as an illicit expression against religion, like burning a flag or wearing swastika’ (interview, July 2010). A city councilor dismissed any Diaspora right to Kotel control. He asked: ‘Would the Diaspora movement come to Israel and die over it? Americans have no right to complain about the Kotel . . . [It] is my synagogue. It is an Orthodox place’ (interview, August 2010). One left-wing Knesset leader, however, declared that the Kotel belonged to the public:

The Kotel is both a national monument and a public space. It is not a private space over which certain people have control. For example, a man may find it offensive that a woman is wearing a Tallit or carrying a Torah. But it is not his Kotel per se. It is shared public space. It belongs to more than him. It is not a private synagogue or a room . . . The Kotel may not necessarily be religious. But it is an important part of self-identity of a Jew (interview, July 2010).

Although WoW is leading the battle, the Kotel struggle is perceived in non-gender terms. According to leader Anat Hoffman: ‘Men do not want to be separate but equal. The rules for women are not about religion. They are about territory and power’ (interview, August 2010). The rabbi of a Reform synagogue claimed that the battle for the Kotel is a national issue: ‘The Kotel is not a gender issue. It went from a secular issue to one of the Haredim . . . Orthodox control of the Kotel is absolute . . . They are turning the Kotel into an Orthodox synagogue. There is an erosion of the Kotel as a national institution’ (interview, August 2010).

Ultimately the issue of gender remains paramount because gender differences are built into Orthodox Judaism. At prayer, women and men have very circumscribed roles. The Kotel’s reproduction of the Orthodox synagogue reproduces these gender differences. This was the underlying meaning of one city councilor who argued that Orthodoxy at the Kotel embraced all Jews because ‘[o]nly Orthodoxy is acceptable to everyone’ (interview, August 2010).

The stakes of this battle also operate at a larger spiritual scale. Some link the Kotel to the prospects for the coming of the Messiah (the Jewish savior) and the eventual building of a third temple. According to one city councilor: ‘The Kotel is the most important place in the Jewish nation. It is the heart and soul . . . it is where the Temple will be built after the Messiah comes (interview, August 2010). In this sense, WoW women’s ‘sacrilege’ threatens the coming of the Messiah (naturally the most important event in many Orthodox circles).

Women of the Wall: symbol or movement?

Although WoW is about women, it is not a generic feminist movement. It is focused on one issue: women’s ability to pray on a par with men. As a women’s organization it challenges a power arrangement that privileges men. It challenges Orthodoxy’s interpretation of what the Kotel is and how it should be used, and fights for women’s right to pray according to their belief. WoW represents a challenge to Orthodoxy by embracing the rights of Jewish women of many denominations (Orthodox, Conservative,

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Reform and indeed secular), encouraging women to participate as equals in prayer. Thus WoW sets a broader challenge to the State of Israel than simply issues of gender and religion alone.

Yet the Kotel battle is framed in non-gender terms as affirmed by one Knesset leader: ‘The Kotel is not a historical site. It is connected to what it means to be a Jew. The questions are this. How is the Kotel part of one’s identity of being a Jew? How is the Kotel important to the nation of Jews and Israel? What is the significance of the Kotel to the past, present and future of the Jewish people?’ (interview, August 2010). As put by WoW’s leader, ‘we need to understand that the Kotel is not the thing. The question is what is Judaism . . . The goal is to dismantle the partition [the Mechitza]. This is the reproduction of sexism for the entire Jewish world’ (interview, August 2010).

The Kotel is considered one of the most holy and significant places for Jews, both historically and spiritually. Israel’s control of the Kotel represents victory in recent conflicts with Palestinians and Arabs, conflicts that continue within the Old City over the Temple Mount, the tunnels, residential mobility of Jews into the Muslim Quarter and the destruction of Palestinian housing to facilitate access to the Kotel in the first place.6

With the recognition of the significance of the Kotel to world Jewry and its symbolic value to Israel, WoW’s latest strategy is to mobilize Jewish sentiment internationally. Although it is a local struggle over the right to Jerusalem, the Kotel conflict is being advocated as a struggle that transcends place. Recognizing the need for a broader constituency, WoW’s leader affirmed that it has ‘gone international’ with a website and petition campaign (interview, August 2010). WoW use this exposure to fight the ‘degradation of women in the public sphere’, manifested as gender segregation in Jerusalem’s health clinics, waiting rooms and public transport (Women of the Wall, 2011). The battle over the Kotel is ‘ground zero’ in the fight for women (Orthodox and secular) to be able to live, work, travel, pray and play in their city and their country.

Like the Bar-Ilan conflict, the Kotel struggle has been adjudicated in a way that rabbinical decision-makers view as a compromise, with the provision of an alternative gender-neutral prayer location (Robinson’s Arch). Aided by a negative ruling from the Israeli Supreme Court, WoW’s challenge to Orthodoxy has been decided by a board that is an arm of the government, one that is politically in thrall to Orthodoxy. In this way, the Kotel is similar to a private shopping mall or other development incorporating open space. A mall (comprising open space within a private development) or the Kotel may have the appearance of a public space. Land use, however, is controlled by private interests that rule in the name of the state. The state (Orthodoxy) is sovereign over the Kotel since private property rights rule over other spaces. While the fight for the right to the Kotel is a local struggle, its resolution is neither treated nor recognized as a local issue.

The Orient House: an ethno-political fight The Orient House (OH) is a beautiful building in East Jerusalem, not far from the well-known American Colony Hotel. It was built in the early twentieth century by the Husseini family as their place of residence. A long-established Jerusalemite family, the Husseinis have become the Palestinian equivalent of the Kennedy family in the USA. Their continued civic and political commitment to the cause of Palestinian national identity has assured them an iconic leadership position down the years.

The family’s position stems from a bloodline which is believed to trace back to the Prophet’s first followers, thus granting them a political and religious powerbase. In the

6 Some would express this differently, as the deepening of colonization and occupation of Palestinian territories.

944 Gillad Rosen and Anne B. Shlay

1930s Muhammad Haj Amin al-Husseini, Palestine’s most senior Islamic cleric (the Mufti), led the struggle for a separate Palestinian nation state. The Palestinians challenged their British rulers (then the region’s superpower), the emerging Jewish Zionist regime and the British-backed Hashemite leadership — descendants of a family which once ruled Mecca (Friedland and Hecht, 2000).7 Despite their efforts, the 1948 Arab–Israeli war ended with the establishment of Israel, occupation of the West Bank (including East Jerusalem) and annexation by Jordan, and ultimately the failure to establish a Palestinian nation state. Between the years 1948 and 1950 the OH was used as the headquarters of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA), and was later turned into a luxury hotel. Following the 1967 war and the dramatic geopolitical shifts that followed (most notably Israeli annexation of East Jerusalem), the OH ceased to operate as a hotel.

The rise of the Orient House as a political center

The rise of the Orient House as a national Palestinian institution is thanks to the activities of Faisal Husseini, an active Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) leader who became the Palestinian spokesperson representing the East Jerusalem community. In the 1980s, he created the Arab Studies Center/Society, a non-governmental organization affiliated with the PLO and located at the OH. The Arab Studies Center was established as a research institution and archive to record Palestinian historical and cultural data (Orient House, 2010). Books, newspaper articles and documents were catalogued and saved, creating the foundations of a national archive and strengthening Palestinian national identity in East Jerusalem. The Arab Studies Center was located at his ancestral home, the Orient House.

The reopening of the OH as a political institution followed the 1991 Madrid peace talks, and resulted from US pressure. Since then, it has emerged as an imperative Palestinian institution — the headquarters of the Palestinian negotiating team (Nasrallah, 2005). According to Abed Husseini (son of the late Faisal Husseini): ‘It became the PLO headquarters in Jerusalem . . . The Palestinian flag was placed there in 1993 . . . [Faisal] Husseini was made the Palestinian representative to negotiate over Jerusalem’ (interview, July 2008). The OH became the place where Jerusalem’s Palestinian leadership, officially representing the Palestinian people, received heads of state. Abed Husseini further explains its importance: ‘It used to be the house of state for the Palestinian people in the event that there would be Palestinian statehood’ (interview, August 2010). The OH is considered the bridgehead for Palestinian nationalism in Jerusalem. According to the 1993 Oslo Accords, a resolution on Jerusalem was postponed for 5 years in anticipation that negotiations would proceed during this period. In the interim, Oslo decreed that the PLO could not operate out of East Jerusalem. By intent, East Jerusalem was to be temporarily outside of Palestinian political influence (i.e. the PLO) and was left to be ruled according to Israeli law and interests. Nonetheless, civic and political activity continued at the OH, under a degree of European Union protection. In effect, the OH remained the Palestinian political center of East Jerusalem.

During the second intifada (underway from the year 2000), the Israeli government headed by Ariel Sharon closed the OH. The closure of the OH followed a Palestinian suicide bombing, amidst claims that its financing was connected to the OH. Israel claimed evidence of money transfers from the Palestinian Authority to the OH, in violation of the Oslo Accords. The closure of the OH, in effect a move against political activity in East Jerusalem, dealt an unexpected blow to Palestinian sovereignty in the city. A Palestinian leader explains: ‘When the OH closed, it came as a surprise. The OH was one of the free places . . . a place for talking . . . one of the few places still receiving Israelis and having discussions’ (interview, August 2010).

7 The Hashemite power center later evolved, taking the form of a separate independent state — the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan (east of the River Jordan).

Whose right to Jerusalem? 945

The closure of the OH in 2001 was the opening shot of an Israeli policy directed at limiting Palestinian political activities in East Jerusalem and securing greater control over the area. As described by a Palestinian activist:

They also closed at approximately the same time several other institutions [in East Jerusalem] including the Chamber of Commerce, the Club Union, the Youth Club Union, the Palestinian Union for Micro-economic Development, the Prisoners’ Club and the High Council for Tourism. The rationale was that the institutions were part of the Palestinian political instruction (interview, August 2010).

At first Palestinians tried to resist the closure and organized demonstrations. However, in this power game Israel had the upper hand. According to another Palestinian leader:

The OH was closed. The Israeli government took down the Palestinian flag and put up an Israeli flag. The entire area was closed down and they put up huge cement blocks. The local Palestinian leadership decided at that point that the important thing is to let the urban quarter live and not put it constantly under siege and so decided to stop the demonstrations against the closure (interview, July 2008).

Another option for challenging the forced closure was to use legal procedures available to Palestinians within the Israeli judicial system. Use of the courts has been a measure often employed by Palestinians in recent years to pursue civic justice over issues such as land-use controls, checkpoints and the location of the wall/fence/security barrier.8 In the case of the Orient House, Palestinians were reluctant to use the courts. One explanation for this was Palestinians’ unwillingness to recognize Israeli courts’ legitimacy. By appealing to the Israeli system, Palestinians would be giving implicit recognition to the right of that system to rule (the same logic explains why most Jerusalemite Palestinians do not take part in municipal elections).

East Jerusalemite Palestinians were also worried that legal defeat in respect of the Orient House would jeopardize the status of other neighborhood institutions in the same vicinity (a local school, an orphanage and a theater). Ultimately, Palestinian leaders in East Jerusalem decided not to mount a legal challenge to the OH closure and called off all demonstrations against the Israeli action.

A Palestinian national symbol

Currently the Husseini Foundation continues to work from Ramallah, outside of East Jerusalem. The OH building remained closed until August 2010. At that point, the UN reopened its offices in the building, operating from behind locked gates.

What is the OH today? Is it on the agenda? Does it retain any power or influence? According to a Palestinian who worked at the OH, it was first and foremost a bridge, representing a dialogue between Israelis and Palestinians. For Palestinians it is a powerful symbol, part of the national identity and an instrument to mobilize people around the dream of an independent Palestinian state whose capital would be East Jerusalem. A former Israeli politician argues that ‘[t]he OH played out its role, but did help to place at central stage the real issue — East Jerusalem for Palestinians and the Old City for Israel’ (interview, August 2010).

Is the OH today a relic of the past? For many the OH retains symbolic power. A Meretz city councilor claims that: ‘The OH is also a symbol of the state-to-be. The fear of what it represented was greater than the fear of what it was in reality . . . The [Israeli]

8 In 2003, the Israeli government initiated the construction of a physical obstacle along the perimeter of Israel adjacent to the West Bank. Israel refers to this as a fence or security barrier. Palestinians call it a wall. The goals and effects of the wall/fence/security barrier constitute a topic of considerable controversy and debate.

946 Gillad Rosen and Anne B. Shlay

government wants to make the point that there is nothing to talk about, so there is no OH’ (interview, July 2010). Following this view, the OH as a Palestinian institution embodies the struggle for political rights and for recognition. A local councilor of the National Religious Party explains that the OH represents a challenge to Israel’s rule in the city.

I am against the OH. National rights should only be given to Israel, not to Palestine. They are using [OH] to undermine Israeli sovereignty . . . If there is an OH and it exists politically, it is almost equal to saying that East Jerusalem is the capital of the Palestinian state. The OH is very important to the political future of Israel. The OH is a symbol for Palestinian sovereignty (interview, August 2010).

From the perspective of Israeli governance over East Jerusalem, the OH could not be reopened because it represents a threat to Israeli interests in a ‘united Jerusalem’ (Amirav, 2007). Palestinians retained their hold on the OH as a unifier of Palestinian interests. In a speech at the Popular National Conference for Jerusalem, one Palestinian leader reported how he called for Ehud Olmert (then Israeli prime minister) to reopen the OH as the Jerusalem base for ‘getting people to talk to each other’ (interview, August 2010):

Four hundred people were in the room and began stamping their fists and their feet to reopen the OH. There was something important about the OH. After seven years of closure, there is still power to this place. It has retained the power of unifying the Palestinian identity (ibid.).

Ultimately, however, reopening the OH was considered to be a secondary issue to the Palestinian demand for Israel to halt its continuing development of settlements in the West Bank. The fear was that, politically, Israel could use opening the OH as a bargaining chip in lieu of halting settlement development.

The right to the OH as an East Jerusalem political hub is seemingly dormant for now. But adamant positions to either open it or keep it closed indicate the extent of the residual power of the OH as a tool for political expression and unification around East Jerusalem. The value of the OH, albeit not in physical use, remains potent. This professed right to the OH and its explicit denial represent two connected struggles; Palestinians’ right to claim Jerusalem as their capital, and their right to national sovereignty. This battle is overtly rooted in this claimed right to this space and place as part of the historical legacy of Palestinians. Israeli denial of these rights partially serves to reinforce the legitimacy of this claim. The absence of overt conflict over the OH is not a resolution of this conflict; it reflects the current Israeli–Palestinian political dynamics which remain fluid and subject to change.

Conclusion This article introduces the role of culture and identity to the growing debate on the RTC. With the growth of urban diversity, the role of identity and belief structures is becoming increasingly central to urban conflict. And it is in divided cities, already defined by conflict, that they become more spatially manifested. Examining three case studies of conflict in Jerusalem, this article looks at the role of religion, gender and ethno-nationalism in spatial conflict.

The long-running and sometimes violent struggle over automobile use at weekends on Bar-Ilan Street was between religious residents believing that car use constituted sacrilegious desecration and non-residents believing that religion should not prohibit their access to public space. After a series of clashes between the parties, the state mediated and imposed what it believed to be a balanced compromise. On the one hand, local religious communities reinforced psychological boundaries, identity and cohesion over their neighborhood. On the other hand, democratic values such as freedom of movement and the right to public space were symbolically upheld.

Whose right to Jerusalem? 947

The continuing and sometimes violent struggle over rules of worship at the Kotel — between the ‘Women of the Wall’ who want religious freedom and see the site as public space, and the ultra-Orthodox who treat the Kotel as their private synagogue — constitutes our second case study. Religious men in charge of the Kotel (with the backing of the state) characterize these women and their supporters as extremists whose demands should not be taken seriously. At the same time, gender skirmishes have popped up in Jerusalem and elsewhere in the country. Women have begun to challenge rules in ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods over how they may dress (laws of modesty) and where they may walk (on the opposite side of the street from men). They are also challenging established conventions over where women may sit on public buses used primarily by religious people by refusing to sit in their place — at the back. While these incidents are not widespread, they receive a great deal of public attention.

The seemingly dormant yet still incendiary struggle over the closure of the Orient House is our third case study. The state of Israel is the prominent actor in attempting to dissolve and remove this Palestinian national symbol from East Jerusalem. Palestinian business and political leaders have increasingly left East Jerusalem for Ramallah which has become the de facto capital of the West Bank. Closing the OH appears to have been a preliminary step in claiming this part of East Jerusalem (that appeared to clearly belong to its Palestinian residents). On a house-by-house basis, Palestinians’ expressed right to Jerusalem has been challenged, denigrated and denied, as their everyday life, their very footprints in the Jerusalem municipality, are being effectively erased.

In the case of all three struggles, culture and identity politics are a major source of conflict. The RTC is not expressed as a broad-based political claim, but as a fragmented right to places over which different stakeholders feel they can exercise control. In the form of organized self-interest, some groups claim their rights over others to different parts of the city. However, power wielding as in the case of the Orient House, women’s prayer activity at the Kotel or apparent compromises regarding car usage on Bar-Ilan Street have not eliminated or even dampened enthusiasm for continued battles in Jerusalem. In an urban context of growing divisions, distrust and competition, political claims operate as starting points for further dividing and slicing up the city. This is especially true for divided cities where the nation state has an important role in shaping space and manipulating political power (Brenner and Elden, 2009). In all three case studies, the Israeli nation state has been actively involved as a major agent, providing the political criteria or content on which spatial decisions are adjudicated.

Placed in the context of the increasingly diverse social structure of cities, the three case studies may also be used to highlight some drawbacks to the RTC concept. As cities become more socially and spatially diverse, it is no wonder that the RTC idea has so much appeal. The RTC concept gives succor to the aspirational urban maxim that the city belongs to everyone and should be a tool for authentic community expression. The RTC has been taken up and celebrated as a vehicle for expressing community identity. This is a positive assessment of the appeal of the RTC concept as an abstract idea. But the RTC was constructed as a political tool for radical and positive change. The RTC was intended to be used to empower communities to take control of space as a tool for community liberation. Communities would have clarity over the role of space in repressing community life, and could use their right to space as a tool for upending repressive elements of urban life. But the RTC can be a tool for almost anything when communities organize for control and challenge the existing order.

In the struggle over the use of Bar Ilan Street on Shabbat, ultra-Orthodox religious precepts prevailed over secularism. In WoW’s fight for equality of religious expression for women at the Kotel, ultra-Orthodox gender rules continued to be upheld, backed by the Israeli government and upheld by the law. The Orient House, a powerful symbol of Palestinian Jerusalem, remains closed. Should these victories be celebrated as the RTC? The answer is not so clear.

In the name of community identity and self-determination, the idea of community control is seductive. The RTC has a ‘feel-good factor’ when applied to community

948 Gillad Rosen and Anne B. Shlay

movements that seems right and justified. But what about the possible RTC when it is in contrast to democratic values? In a divided city, more than in any other city, conflicts over space and its everyday usage pose a challenge for the simultaneous use of space by multiple users within a democratic society. The RTC is an approach which advocates the use of space by all, active participation in defining the meaning of space and challenging the status quo. In this capacity the RTC will generate struggles and conflict. These conflicts will escalate as communities continue to clash over cultural values and social identity, especially in the highly contested context of a divided city. Whether these struggles will have positive or negative outcomes will depend on how claims to space are politically adjudicated. Nevertheless, even in cases of suppression by an authoritarian regime, the RTC is not an end in itself, but a ‘wakeup call’ for democratic forces to endorse participation, challenge existing inequalities and injustice, and seek to repair the city.

Gillad Rosen ([email protected]), Department of Geography, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Mount Scopus, Jerusalem 91905, Israel and Anne B. Shlay ([email protected]), Department of Sociology, Gladfelter Hall 7th floor, Temple University, 1005 West Berks St., Philadelphia, PA 19122, USA.

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