Field Notes Volume V

FIELD NOTES Journal of the McGill Undergraduate Geography Society

VOLUME 5

FIELD NOTES

McGill University Montreal, QC

Copyright © Field Notes: Journal of the McGill Undergraduate Geography Society, McGill University, Montréal, Canada 2016.

Editorial selection, compilation, and material © by the 2015 Editorial Board of Field Notes and its contributors.

Field Notes is an academic journal of McGill University with submissions by undergraduate students.

Printed and bound in Canada by Solutions Rubiks Inc. All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted and cited from external authors, no part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any way or form or by any electronic, mechanical, other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Special thanks to the Arts Undergraduate Society or McGill University, the Science Undergraduate Society of McGill University, and the McGill Geography Undergraduate Society for funding the publication of this journal. Additional thanks to Rubiks for their printing services.

Field Notes acknowledges that McGill University is located on unceded Kanien’keha:ka traditional territory.

Cover photo by Matthew King.

FIELD NOTES Journal of the McGill Undergraduate Geography Society

EDITORs-IN-CHIEF Clare Heggie Jeffrey Sauer

EDITORIAL TEAM Akiva Blander Ben Demers Nicholas Frazer Hana Moidu Rebecca MacInnis

Design Editor Sijia Ye

LETTER

From the Editors-In-Chief Thank you for reading the fifth issue of Field Notes, the official journal of the McGill Undergraduate Geography Society. Our goal in editing and putting together this journal is to showcase the diversity of geography at McGill University and beyond. We also want to create a sustainable platform for strong undergraduate research to reach a wider audience We would like to extend a sincere thank you to all those involved in making this journal possible. Thank you to the editors, Hana Moidu, Rebecca MacInnis, Ben Demers, Nicholas Frazer, and Akiva Blander. We also want to extend a thank you to our layout editor, Sijia Ye, who worked independently to design and draft the journal. As for the content of the journal, we thank all of the authors who submitted a paper or photo - without your enthusiasm and strong commitment throughout the project this journal would not be possible.

This year, we made a concerted effort to select articles that reflect the research interests of students in this department. All of these papers, and the authors behind the words, have a vested interest in these topical issues - each holding a unique importance. While the department of geography at McGill is comprised of students who have a variety of interests, we hope that this journal represents an awareness and need to continually make explicit the active role of geography in colonial projects, the reproduction of gender, and the exploitation of power differentials.

Sincerely,

Clare Heggie & Jeffrey Sauer Editors-in-Chief

Field Notes, Volume 5

CONTENTS Colonial Legacies in Geography LILLIAN FRADIN........................................................................................ 8 Fears of Sex Trafficking in the FIFA World Cup RICHENDA GRAZETTE............................................................................ 12 Master Planning Under Occupation: The City on a Hill LILLIAN FRADIN...................................................................................... 23 Mining for Gold: The Rankin Inlet Approach to Self-Determination in the Meliadine Gold Life Project MÉLANIE WITTES................................................................................... 29 Understanding the Social Context of the Spatial Distribution of Montreal CLARISSA SAMSON & REBECCA MACINNIS.......................................... 39 Reconstructing the Directions of Local Glacial Drift in Schefferville, Quebec SHIRLEY ZHANG..................................................................................... 56 Planning the Past: The Reproduction of Colonial Planning Philosophies in Abuja, Nigeria KATIE KEYES........................................................................................... 65 Asthma Prevalence and Risk Factors in North American Indigenous Peoples: A Systematic Review ASHLEY BACH........................................................................................ 79 Zones of Exception: Queer Urban Space in Singapore KARLENE OOTO-STUBBS....................................................................... 89 OUR CONTRIBUTORS............................................................................ 100

Colonial Legacies in Geography Lillian Fradin

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t was a cool Monday morning toward the end of September, and I was running late. Dribbles of coffee cascaded over my fingers as I gripped my grey travel mug and cursed silently to myself. I hurried down Sherbrooke, through the Roddick Gates and into Burnside Hall, where the elevator greeted me with open doors.

Only after pushing the button for the fourth floor did I slide my hair behind my ears and regain some of my composure.

My heels clicked unnecessarily as I made my way to room 426. I was about to make an embarrassingly tardy entrance to the

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first faculty meeting of the year of the Department of Geography, my first in my new capacity as co-president of the McGill Undergraduate Geography Society. From the doorway, I scanned the room for available seats – nothing easily accessible.

A delicate round of applause ensued, and I took the chance to sneak toward a seat in the otherwise empty front row. I focused all my energy on being inconspicuous, while intermittently bumping a nearby coffee table as I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Soon after, the department chair had us – the undergraduate and graduate

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student representatives present at the meeting – introduce ourselves to the room full of faculty members. It was only at this point, as I stood up from the safety of my seat, that I surveyed the room and realized that I was surrounded almost exclusively by older white men.

So what is geography, anyway?

Geography is the study of people, physical environments, and the relationships between them that shape our world. Some of the earliest evidence of cartography can be found in the ancient civilizations of the Middle and Far East, but it wasn’t until the 16th century in Europe that geography developed as a formal field of study to serve the interests of the expanding navigation industry. Over time, geography widened tremendously in scope to encompass just about anything that can be studied as a spatial process – from glacial flows to global trade patterns, to gender performativity, to climatology.

It has evolved into a multidisciplinary field, with no single, unified definition.

Some of this diversity in subject material is reflected at McGill’s Department of Geography. Courses ranging from Urban Social Geography to Advanced Fluvial Geomorphology compel many students to take electives in this department and learn more about the social and physical processes that shape our world.

Many geography students feel a strong sense of pride in their department. Its strong sense of community, the popular Geographic Information Centre (GIC), and the homey undergraduate student lounge make for a fairly intimate setting within the broader institution of McGill.

In our experience, when we tell people what we study, we are met with enthusiastic expressions of approval. This enthusiasm and pride, however, comes with little to no awareness of the violent history that the discipline is founded upon, and how this violence manifests itself today.

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The untold past The development of geography as a discipline occurred directly alongside the rise of European colonialism. In the 16th and 17th centuries, the methods and tools of map-making were combined with other descriptive techniques to facilitate the navigation, exploration, and eventual domination of many parts of the Americas, Asia, and later Africa. Explorers would compile detailed accounts of the flora, fauna, landscapes, resources, and peoples of the regions they visited. This catalogued information was packaged and presented to authorities in colonizing countries in the form of maps and ‘guides’ to foreign areas and peoples. It was also used as the basis of the earliest courses in regional geography.

Geography proceeded in this vein until the 20th century, when the American Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to the CIA, started to hire geographers. It was at this time that geography carved a niche in the intelligence community. Geographers were simultaneously revising their discipline to incorporate more active research methods to counteract the supposedly passive and unengaged methods previously employed, which revolved mostly around cataloguing with minimal critical engagement.

In GEOG 201 (Introduction to Geographic Information Systems), the only class all geography – both BA and BSc – students are required to take, the primary focus is the creation of the conventional ‘world map’ that we are all familiar with.

However, there is little critical engagement with the map. For example, while all paper maps inherently distort the shape of continents on the earth given that the earth is a spheroid – an imperfect spherelike body – the commonly used Universal Transverse Mercator (UTM) projection map distorts North America and Europe specifically to take up more space on this map than they actually occupy. This map

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is also laid out so that North America and Europe take centre stage, minimizing the true sizes of countries closer to the equator and forcing them to the periphery. The UTM map, which many of us internalize from a young age as the absolute depiction of the world, serves little purpose outside Europe and North America. While intense emphasis was put on obtaining data to create accurate maps of colonized or potential colonial territories during the colonial period, the map that was ultimately privileged and given the highest credence in academia obtained this status because of its spatial and conceptual West centrism. Features | The McGill Daily The present situation Although colonial expansion began hundreds of years ago, it is still ongoing today through various means: the exploitation of Indigenous lands in Canada through resource extraction, the expanding influence of multinational corporations worldwide, and their race to purchase large parcels of land in the poorer parts of the world are some of many such examples.

One critical sub-discipline of geography – postcolonial geography – concerns itself with the questions of whether and how geography can redress its complicity in being instrumental to the colonial project, which continues today. A central assertion of this school of thought is that if geography is to move beyond its violent origins, it is necessary for its colonial complicity to be widely exposed.

So why does this violent past remain concealed in class to the vast majority of geography students at McGill and many other Western universities? The only geography course at McGill that gives students some of the tools to make educated analyses about the colonial past of their discipline is GEOG 381 (Geographic Thought and Practice). This is a small seminar-based course designed specifically for students

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pursuing the Honours program, which requires a minimum GPA of 3.3. It is also the only geography course that exposes students to numerous critical pockets of geography: feminist geography, queer geography, postcolonial geography, and Marxist geography are a few of many.

Additionally, it is the only class that formally encourages students to critically reflect on the ways their own positionality within various power structures, such as race, class, gender, and other identities, impact the ways they design and carry out their research projects.

Why is it that knowledge about the origins of geography and its potential for harm is relegated to a small class only accessible to students in a program that requires a certain level of academic attainment?

And why aren’t we asking our students to incorporate this level of self-reflection into their geographies until their second semester of their third year, after over half of their program is completed? We can hardly claim to be acquainted with our past (and present) affiliation with the colonial project when the vast majority of students are uninformed about how and why their discipline was first created. Why isn’t this knowledge accessible to all of McGill’s geographers?

Perhaps it is because of the nature of geography’s emergence, originally developed to be used as a vehicle for the colonial project, that geography as a discipline suffers from intense and often unacknowledged Western bias and sense of superiority. In geography’s past, ideal research methods involved geographers from Europe (and later the U.S. and Canada) travelling to ‘discover’ distant places and catalogue the peoples living there, as well as their livelihoods and practices, often to later exploit them for slavery, natural resources, and more recentely, cheap labour markets and manufacturing.

Geography students have a responsibility to educate themselves about the historical

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context of the discipline we’re often too quick to be proud of. Beyond that, however, the history of geography should be incorporated into the curriculum of every geography major and minor program and taught in a course sequenced in a student’s first semester of the program. This could be accomplished by integrating information about colonialism in mapping into GEOG 201 (Introduction to Geographic Information Systems (GIS)) while expanding the conversation to other parts of geography.

This would also provide an alternative to establishing a totally new mandatory course to educate students on the history and theory of the discipline specifically (an absurd idea, right?).

Hopes for the future Where geography is currently situated on the postcolonial spectrum is a topic of much debate. While some scholars argue that geography has broken free of its colonial past, the general mood of geographers currently reflects a more tenuous relationship with its origins that needs to be explored and made explicit. Considering that access to this knowledge is restricted in the first place, how can geography students at McGill be expected to interact with this discourse in a meaningful way?

Why are radical geographies marginalized, and a normative, West centric view of geography propagated in our department?

These questions highlight the disconnect between those in power in the Department of Geography at McGill and the students on the receiving end of the curricula. Ultimately, by propagating the normative geographic agenda, McGill extends the reach of colonial legacies further into the future of geography. By relegating access to alternative geographic theories to a select few students, McGill geography actively hinders students from participating in the most pressing contemporary debates, and at what cost? Geographers

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naively come into the discipline without the skills to substantively impact geographic discourse, and this is a shame.

Let’s revisit the faculty meeting for a minute.

While the landscape was dominated by older white men, the dialogue was largely driven by women. If you were in this meeting with your eyes closed, you may have thought that the gender representation was skewed toward women because of the amount of space women carved out during periods of discussion. Additionally, women dominate the administrative positions in the department, and the majority of student representatives are women.

The goal here is not to disparage the Geography department, but to make legible the colonial complicity and the ever-present colonial legacies in geography, and specifically at McGill, and by doing so encourage you to look more critically at the origins and composition of your own department.

Does your area of study harbour a colonial past? Do you even know what the roots of your study are? Do you see yourself represented in the faculty of your department?

If not, why do you think that is?

These aren’t the questions we’re trained to ask as students. Instead, we’re trained to ask questions that focus on the academic debates of our discipline without invoking reflexivity toward structures of power. This deterioration in our ability to critically think about our discipline and its impacts has lead to the weakening of resistance to dominant values in academia.

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Fears of Sex Trafficking in the FIFA World Cup Richenda Grazette

Concerns regarding sex trafficking became more prominent in the late twentieth century, originating around fears of the “white slave trade” between the United States and Europe. With mega-events, particularly sporting events, this fear becomes heightened. The FIFA World Cup, which involved men’s national soccer teams from 208 nations, has been almost every four years since 1930. It is the biggest “single-event” sporting competition in the world. Due to it’s size and international importance, as well as the movement of people across borders to attend the event, media coverage of perceived rises in sex work, trafficking, and prostitution often surrounds the World Cup. This paper looks at the coverage of sex work at the German World Cup in 2006, and the South African World Cup in 2010, as well as the real numbers of sex workers’ movement for both events.

What becomes evident is that the fears of sex trafficking are largely unfounded, and based in moral panic rather than concern for women’s bodies.

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T

he Fédération Internationale de Football Association (FIFA) World Cup is the biggest “single-event” sporting competition in the world, played by men’s soccer teams representing 208 nations (FIFA.com). The competition has been played every four years since 1930, only missing two tournaments in 1942 and 1946 during the Second World War (FIFA.com). Not only does the World Cup have the most international representation, it is also the most widely viewed sporting event. It is estimated that 715.1 million people tuned in to watch the final game during Germany 2006, and that the tournament in South Africa in 2010 was broadcast to 204 different countries (FIFA.com). The World Cup, and other international sporting events like the Olympics, are huge sites of transnational movement and congregation. Host countries spend years preparing for the influx of people, using it as a way to showcase themselves internationally, to attract media attention, and to increase tourism in years to follow (Isgro, Stehle and Weber 172). [Hosting up new entertainment, new and improved infrastructure, employment opportunities, and opportunities to create business and investment (Bonthuys 29).] (unclear) Mega-events like these are lauded as being huge contributors to world economies. According to FIFA’s website, the hospitality industry during World Cup South Africa attracted “almost a quarter of a million guests”, and over 750,000 litres of beer and 390,000 hot dogs were sold in stadiums alone (FIFA.com). This does not include food, alcohol, and other tourism-related revenue not on World Cup spaces. Despite all of this revenue, however, host countries rarely make a profit. Part of agreeing to host the World Cup involves building multi-million dollar stadiums and hotels catering to foreign visitors. This can come at the price of leveling entire neighbourhoods, displacing populations, and environmental degradation (Isgro et al 172).

Examples like London ejecting the homeless on the streets for the 2012 Olympics,

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and the Brazilian government building a $318-million stadium in an Amazonian city inaccessible by road, illustrate the “show” that countries hosting megaevents are expected to put on (Evans).

Another controversial aspect of the World Cup is its ability to fuel social unrest, particularly in countries where people become displaced or further marginalized for economic purposes (Bonthuys 29). The event also brings with it fears of crime against visitors and, according to some, sex trafficking. Many believe that at any major event like the World Cup, where large numbers of people congregate in the host country for a short period of time, there is an increase in the demand for sexual services (Bird and Donaldson 33). As a result, many pimps, sex workers, and traffickers will see these events as an opportunity to make a large amount of money through very little work. Discourses and policies surrounding sex trafficking feed into not only the conflation of it with sex work, but also the gendered and racialized aspects of it; the concept that poor women of colour are being trafficked into the West by criminal men of colour. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s famous words, “a case of ‘white men saving brown women from brown men’” (Ross 385) perfectly describes contemporary applications of sex trafficking policy. Discourses surrounding sex trafficking also often feed into and perpetuate xenophobia/xenophobic actions and fears of the “supposed threat to society posed by ‘bad’ women and racial or cultural ‘others” (Isgro et al 176). Media and international responses to fears of sex trafficking during the 2006 German and 2010 South African World Cup competitions served to create moral panic, and reinforce patriarchal views of men as saviours of women. In Germany, fears focused on incoming sex workers and immigration from Eastern Europe whereas, in South Africa, fears of violence and HIV transmission to and among sex workers dominated debates.

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Sex work and trafficking Trafficking has many different definitions, depending on the source. Most commonly, it is defined as “movements across national borders and labour exploitation through force, fraud, or coercion” (Isgro et al 176). The United Nations Palermo Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, especially Women and Children, passed in 2000, defines trafficking as “the recruitment, transportation, harboring or receipt of persons, by means of the threat or use of force or the abuse of power” (Kimm and Sauer 818). It is largely explained by push and pull factors: victims of trafficking are initially pushed by poor economic situations and pulled by deregulation of markets under the neo-liberal project in the West, which has increased the demand for cheap labour (Kimm and Sauer 818). Trafficking is also almost completely understood as the movement of people from the South and East to the North and West, or as from the underdeveloped countries to the developed ones.

Concerns about trafficking became more prominent in the late twentieth century and throughout the twenty-first, originating around fears of “white slave trade” in the United States and Europe (Isgro et al 176). Moral panics around the potential coercion of white women into sex work by men of colour renewed legal and social concerns about prostitution as a whole (Gallagher-Cohoon 36).

As Erin Gallagher-Cohoon states, “’white slavery’ was the coercive prostitution of white, Anglo-American women… it generally implied a racial divide between the purity of white women and the sexual immorality of others” (36). In the 1980s, the concern grew even more, coinciding with an increasing migration of women around the world and technological leaps (Isgro et al 176). Estimates of how many people are trafficked per year range from 700,000 to 2 million, of which most are women and children (Kimm and Sauer

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817). These estimates are very uncertain, as actual numbers of trafficked people are almost impossible to obtain. Conducting effective studies into underground crime is difficult, particularly when it comes to human trafficking, because victims are rendered completely invisible and voiceless. Many victims cannot reach out to get the help they need to escape, which makes it even more difficult for researchers to reach in and assess the scale of trafficking.

In addition, transnational trafficking is a complex process. It is impossible to know how many migrant workers arrive in the Global North/West completely of their own free will, or with varying degrees of consent. Having a concrete international understanding of how much potential consent is needed, or not needed, to define trafficking is challenging. Some “trafficked” persons will choose to leave their country of origin of their own free will and then be trapped in poor labour situations, which obscures commonly used themes of consent. Their border crossings might not be trafficking, but their living situations and work opportunities might be restricted, forced, and abusive when they arrive. In fact, as borders in Europe and North America are being increasingly closed to migrant workers, especially if those workers are Black or Brown, many people are choosing to cross illegally into the West in the hopes of gaining economic advantage (Kimm and Sauer 818).

Concerns about sex trafficking more specifically dominate most of the conversations surrounding trafficking, despite the fact that many, if not most, trafficked persons do not become sex workers (Kimm and Sauer 818). In this paper, “sex work” refers to work in all areas of the sex industry, including, but not limited to, prostitution, exotic dancing and stripping, and phone and Internet sex workers. This is to be made distinct from “prostitution”, which refers to payments for sex between a worker and client. Sex work and prostitution have often been conflated with sex trafficking in popular media, spark-

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ing increasing campaigns to regulate or eradicate it. Sex trafficking is also an intensely gendered concept, with theories of “all women are victims and all men are criminal network perpetrators” becoming common (Kimm and Sauer 818).

World Cup Germany 2006 In June and July of 2006, Germany hosted the FIFA World Cup after winning the right to host over South Africa, England, and Morocco six years before (FIFA.com). The tournament was held in twelve cities across the country, with an estimated attendance of almost 4 million, not including the many millions of people watching on television and online (FIFA. com). Since 2002, Germany has federally legalized prostitution, given sex workers increased rights, made the sex industry taxable, and offered sex workers health insurance and other social benefits (Isgro et al 177). In addition, the new policy mandated that an agreement to pay for sexual services “establishes a legally effective claim”, meaning that sex workers in Germany could sue clients for refusing to pay (Kimm and Sauer 819). This saw a shift in policy from “protection from prostitution” to “protection in prostitution” (Kim and Sauer 820). However, Christian groups across Germany and the Christian Democratic Union Party began to use the panic surrounding sex trafficking in their efforts against prostitution. These groups saw trafficking as “a consequence of Left politics”, which mobilized international conservative Christian and feminist groups to rally against the legalization (Isgro et al 177). Many even called on Chancellor Angela Merkel, as the first female leader in Germany, to recriminalize sex work and “save the women and children” (Isgro et al 177).

These rallies continued to gain traction during the years leading up the World Cup, intensified by gendered perceptions surrounding masculinities and sport.

German media and some officials fueled

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an assumption that “male-dominated” events like soccer would increase demand for paid sex, as soccer is constructed as the expression of masculinity in Europe (817). As one German newspaper said, “The equation is simple. Where football is played, there are men, and where there are men, there are also prostitutes” (Kimm and Sauer 817). Rumours arose about “containers for sexual services” being set up in Cologne, and suddenly the number 40,000 began appearing, which the media jumped on immediately (Kimm and Sauer 815). A year before the tournament, it was predicted that a “storm of prostitutes” would descend upon Germany (Isgro et al 178), as European Parliament documents calling for “nuance in describing the scope of the feared sex trafficking problem” were lost in the debate (Isgro et al 179). In the winter of 2005, less than a year before the event started, the German government set up districts and sanctioned brothels for sex work, citing the actions as a means of protecting street prostitutes from violence, disease, and abuse (Isgro et al 180). Many police officers approved of the plan, believing it would make enforcing the law and protecting sex workers much easier (Loewenberg 105). In fact, one “mega-brothel” known as “Artemis” actually opened next to the soccer stadium in Berlin (Isgro et al 179). Despite some German media outlets deeming the new districts and brothels a success, concerns from foreign governments and NGOs resulted in mobilization for anti-trafficking campaigns.

The United States and European media stressed that spaces like “sex shacks” could not be as easily identified, and distinguished, as German officials believed they would be (Isgro et al 180). In fact, the United States House of Representatives Subcommittee of the Committee on International Relations, chaired by the Honourable Christopher H. Smith, passed a resolution calling on the German government to “actively fight the expected increase” in sex trafficking, the first House resolution of its kind (Isgro et al 172).

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Smith, and other Subcommittee members, believed that, given Germany’s legalization of sex work, “World Cup fans would be legally free to rape women in brothels or even in mobile units designed specifically for this form of exploitation” (Subcommittee on Africa, Global Human Rights and International Operations 2). In addition, Smith argued that “if Germany is providing either direct or indirect sanction for sex traffickers, then Germany does not deserve to be ranked as a Tier 1 country” (Subcommittee on Africa, Global Human Rights and International Operations 3).

German non-governmental organizations (NGOs) took on varying approaches, with some attempting to simply distinguish between “voluntary” and “forced” prostitution and demanded that protections be considered separately along these lines (Kimm and Sauer 820). Contrarily, others fed into the idea of masculinities and men “saving” women. Trafficked women were presented as being in need of protection, “often best provided by the German state or German (heterosexual) male clients (Isgro et al 183). Certain NGOs like Evangelische Diakonie: Act Against Forced Prostitution (821) centered around masculinity, describing “real men” as those who protect women and fight exploitation (Isgro et al 183). Slogans used included “No matter how long your penis is, you are the only one who can spot whether a woman has been forced into prostitution” (Isgro et al 183). Other NGOs, like the Coalition Against Trafficking in Women (CATW) campaigned around honour and duty, evidenced by slogans such as “Honourable men do not by [sic?] sex because they respect he [sic?] dignity and integrity of all human beings” (Isgro et al 184). Not only do these campaigns shame sex work, those that seek out paid sex, and imply that there are no male and trans* sex workers, but they also make important suggestions about who can save victims of trafficking.

Concepts like “damsels in distress” and “innocents lured across borders” put all of the sex workers in Germany in the hands of men to be nurtured and salvaged from the

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horrors they faced in their home cultures.

Again, “white men saving brown women from brown men”.

Despite all of the media reports, international involvement, and mass NGO mobilization, actual statistics on trafficking and sex work during the 2006 World Cup prove very different from pre-World Cup assumptions. Ban Ying, a member of the Global Alliance Against Traffic in Women, reported that there was no significant increase in trafficking cases observed during the Cup and that all evaluations and statistics surrounding it had no firm foundation (824), while another report found that only five direct-link cases (four women and one man) were reported, with all five people being trafficked from Eastern Europe (Ham 20). Special telephone hotlines set up by German NGOs received only one phone call during the two months of the tournament, which was not even about trafficking, and the numbers of trafficking survivors that they provided services to remained steady (Ham 21). The only city reporting increases in sex workers as a result of the Cup was Munich (rising from 500 to 800), but trafficking and “illegal stays” in connection with prostitution also did not increase (Ham 21).

“The mass of prostitutes simply never arrived and people involved in the sex industry were hardly surprised… Those who work in the sex industry and its associated services in Germany saw the whole thing as ‘hysterical media hype’ and the claims of the predicted forced prostitution as ‘exaggerations’” (Ham 21).

This “hysteria” revealed massive racial and cultural understandings of sex trafficking and sex work not only in Germany, but also across the West. The Council of Europe’s hearings, and those of the United States House of Representatives Subcommittee, exposed fears that expansion of the European Union in 2004 (to include the Czech Republic, Cyprus, Estonia, Hungary, Latvia, Lithuania, Malta, Poland, Slovakia, and Slovenia) has “endangered Europe’s

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ability to protect human rights” (Isgro et al 182). Expanding to these countries allowed migrant workers (sex workers and others) from Eastern Europe “vastly improved conditions”, including easier movement across borders and more easily attainable legal status (Isgro et al 181). In fact, some scholars estimate that up to 60% of female prostitutes working in Germany today are foreign women, largely from Eastern Europe. The fear, taken up in the media and by other international bodies like the United States, is that trafficked sex workers from the East would “[disturb] the friendly encounter of the nations (the sports event) in the West” (825). While some migrants are clearly recognized and racialized as being “non-European”, and as a result face oppression in their new home countries after migration, the fear of the Eastern European in Germany is much greater and more complex. They are, in many ways, a type of invisible enemy. It is implied that women trafficked from Eastern Europe might be able to “sneak in” and “’pass’ as white, although they are not really or not quite yet European” (Isgro et al 181). Women trafficked from other parts of the world are also feared during the World Cup because they would be able to “hide or be hidden” amongst soccer fans (Isgro et al 182). The fear of both “white passing” and “non-white” migrants during the World Cup is that “once the girls are in, there is no way to control them” (Isgro et al 182). Once they “sneak” into Germany with the tourists, they will be harder to stop at the border and will stay illegally, whereas during any other time they would be recognized as neither tourists nor suitable migrants. This reinforces the “racialized other”, and sharp contrasts between the Global West/North where women are “free”, and the Global East/South where women are colonized and persecuted by their own cultures (Isgro et al 181).

What follows is martyrdom ... Supply comes from Eastern Europe: the misery there is great, the distances are short, the women look European and don’t run to the

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police immediately – in their home countries they learned to mistrust the mafia-infested police force. (Isgro et al 182) Cultural superiority, and constructions of strict dichotomies between the emancipated West and the oppressive East mean that European borders “are constructed as selective: open for peaceful sports fans, but closed for illegal migrants” (Kimm and Sauer 816). During the World Cup, the precept of “protecting women from trafficking” was used as a validation for continued persecution of immigrants.

Raids on brothels strengthened and sex workers were targeted more than normal (Ham 21). German authorities even acknowledged that they were carrying out specific searches for women without legal entry papers (Isgro et al 181). In fact, the Christian Democratic Union’s allegations that legalizing prostitution would lead to exploitation has been disputed heavily by local women’s advocacy groups. These groups report that only 972 complaints about forced prostitution are received each year across Germany, which many consider a “small number, even counting the many that are not reported” in comparison to the “thousands” of trafficked women expected (Loewenberg 105).

Over the course of the two months of the tournament, 71 brothels were raided with no trafficking victims identified and “saved”, but with ten women deported (Ham 21). This pointed effort against foreign women during the World Cup created an environment for migrant workers in which they could be deported regardless of their sector of employment.

Interestingly, this directly contradicts NGO campaigns that called on the white heterosexual German man to be the saviour of trafficked women. Women’s rights organizations, the ones mobilizing large-scale campaigns, are the only ones interested in actually helping female survivors of sex trafficking and non-trafficked migrants, while German authorities and media continue to push the narrative of

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the illegal immigrants and “what they are doing to our country”[source?]. Even the usage of phrases like “storms of prostitutes” in the German media conjure an image of an overwhelming amount of ‘immoral’, racialized ‘others’ coming to sully the national image, subvert morals, and force acceptance of their cultures.

After the World Cup ends, this racist and xenophobic discourse does not go away, but instead intensifies on-going struggles for or against more restrictive immigration policy (Kimm and Sauer 825).

By conflating trafficking, sex work, and illegal immigration into one large-scale force to be battled against, Western countries enforce a discourse that “European” equals “White”.

World Cup South Africa 2010 In contrast, South Africa’s worries about sex trafficking came from a vastly different place, one concerned with health and moral standards. The media played a much larger role in the build-up to their World Cup than the German media did, creating a “moral panic” around sex work as a service rather than the fear of immigrants. In South Africa, the Sexual Offences Act prohibits “brothel-keeping, recruitment of persons for purposes of prostitution, facilitating prostitution, soliciting, indecent exposure, living on the earnings of prostitution, public indecency, and receiving remuneration for the commission of acts of indecency” (Bird and Donaldson 37). South Africa won the bid to host the 2010 FIFA World Cup and in anticipation looked to the previous Cup in Germany as a model. In fact, media in South Africa recycled rumours directly from the 2006 German Cup—most notably the figure of “40,000 expected prostitutes” arriving in the country (Ham 16).

There were three major concerns raised with respect to the expected influx: the actual number of trafficked women and girls increasing, the increased risk of HIV transmission, and that the country would run out of condoms (Richter, Luchter,

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Ndlovu, Temmerman, Chersich 2). Most mobilization efforts were undertaken by religious and/or international groups like the Salvation Army, a non-profit Christian coalition called STOP, and an “alliance between an international network of women’s religious orders and the Southern African Catholic Bishop’s Conference” (Richter et al 2). In addition, similarly to the German Cup, the same United States House of Representatives Subcommittee passed a resolution calling on the South African governments to take action against trafficking.

Jackie Selebi, former National Commissioner of South African Police Service, suggested temporarily making prostitution and public drinking legal, within limits, for the duration of the World Cup. To support his suggestion, Selebi specifically cited how the German government accommodated sex work and controlled it in red light districts (Bird and Donaldson 34). He said that legalising it would free his officers to deal with more pressing security issues, saying “I want you to apply your minds to my dilemma of what to do with the thousands of soccer hooligans expected to imbibe in public spaces and those who would feel the urge to try out other more exotic passtimes, both currently illegal in South Africa” (Agbiboa 16). Selebi’s motion was supported by African National Congress Parlimentarian George Lekgetho, who believed that legalising sex work temporarily would help bring in tax revenue, reduce rape, and things that people do “in the dark” (Agbiboa 17). However, this was not passed in government and prostitution remained illegal throughout the World Cup. Nevertheless, keeping prostitution illegal and the concern about sex work during the World Cup did not arise from a fear of illegal immigrants. Instead, as Elsje Bonthuys argues in The 2010 Football World Cup and the Regulation of Sex Work in South Africa, “The South African media deliberately, or at least negligently, created moral panic around trafficking which was

VOLUME 5

ostensibly aimed at protecting sex workers from exploitation, but which had the effect of obscuring real demands for social and legal reform by the sex workers and their advocates” (12). Newspapers and magazines ran stories vastly different in nature, detailing national concerns about health risks over immigration. One article in New African Magazine discussed how most South Africans thought that “longterm interests should supersede shortterm benefits” when it came to the welfare and morals of the country (Agbiboa 17).

Much like in Germany, the “hype” surrounding 40,000 new sex workers arriving in the country for the World Cup was proved false. Researchers, government representatives, and sex workers rights groups all argued that the 40,000100,000 figures that the media reported were “unfounded hype” (Ham 16). In fact, the Department of Justice and Constitutional Development reported at a Parliamentary meeting that no cases of trafficking were found at all, a finding which was supported by two major organizations: the Sex Workers Education and Advocacy Taskforce (SWEAT) and the South African National AIDS Council (SANAC) (Ham 16). In addition, the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) research found that during the World Cup there was a small increase in female sex workers who advertised online and in newspapers, and that the percentage of non-South African sex workers actually slightly declined (Ham 17), but remained largely stable at 40% (Richter et al 5). These statistics, and the fact that the estimate of 40,000 incoming sex workers was incredibly exaggerated, was almost completely absent from South African media. Despite best efforts, the media build-up that was created to “reduce sex workers vulnerabilities”, and raise awareness about health risks, made little to no difference (Ham 17). Police contact with sex workers remained steady and contact between health workers, clinics, and sex workers actually decreased (Ham 17). Various scholars have pointed to key reasons why sex work in South

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Africa did not increase during the World Cup. One author suggests that poverty and lack of employment have already pushed many South African women into sex work, which is already sold at a relatively low price (Bonthuys 21). These low prostitution prices for South African-born women make the market difficult for foreigners to enter due to competitive pricing (Bonthuys 21). In addition, the historically fetishized body of the Black African woman, seen as “exotic” and “sexually savage” in the West, would be more of an attraction for sex tourists during the World Cup than White bodies that tourists can find in their home countries.

Much like in the German campaigns, men were made both the problem and the solution to sex trafficking and increased South Work. Jessie Kabwila Kapasula discusses how in Southern Africa (South Africa and Malawi), soccer is a “resolutely male affair, from policymakers, financiers, advertisers, referees, coaches, as well as athletes”, not to mention consumers (27). The patriarchal nature of soccer is a product of, and reflected in, the patriarchal nature of society. The same system of patriarchy is, of course, found all over the world. As a result, men have inherent power and are constructed as saviours of “fallen women” whether in writing, campaigns, or in Parliament. This saviourism is also contradictory when sex workers in South Africa discussed treatment at the hands of police.

Police harassment of sex workers in South Africa is “well-documented, and can take the form of assault, unlawful arrests, rape, extortion, and demands for sex or money as bribes” (Richter et al 2). There was definitely no influx of female workers into South Africa and the World Cup made no significant change to the conditions which structure women’s economic disadvantage, or their economic dependence on men (Bonthuys 29). Employment opportunities created through the tournament largely went to men or were too temporary to make a significant impact for women.

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Conclusion In December 2010, five months after hosting the World Cup, South Africa formally joined Brazil, Russia, India, and China in forming BRICS (formerly BRIC), an association of newly industrialized, “developing” economies, sometimes referred to as the “Second World”. These countries have entered into globalized, transnational agreements including the development of a BRICS Bank, intended to rival the Western-controlled International Monetary Fund and World Bank (brics5. co.za). Brazil, as one of these “emerging economies”, was selected as the host of the 2014 FIFA World Cup. Media reports focused largely on Brazil’s treatment of minors and women instead of potential transnational migrations. Reports in international media, like the U.S.-based Huffington Post, had headlines that read “Children Sold For Sex At World Cup For Few Dollars, Pack of Cigarettes” and told stories of girls as young as age ten selling sex for as little as $2.00 USD per client (Goldberg). The “pimps and traffickers with their victims” who were expected to flood Brazilian cities ahead of the Cup were coming from rural parts of the country, rather than from “outside countries” where oppression is prevalent. For example, with support from the Vatican and the United States Embassy, nuns launched an international campaign called “Play in Favor of Life - Denounce Human Trafficking”. This project targeted traffickers who target and kidnap young women and girls from the country, get them addicted to drugs, and force them into sex work (Pullella). This reaction contrasts with other international tournaments, like the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics or the 2008 Euro Cup in Austria, where fears of trafficking mirrored those displayed around the 2006 World Cup in Germany. Groups like the Salvation Army and Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) reported estimates that trafficking into British Columbia and Canada would increase during the games, only to find those

20

reports unsubstantiated. Austria, having looked to Germany’s 2006 World Cup as a framework, adopted similar government policies and NGO campaigns, while less constructed around responsibility on male clients (Kimm and Sauer 823).

International constructions of sex trafficking continue to cite the perpetrators of sexual violence and coercion as being from the Global South and as men of colour.

Little to no discourse is put forward about moving European women to Brazil or South Africa, instead only on how men in those cultures move their own. This comes back to Spivak’s idea of “white men saving brown women from brown men”. In some ways, even international anti-trafficking campaigns operate as saviours on a larger scale. The United States government and multinational NGOs are the “white men” who save other countries and their “brown women” from themselves. They never put any responsibility on “developed” and “First World” states like Germany, Canada, and the United States. Countries like South Africa and Brazil are completely responsible for their own women, and their protections, because they are the ones who oppress them. Most notably, as previously mentioned, concrete data on sex trafficking, and its relation to transnational events like the World Cup, is hard to come by. However, what becomes evident are the different ways in which sex trafficking is treated between “First World” countries like Germany and “Second World” countries like South Africa. Developed countries are concerned with maintaining national identity against increasingly permeable borders, believing they are free from social ills, while developing countries are concerned for the actual health of those living and working within their borders.

Discourses around sex trafficking “have long been linked to how global capital creates class, gender and racial inequities around the world” (Isgro et al 186). These inequities become evident in transnational processes like the World Cup. As a

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“developed” country, Germany is able to create and recreate its borders to meet economic and political strategy even though many prostitutes in Germany are illegal immigrants without working papers (Loewenberg 105). By using this discourse, countries in the Global North/ West remove themselves from the international systems of exploitation that make them transnational sites. The continued exportation of cheap labour derived from workers in the Global South, particularly women, provides economic advantages in Global North countries. By maintaining their country’s wealth, they are inherently promoting themselves as a place of economic opportunity and upward mobility, in which even a poor migrant woman of colour can come and change her life for the better. Countries like South Africa are not in the same position. They are internationally presented as being inherently violent and culturally inferior. However, their slowed development can be seen as a direct consequence of colonial practices and the legacies of capitalist exploitation at the hands of multinational organizations like the IMF and their restrictive trade policies.

In both Germany and South Africa, constructions of masculinity as saving women were used to validate anti-trafficking policy moves that manifested in opposite ways: one with legalized prostitution, and the other with its criminalization.

However, international and domestic responses to trafficking fears manifested in different ways. Forced by the international community to address its own failings, South Africa takes responsibility for the health and abuse of sex workers. By removing those failings, Germany is in a position where it can place blame on the “other” and the “non-European” (or nonWhite). The continued conflation of sex work to violent trafficking has supported this stigmatization, not only against the developing world and the people who inhabit it, but also against women working in the sex industry (Isgro et al 186). This is

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another key failing of globalized countries like Germany. By “mobilizing the discursive connection of ‘forced prostitution’ and ‘trafficking of women’… a hegemonic interpretation was set: prostitution is always coercion. Eventually, this discredited all sex workers, discursively victimizing them” (Kimm and Sauer 824). Interestingly, in both First and Second World countries, sex workers reported increased policing and stagnant or decreasing visits from clients, regardless of economic advantage. This shows that the developed countries were no better at maintaining “freedoms” for sex workers and in the protection of potential trafficking victims and migrants. Both developed and developing countries have a great deal of forward mobility to make in the protection of sex workers and should be less distracted by fabricated trafficking statistics and more committed to creating and maintaining freedoms of movement and work.

References Agbiboa, Daniel. “Red alert! Prostitution during the World Cup.” New African June 2010: 16-17.

Bird, Ruth and Ronnie Donaldson. “”Sex, Sun, Soccer”: Stakeholder-Opinions on the Sex Industry in Cape Town in Antitipation of the 2010 FIFA Soccer World Cup.” Urban Forum 20 (2009): 33-46.

Bonthuys, Elsje. “The 2010 Football World Cup and the Regulation of Sex Work in South Africa .” Journal of Southern African Studies 38.1 (2012): 11-29.

BRICS. About BRICS. 2013. November 2014 <http://www.brics5.co.za/about-brics/>.

Evans, Pete. World Cup financial gains rarely materialize for host . 10 June 2014. December 2014 <http://www.cbc.ca/news/business/ world-cup-financial-gains-rarely-materialize-for-host-1.2671024>.

Fédération Internationale de Football Association (FIFA). FIFA World Cup. 2013. December 2014 <http://www.fifa.com/aboutfifa/worldcup/index.html>.

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Gallagher-Cohoon, Erin. “The Dirt on “White Slavery”: The Construction of Prostitution Narratives in the early Twentieth-Century American Newspapers.” Constellations 5.1 (2013): 36-49.

Germany’s World Cup Brothels: 40,000 Women and Children at Risk of Exploitation Through Trafficking. No. Second Session. 4 May 2006.

Ross, Eleanor. “In ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’, Spivak offers the sentence ‘White men are saving brown women from brown men’ as one interpretation of the relationship between colonizer and colonized.” Inntervate: Leading Undergraduate Work in English Studies 2 (2009-2010): 385-391.

Goldberg, Eleanor. Children Sold For Sex At World Cup For Few Dollars, Pack of Cigarettes.

June 2014. Huffington Post. November 2014 <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/06/12/ world-cup-child-prostitution_n_5474716. html>.

Isgro, Kirsten L, Maria Stehle and Beverly M Weber. “From sex shacks to mega-brothels: The politics of anti-trafficking and the 2006 soccer World Cup.” European Journal of Cultural Studies 2013 16 (2012).

Ham, Julie. “What’s the Cost of a Rumour?: A guide to sorting out the myths and the facts about sporting events and trafficking.” Global Alliance Against Traffic in Women (GAATW), 2011.

Kapasula, Jessie Kabwila. “2010 FIFA World Cup and the Patriarchy of Football Spectatorship .” Gender, Sport and Development in Africa (2010): 27-46.

Kimm, Susanne and Birgit Sauer. “Discourses on forced prostitution, trafficking in women, and football: a comparison of anti-trafficking campaigns during the World Cup 2006 and the European Championship 2008.” Soccer & Society 11.6 (2010): 815-828.

Loewenberg, Samuel. “Fears of World Cup sex trafficking boom unfounded.” The Lancet (2006): 105-106.

Pullella, Philip. Nuns, backed by pope, warn of human trafficking at World Cup. 20 May 2014. Thomson Reuters. December 2014 <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/06/12/ world-cup-child-prostitution_n_5474716. html>.

Richter, Marlise, et al. “Female sex work and international sport events - no major changes in demand or supply of paid sex during the 2010 Soccer World Cup: a cross-sectional study .” BioMed Central, 2012.

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VOLUME 5

Master Planning Under Occupation: The City on a Hill Lillian Fradin

At the 2008 Palestinian Investment Conference, Bashar Masri of Massar International partnered with Qatari Diar Realty to create Rawabi: Palestineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first master- planned city. This project has faced criticism from Israelis, Palestinians, and the western media. Despite this scrutiny and opposition, the project is moving forward and, now that water from Israel was recently approved, inhabiting the project is now feasible. In order to attempt to understand this project, a few issues must be considered: what makes Rawabi new in the Palestinian context and a broader geographic context, and how does the concept of mimicry, borrowed from evolutionary biology, play into all of this? To answer these questions, this paper examines the environment that gave birth to the project, Israeli inspiration for Rawab,i and the ways in which this endeavor represents emerging neoliberal ideologies in Palestine.

Key words: Rawabi, Palestine, master- planning, Middle East, FDI, occupation, mimicry

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T

he inaugural Palestinian Investment Conference (PIC) was held in May 2008 in Bethlehem, West Bank. It was at the PIC that Massar International, founded by Palestinian-born businessman Bashar Masri, and Qatari Diar Real Estate, established in 2005 by the sovereign wealth fund of the State of Qatar, officially partnered to create Rawabi: the first Palestinian master-planned city (Change, 2008). In the official PIC pamphlet, the cost of Rawabi was quoted as “> $350 US Million” (Change, 2008), a price tag that has since increased to $1billion USD (Sherwood, 2013).

Located in Area A of the West Bank and officially under full control of the Palestinian Authority (PA), the project will provide housing for 25,000 residents by the end of its first phase, while a second phase will increase that number to 40,000 (Rawabi, 2015). This project represents a departure from more traditional forms of planning in Palestine, as it aims to offer young, mid-

dle-class residents a lifestyle that would be otherwise inaccessible in the Palestinian context (Prophet, 2009). The small but emerging body of literature concerning Rawabi focuses primarily on tensions between Palestine and Israel surrounding the granting of a checkpoint- free road and water [access] to Rawabi. However, there is a lack of geographic literature about new master-planned cities in general, let alone literature assessing how ‘new’ Rawabi is in the context of Palestine, and how ‘new’ Rawabi is in a broader planned city context. Therefore, through this paper, I aim to assess Rawabi in both of these contexts first by addressing Rawabi’s coming of age and its specific Palestinian origins. Then, I will address the broader role Rawabi plays in relation to Israeli planned cities, and how this project represents the proliferation of neoliberal ideologies into Palestine.

Finally, I will discuss the use of mimicry in nature as a survival mechanism, and adapt that concept to the current situation between Israel and Rawabi.

Figure 1. From Left to Right, Qatari Diar CEO Al Saad, Palestinian Prime Minister Fayyad, Massar CEO Masri and Palestinian Investment Conference CEO Abu Libdeh after the signing of the MOU at the Palestine Investment Conference. From the Bayti Real Estate website, retrieved from http:// www.bayti.ps/event_show.php?id=01.

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While a plethora of literature on the conflict between Israel and Palestine exists from political science and sociological perspectives, literature within geography about Rawabi in particular is scant but emerging. Complementing the lacking academic literature, however, is significant and extensive local and western media coverage of the project. Media outlets such as the New York Times, Time Magazine, and The Guardian have all run features on Rawabi. However, these short features focus on narrow aspects of the project. The majority of articles stem from disputes between Israeli and Palestinian authorities over rights to water access, which, until February 14, 2015, was formally under Israeli control (Kershner, 2014). Another focus of these exposés is the target audience of the project - young, middle-class Palestinians from both within Palestine, and from the diaspora, who would otherwise have no desire/motivation to own Palestine property (Perman, 2011). Additionally, The Guardian reports on the aforementioned subjects and discusses criticism directed towards Bashar Masri by the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions (BDS) movement, namely that the project seeks to legitimizes Israeli occupation of the West Bank (Sherwood, 2013). While these three examples summarize western media coverage of Rawabi, local and Arabic-language media reports are centered around the perceived politics of dispute or teamwork between Palestinian and Israeli officials regarding access to water and a checkpoint-free road to access Rawabi (‫رليم‬, 2014). In terms of academic literature on Rawabi, a few journal articles exist, as well as a forthcoming Ph.D. thesis. In an article published in Jewish Quarterly, Lawrence Joffe discusses emerging similarities between Israel and Palestine, while specifically mentioning Rawabi; his article, however, doesn’t address what makes Rawabi ‘new’ in the context of his article (Joffe, 2011).

Another article published in City in 2009 enumerates the emerging similarities between Israel and Palestine in recent

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years (Abourahme, 2009). A forthcoming thesis by Kareem Rabie at the City University of New York provides a groundbreaking look at the nation building aspects of the project through original research as part of his Ph. D. dissertation. The author has granted access to it for the purposes of this paper. The dissertation represents the best research conducted on the project to date. Unsurprisingly, however, gaps in the literature still persist, which this paper attempts to fill by addressing what is ‘new’ about Rawabi in the Palestinian context and a broader geographic context.

Palestinian context In the narrow context of Palestine, it is difficult to argue that Rawabi is not groundbreaking, not only from a built environment perspective but also in terms of nation building. How else would one go about procuring close to $1 billion in funding, almost half of which comes from the Qatari sovereign wealth fund (Green, 2009)? A primary aim of this project, as outlined in a pamphlet from the Palestinian Investment Conference of 2008, is to offer “a new quality of life option well within the financial reach of the rapidly growing class of young Palestinian professionals” (Change, 2008).

This represents a major departure from the previous generation of Palestinians, who would typically live in close proximity to, or even with, members of their extended family (Sherwood, 2013). The development of Rawabi has also challenged the governing structures of the Palestinian Authority, as it has applied for and received approvals from various levels of government, ultimately obtaining it at the highest level— the Higher Planning Council. As Rabie (forthcoming) outlines, building plans in the West Bank must be approved by local authorities first, then regional authorities, and then by the Higher Planning Council.

Rabie further points out that, “because of the added confusion between national and regional levels in a fragmented West Bank, the MoP (Ministry of Planning) has no clear procedure for something

25

like Rawabi” (Rabie, 2014). Despite the unprecedented nature of this project in Palestine, it continues to move forward incrementally.

Broader context In an interview with NPR (2008), Bashar Masri said, “This [planned city] is a new phenomenon for Palestine—it’s not a new phenomenon for the world or even the region, but for Palestine it’s definitely a new phenomenon.” Critics and proponents of Rawabi alike have touted what Masri alludes to in this interview—while the project is in many ways revolutionary for Palestine, iterations of the master planned city on a hill typology that Rawabi claims to reflect can be seen all across Israel, especially in Modi’in, a master-planned city roughly equidistant from Jerusalem and Tel Aviv (Figure 2). In a 2014 article published in Al- Monitor, Ahmad Melhem (2014) criticizes Rawabi specifically because “it features a Western- style architecture and looks like nearby Israeli settlements” (Melhem, 2014).

While Rawabi has faced criticism because of its likeness to Israeli settlements in general, it has also been criticized as a physical manifestation of the proliferating neo-

liberalism in the region. American media such as the Washington Post praised Rawabi’s implementation of US-style mortgages, which appear to support the “free market” economic ideology declared by Palestine (Dana, 2014; Schneider, 2009). While neocapitalism has historically been a part of Palestinian economic policy on paper, it has only recently found a real-life foothold in Rawabi. However, a true realization of Palestinian neoliberal economic policy is heavily impeded by Israeli colonization of natural resources and colonization of Palestinian territories. Therefore, it is surprising that the Palestinian Authority has yet to deliver on its promises to provide infrastructure in and around Rawabi in terms of Palestine’s larger economic objectives (Rabie, 2014). It is through this attempted linkage to a larger neoliberalism, frequently associated with Israel and other countries in the Global North, that Rawabi attempts to expand local economic linkages to “the global knowledge economy” (Rawabi, 2015). While this attempted advancement is in line with Palestinian nation building goals, the reality is that much of this inertia hinges upon the success of a master-planned city modeled, in part, on Israeli prototypes—a precedent difficult to reconcile with fierce Palestinian national pride.

Rawabi

Modi’in

Source: “Rawabi” by Qatar Diar Real Estate- http://www.qataridiar.com/English/OurProjects/Pages/Rawabi.aspx

Source: “Modi’in 02003” by Otto Magnus - Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons. wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Modi%27in_02003.JPG#mediaviewer/ File:Modi%27in_02003.JPG

Figure 2. Photos of Rawabi (Palestine) and Modi’in (Israel)

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Therefore, a key issue surrounding the naissance of neocapitalism and neoliberalism in Palestine is the context to which it can be applied. A brief published in ‫ةكبشلا‬ outlines how “neoliberalism combined with political authoritarianism and corruption reinforced and consolidated what can be described as the PA’s crony capitalism” (Dana, 2014). As a member of the hyper- mobile global business elite, Bashar Masri is uniquely positioned to capitalize on the benefits of this system while living outside the framework of occupied Palestine. While Masri has made an enormous monetary investment in Rawabi, it can also be seen as a one for personal financial gain. It is doubtful that someone without a personal stake would take on a project plagued with so many obstacles that must be navigated, such as obtaining a checkpoint-free access road and water through arduous processes with Israel—both of which have received approval after painstaking effort (“‫ديوزت ىلع قفاوت ليئارسإ‬ “‫ةنطوتسمل اهلاصيإ لباقم هايملاب ”يباور‬ ‫هللا مار برق‬,” 2015). While the project represents a new era in Palestinian urbanism, its roots are merely a stone’s throw away – in Israel – and with it brings sentiments of neoliberalism and neocapitalism.

Role of mimicry From the perspective of evolutionary biology, mimicry can be defined, at its most basic level, as a strategic similarity between two species that is meant to protect one or both. Similarities can occur in behavior, appearance and location, as mimics are often found in the same areas as their models (Wickler, 1968). This definition suggests that Rawabi, a foreign entity in the built context of Palestine, can be seen as deliberately appropriating Israeli design idioms in order to legitimize Palestinian nation building and statehood in an overt way. While the initiative has received backlash from Israeli and Arab news outlets alike, the project forges on (Yehya, 2015). This proves that, through a process of architectural mimicry, the

FIELD NOTES

Israeli and Palestinian governments may gain legitimacy, and collectively reap the benefits of Masri’s strategic investment and at this point, neither side can say no.

Embroiled in controversy from multiple angles and perspectives, the project of Rawabi ultimately strives to provide the young Palestinian middle-class with the lifestyle and amenities they would otherwise need to leave Palestine in order to obtain. Through this project, Bashar Masri also hopes to re-root the Palestinian diaspora within a modern, technologically advanced, and luxurious lifestyle that hasn’t yet been offered in the West Bank— and all while physically overlooking the ‘other side,’ Israel. However, now that Rawabi has circumvented the colonialist checkpoint system enforced by Israel through its attainment of an access road, and through its acquisition of fresh water access, also from Israel, it will be interesting to see how Rawabi attracts what is has lacked for so long - a population.

While this paper is a first step towards examining the role of master- planning in occupied territories and some associated challenges, it is by no means exhaustive.

Considering the recent approval of water for Rawabi, further research assessing the in-situ vivacity of the city as a population takes shape, and that population’s impact on nation building, is direction for further research, as is an analysis of the continued state of relations between Palestinian and Israeli authorities in the context of planning and related cooperation. Although the scope of this paper was limited by a lack of pertinent academic literature, a longer paper could endeavor to also interrogate the Israeli reaction to Rawabi.

Acknowledgements: I would like to thank Kareem Rabie, who graciously shared his Ph.D. dissertation with me. As the only in depth academic assessment of Rawabi I could find, I would highly recommend reading it once the embargo is lifted on October 1, 2016.

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References Abourahme, N. (2009). The bantustan sublime: reframing the colonial in Ramallah.

City, 13(4), 499-509. doi: http://dx.doi. org/10.1080/13604810903298771 Change, P. f. (2008). Retrieved 13 February 2015. Project and Concept Profiles. In P. I. Conference (Ed.), (pp. 156). Bethlehem Dana, T. (2014). The Palestinian Capitalists That Have Gone Too Far. Al Shabaka, 7.

Retrieved 13 February 2015. http://al-shabaka. org/policy-brief/economic-issues/palestinian-capitalists-have-gone-too-far?page=show Green, A. R. (2009). Trading Up. Jewish Quarterly, 56(2), 28-29. doi: http://dx.doi.org/10.10 80/0449010X.2009.10707076 Joffe, L. (2011). Two of a Kind. Jewish Quarterly, 58(3), 18-24. doi: http://dx.doi.org/10.10 80/0449010X.2011.10707150 Kershner, I. (2014, 26 August 2014). Retrieved 10 February 2015. New Palestinian Town in West Bank Awaits Israel’s Approval for Water.

The New York Times, p. 4.

Melhem, A. (2014). Rawabi still controversial among Palestinians Al- Monitor, 2. Retrieved 10 February 2015 from Al- Monitor website: doi:http://www.al-monitor.com/pulse/originals/2014/09/rawabi-city-west-bank-accusation-partnership-israel.html NPR (Producer). (2008, 14 February 2015).

Planned Palestinian City in West Bank Faces Hurdles. Morning Edition. [Radio Segment ] Perman, S. (2011). A Shining City on a Hill.

TIME Magazine, 2. Retrieved 12 February 2015 from http://content.time.com website:doi:http://content.time.com/time/specials/ packages/printou t/0,29239,2026474_202667 5_2062499,00.html

Rabie, K. (2014). Palestine is Throwing a Party and the Whole World is Invited: Private Development and State Building in the Contemporary West Bank. (Ph.D. Ph.D.), City University of New York. (461) Schneider, H. (2009). Palestinians looking to American style housing developments, financing. The Washington Post, 2. Retrieved 14 February 2015 from Washington Post Online website: doi:http://www.washingtonpost. com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/11/22/ AR2009112202106_pf.html Sherwood, H. (2013). Rawabi rises: new West Bank city symbolises Palestine’s potential. The Guardian, 4. Retrieved 11 February 2015 from 8 August 2014 website: doi:http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/ aug/08/rawabi-west-bank-city-palestine Wickler, W. (1968). Mimicry in plants and animals. Location: McGraw- Hill.

Yehya, A. (2015). Rawabi: Israeli Model for “Neo-Palestinian” City Aletho News, 2. Retrieved 14 February 2015 from Aletho News website: doi:(http://english.al-akhbar.com/content/ rawabi-israeli-model%E2%80%9Cneo-palestinian%E2%80%9D-city? utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+AlAkhbarEnglish+%28Al+Akhbar+English%29) ‫لباقم هايملاب ”يباور“ ديوزت ىلع قفاوت ليئارسإ‬ ‫هللا مار برق ةنطوتسمل اهلاصيإ‬ . (2015). Quds News Agency. Retrieved 14 February 2015 from qudsnet website: ‫رليم‬, ‫ا‬. (2014). ‫يباور‬، ‫ةينيطسلفلا ةنيدملا‬ ‫ةديدجلا‬، ‫الك زوفي ثيح‬ ‫نيبناجلا‬. The Times of Israel. Retrieved 15 February 2015 from Times of Israel website: ar.timesofisrael.com// ‫يف‬-‫يباورلا‬،-‫ةنيدملا‬-‫ةينيطسلفلا‬-‫يدجلا‬

Prophet, G. (2009). Planned City “Rawabi” Draws on Palestinian Enterprise and Israeli Experience. Green Prophet, 5. Retrieved 11 February 2015 from Green Prophet website: doi:http://www.greenprophet.com/2009/12/ rawabi-palestine-planned-city/ Rawabi. (2015). Rawabi Retrieved 12 February 2015, from http://www.rawabi.ps/index.php

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VOLUME 5

Mining for Gold: The Rankin Inlet Approach to Self-Determination in the Meliadine Gold Life Project Mélanie Wittes

Mining megaprojects in the northern territories of Canada are becoming increasingly common. Because Indigenous communities tend to be located close to mining areas, they are intimately connected to the global mining industry.

Such is the case for the community of Rankin Inlet, Nunavut, which expects the Meliadine Gold mining project to begin in 2020. This essay explores the positions of the many stakeholders involved in this Project, such as the Government of Nunavut, Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated, Agnico Eagle, and Rankin Inlet community members. This essay characterizes the Meliadine Gold Project as a “life project,” based on Rankin Inlet’s history with mining and on the perspectives of the hamlet’s residents.

FIELD NOTES

29

M

ining megaprojects in the northern territories of Canada are becoming increasingly common.

Because Indigenous communities tend to be located close to mining areas, they are closely connected to the global mining industry. This is especially the case in Nunavut, where mining is becoming a central aspect of this young territory’s history and future. Some argue, in fact, that resource extraction companies were principal catalysts for the Inuit struggle for self-determination (McPherson 1). Self-determination enacted by Inuit communities is essential in their negotiations with mining companies because it ensures their agency to undertake a given “life project.” Self-determination can take the form of self-government, which Gibson and Klinck argue is a key factor in establishing the resilience of Indigenous communities in mining negotiations (134), as it permits them to negotiate through and according to their own governing institutions, in order to capitalize on the benefits of mining and to mitigate its consequences.

This essay will explore the forthcoming Meliadine Gold “life project” of the Rankin Inlet hamlet in the Kivalliq region of Nunavut. In order to fully understand the context in which this mining project will occur, I will first examine the role that the 1993 Nunavut Land Claims Agreement has taken in the development of Nunavut’s self-government. I will then analyze at length the objectives of various stakeholders in the Meliadine project, such as the Government of Nunavut and Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated, examining certain key documents published by these bodies. Then, I will look specifically at Rankin Inlet, focusing first on its mining history, then on the numerous perspectives of Rankinmiut1 about the Meliadine project, and finally on the potential benefits and costs of the project.

To preface, I would like to note that many Indigenous people oppose resource-extractive development projects altogether and view them as another form of colonization. However, as a non-Indigenous (and, in particular, non-Inuit) settler, it is not my position to posit an opinion on this debate. Rather, this essay explores how a resource-extractive development project might act as a “life project” to those who do not oppose such development projects altogether, and who view them as being potentially beneficial to their struggles for self-determination.

The Nunavut Land Claims Agreement (NLCA),2 signed in 1993 and implemented in 1999, gave Inuit the rights to a large area, comprising 20% of Canadian land; this area is what constitutes Nunavut. Of the total area of Nunavut land, the Inuit have title to 19% of the surface land and 2% of the subsurface land;3 the Crown holds title to the remaining 81% and 98%, respectively. Alongside the Canadian federal government, the Inuit also play a role in the management of natural resources, receive a portion of resource royalties, and receive many of the benefits of development projects on Inuit Owned Lands through Inuit Impact and Benefit Agreements (IIBAs) (NTI “Explore the Potential” 2). Much of the surface and subsurface Inuit Owned Lands (IOL) is in the Kivalliq region. Because the Inuit have title to this land, they have the power to control what happens on their land (Nunavut Planning Commission 56); this is a major source of Inuit self-determination in Nunavut. Throughout negotiations for the NLCA, the Inuit pushed heavily for land development injunctions; this pressure was based on an orientation toward resource development in what would soon be Nunavut. Robert McPherson contends that, though the Inuit were concerned with issues relating to the sustainability of their

1 Rankinmiut means “the people of Rankin Inlet” in Inuktitut. The suffix “miut” refers to a group of people (Cater 6).

2 Please refer to page 16 for a list of acronyms used in this essay.

3 The lands to which Inuit have title are referred to as “Inuit Owned Lands.”

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land and, by extension, their culture, this development-oriented pressure was a tool used in the Inuit struggle for self-determination. The Inuit recognized that, while their identity was perhaps associated with the land, they could not continue to gain their livelihood purely from the land; they therefore had to ensure that their children would learn new skills that would allow them to work in the wage-labour force. As McPherson explains, “A thriving economy based on largely non-renewable resources would be essential for a viable new territory—the Nunavut of their dreams” (xvii).

The Inuit thus approached NLCA negotiations with the understanding that it was necessary to adapt to their changing socioeconomic and environmental landscapes.

Governing bodies that emanated from the NLCA have continued this legacy of pushing for a development-oriented agenda, such as the Government of Nunavut (GN).

In 2003, for instance, the GN and other organizations in Nunavut and Canada published the “Nunavut Economic Development Strategy,” which stated that economic growth was necessary in order to improve the quality of life fo Nunavummiut.4 One of the primary sources of economic growth identified was mining (Department of Economic Development and Transportation 3). Subsequently, the GN initiated the “Nunavut Mineral Exploration and Mining Strategy.” The goals of this strategy are to support sustainable mining exploration and development in Nunavut for economic gain that will benefit all the communities in Nunavut; this document also states that the GN supports the concept of “Sustainable Development.”

This “Sustainable Development” approach is founded on mitigating the environmental impacts of mining, benefiting Nunavut and its communities, respecting and supporting traditional cultures, supporting

the self-reliance and self-determination of Nunavut and its communities, and growing the economy (Department of Economic Development and Transportation 3-4). Further, the mission statement of the GN concerning mining is: “To encourage the creation of a sustainable mining industry that protects the environment and benefits and contributes to all Nunavummiut” (Department of Economic Development and Transportation 6). Thus, while the GN is focused on developing the economy of Nunavut through mining activities and extractive development, they are also concerned about respecting and protecting Nunavut lands; both of these concerns are foundational for self-determination.

In the “Nunavut Mineral Exploration and Mining Strategy,” there is a list of six strategic “themes” that describe the initiatives that the GN will undertake to advance mining practices. These themes are the following: “Government of Nunavut Capacity Development,” “Environmental Stewardship and Sustainability,” “Community Participation and Capacity Development,” “Infrastructure Development,” “Business Development,” and “Development of an Effective Approval Process” (Department of Economic Development and Transportation). There are a few noteworthy aspects of this document. The first is the use of language. All of the themes listed name principles of Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit (which translates loosely to “the Inuit way of doing things”) (Tester and Irniq 49) to which the themes respond, such as Aajiiqatigiingniq/Pitiakadigiiklotik5 and Avatimik Kamattiarniq/Amiginik Avatimik6 (Department of Economic Development and Transportation 14, 12). Yet, the document also uses neoliberal discursive phrases, such as the “competitive” mineral royalty structure and the “entrepreneurial culture” that the GN hopes to encourage

4 Nunavummiut means “the people of Nunavut” in Inuktitut (Cater 2).

5 Aajiiqatigiingniq/Pitiakadigiiklotik means “Have regard for the Inuit way of decision-making; employ discussion and build consensus” in Inuktitut.

6 Avatimik Kamattiarniq/Amiginik Avatimik means “In all things have respect for the environment and ensure it is protected” in Inuktitut.

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(Department of Economic Development and Transportation 18). Thus, it would seem that the GN is attempting to reconcile the seemingly contradictory values of extractive capitalistic development and the “traditional” Inuit way of life and livelihood practices that is in large part based on sustainable uses of the land. The second noteworthy feature is the GN’s approach to self-determination. A core aspect that reappears frequently in this document is that the GN is searching for ways to ensure that the benefits of mining projects remain in Nunavut, rather than accruing to non-Nunavut people or organizations. This is represented in such strategies as their training programs for Nunavummiut, their development of Nunavut-based businesses, and in their intention of devolving mineral management from the federal government to the GN through the Nunavut Mines Act. Thus, similar to the NLCA, the “Nunavut Mineral Exploration and Mining Strategy” is a document that serves to further the self-determination of Nunavummiut.

Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated (NTI) is a not-for-profit Inuit organization that was created to implement the NLCA in order to advance the rights and benefits of Nunavummiut (Eetoolook 1). Subsurface title to Inuit Owned Lands is vested in NTI, which amounts to a total of 38,000 square kilometres (Department of Economic Development and Transportation 5).7 NTI is a fierce supporter of mining activities and projects, while simultaneously (at least on paper) defending Inuit self-interests. In 1998, they developed a Mining Policy in which the NTI committed itself to supporting and promoting mining. The primary objectives of this Policy are the following: “minimize the negative impacts,” “maximize the benefits of mining to Inuit,” “attract mining investment,” “resolve land use conflicts,” and “improve consultation and clarify deci-

sion-making” (NTI “Mining Policy” 2).

According to the Mining Policy, it would therefore seem as though NTI is fairly committed to mitigating the harmful consequences of mining and to engaging with non-NTI Nunavut stakeholders.

Yet, the reality of NTI activity is perhaps not as positive. First, I would argue that NTI is not nearly as conscientious about reducing the environmental impact of mining as is the GN. For instance, James Eetoolook, First Vice-President of NTI, presented at the Nunavut Mining Symposium in 2000 where he said, “There should be no doubt that we support mining and that we want it. However, as we are people who live close to the land, we require that, in exchange for that support, mining activities do as little harm as possible to the land and the environment.

We realize, of course, that you can’t make a mine without digging a hole” (Eetoolook 3). Although Eetoolook does make mention of the Inuit relationship to the land and of reducing environmental effects of mining, he does so in a very passive, dismissive way. His sentence about protecting the land is bookended by sentences about supporting mining and about recognizing that mining is necessarily harmful to the land. Similarly, at this same symposium, Eetoolook stated that, before any more land is protected as a conservation area, NTI will ensure that this land does not include high-mineral-potential areas: “We recognize that mineral resources are rare and valuable and we do not wish to see them wasted because they are included inside a new park” (Eetoolook 5). These passages therefore highlight that NTI is much more concerned about advancing extractive development projects than it is about being stewards of the land to which they have mineral title. Similarly, NTI does not publish its bylaws or IIBAs in their entirety, and has publicly expressed that it is not required to consult with com-

7 While it is NTI that holds title to all subsurface IOL, corporations are permitted to gain access to IOL through Regional Inuit Associations, such as the Kivalliq Inuit Association (NTI “Explore the Potential” 5).

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munity members when engaging in the negotiation and drafting process of IIBAs (Bowman 21). Moreover, NTI intends on further centralizing power in the hands of NTI and the federal government, which would further marginalize individuals and their voices (Bowman 27). Thus, while NTI perhaps sells itself as a corporation that wishes to support environmental protection and to fairly represent all Inuit equally, I argue that in reality, NTI acts as a corporation that is not committed to environmental stewardship, transparency, or participation by non-NTI Nunavut community members.

The aims and objectives of the GN and of NTI are in some ways incongruent with the aims and objectives of the residents of Rankin Inlet. As explains Tara Cater, mining on Indigenous lands can be contentious because, while it is certainly an economic and environmental issue, it is also an issue of how different stakeholders envision “the good life” (as per Mario Blaser) (Cater 27). Governing bodies that emerged from the NLCA, particularly NTI, have been shaped according to “self-determination via mainstream economic development,” which has resulted in the “creation of a new elite of Aboriginal capitalists whose unquenchable thirst for profit has come to outweigh their ancestral obligations to the land and to others” (Coulthard 197). This vision of “the good life” is oriented toward universalist development in that it is founded on linear conceptions of “progress” that is divided into the dichotomous categories of “developed” and “modern,” and “undeveloped” and “traditional,” without taking into account the specificity of the place where the development project is occurring (Blaser 27, 30). Rankinmiut, by contrast, have a different vision of “the good life”; this vision is founded on their own particular “life project”: Life projects are embedded in local histories; they encompass visions of the world and the future that are distinct from those embodied

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by projects promoted by state and markets. Life projects diverge from development in their attention to the uniqueness of people’s experiences of place and self and their rejection of visions that claim to be universal.

Thus, life projects are premissed on densely and uniquely woven ‘threads’ of landscapes, memories, expectations and desires (Blaser 26).

Though Rankin Inlet is pursuing a development project with the upcoming Meliadine Gold Project, they are doing so according to their own life project (rather than according to a universalist approach to development), which originates in part from their collective memories of Rankin Inlet as a mining hamlet.

The history of Rankin Inlet revolves around mining; indeed, the town itself originates from mining. In the 1950s, nickel was very profitable on the international market (Cater 6, 18). Thus, from 1957 to 1962, Inuit families from other areas of Nunavut were brought to Rankin Inlet to enter the wage-based economy of nickel extraction, comprising about 70% of the North Rankin Nickel Mine (NRNM) workforce (Keeling 6). Rankin Inlet therefore became the first mining town established in Canada’s Arctic. The ways of life of the Inuit of Rankin Inlet changed very rapidly; according to Peter Irniq, former Commissioner of Nunavut and resident of Rankin Inlet, the residents of Rankin Inlet made the move “from igloos to mineshafts” in one generation (Cater 7). During the NRNM period, the Inuit grew accustomed to working in the wage-labour force, rather than relying solely on land-based livelihood practices for their survival. Their interactions with the land therefore changed: whereas the land was once a source of their subsistence living, it became viewed as a source of production of an economic commodity (namely, minerals). After the closure of NRNM, due to the declining price of nickel and the depletion of nickel reserves in this area, Rankin Inlet experienced

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a quick economic decline (Cater 69). In the 1960s and 70s, in order to help the community transition away from mineral extraction, the government of Canada implemented “make-work” projects, such as the introduction of the soapstone sculpture industry, which turned Rankin Inlet into the central hub for transportation and government services in the Kivalliq region. Interestingly, though the NRNM had a very short operational life, mining has become fundamental to the Rankinmiut identity (Keeling 7), highlighting the ripple effects that such projects can create in communities over time.

The impending Meliadine Gold Project, in comparison, is being developed by Agnico Eagle (AE), a company based in Toronto.

The mine property is located 25 kilometres north of Rankin Inlet, and covers more than 520 square kilometres, most of which are Inuit Owned Lands. It is estimated that it holds approximately 2.8 million ounces of gold reserves (Agnico Eagle). This project is AE’s second project in Nunavut, after the Meadowbank gold project, and is predicted to be AE’s largest operating gold mine (Agnico Eagle Mines Nunavut). The project is expected to run for approximately 13 years, from 2018 until 2030, and possibly longer. On February 26, 2015, the project certificate was finalized, comprising 127 terms and conditions, most of which relate to monitoring the socioeconomic and environmental impacts of the mining project (Nunatsiaq News “Nunavut board”). The company must still finish negotiating an IIBA before the project begins, given that as of November 7, 2014, AE and the Kivalliq Inuit Association (KIA) were still unable to come to an agreement (Nunatsiaq News “Agnico Eagle”).

The residents of Rankin Inlet have approached the Meliadine Gold Project

with memories of the NRNM. The NRNM has left a mark on the landscape of Rankin Inlet through its industrial ruins, which consist primarily of old equipment (Cater 75). Through Rankinmiut’s daily interactions with the industrial ruins, they produce and reproduce narratives associated with the NRNM. For instance, one Inuk Rankin Inlet resident, who was an informant to Tara Cater, stated: “I really like the mine site. It makes me feel like I’m home. This is something solid, this was something that was here before anything else. I mean the land was here, but it was one of the first things built in this town.

In my eyes it’s like it could have been here forever” (Cater 73). The NRNM ruins therefore become an icon of home for Rankinmiut (Cater 67). This construction of “home” runs counter to general assumptions about Inuit conceptions of home, namely that the Inuit view “home” as being on the land.8 I therefore postulate that this is one of the reasons why the Meliadine Gold Project acts as a life project for the residents of Rankin Inlet: because it is a means for them to determine how their “home” is conceptualized and constructed according to their identity, which is founded on their memories of mining. The NRNM ruins and, by extension, the Rankin Inlet-specific conception of “home,” become a symbol of Rankin Inlet’s identity (Cater 73). The Rankin Inlet symbol, for instance, is of the old headframe of the NRNM, which no longer exists (Hamlet of Rankin Inlet). At the foreground of the symbol is a mine pickaxe with a kakivak crossed at its centre, which is a traditional Inuit spear used for fishing. This symbol represents the multifaceted nature of the Rankinmiut identity: one that is based both on mining and on the traditional Inuit economy (Cater 81).

The NRNM thus plays a central role in the creation of the Rankinmiut identity and in visions of Rankin Inlet’s future. Indeed,

8 I am not making the argument here that the Inuk residents of Rankin Inlet do not conceive of “home” as being on the land. I am simply contending that, because Rankin Inlet originated as a mining town, Rankinmiut notions of “home” have become hybridized to include both the natural land and the human-made industrial edifices of mining.

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when asked about whether mining would be an important part of Rankin Inlet’s future, one long-term Inuk resident of Rankin Inlet states: “of course [it is] an important part of the future, because that’s where our future came from” (Cater 63-4). Rankin Inlet’s visions about its future are therefore formed and mediated by its past.

Residents of Rankin Inlet look to their past in order to make decisions concerning the future Meliadine Gold Project.

While the GN and NTI tend to encourage mining projects very enthusiastically in Nunavut, Rankinmiut recognize that extractive development can have serious repercussions on their land. Though the mined landscapes of Rankin Inlet hold much cultural meaning and memory, they also reflect the industrial remains that are hazardous to the health of the people and their land, in what Cater calls a “tangled legacy” (Cater 75). The NRNM has had detrimental effects on both the people and the land of Rankin Inlet. One government official, for instance, noted that it is officially unsafe to eat shellfish from areas close to the old NRNM (Cater 78).

Rankinmiut draw on their experiences with the NRNM to make informed decisions about contemporary projects, in order to manage the costs and benefits of mining projects close to their community. The experience that Rankin Inlet will have with the Meliadine project will differ from their experience with the NRNM project, however. During early mining operations, Inuit actors tended to be on the outskirts of land-use negotiations and therefore had to respond reactively to mining activities (Cater 2). In contem-

porary negotiations, by contrast, Inuit are treated as stakeholders who have a say in the development projects that take place on their land, in large part because of the self-determination power that they gained through the NLCA; they no longer have to respond reactively, but rather can act with foresight (Cater 87).

Though I characterize the Meliadine Gold Project as a form of “life project” for the Inuit of Rankin Inlet, there is concern within the community about what the consequences of this “life project” may be. A primary concern is of the environmental impacts of mining on their land.

Some residents do not think that mining is worth the long-term environmental effects that it can have. One Inuk resident of Rankin Inlet, for instance, states, “How could you put a number on clean water?

[To me] it’s more precious than gold! [If the Meliadine project] requires sacrificing some clean water for gold, I don’t think it should be a question” (Cater 135).

Indeed, for many Inuit, their land is their legacy. If they destroy their land through extractive development, what do they have left to show as their legacy? In fact, as explains Cater, tension exists between the intragenerational and intergenerational visions of Rankin Inlet’s future as to what concerns the Meliadine Project.

On the intragenerational scale, this project can grow the economy of Rankin Inlet and Kivalliq and can provide wage-labour employment for the youth. Intergenerationally, however, the Project may remain a negative presence on the landscape of Rankin Inlet for many years after its closure, as was the case with the NRNM9, affecting the livelihoods of future gener-

9 Here, I am not talking about negative cultural effects of the NRNM because, as I have posited, the cultural effects have been rather positive. Rather, I am talking about the environmental legacies of the NRNM, which I have not had the space to discuss at length in this paper, but which were very significant.

10 Because of the length confines of this paper, I cannot discuss in depth the importance of IQ in Inuit governance. It is worth mentioning, however, that Mary Ekho Wilman, Chair of the Nunavut Social Development Council, said, “The only way we can deal with this challenge is to understand the unique heritage that has made us the Inuit of today. This defines the importance of Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit. It is the priceless asset and tool that we can use to adapt to the world around us On Our Own Terms” (Ekho Wilman 36).

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ations (Cater 126). In order to mitigate these effects as much as possible, the KIA has put much pressure on AE to consider the principles of Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit (IQ) and the Traditional Ecological Knowledge of the Inuit. KIA, for instance, has stated in their comments submitted in July 2014 in response to Meliadine’s Final Environmental Impact Statement that their IQ on climate change should influence AE’s analysis on the impacts of mining on the environment. Similarly, the KIA stated that they have Traditional Ecological Knowledge pertaining to caribou habitat boundaries which AE had not considered. This is especially problematic as the Meliadine mine will be located close to herds of caribou and, given that caribou are an important food source for the Inuit of this region, disregarding IQ on caribou could greatly impact the livelihoods of the Inuit of Rankin Inlet (and other surrounding communities) (Nunatsiaq News “Meliadine gold”). The KIA and Rankinmiut therefore use their traditional ways of knowing as a negotiating tool, in order to benefit as much as they can from this Project, while also protecting their land as much as they can in ways that are particular to their location (or, in other words, that are place-based).10 For many Rankinmiut, deciding to move forward with the Meliadine Gold Project required them to weigh the benefits of increasing employment with the costs of not only damaging the environment, but also of the potential economic backlash that the community might face once the mine closes in a mere 13 years. For instance, one Rankin Inlet Inuk elder explained, “These mining operations do provide income, but they shut down. I believe that hunting and sewing are the major source of income that can go on and on…the resource is always there if used wisely…” (from Ann McElroy 2008, qtd. in Cater 4). Yet, it is important to

note that the modern Inuit economy is characterized by a hybrid system, in which the purpose of wage-labour is to facilitate the continued practice of the traditional economy (in other words, wildlife harvesting practices) (Bowman 19). However, even though there is concern about the short life span of the Meliadine Project, there is still hope that a great number of Rankinmiut will be employed by AE to work on this Project. One concern relating to employment is that AE is a southern company working in a northern community. Many Rankin Inlet residents are uncomfortable with a southern company being the main driver for economic development in their hamlet because they do not want the benefits of this Project to be accrued by southern company workers, leaving Rankin Inlet to deal with the environmental impact without the benefits of economic growth (Cater 128-9).

As explain Gibson and Klinck, though contemporary development projects have made concerted efforts to hire local Indigenous workers, outsiders still tend to hold higher and better paid positions.

When Indigenous people do not receive training, they hold entry-level positions by default, which give them the least amount of upward mobility. This maintains “geographic and racially defined hierarchies” between southerners and northerners, and between non-Indigenous people and Indigenous people (Gibson and Klinck 131). To try and avoid pigeonholing Inuit into entry-level jobs, the KIA has implemented the Kivalliq Mine Training Society, which trains Kivalliq residents in mining skills to further their chances of gaining better employment in the mining sector (Cater 83). Further, the KIA and AE have not yet successfully negotiated an IIBA because the KIA has been pushing for the preferential hiring of Inuit contractors in the Project, to which AE has not yet agreed completely (Nunatsiaq News

11 For the sake of simplicity, I have generally just been speaking about the Inuit residents of Rankin Inlet and not about the non-Indigenous residents. There is, however, a large number of non-Indigenous residents living in Rankin Inlet.

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“Agnico Eagle”). The KIA and residents of Rankin Inlet have therefore approached IIBA negotiations strategically in order to ensure that they benefit as much as possible from the Meliadine Gold Project in such a way that complies with their expectations and desires for Rankin Inlet as their home and for themselves as Inuit.11 The Meliadine Gold Project constitutes a life project in that it is being negotiated by the Rankin Inlet community and the Kivalliq Inuit Association according to their own criteria of self-determination.

Though this project does resemble a development project, as it is a project based on extractive development, it is distinct from a universalist development project. As discussed previously, a universalist development approach is typically characterized by applying projects that are developed according to a definition of “development” that is defined in relation to its dichotomous notion of “underdevelopment”; such projects are generally applied without accounting for local particularities.

I would characterize certain governing bodies that emerged from the NLCA, particularly NTI, as advancing development projects, as this particular corporation does not appear to be terribly concerned about the land or about the effects that changing landscapes can have on Inuit communities. I would not characterize the GN entirely in the same way, as it acts more as a vessel for different projects, be they universalist development or life projects, rather than as a body that executes projects; indeed, much of the self-determination enacted by Rankin Inlet derives from the GN. Further, the GN seems to be more concerned than NTI about enacting a hybrid form of government that is founded on both neoliberal principles and traditional Inuit knowledge and values.

The Meliadine Gold Project, however, is a life project because the agendas of the residents of Rankin Inlet “are themselves emergent, rather than a reaction to other agencies. That is to say, their projects are sociocultural in the broadest sense rather

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than narrowly strategic. Their life projects are also place-based but not limited to the local” (Blaser 28). Although I have illustrated throughout this essay that there are conflicting opinions as to the value of the Meliadine Project by residents of Rankin Inlet, it is worth noting that there are no organized movements by Rankinmiut to fight against the Meliadine project, as is the case in other Nunavut communities that have been opposing extractive development projects, such as Baker Lake and Pond Inlet (Scobie and Rodgers). I suggest this is because, though there are dissenting opinions about how the Meliadine Project should be executed, at its core this Project acts as a life project for the Rankin Inlet community. As the community of Rankin Inlet evolves, their relations with the land and with each other will also evolve, changing perceptions of how to foster a sustainable relationship with the environment and with one another (Cater 5); this accounts for the heterogeneity within the Rankin Inlet community of the perceived value of the Meliadine Gold Project.

List of Acronyms AE – Agnico Eagle GN – Government of Nunavut IIBA – Inuit Impact and Benefit Agreement IOL – Inuit Owned Lands IQ – Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit KIA – Kivalliq Inuit Association NLCA – Nunavut Land Claims Agreement NRNM – North Rankin Nickel Mine NTI – Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated References Agnico Eagle. “Meliadine: Overview.” Agnico Eagle. Web. 3 March 2015.

Agnico Eagle. “Meliadine Project.” Agnico Eagle Mines Nunavut. 2013. Web. 3 March 2015.

Blaser, Mario. “Life Projects: Indigenous Peoples’ Agency and Development.” In the Way of Development: Indigenous Peoples, Life Projects, and Globalization. Eds. Mario Blaser, Havey

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A. Feit, and Glenn McRae. London, Eng.; New York, N.Y.: Zed Books in association with International Development Research Centre, Ottawa, ON, 2004. 26-44. Print.

Bowman, Laura. “Sealing the Deal: Environmental and Indigenous Justice and Mining in Nunavut.” Review of European Community & International Environmental Law 20.1 (2011): 19-28. Online.

Cater, Tara. When Mining Comes (Back) to Town: Exploring Historical and Contemporary Mining Encounters in the Kivalliq Region, Nunavut. MA Thesis. Memorial University, 2013.

Online.

Coulthard, Glen. “Beyond Recognition: Indigenous Self-Determination as Prefigurative Practice.” Lighting the Eighth Fire: The Liberation, Resurgence, and Protection of Indigenous Nations. Ed. Leanne Simpson. Winnipeg: Arbeiter Ring Publishing, 2008. 187-203. Print.

Eetoolook, James. “Mining and the Nunavut Land Claims Agreement.” Nunavut Mining Symposium. 13 Nov. 2000. Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated Publications. Address. Online.

Ekho Wilman, Mary. “Governance through Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit: Changing the paradigm for the future of Inuit society.” The Power of Traditions: Identities Politics and Social Sciences – Keynotes presented at the Fourth International Congress of Arctic Social S c i ences, Quebec City, 2002. Ed. Murelle Nagy.

Quebec City: International Arctic Social Sciences Association, 2002. Keynote Address.

Print.

Gibson, Ginger and Jason Klinck. “Canada’s Resilient North: The Impact of Mining on Aboriginal Communities.” Pimatisiwin: A Journal of Aboriginal Studies and Indigenous Community Health 3.1 (2005): 115-140. Online.

Government of Nunavut. Department of Economic Development and Transportation. Consultation Guide Towards a Nunavut Mineral Exploration and Mining Strategy. Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated Publications, April 2005. Online.

Hamlet of Rankin Inlet. “The Hamlet Symbol.”

Rankin Inlet: The Gateway to the North. Web. 20 Feb. 2015.

Keeling, Arn. “Adaptation, industrial development and Arctic communities.” ArcticNet Annual Research Compendium, 2012-13.

Online.

McPherson, Robert. New Owners in Their Own Land: Minerals and Inuit Land Claims. Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2003. Print.

Nunatsiaq News. “Agnico Eagle, KIA return to discussions over Meliadine.” Nunatsiaq News (Iqaluit, Nunavut). 7 November 2014. Online.

Nunatsiaq News. “Meliadine gold mine’s environmental impact statement short on traditional knowledge: KIA.” Nunatsiaq Online (Iqaluit, Nunavut). 25 July 2014. Online.

Nunatsiaq News. “Nunavut board issues project certificate for Meliadine gold project.” Nunatsiaq Online (Iqaluit, Nunavut). 3 March 2015.

Online.

Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated. Explore the Potential of Inuit Owned Lands. Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated Publications, July 2000.

Online.

Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated. Mining Policy.

NTI Board Meeting. Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated Publications, December 1997. Online.

Scobie, Willow and Kathleen Rodgers. “Contestations of Resource Extraction Projects via Digital Media in Two Nunavut Communities.” Inuit Studies: Industrial development and mining impacts 37.2 (2013): 83-101. Online.

Tester, Frank James and Peter Irniq. “Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit: Social History, Politics and the Practice of Resistance.” Arctic 61.5 (2008): 48-61. Online.

Government of Nunavut. Nunavut Planning Commission. Keewatin Regional Land Use Plan. Iqaluit: Nunavut Planning Commission, 2000. Online.

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Understanding the Social Context of the Spatial Distribution of Green Alleys in Montreal Clarissa Samson & Rebecca MacInnis

The investigative approach to the green alley project is to ultimately amalgamate the social context of sustainability with the science. Understanding the need for â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;greenerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; cities from a physical science perspective is important, but the need for social movements to actually do so should be just as relevant. In this case, we aim to understand the impacts of social movements on local mitigation initiatives. The spatial distribution of green alleys in Montreal was assessed as a representation of social cohesion and mobilization to understand the potential of creating a widespread movement from the local level. A map of demographic features within each neighbourhood as well as the proximity to parks and green spaces for each alleyway, was superimposed onto a map of the spatial distribution of alleys. Data was then complemented by interviews with green alley project coordinators and affiliated personnel. The spatial analysis of the mapped indicators, the interviews, and the supported literature created a narrative for the green alley initiative, and provided evidence for its progress and success.

The green alley movement reflects various other environmental movements, and this analysis provides insight and rationale for larger scale mobilizations.

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“

T

he urban greening movement is an example of how collective efforts by residents joined together to improve the state of their neighbourhood” (Birch et al. 2008). This idea fits well alongside the definition of social sustainability according to Polese and Stren: “development (and/ or growth) that is compatible with the harmonious evolution of civil society, fostering an environment conducive to the compatible cohabitation of culturally and socially diverse groups while at the same time encouraging social integration, with improvements in the quality of life for all segments of the population” (2010).

Green Alleys are one successful method for overcoming the lack of green space in urban areas, which involves working with existing infrastructure and transforming these underused surfaces into green spaces. Montreal has an extensive network of alleys, approximately 250 of which have already been transformed into green alleys. The revitalization of urban alleyways worldwide, can be seen as a manifestation of a broad movement among community groups and a greater commitment to sustainability (Newell et al. 2013).

This project will track the patterns of growth of green alleys throughout the City of Montreal, and identify any clusters of alleyways. Following the mapping of green alley locations, socio economic status of neighbourhoods will be superimposed onto the map of alleyways to observe key relationships between neighbourhood demographics and green alley distribution. By exploring the history of their development, we will be able to better comprehend the social components that support the development of green alleys. Research and literature has provided the understanding of the environmental and social benefits of these spaces (Newell et al. 2013), but the social patterns associated to the spatial distribution has not yet been studied. The comparison of socio-economic and neigh-

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bourhood differences with perspectives from local project directors, key actors, and affiliated organizations will provide rationale for the introduction of green alleys in Montreal communities.

Research question How have the social factors between different areas in Montreal influenced the distribution of green alleys?

Detailed description The emphasis of this study will be to recognize the significance of social sustainability in urban settings. The underlying premise of the study is to find what social patterns lead to increased collective community efforts for small-scale improvement initiatives. We plan to investigate the outcomes and processes of how the Green Alleyway initiative developed in the city of Montreal.

Essentially, the Green Alleys that have been setup by the people of Montreal will guide the assessment of human interactions between their cities and sustainability. The analysis of logistical, cultural, and spatial aspects of green alleys will provide more insight on the development of social sustainability within urban environments.

Context About Montreal’s Éco-Quartier program The program was established in 1995 after realizing that the social aspect of environmental planning was neglected, in addition to the rapid proliferation of urban environmental policies during the 80s and 90s (Senecal 2002). The Éco-Quartier program then mandated local non-profit organizations to carry out their environmental action plan, which mainly emphasized three facets: cleanliness, recycling, and the beautification of the city (Senecal 2002).

Some intentions were to improve the environmental situation of the city, but the program was also a way of encouraging the involvement citizens in their operations. In addition to certain education and awareness programs, Éco-Quartier was provided

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funding to increase the potential of real action plans, by delegating the activities for locals. Approximately 50 000 CAD was allocated to each of the 51 electoral districts in the city at the time, to increase citizen participation and empower locals to address environmental issues.

Eventually, Éco-Quartier took over the green alley program, where they dealt with the administrative procedures, as well as the execution and construction of a green alley. This also included requests for funding for the excavation and carpentry, from the city as well as finding other sources from the public and/or private sector for program finance. Further involvement with the maintenance, design, and overall appeal of the alley varied between different Éco-Quartier locations or whether or not the particular Éco-Quartier was able to receive funding from other sources.

Residents who were interested in applying for a green alley were required to gather support from neighbours and provide a minimum number of signatories from households to show that the community had come to an agreement and discussed the usage of the alley with affected neighbours. The number of support signatories also varied depending on where the funding was coming from. Éco-Quartier would then select a certain number of applicants based on their own criteria and depending on the amount of funding that would make it feasible, and undergo the procedures and operations with the selected residents in their respective districts.

Why look at the planning and development process?

Like freeways, abandoned waterfronts, parking lots and train yards, alleys are an integral part to urban environments but quite often these spaces have been associated with crimes and deviant scenes (Seymour et al. 2010). Through unstructured interviews with Éco-Quartier, we will explore some of the organizational structures and processes that went into managing the project. Understanding the

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planning and development process will shed light on the impetus of the project and future implementation of green alleys.

It is suggested that projects planned in cities are fundamentally dependent on sustained pattern of interactions between movement organizations (Ernstson et al.

2008). The EcoPark movement in Stockholm was studied to investigate why civil society organizations played a crucial role in protecting Stockholm National Urban Park. It was found that the success was accredited to the diversity of key actors, ranging from local volunteers to national-level professional conservation organization members (Ernstson et al. 2008).

Additionally, green alley projects in the past have been said to have objectives related to community empowerment and community building (Newell et al. 2013), which is what is to be investigated in this research study. It is thereby important to understand the linkages and organizational framework of Éco-Quartier and to understand the relations of the scattering or clustering patterns of green alleys to the social aspects of the area.

Why map out age, socioeconomic status, crime rate, and nearness to parks?

‘Green Infrastructure’ can be useful for conservation and development planning in a systematic way to model land use and spatial development in a city (Chang et al.

2012). Through the mapping of alleyways in the city, we can observe the spatial connections between people and community engagement with the Green Alley project.

The mapping component of the project will look specifically at demographics and how they influence the presence of green alleys. This will be used as an indicator for certain patterns within the social settings of different neighbourhoods. Perhaps more areas will be more engaged in the project than others, and looking to see what these differences may be will give us more clarity on the impacts that these communities are making for the sake of mitigating environmental damage in urban spaces.

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Methodology Recognizing patterns of green alleyway spatial distribution Use of secondary data The spatial analysis component of our research required a large input of secondary data. Data layers included in the map are dissemination area census data (income and age), parks, streets, service roads, green alleys, Montreal island outline, borough boundaries, housing density, police de quartier (PDQ) zone boundaries, and crime. Spatial data for income, age, streets, parks, Montreal island outline, borough boundaries, and PDQ zone boundaries were sourced from the Transportation Research at McGill (TRAM) Database, service road spatial data was sourced from Montrealâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Open Street Map collection, housing density spatial data was sourced from McGillâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spatial data library collection, green alley spatial data was sourced from a google map produced

by Regroupement Ă&#x2030;co-Quartier, and crime data was sourced from the City of Montreal police service (SPVM).

The flowchart in Figure 1 shows how the data was manipulated in ArcMap to create the final visual representations of the demographic variables and spatial distribution of alleys. All data layers were imported into ArcMap and clipped to the shape of the island of Montreal. The street and borough layers were only for adding visual depth and points of reference to the final visualization. The other layers required more manipulation. There is no comprehensive spatial data for the alleys in the city. Alleys, however, are a type of service road, so the service road data made up the initial layer. An alley was defined as a road that was either a straight line or an I shape and was located between two streets, all service roads not fitting this description were removed. Additionally, often one alley was made up by three separate small lines, particularly in the case of the I-shaped alleys, so all lines less than

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70m in length were removed from the dataset. These actions resulted in an estimate of the distribution and the number of alleys on the island. From this point, alleys and green alleys were spatially joined in order to remove any duplicates from the dataset.

Crime rate was the only demographic variable not available at as small a scale as dissemination areas. Furthermore, the crime rate data was not found in the format of a shape file. Instead, a spatial data file for PDQ zones was imported and the crime rate were joined to the PDQ zone based on the district ID. Average income, median age, and crime rate were all divided into 5 segments based on Jenks natural breaks.

This was done in order to visualize the the demographic composition in each neighbourhood. Values of 0 did not need to be removed from the dataset because their influence was negligible due to the fact that there were no alleys or green alleys in these areas.

Data analysis In order to run a multivariate logistic regression on the data, a comprehensive dataset had to be created. Spatial joins were used in ArcMap to link different variables. To begin, alleys and green alleys were spatially joined in order to remove duplicates. A spatial join was also used to apply the attribute of an input variable (average income, median age, crime rate/1000 people) to alleys located with the spatial area that the particular attribute occupies. This method resulted in a value for each variable for each alley. The output of the near analysis run on the parks and alleys was also joined to this table by a common column. The attribute table for each layer contained more information than was necessary, so fields that were not being used in the analysis were turned off. This attribute table containing all of the alleys (green and not green) as well as the associated values for average income, median age, relative distance to parks, and crime rate per 1000 people,

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was exported into an excel file to later be used in a statistical analysis.

The temporal data depicted in Figure 7 is accurate to July 2015.

A multivariate logistic regression was run in Stata, in order to determine which independent variables result in the presence of the dependent variable. The test does not hold the assumption that the data must be normally distributed. Additionally, the independent variables can be binary or continuous. In the case of this dataset all independent variables had continuous values and the dependent variable had binary values representing the presence or lack of presence of a green alley.

Another limitation pertains to the limited number of variables being used to test for the presence of green alleys. The four variables that we used are certainly not the only indicators of a communityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s willingness to develop a green alley. Some of other indicators were identified through the interview process, but time did not allow variables to continuously be added to the map. The crime data used for this analysis only included crimes against people and not other types of crime which might explain why it was found to be an insignificant variable. Additionally, all census data is a generalization because it represents more than one household and therefore makes assumptions about neighbourhood dynamics. Finally, the analysis did not account for temporal growth which would have given some indication of the influence of nearby green alleys on the development of other ones.

Limitations While this methodological process attempted to maintain accuracy, there were still limitations in doing so. The main limitations were related to the accuracy of the alley data. The service roads gave a good idea of the distribution and number of alleys in the city, but some green alleys were found where there were supposedly no alleys which brings into question the accuracy of the data. Additionally, because the green alley project is ongoing, new alleys have appeared and are not accounted for in our research.

Figure 1. Flowchart showing the steps used in ArcMap to create visual representation of demographic variables and alleys on the Island of Montreal.

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Methodology of interviews with Éco-Quartiers and local affiliates Interviews were conducted to obtain further insight regarding the social context of green alley distribution. The strategy for gathering contacts to interview was done through a ‘snowballing’ method where one contact would then lead to finding another relevant informant. Acknowledging that different neighbourhoods in the City of Montreal may have had varying characteristics and motivations behind their request for green alleys in their neighbourhoods, it was essential that we gain more circumstantial details from neighbourhoods with varying green alley distributions and densities. The density of green alleys in each neighbourhood was an assumed indication of the local involvement of community members.

Due to the fact that this was a community lead initiative to undergo the process of the reconstruction of their alleys, the degree of social cohesion within each of the boroughs in Montreal was indicated by the number of green alleys that were implemented in each of the neighbourhoods. Thus, it was important that motivations behind community engagement and the investigation of how some areas were successful in transforming more underused alleys than others in different neighbourhoods.

Recruitment of participants Resident interaction with Éco-Quartier was required in order to initiate the process for an official green alley since the organization that was mandated to carry out the Éco-Quartier program was in charge of all the administrative procedures and at the very least, the excavation of the alleys. Since it was Éco-Quartier’s duty to communicate with residents and lead them through green alley procedures, responses from project managers and affiliates were used for investigating the green alley project as a social movement.

The map was used as a reference, as the Éco-Quartiers workers that were inter-

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viewed were strategically selected because there were green alleys in their respective borough. This included interviews of project directors and affiliated representatives from the following boroughs: Plateau Mont-Royal, Ville Marie, Rosemont, Mercier-Hochelaga-Maisonneuve, Villeray-St. Michel-Parc Extension, Côte-des-Neiges – Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, and Sud Ouest.

Data collection and analysis Nine interviews were conducted with a wide network of people involved with the project in order to obtain a comprehensive understanding of the green alley project.

The population sample consisted of project directors and coordinators of green alleys in their respective borough or district, resident in contact with Éco-Quartier coordinator, members of the Regroupement Éco-Quartier (the representative organization for all Éco-Quartier offices in Montreal), and local organizations mandated to carry out the Éco-Quartier programs in their borough. Interviews were held in Éco-Quartier offices or scheduled phone interviews. All data disclosed in the results section of this report, was information that could be publicly disclosed, while personal inferences made by local affiliates regarding the green alley was deemed confidential information and thus will remain unreported. Following data collected from interviews, a literature review was used to see whether there were any connections between the green alley project and social movements, as well as whether there were any parallels in literature to the claims that were made in interview responses. Thus, literature was used as evidentiary support to the claims made by participants and was analyzed in order to be able to make valid inferences.

Limitations Data was collected during the course of about a month, which posed a time constraint on the number of people that could potentially be interviewed. It was found that the interviews contributed a narrative to the process and outcomes of the

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green alleys. It should also be noted that inferred conclusions are generalizations made under the assumption that green alleys have strong ties to the potential of widespread social movements because the project is a locally driven program. Lastly, all inferences were made on the account of collected and available data, more specific details of the project were assumed only relevant to very few cases, and were not disclosed or used to draw conclusions for green alleys across Montreal.

Results and discussion This map shows the distribution of the 237 green alleys in the city. They are clustered around the downtown area and that they are only viable where alleys are present. The amount of alleys therefore limits the distribution of green alleys. It is evident that alleys are lacking in areas with low density housing. Alleys are primarily found in areas with high or medium density housing.

4.1 Assessment of demographics Interview results Little research has been done on the demographics of distinct clusters of people who share similar behavioural patterns for environmental initiative, however the relations between economic interests and environmental policies have been regarded in literature. Moreover, socioeconomic statuses have had large scale issues with environmental politics, in terms of the recurring conflicts between economic appeal and environmental concerns as well as the various disagreements between nations (Demitrov 2003). Certain responses from interviews indicated that, lower income households were not areas where green alleys were more prominent since â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;greeningâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; the city was less of a priority than their economic status and basic needs. Thus, in certain communities where it was physically feasible to have a green alleys implemented, there were

Figure 2. Spatial distribution of alleys and green alleys across the city of Montreal with residential housing density layer to show concentration in medium to high density housing areas.

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not many requests for them, but efforts from local environmental organizations for other projects that did not require the community to initiate the process were in order. Though there is no exact demographic profile that would classify the sort of people involved in social movements for environmental purposes or those more likely to become more involved, the green alley project suggested that there were some demographic features that were relevant to this social movement.

It was said that middle-income households, with young families, and students and/or more educated individuals, resided in areas where there was a high density of green alleys. Boroughs with the highest quantity of green alleys were Rosemont and the Plateau Mont-Royal area. Éco-Quartier representatives, explained, that the Éco-Quartier program, was an attempt to educate locals as well as increase their involvement with environmental projects, which is why funding was available upon request. On the other hand, it was stated that it was not a surprise that these two boroughs have the most green alleys, because it was more of a priority for households to engage in green alley projects for the sake of beautification and having a safe and social space for children. What certain reportings meant by this was that it was less of a worry for meeting basic needs in middle income neighbourhoods, indicating that after a certain income level, people are better able to engage in environmental and community affairs which is scenario similar to the green alleys in Los Angeles (Seymour 2010). More notably, it was reported that more alleys in previously low-income and gentrified districts were prominent, where there was a noticeably drastic change in population years before, which substantiates this argument further. On a larger scale, Germany was once the largest producer of CFCs in the European Community during its earlier stages of ‘development’, but later became one of the first countries to sign an agreement for inter-

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national environmental regulation (Demitrov 2003), when economic development was not at the forefront of its agenda.

Spatial analysis results Figures 3-6 shown above display the different variables that we hypothesized would be significant indicators for the presence of green alleys. Table 1 shows that of the four indicators (median age, crime rate, average income, and relative distance to nearest park), three were statistically significant. The R2 of the whole model is 0.012 meaning that the model accounts for 1.2% of the variance. This is a very low value which indicates that there are likely other variables at play in influencing green alleys. Median age was a statistically significant variable and had a coefficient of -0.0278 (p=0.033). The negative coefficient tells us that a decreasing median age leads to the presence of more green alleys. Average income was also a statistically significant indicator of the presence of green alleys (p=0.041). Again the negative coefficient shows that as average income decreases the likelihood of a green alley increases. The relative distance to the nearest park was also statistically significant (p=0.042). Relative distance to nearest park was associated with a positive coefficient meaning that the longer the distance to the nearest park, the more likely the presence of a green alley. Crime rate per 1000 people was not statistically significant variable (p=0.102). This might be due the fact that the crime rate data only accounted for crime against people, not property. Overall, this test shows that median age, average income, and proximity to parks were all statistically significant indicators of the presence of green alleys.

The results from the spatial analysis for the most part support the findings from the interviews that were conducted.

Young families were apparently one of the main groups of people to spearhead green alley projects because they were concerned about having a safe place for their children to play. The median age and proximity

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Figure 3. This map shows the distribution of alleys and green alleys on top of the layer showing average income. The income layer is divided into 5 segments to show even breaks of ranges of income. The small blocks represent census tract dissemination areas.

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Figure 4. This map shows the distribution of alleys and green alleys on top of the layer showing median age. The age layer is divided into 5 segments to show even breaks of ranges of age.

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Figure 5. This map shows the distribution of alleys and green alleys on top of the layer showing crime rate per 1000 people. The crime depicted here is specifically crime against people. The crime rates are an average for the entire PDQ zone. Again, there are even breaks to show range of crime rates between PDQ zones.

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Figure 6. This map shows the distribution of alleys and green alleys on top of the layer showing the location of parks and green spaces in the city of Montreal.

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Factors influencing green alley presence Independent Variables

Coefficient

P value

Median age

-0.0278

0.033*

Average income

-0.0000155

0.041*

Distance to nearest park

91.282

0.042*

Crime rate/1000 people

-0.0166

0.102

Pseudo R2 = 0.012 Table 1. Results of multivariate logistic regression testing which indicators influence the presence of green alleys.

to parks variables exemplify and support this indicator. It was statistically more likely for green alleys to appear in areas with lower median age and with a larger distance to parks. The average income variable used in the spatial analysis also supports the idea that green alley development is common among middle class neighbourhoods and in areas facing gentrification. Very high income areas often had single family homes and no alleys, so they were not likely to have green alleys because they did not have any alleys. The statistical coefficient for income was negative meaning that a decreasing median income would lead to more green alleys. This can be explained by the large values meaning that small decreases have a large impact on the number of alleys.

4.2 Involvement of the ‘public realm’ The term ‘public realm,’ is regarded in literature as an approach to planning, which would ideally represent the best ecological practices as it incorporates humans into the system (Birch 2008). This approach has been applied to several urban greening projects and urban planning for parks and recreation in American Cities (Birch 2008). This meant creating social benefits even if the motive was environmental. It

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has been reported both on Canadian new outlets and Éco-Quartier interviews, that a majority of the correspondents of green alleys are in favour of the project and satisfied with the outcomes of the alleys in their local neighbourhoods. That is to say, the approval from the public as well as their engagement in environmental initiatives has impacted the quantitative measure of green alleys in Montreal. CBC News reported that green alleys were a way of inviting the public so that there was a space for people to sit and relax “making them a friendlier place to be - both for the local residents and the environment” (CBC News 2011). Literature has also supported this claim as environmentally focused businesses have taken this approach to address of the public realm (Birch 2008). According to some Éco-Quartier representatives, several alleyways have been used as a way to showcase and beautify the City of Montreal. It has been incorporated into the route for tourist bike tours around the city as well as Montreal’s Jane Jacobs walking tour, which was reported on the Montreal Gazette (2013). Thus, with reference to Éco-Quartier’s responses, the idea behind this is that the presence of a green alley has been both a place of social interaction and a way for the city to embellish abandoned and underused spaces. There has been motivations to keep areas like alleyways from becoming a perceived dangerous area and place for soliciting drug-users, crime and blight (Newell 2013).

The result of giving individual Éco-Quartiers the independence of carrying out their mandated projects, have increased interaction among local organizations and actors to collaborate on beautifying their respective alleys. Moreover, the localized networks created from collaborating with street artists, and the organizations that have partnered onto the project from both the private and public sector allowed for more participatory democracy amongst local residents and organizations. This project was a way of showing the city’s willingness to decentralize the environmental

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issue and increase social sustainability but putting it upon the public to take initiative.

It was stated that Éco-Quartiers work independently of each other and the representative body, Regroupement Éco-Quartier.

Given this, it was indicated that the success of the green alleys was completely dependent on local bodies, which therefore highlights the importance of democratic appeal to community members and dubbed them responsible agents of change.

of alleys in each of the Montreal neighbourhoods. It was clear why boroughs like Rosemont had a multitude of official green alleys, and why other boroughs were in the process of organizing a large amount of green alleys in the upcoming year, since the borough mayors were decisively funding the Éco-Quartier program, which essentially entertained the idea of community involvement for greening underused spaces by having that offer for residents on the table.

4.3 Political will The structure of the program, meant that all activities needed to be approved by the City of Montreal, in order to show that the funding to be provided was going into projects that abided by its initial mandate.

This indicated that the recognized environmental issues needed to be addressed from a local top-down direction. Though it was instated as a community driven program, this element gave local political actors a significant role as it provided the financial resources and link to workers who executed green alley operations. Since the directions of the program clearly stated with environmental motivations, it was in the cities best interest to address urban environmental concerns on a local scale and offer the coordination of council members as a tool for green alley proceedings. It was also stated in interviews that the administrative procedure for a green alley, which was common for all boroughs in the city were vital for the setup of a green alley. Where spatial distribution indicated areas of higher density of green alleys, it was also apparent that the borough mayors were in favour of the program, and had set aside funding to allow the Éco-Quartier projects to continue by renewing contracts set up for a maximum of three years at a time.

The appointed body in charge of decision-making for the Éco-Quartier program was originally the City Councillors, but it was later transferred to the borough mayors. Implications from the support of the program were depicted by the number

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Moreover, the increased interaction between the city and the citizens initiate a way to ‘institutionalize sustainability’ in the urban environment, where public funding was targeted for community involvement for environmental measures. Parallels were found in literature, with cities like Atlanta, where a committee called “green light” was created by the city to organized a way to bridge two communities, in order to increase access to park spaces for the one community that was lacking it (Vollmer 2011). On another note, politics of local laws have also become a hindrance to historical preservation movements (Young 2012). Under certain circumstances laws regulations can prohibit certain aspects of alleyways, or could result in an oversight if there are no dissident views on the sort of things that are put in alleys for the enjoyment of the residents. Certain alleys in Montreal have personalized their spaces, to cater to play areas for young children or a public gathering venue for community meetings, though certain furniture arrangements are prohibited. Without complaints however, night and day supervisors of Montreal often oversee unlawful components in their alleys. Lastly, traffic laws within the city, have been reinforced by the mere design of alleys, which makes it easier for alleys to be approved by the city.

For example, flower stands and barriers have prevented cars from using alleys as fast shortcuts, and over speeding has been a major concern in some areas of the city, and has thus increased safety for young children who use the area for play.

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Figure 7. This maps shows the temporal distribution of green alleys in the City of Montreal.

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4.4 Relevance of research The findings from the two components of our project cannot be discussed in isolation. The spatial analysis shows the context in which the alleys have appeared, but the interviews provided more in depth reasoning for the motivation behind the development of each alley. While we were able to identify some trends and indicators of green alleys, our results are based on generalizations because we were working on a scale larger than an individual alley. Because of this, our findings cannot explain exactly what type of people will be willing to develop a green alley because there is significant variation between each green alley project. This variation however is a finding of its own. Our research was trying to identify in what social context a green alley was being developed. It was found that green alleys were appearing in places with different demographics and with varying motivation for starting the project. Different reasons for applying for a green alley included reducing crime, creating public space for kids to play, reclaiming and greening unused space, and connecting community members.

These different motivations were held my by different people but still allowed for the development of one common. The community control over these projects highlights the benefits of the decentralization of the environmental movement. Putting power into the hands of community members has resulted in a successful and growing project. Figure 7 shows the temporal distribution of the green alleys in the city and makes it clear that the project has been gaining momentum in recent years.

In addition to decentralizing power, the green alley project has created a more broad and holistic discussion on the idea of sustainability. This new discussion is not only focused on environmental issues, but also on the social dimension of sustainability including community engagement and collaboration, an idea that is demonstrated in Figure 8.

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Figure 8. This sign, found in a green alley in Rosemont, demonstrates the interconnectedness between the environmental and social aspects of the alley.

This research has highlighted that a collaboration of top-down and bottom-up approaches are necessary for achieving success. In the case of green alleys, there is a feedback between the willingness of the community members to participate and the support the Ă&#x2030;co-Quartier provides.

Without work being done on both sides, projects will not be completed. Moving forward, this project has already begun to take hold on new neighbourhoods. For example, more projects are scheduled to begin in the near future in Parc-Extension due to these collaborations. This feedback loop could help to spread the project beyond its current locations by spreading awareness and support.

Conclusion This research has been able to identify the influence of social factors on green alley distribution in different areas of the city. It was found that it is not only the community demographics that have an impact of the development, but also the levels of community cohesion and the collaboration with the local Ă&#x2030;co-Quartier.

Some demographic trends were identified whereby there were significant relationships between income, age and distance to parks and the number of green alleys.

This research also has some limitations because distribution was being discussed at a scale larger than an individual and was generalized to the person leading the project. A diversity of people have been known to be involved with this project for

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a variety of different reasons. While this research did focus on a local initiative, the findings can have implications at larger scales as well. The idea of collaboration of different peoples with differing roles and power dynamics is not isolated at this local scale. Promoting collaboration and community cohesiveness, as well as the ability to decentralize issues in terms of power structures and goal setting could have positive impacts on mobilizing in larger climate movements.

Newell, J. P., Seymour, M., Yee, T., Renteria, J., Longcore, T., Wolch, J. R., & Shishkovsky, A. (2013).

Green Alley Programs: Planning for a sustainable urban infrastructure?. Cities, 31, 144-155.

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Occupation du Sol (Montreal Urban Community Landuse File). (1996). Accessed November 1, 2015. https://www.mcgill.ca/library/find/ maps/occupsol/ Open Street Map extracts for Montreal. Accessed November 9, 2015. http://download.bbbike.org/ osm/bbbike/Montreal/

Vollmer, Derek. (2011). Pathways to urban sustainability the Atlanta metropolitan region, summary of a workshop. Washington, D.C.: National Academies Press. http://site.ebrary. com/id/10495430.

Young, Robert A. (2012). Stewardship of the built environment sustainability, preservation, and reuse. Washington, D.C.: Island Press. http://public.eblib.com/choice/publicfullrecord. aspx?p=3317592.

Marchal, Mathias. « La criminalité montréalaise, quartier par quartier ». Journal Metro.

December 16, 2014. Accessed November 1, 2015. http://journalmetro.com/actualites/ montreal/502949/la-criminalite-montrealaise-quartier-par-quartier/ News, CBC. “Montreal Boroughs Build Green Alleys.” CBCnews. July 7, 2011. Accessed Decem ber 11, 2015. http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ montreal/montreal-boroughs-build-green-alleys-1.1104691.

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Reconstructing the Directions of Local Glacial Drift in Schefferville, Québec Shirley Zhang Following the end stage of the Quaternary deglaciation, the Labrador Peninsula has exhibited a complex pattern of ice flow conditions. This study seeks to verify the results of prior literature pertaining to glacial drift conditions through a field-based approach examining striations at a particular site in Schefferville, Québec.

An onsite field survey was conducted along Houston Mountain Road, which is a valley side setting parallel to both Dolly Lake and John Lake. The principal method of examination on local glacial drift is by striation analysis. Statistical plotting of the striation analysis is described and adopted. Therefore, the overall objective is validating the recently measured ice flow directions in resemblance to those of the past studies. It is proposed to find more precise directions of the local flow, based on topographic variation from local patterns can be found on close examination. The results suggest that there are three directions of local glacial flow: Northeast by north (30° ± 10°), South by east (170° ± 10°), and Southwest by west (235° ± 10°). It is concluded that the results obtained from this field research do not entirely agree with the findings of previous scholarship on glacial drift movement.

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The central part of the Labrador Peninsula has long been regarded as the area occupied by the last part or parts of the great Laurentide Ice Sheet. Geologically, the Labrador plateau forms the eastern arm of the Canadian Shield and was the principal glacial cover of North America during the Pleistocene epoch. The Laurentide Ice Sheet retreated in Northeastern Quebec occurred near 7,000 years ago. Today, we are still in the phase of the most recent ice age, the Holocene epoch.

Only the Greenland and Antarctic ice sheets have remained. There were two types of landforms resulted from the Quaternary glaciations: glacial deposition and glacial erosional landforms. The principal depositional landform is moraines, which are characterized by the deposited debris of a retreating glacier, and are often used by scientists to reconstruct former glacier extent. Other glacial deposits include glaciofluvial deposits, such as eskers and kames, as well as glaciolacustrine deposits, such as varves. The other major glacial landform is produced through erosion, particularly abrasion. Abrasion is the grinding of rock into fine particles by moving ice, and can cause glacial striations through straight scratches or gouges cut into the bedrocks. They are often rattail shaped, with the thinner end of a striation pointed towards the potential glacial drift direction. Additionally, chatter marks are crescent fractures that are commonly arranged in nested series, caused by the development of glacier dragging a boulder over the bedrock. Similar to glacial striations, the thinner end of the chatter marks indicates the direction of glacial movement. This paper is intended to be an updated review on local surficial glacial movement in the subarctic region of Schefferville, Quebec. It compares its results to previous research, while aiming to validate the suggestions made from past studies or find new evidence.

Background The present report is based on observa-

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tions made during reconnaissance journeys carried out during the later half of August 2015. These field surveys were made in the only suitable site in Schefferville region where you could reach by any motor vehicle instead of a helicopter. The glaciation striations were readily accessible alongside the Houston Mountain Road. The overall objective of this study was testifying how similar the recently measured drifts directions at one location were in resemblance to those of the past studies. In Liverman’s Surficial Geology of the Schefferville Area (Labrador Parts of NTS 23J/10 and 23J15), he argued that there were at least three regionally significant flow events that occurred. By looking at the large-scale oriented landforms, Liverman found there was a strong flow to the Southeast (approximately 135°) that paralleled to bedrock strike of the area.

Secondly, he claimed that there were many Southeast striations that got crosscut by the Northeast direction, which could be grouped into two directions: Northeast and East-Northeast – a directional variation approximately between the orientation of 45° and 68°. He also advised that a westward flow was shown by the orientation of Labrador through erratics, but no supporting striation evidence was found.

He was affirmative about the Southeast glacial drift because it was also supporting the contention of Kirby’s works (Liverman, 1992). In Kirby’s Ten Years (19541964) of Field Research in Labrador-Ungava, he insisted the last regional ice movement was towards South Southeast.

He also found striations “showing an early Northeast flow followed by a later South Southeast flow” (Kirby, 1966). Previously in his 1961 publication: Movements of ice in Central Labrador-Ungava, Kirby found a strong preferred orientation between Southeast and South based mainly on mapping of the till fabric analysis (Kirby, 1961). In Liverman’s paper, he also mentioned other scholars’ works: Harrison (1952) recognized three directions of regional glacial flow in chronological order: southeastward flow, northwest, and

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northeast. These literature studies have served as the baseline for this paper. Interpretation of local ice-flow history is based mainly on mapping of striations from the bedrock outcrops along the Houston Mountain Road. The Houston Mountain Road is a valley side setting with bedrock ridge, which was predominately formed of silt. It is a mid-ridge that runs parallel to John Lake and Dolly Lake (Figure 1). The geomorphic surfaces of bedrocks were in a classifiable condition, yet some bedrock surfaces seem to be weathered, where reading the striations could be obscured.

The bedrock outcrops appeared to be generally granitic but also have rough, scared, frost-shattered surfaces as if very recently quarried. It was noticed that the majority of sampled till sites were no more than 5 meters away from the Huston Mountain Road, as there were fewer outcrops available because they were still covered under the soil. Uncovering the bedrocks is recommended if time allows. In addition, the distance between the first Outcrop #1 and last Outcrop #14 was measured to be approximately 420m.

Methods Glacial striations data were collected along the Houston Mountain Road in Schefferville, Quebec. Fundamental measurements of directions and morphological features were recorded in the field book. The entire project was conducted in only one sampling area. It took 4 days (August 23rd, 2015 to August 26th, 2015) to complete the entire data collection process. This primary data source was only gathered during daytime (from 10 a.m. to 6p.m.), to avoid misreading the numerical measurements in dimmer setting at dusk. It was keenly aimed to collect as many striations as possible for generating statistically strong results later. It was also preferred to examine all the available outcrops along the road. Hence, fourteen bedrock outcrops with glacial abraded surfaces were found to be accessible. Neither outcrops in the middle of the road

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nor outcrops on the edge of the road were evaluated due to potential anthropogenic damage from traffic (Figure 2).

GPS was used to record down the coordinates and digital elevation of each bedrock outcrop. Houston Mountain Road was an unpaved dirt road that made the outcrops near the road covered by a layer of dust.

Using a paintbrush and/or a broom to clean the dust off on the bedrock surfaces was carried out prior to taking measurements. There were pools of water on the ground after the overnight rain. A water bucket was brought to collect green water (e.g. puddles, especially of rainwater on the ground). Spraying water on top of any outcrop helped to create a contrast and made it easier to identify the shape of the striations if there was too much dust to brush off. To prevent unforeseen dry weather condition, one would carry a narrow-mouth lab water bottle with the maximum level of water inside. As previously mentioned, it was crucial to distinguish the thinner ending of a striation that pointed towards the potential glacial drift direction. Align a compass parallel to each striation on the bedrock and read off the compass orientation in degrees. Most importantly, by placing it next to the striation, the compass was used to detect all the possible directions of the glacial drift.

Correcting the magnetic declination on the compass would be done before using it. The compass was placed in parallel to the striations with thinner end pointing to the top at 0째. Next, adjusted the degree dial until the orienting arrow lined up with the magnetic arrow and recorded the bearing down (Figure 3). Repeated all the steps above examining different outcrop sites if necessary (Figure 4). Marking tape was used to label completed outcrop sections to avoid double measuring the same site (Figure 5). On the last day, collecting all the used marking tapes due to environmental reasons when one finished collecting glacial striations data. An attempt was also made to measure the width of both front end and back end of each striation.

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Figure 1. A map of each outcrop of striations measured on Houston Mountain Road in Schefferville, Quebec.

FIgure 2.

Environment setting of the surroundings

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Figure 3. Example of Northeast by north (30° ± 10°) orientation measurement

Figure 4. Basic tools used for geomorphology mapping survey

Figure 5. Marked outcrop after documented

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Table of the Orientation (°) of Glacial Striations vs. Its Corresponding Frequency Orientation (°)

Number of Striations

0~10

0

11~20

2

21~30

21

31~40

30

41~50

19

51~60

17

61~70

2

71~80

2

81~90

0

91~100

0

101~110

1

111~120

2

121~130

0

131~140

4

141~150

10

151~160

42

161~170

166

171~180

104

181~190

6

191~200

2

201~210

7

211~220

19

221~230

39

231~240

41

241~250

6

251~260

1

261~270

0

271~280

4

281~290

1

291~300

However, lacking in precision instrument and the striations were already very narrow made a ruler (with 1mm increment) the best available choice by virtue of the convenience to handle and ease to use. The higher the variability in striation orientation on a rock outcrop, the more readings need to be taken to produce statistically reliable mean orientations.

Geomorphic results In total, 552 glacial striations (Table 1) were measured from fourteen outcrops that were distributed along the Houston Mountain Road. There were outcrops of striations on both sides of the road (East and West). The elevation on average was 532.46m (Table 2). The coordinates of the first outcrops were at N 54o49’06.9”, W 66o46’46.8”.

To determine striation orientation, a number of individual striations are measured in close proximity and the results plotted as rose diagram. The rose diagram (Figure 6) illustrates the frequency of observed striation data as the following.

Outcrop

Elevation (m)

1

532.00

2

532.00

3

532.00

4

534.00

5

534.00

6

533.00

7

528.00

0

8

535.00

301~310

0

9

535.00

311~320

0

10

532.00

321~330

0

11

532.00

331~340

0

12

528.00

341~350

1

13

535.00

351~360

2

Mean

532.46

Table 1. The frequency and general direction of each striation measurement.

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Table 2. Table of outcrop vs. its respective elevation (m)

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Figure 6. Rose Diagram on the orientation distribution

The results suggest that there are three directions of local glacial flow: Northeast by north (30° ± 10°), South by east (170° ± 10°), and Southwest by west (235° ± 10°). Most striations that were measured were fine lines in rat-tail shape. Chatter marks had the strategic role in determining the preliminary potential glacial drift directions.

Discussion and conclusion The results suggest that there are three directions of local glacial flow: Northeast by north (30° ± 10°), South by east (170° ± 10°), and Southwest by west (235° ± 10°).

These recent conclusions on directions of glacial drift movement do not entirely agree with the findings of other scholars.

This study has a sole focus on glacial erosion, e.g. striations and chatter marks.

Most striations were long, clear, narrow lines in rat-tail form on the polished part

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of outcrops. Chatter marks or the existence of friction cracks described the process by which ice or debris in the ice exerts sufficient force quarrying blocks of rocks on the bedrock to cause fractures. The bigger boulders in the ice, the greater the potential force available for having chatter marks instead of striations.

With 552 striation-data entries, 170° ± 10° (South by east) is the statistically strongest direction. 170° ± 10° (South by east) can be observed at every single outcrops sites within the sampling area. Outcrop #6 had striation orientations principally around 170°, while not seeing other potential directions on that outcrop. This ice flow direction finding coincides with Kirby’s (1960) till analysis; moreover, this direction of flow is potentially the last ice movement in the area.

Crosscutting records have shown that

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the previous glacial drift was towards the Southwest by west (235° ± 10°) (Figure 7). It is believed that striae cut into other striae or grooves are younger, where more than one set of striations exist. It is possible to determine the relative age of ice flow trends. When fine glacial striations and much deeper striations intersect, the shallower ones should be the younger ones as they were easily eroded and would have been rapidly removed by any later ice movement. Moreover, 170° ± 10° was evidentially the statistically strongest.

Because the glacial drift had occurred the latest at 170° ± 10°, it is reasonable that 235° ± 10° had a smaller frequency than that of 170° ± 10°. Because only one type of crosscutting was spotted during the field survey, it is unclear to us where to place Northeast by north (30° ± 10°) drift in the chronological order. There were several articles mentioned in Liverman (1992) talking about the northeast/northeast by north flow. Harrison (1952) argued that a flow to the northeast was the most recent flow. Klassen and Thompson (1987, 1989) proposed five phases of ice movement in the Schefferville area: the minor and short-lived Phase 5, the last phase, resulted in northeastward flow. However, Kirby (1960, 1961) reported an early northeast flow followed by a later south-southeast flow. The scholars did not reach a consensus of opinion on the chronological order and the flow directions.

During the beginning of this field survey, there had been uncertainty about if North-

east by north (30° ± 10°) truly existed because it seemed to be nearly on the same axis as the Southwest by west (235° ± 10°) on the rose diagram. Liverman suggested there could be a distinction between Northeast and East-Northeast directions, which were observed. Kirby also suggested there was Northeast flow at earlier stage of glacial drift. The challenge in glacial geomorphological mapping is that there is no uniform method of recognition and delineation that can be applied to it.

Abundant striations are mostly in groups of fine parallel striations that record ice movement direction. Until seeing various clear and stretched chatter marks scratching towards their corresponding ice drift directions, the potential drift direction of Northeast by north (30° ± 10°) was then confirmed (Figure 8).

Although till fabric analysis was not the focus in this particular report, a short glacial deposition survey was conducted prior to this study (Figure 9). It is confirmative that both Northeast by north (30° ± 10°) and South by east (170° ± 10°) are validated. Due to nature of a brief field survey, only three clasts were potentially found in the direction of Southwest by west (235° ± 10°).

In addition, the bedrock outcrops were positioned horizontally parallel to each other onsite. It was assumed that all the outcrop sections were essentially connected. Glacial erosion in Schefferville area had removed all evidence of

Figure 7. A crosscutting relationship between striations with different orientations

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ping the striation marks. Local directions other than those three were not supported by this analytical report. Striations only give the orientation, and not the definitive directions of the ice movement. Overall ice movement directions can only be inferred from relationship with other glacial landforms such as eskers, kames, moraines, varves.

References Harrision, J.M. (1952). The Quebec-Labrador iron belt. Geological Survey of Canada, Paper 52-20 Figure 8. Chatter mark in direction of Northeast by north (30° ± 10°)

surficial materials that accumulated at the end of the last glacial retreat but not all of the weathered bedrocks. In regards to Liverman’s regional glacial movement suggestions, I did not find any evidence on Southeast direction (approximately 135°). No Northeast crossing evidence was observed on the Southeast striations.

Furthermore, both Northeast direction and South Southeast directions were confirmed in his study, which also correspond to what I have found. These results validate the findings of Kirby (1961, 1966).

The restriction of the direction of local glacial drift was based entirely on map-

Hubbard, B., & Glasser, N. F. (2005). Field techniques in glaciology and glacial geomorphology. Chichester, West Sussex, England: John Wiley & Sons.

Kirkby, R.P. (1961). “Movements of Ice in Central Labrador-Ungava.” Cahiers de géographie du Québec, vol. 5, n° 10, p. 205-218.

Kirkby, R.P. (1966). Ten years (1954-1964) of field research in Labrador-Ungava. McGill Sub-Arctic Research Paper No. 20. Montreal: Dept. of Geography, McGill University.

Klassen, R.A. (1987) Ice flow history and glacial dispersal in the Labrador Trough. Current Research, Part 1. Geological Survey of Canada, Paper 87-1A, pages 61-71 Klassen, R.A. (1989) Ice flow history and glacial dispersal patterns, Labrador. In Drift Prospecting. Geological Survey of Canada, Paper 89-20, pages 21-29 Liverman, D., & Vatcher, H. (1992). Surficial Geology of the Schefferville Area (Labrador Parts of NTS 23 J/10 and 23 J/15). Current Research Newfoundland Department of Mines and Energy: Geological Survey Branch: Report 92-1, 27-37. Print.

Pollard, W. (2015) GEOG 499: Subarctic Field Studies Schefferville. Montreal: Dept. of Geography, McGill University.

Figure 9. Till fabric analysis in Schmidt stereonet

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Planning the Past: The Reproduction of Colonial Planning Philosophies in Abuja, Nigeria Katie Keyes Abstract. Colonial urban planning left significant and entrenching marks on the African cities it touched. This paper argues that as well as influencing physical cities, colonial planning ideals have become ensconced in postcolonial urban planning philosophies and practices. In Nigeria, the colonial ideals and past written into the landscape of Lagos â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the very things that Nigeria attempts to negate â&#x20AC;&#x201C; are being reproduced in contemporary planning projects. I will explore the reproduction of colonial planning philosophies of segregation and exclusion, distancing from disease, and order and modernity as they were manifested in colonial Lagos and as they are being manifested in the contemporary planned capital city of Abuja.

Key Words: Colonial urban planning, Lagos, Abuja, exclusion, postcolonialism

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Urban planning was an invaluable tool in the realisation of socio-political control and the making of European power in colonial Africa. “If power in urban planning means the ability to transform the world, then few planners have ever been so powerful as those in colonial Africa” (Njoh, 2009). British colonial planning left indelible marks on the cities it touched, leaving isolating monumental capitals, gridded company towns etched in postcolonial economies, and cities struggling to overcome spatial inequalities. However, colonial planning ideals have also left a mark on the planners and visionaries of postcolonial states.

On February 5, 1965, the Nigerian government announced both the appropriation of 8,000 km2 in the country’s centre to form the Federal Capital Territory (FCT) and the construction of the new city Abuja.

Built through the 1980s, Abuja became the federal capital on December 12, 1991 (Morah, 1992). Though an attempt to distance the new state from its colonial past, Abuja embodies many of the colonial ideals it purports to reject. The city’s master plan explicitly pursues segregation and exclusion by income and status, similar to how colonial planners segregated by race.

Abuja represents a fleeing from the chaos and grime of Lagos, just as Europeans too sought to enclave themselves from this same insalubrity. Where Abuja is designed along, and painstakingly upholds, modernist principles of order, social change, and decontextualisation, so too did Europeans impose their notions of order and modernity on Lagos. I will follow the three strains of planned segregation and exclusion, distancing from disease, and order and modernity as they appear in general British colonial planning, in colonial Lagos, and in contemporary Nigeria, to conclude that the colonial planning mindset is reproduced in Abuja.

Literature review: the British mindset of colonial planning British colonizers viewed vast expanses of

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sparsely populated land as an opportunity to enact many of Europe’s planning ideals, a view which intersected with discourses of race, sanitation, power, and order to create colonial planning philosophies and practices. It is these ideals – mainly those of racial segregation, perceived disease of the African populations, and British concepts of order and modernity that underscored the shaping of colonial African cities.

Planned segregation and exclusion While in many societies divisions come to organically reflect the built environment, it was a uniquely colonial phenomenon to pursue spatial segregation through urban planning and policy (Home, 2013). Policies of racial segregation were characteristic of colonial cities, for they enacted racial ideologies and articulated colonial power over native populations (Home, 1990; King, 1995; Myers 2003; Njoh, 2008; Njoh, 2009). While the African colonial town included many race and class stratifications, most distinct was the European-native division (Home, 2009). “Colonial authorities viewed African people and culture with contempt,” and thus sought to distance themselves from it (Njoh, 2008).

Colonisers enacted their segregationist ideals in many ways, some more overtly racist that others. In extreme cases, authorities or planning bodies zoned areas for specific racial or ethnic groups. For example, Singapore’s planner Sanford Raffles zoned for Europeans, Chinese, Malay, Indians, Arabs, and Bugis (Yeoh, 2003). Khartoum, Sudan was zoned into three ‘classes’ parallel to the river, each reserved for Europeans, migrant workers, or natives (Home, 2013). Sometimes, less overtly racist legislation was instated, such as the imposition of building material, open space, and population density requirements (Home, 2013). This would restrict indigenous populations from areas where they could not access the necessary imported materials, or where their lifestyles did not align with the required spatial patterns: “The strong

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correlation between culture and socioeconomic status in colonial Africa meant that Africans and non-Whites could be excluded without resorting to blatantly racist planning legislation” (Njoh, 2008).

Another urban manifestation of racial hierarchy was the establishment of self-contained European enclaves on land deemed most desirable – namely on high or waterfront land – thus associating power and space (Frenkel, 1988). The preference for locations on higher ground was rooted in the belief that such locations commanded power (Njoh, 2008). “Privileged enclaves of access, amenity, and community” were produced with monumental structures, large lots, and spatious avenues, asserting the power of Europeans over Africa by visibly contrasting the new enclaves with dense African neighbourhoods (Dovey, 1999).

Distance from disease The impetus for colonial urban planning was also hygiene related. Mounting concern over the health of towns and the need to secure sanitary conditions dominated much early discourse – a discourse dubbed the ‘sanitation syndrome’ (Cherry, 1996). The poor sanitation of cities and the prevalence of malaria were seen as qualities of the native African, which itself informed the imperative of segregation (Beeckmans, 2013; Frenkel & Western, 1988; Home, 2013). Nigeria’s governor Lugard (1965) illustrates this reasoning: Malarial germs are present in the blood of most natives… and their dark huts and unsanitary surroundings foster mosquitoes, by which these diseases are conveyed. Doctors, therefore, urge that Europeans should not sleep in proximity to natives, in order to avoid infection. (p. 148) Such fears led to distinct European districts that were equipped with better housing, ventilation, sewage, and water supply (Home, 2013). In 1901, residen-

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tial segregation of officers became official policy in Britain’s tropical colonies (Frenkel & Western, 1988). Much of this hinged on the 1900 discovery that the anopheles mosquito was the vector for malaria, from which was born the famous British planning concept of the green belt, buffer zone, or no-building zone. Teams of doctors and sanitary officers recommended that an empty tract of land – at least 430 yards, the mosquito’s flying distance – separate the European and native areas, to improve the health and pleasure of the Europeans (Beeckmans, 2013; Frenkel & Western, 1988, Home, 2013; Njoh, 2009).

Many have argued that segregation as prophylaxis was a justification for racist apartheid and European dominance (Beeckmans, 2013; Frenkel & Western, 1988; Njoh, 2008; Njoh, 2009). Ambe Njoh (2009) notes that “More often than not, colonial planners used the pretext of protecting the health… of the public to craft spatial policies whose actual purpose was to buttress the power of the colonial state and to facilitate… social control in the colonies” (p. 311). From among the available methods of universal disease control, such as drainage, kerosene, or nets, the only ‘method’ that would confine health benefits exclusively to Europeans was chosen.

Order and modernity In the early 20th century, planning came to be elevated to a high social purpose: the ‘art’ of town planning. The planner was a visionary miracle worker, ameliorating social conditions through art, design, and space (Cherry, 1996). Europeans dreamed of ordering society through the built environment and rendering the African landscape “readable, like a book” (Myers, 2003). Planners and officials held the belief that to order the landscape was to elevate moral and social habits and that a well ordered and efficient plan was a mark of human progress (Home, 1990, 2013). For example, the gridiron street

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layout, which embodies classical ideals of order and symmetry, has been called “the ultimate symbol of the imposition of human order on the wilderness” (Home, 2013). Zoning and land-use segregation were a reflection of British categorization culture, wherein the finest land use details were defined (Home, 2013). Property rights were imposed in the name of order, uprooting traditional collective land tenure in favour of British land valuation, registration, and private ownership (Njoh, 2009).

Furthermore, urban planning was seen as a harbinger of modernity in the colonies.

Colonies were ‘laboratories of modernity’ with the space and freedom to exercise paternalistic models and ideals of the time. According to Libby Porter (2010), “It was in the colonial moment that Europe realized it could determine the arrangement of space on its own abstract terms” (p. 52). Planning was seen not only as an expression of European modernity, but also as an introduction of such to the colonized people, “bringing to the dark places of the earth, the abode of barbarism and cruelty, the torch of culture of progress” (Lugard, 1965).

used for recreational and religious functions, facing which is the city’s largest market, and from which roads radiate (Figure 1). The main residential formation is the quarter comprised of groups of family compounds (Mabogunje, 1990).

Pre-colonial Lagos (called Eko) was highly spatially integrated and organically divided based on family and ethnic ties.

Planned Segregation and Exclusion British colonialism drastically changed this layout, polarising the city and shifting its focal point. Early segregation began in the 19th century with the creation of the Lagos Tramway, which divided the city into an indigenous north and a European south known as the Marina (Figure 2) (Bigon, 2009). Following this initial division, increasing distinctions were made between the development of the south and the neglect of the north. The Marina became the site of European residences, businesses, governmental offices, public services, and clubs. For example, the Tramway was used for sanitary removal solely from the Marina (Bigon, 2009).

Indigenous houses were often demolished

Planning power: the case of Lagos, Nigera These colonial planning ideals and practices left their mark on the urban fabric of Nigeria’s cities and towns. Lagos Colony was annexed to Britain in 1862 and became the capital of Nigeria Colony in 1914 (Peil, 1991). I will focus here on Lagos, as it was the spotlight of colonial urbanization; however, urban planning ideals were exercised throughout the whole colony until its independence in 1960 (Mabogunje, 1990). On the eve of British colonialism, Lagos was organically divided into four ethnic quarters: native Yoruba, Brazilian repatriate ex-slaves, Sierra Leoneans, and Europeans (Bigon, 1990). It followed the basic Yoruba town layout: the centre of the city is the palace of the Oba, the grounds of which is also

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Figure 1. Traditional Nigerian city form, showing the importance of centrality. From Architecture, Power, and National Identity (p. 160), by L. Vale, 1992, New Haven: Yale University Press.

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Figure 2. The Lagos Tramway dividing the island into north and south, and the area (south) it serviced with sanitary removal. From A History of Urban Planning in Two West African Colonial Capitals: Residential Segregation in British Lagos and French Dakar (1850-1930) (p. 90), by L. Bigon, 2009, Lewiston, N.Y: Edwin Mellen Press.

to expand the Marina, which imposed strict building codes. Thatched roofs and mud brick were prohibited, rather “all houses between the water side and the next street… should be covered with slates, tiles, shingles, or felt” (Mabogunje, 1990).

These displacements and planning regulations had drastic exclusionary effects on native populations, and broke up much of the compound pattern in the city (Mabogunje, 1990).

A predominant contrast thus arose between the maintenance, spaciousness, and strict planning of the Marina, and the overcrowding, lack of sanitation, and condemnation of indigenous quarters (Figure 3). Legislation such as the Lagos Town Improvement Ordinance of 1863 called for British Lagos to be laid out in broad, gridded, streets and large lots, creating “a more aesthetic and uniform streetscape” (Bigon, 2009). High standards were enforced in European areas, but not

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so much as a new sewer was introduced into the older parts of town. In 1914, a correspondent for the Nigerian Pioneer wondered why people living in certain parts of the town were neglected by Lagos’ authorities, while “other parts of the town engross their care and attention because they are more public and occupied by the elite” (Bigon, 2009).

Segregation was further institutionalized in the 20th century, starting with the Township Ordinance of 1917. This mandated a dual structure of government and cities where the ‘Township’ would be established as a European enclave outside of the native city (Bigon, 2009; Home, 1983, 2013; Mabogunje, 2009). Mixed racial residences were rendered unlawful under the Ordinance, rather it called for a tripartite structure to Nigerian cities: the native town, non-European town, and European Residential Area (ERA), later renamed the Government Residen-

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Figure 3. The cleanliness and spaciousness of the Marina (above) compared to the dereliction and neglect of the old city (below). From 1914 - 2014 - colonial footprints: Lagos, then and now, by P. Enaholo & Pan Atlantic University, retrieved from https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/ exhibit/colonial-footprints-lagos-then-and-now/ARivCwds?hl=en-GB&position=47%2C96.

Figure 4. Suggested principles for the segregated planning of new Townships. From Of planting and planning: The making of British colonial cities, 2nd ed. (p. 138) by R. K. Home, 2013, London: Spon.

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tial Area (Figure 4) (Fagbongbe & Tijani, 2006). The Marina became an ERA. The Lagos Executive Development Board (LEDB), created in 1927, would have highly segregationist effects on the city.

Fed by a negative perception of slums, it spearheaded a war on squatters, designating entire neighbourhoods to be slated for slum clearance and reserving the right to demolish any building deemed unsanitary (Bigon, 1990). This meant a huge disruption of social and commercial life in Lagos.

Compounds and families were destroyed, and people displaced to the city outskirts, far from the core’s economic opportunities (Magbogunje, 2009).

Distance from disease Embedded in these segregationist acts was a European fear of disease – the “sanitation syndrome.” The city had a partic-

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ularly insalubrious reputation, captured

by P.C. Wrens (1925) when he addressed it as “the rubbish heap called Lagos” (p. 4).

It was thought that the living conditions and excessive congestion of Lagos were the cause of epidemics. The deep-seated fear of infection peaked in early the 20th century with an outbreak of the bubonic plague, sparking cries to segregate Europeans from Africans (Njoh, 2008). Treatment of natives was seen as a hopeless and costly, but distancing Europeans, as an effective safeguard (Bigon, 1990).

The Sanitary Department was founded in 1898; it headed sanitation measures in the Marina, recommended segregation policies in response to disease concerns, and confined sanitation and infrastructure development to the ERAs (Bigon, 2009). A chief outcome of the health crisis was the creation of Ikoyi in 1919 (which remains today Lagos’ most affluent neighbourhood) as a white residential quarter distanced from the crowded, unsanitary city centre, as well as housing estates for senior government officials in Apapa, Ikeja, Ilupeju, East Marina, and Victoria Island (Figure 5) (Peil, 1991).

except…to remove the Government to an inland position, where proper sanitary conditions may be instituted” (Kuczynski, 1948). Lord Lugard suggested a move again in 1914 (Morah, 1992). Although the capital would stay put, the dream of leaving Lagos would be passed over at independence.

Order and modernity

It is within this narrative of disease prevention that generated propositions of moving the capitAn official report in 1899 advised that “Lagos itself is practically nothing more than a sandbank, and there appears to be little left to hope for

Planning sought to impose British order on the ‘chaos’ of Lagos. One way it did so was through strict definition and allocation of property. Prior to colonial influence, land was held communally and was managed by the community chief (Alayande, 2006; Bigon, 2009; Fagbongbe & Tijani, 2006).

British arrival challenged this; the colony’s Treaty of Cessation states that “in the transfer of lands” there shall be “no native claims upon it,” giving the British Crown rights of interference (Bigon, 2009). The Town Ordinance gave authorities the right to create laws regarding sanitation, building regulation, and ownership (Fagbongbe & Tijani, 2006). Occupiers were required to fence or otherwise define the boundaries of their land, then inform colonial surveyors (Bigon, 2009). Where possible, namely in new ERAs, the gridiron layout was employed. The LEBD instituted Town and Country Planning Acts in 1932 and 1946 to set rules for zoning, land occupancy, and street layout (Abumere, 1993).

Figure 5. An example of a new European residential housing estates, here Surulere. From Urbanization in Nigeria (p. 323) by A. L. Mabogunje, 1968, London: London University Press.

As there was more bureaucratic freedom in Nigeria than in Britain, “there was a larger emergence of modern urban planning principles in the colonies… derived from Eurocentric singularity in the modernizing process” (Bigon, 2009). High planning standards and the lifestyle of the ‘country gentleman’ were paramount in the design of European quarters (Home, 1983). Spacious layouts, detached homes, large plots demarcated by hedges and ornamental trees, a race course, large roads, electric light, and the aesthetic of the country home were elements of ‘modern’ living (Bigon, 2009; Fabiyi,

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2006; Mabogunje, 1990). The outcome of colonial planning in Lagos was a dichotomy between increasing modernity and regulation in European districts and increasing overcrowding, sanitation problems, and lack of planning or improvements in native districts. Alayande (2006) describes Lagos as “a stretch of monotonous concrete, with the exception of small pockets of upper class residential areas and business parks” (p. 44). Lagos today is a city grounded in colonial ideals of social control and subordination. The city became unequally divided, where the realm of the African stood neglected while the city’s development benefitted the colonialist, and eventually the Nigerian elite (Ebo, 2006).

Modern iterations of colonial planning: the case of Abuja, Nigeria Since independence, ethnic, tribal, religious, and socioeconomic schisms permeated Nigerian culture and politics.

There was a political urge to create a sense of national unity and ethnic neutrality, which, according to Nigeria’s leaders, could not be done in the pre-existing southern, Christian and Yoruba dominated, Western-style capital (Alayande, 2006; Njoh, 2008). In addition, there was a desire to escape the congestion, traffic, crime, and chaos of Lagos – which made it “unfit and unsafe” for the seat of government – and to curb its urbanization and urban primacy (Morah, 1992). The move was also seen as an opportunity to showcase the new wealth and independence of Nigeria. The new heartland capital was to be geographically and symbolically accessible to all Nigerians, and was to contribute to the regional development of the centre (Figure 6) (Abumere, 1993).

Planned segregation and exclusion Planned exclusion was present from the very onset of the project, where officials treated the FCT site as “virgin land,” thus “ignoring its 2,000-year history of inhabitation, its sacred ancestor worship sites

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Figure 6. The central location of the FCT. From “Housing Development in Nigeria’s New Capital at Abuja, ” by E. U. Morah, 1992, African Development Review, 4(1), p. 67.

such as Aso Rock,” and the estimated 132,000 inhabitants of the territory (Vale, 1992). The relocation strategy of ‘site and service’ dates from colonial times, whereby governments would acquire large tracts of land, lay out infrastructure, then allocate the serviced plots for development. “This fact established the foundation of Abuja in a colonial process” (Ebo, 2006). Initially, all residents in the FCT – the Gwa people – were to be relocated so that “none could claim ancestral rights” to the area, but this legislation was later revisited to encompass only those within the boundaries of the city’s first phase (Abumere, 1993).

Thus, residents who were displaced by later development were not compensated or provided relocated housing.

A second form of deliberate exclusion appears in the city’s master plan, which designed the ‘Three Arms Zone’ (TAZ) as the home for the National Assembly, Presidential Complex, and Supreme Court (Ebo, 2006). The TAZ is divided by the rest of the city by an arboretum, a large distance, and series of guarded checkpoints (Figure 7) (Vale, 1992). This separation reflects a “departure from traditional Nigerian cities in which important administrative buildings were located in

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of Kano (Figure 9) (Vale, 1992). “Christian communities saw the edifice as am imposition of Islamic values,” challenging the city’s purported neutrality (Elleh & Edelman, 2013).

Figure 7. The divisiveness between city and Three Arms Zone in Abuja. From “Abuja capital master plan” by Wallace Roberts & Todd, 2014, retrieved from http://www.wrtdesign.com/ projects/detail/Abuja-Capital-Master-Plan/13

the centre” and accessible to all (Figure 1) (Ebo, 2006). Despite this inaccessibility, the Master Plan designed a continuous view corridor to the TAZ, making the government the focal point of the city (Figure 8). Urban design creates an isolation of the administration from the governed, reminiscent of the government enclave in Lagos’ Marina. The TAZ also presents a second degree of exclusion in its architecture: during the 1990s, the northern (predominantly Muslim) military rulers designed the National Assembly topped with a green dome that is markedly similar to the Great Mosque in the northern city

Figure 8. View corridor to the Three Arms Zone from the length of the city’s main road. From Architecture, Power, and National Identity (p.

165), by L. Vale, 1992, New Haven: Yale University Press.

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As in colonial times, segregated residential development was deliberately pursued in Abuja. The Federal Capital Development Authority (FCDA) demanded that the master plan segregate housing by income and professional status. For example, there are housing estates for junior staff, senior staff, and managerial staff, and several satellite towns specifically for employees of various companies (Ebo, 2013; Fagbongbe & Tijani, 2006). The epitome of the master plan’s residential segregation is Minister’s Hill, a “fortified archipelago of villas and bungalows for military officers most loyal to the regimes” at the foot of Aso Rock, adjacent to the TAZ (Vale, 1992). Short of forced segregation, physical and economic barriers are created to maintain the city’s divisiveness. Distance between the rich and poor residential areas are enhanced by highways and ring roads, vacant land, car-centric planning, high housing prices, and pure distance, making most of the city inhospitable and inaccessible to the average citizen (Figure 10) (Ebo, 2013).

Furthermore, the city’s master plan pro-

Figure 9. The strong Muslim architecture of Abuja’s National Assembly. From “2015: Federal lawmakers that may not return”, by T. Onojenghen & C. Njoku, 2014, retrieved from http://nationalmirroronline.net/new/2015federal-lawmakers-that-may-not-return/

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settlements, compared to the 50,000 who are properly accommodated in the city (Morah, 1993). Abuja has reproduced the planned opulence at the city centre, and the unplanned, neglected poverty at the fringe so characteristic of colonial Lagos.

Morah (1993) concludes that:

Figure 10. The stark contrast between planned and unplanned (Garki Village) areas in Abuja.

From Google Maps, 2014, retrieved from https:// www.google.ca/maps/place/Garki+2,+Abuja,+Nigeria/@9.0218787,7.4880481,727m/ data=!3m1!1e3!4m2!3m1!1s0x104e0b8f0ed5cbf9:0x9f51ea9bb16fb2d5

vides no low-income and very little rental housing (Alayande, 2006). The first stage of the plan was entirely developed for government employees and made no accommodation for construction workers, the original FCT inhabitants, and even some low-income civil servants (Abumere, 1993). Morah (1993) speculates this is because high and middle-income housing was perceived as “more germane to the image and status of the new capital than low-cost dwellings affordable by the majority of citizens” (p.252). Even though planners estimated the ratio of non-government to government workers at 4:1, the FCDA made no explicit provisions for non-civil servants (Morah, 1993). There is a huge housing shortage in Abuja, forcing prices so high that formal housing is only affordable to heavily subsidized civil servants and employees of major companies (Morah, 1993).

The result has been the sprawl of slums in and around the city. A 2004 report identified 28 squatter settlements in the FCT characterised by a lack of service provision, self-built housing, narrow streets, and very dense unsanitary living (Vale, 1992). An estimated 55,000 squatters inhabit the city’s boundaries, namely in the extremely dense Garki and Maitama

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Rather than act as a ‘city of unity,’ by promoting equitable opportunity among citizens… Abjua promises to be a ‘city of disharmony,’ … The development of the city has only succeeded in heightening contradictions between rich and poor Nigerians along occupational lines… It seems unlikely that Abuja will ever become a city that does not manifest the contradictions of its predecessor, Lagos, which is epitomized by its marked contrast between the plush areas and squalid neighbourhoods. (p.84) Distance from disease A prevailing narrative within the capital’s move was the perceived squalor and hopelessness of Lagos. Faced with a capital wrought with problems of housing, sanitation, crime, and congestion, Nigeria’s authorities chose to flee the challenge of improving Lagos. In 1976, a government panel described Lagos as “one of the dirtiest capitals in the world;” a 1982 report concluded that “the perennial traffic jams, the intolerable congestion, the chaotic sanitary situation, inadequate social amenities, and the lack of available land for expansion render the city ineffective as the seat of government of the Federation” (cited in Vale, 1992). Another wrote, “many of the problems of Lagos are hard to conceal from tourists, diplomats, and the upper class” (cited in Alayande, 2006). There was also a circulating security concern for the political elites: Raji Rasaki (1998), governor of Lagos in 1988, justified the move in that “the rulers and managers of Metropolitan Lagos and their security personnel have an arduous duty to keep mischief at bay” (p. 53).

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There are strong parallels between the dismissal of the squalid state of Lagos after independence and the same discontent of the Europeans in the early 20th century. In both cases, elites distanced and insulated themselves from the perceived ills and inadequacies of Lagos. In both cases, too, the flight only furthered spatial inequalities between rich and poor.

In colonial times, this meant an outright neglect of the traditional city and refusal to improve indigenous living conditions.

We see a comparable neglect today: while the move was intended to address the congestion and over-urbanization of Lagos by redirecting both population and economic growth, there is no evidence of this actually happening (Morah, 1992). Residential communities remain segregated by class; Lagos’ population is not on the downswing, but currently sits at 17.5 million, two thirds of which live in an ever-increasing sprawl of slums (Akiyode, 2011).

Order and modernity Abuja was seen as “an opportunity to demonstrate that Nigerians, as a people,

can create a well-ordered city,” and as such the pursuit of order is very pronounced (Ikejiofor, 1998). For example, the city is separated into distinct spheres: residential City Districts, the TAZ, and the Central Area, which is then broken into the Ministries Zone, Cultural Axis, and Central Business District (Figure 11) (Ebo, 2006). Having designed the city down to the last detail, the FCDA has gone to great lengths to preserve this order and “correct physical distortions to the plan” (Ebo, 2006). For example, a mosque built ‘illegally’ at the Wuse market was torn down because it stood on land zoned for open recreation (Amba, 2010). The most dramatic manifestation of this dedication to order are the forced evictions and demolitions of informal settlements around the city. Since 2003, the FCDA has demolished entire mature communities without adequate consultation, notice, or compensation, evicting an estimated 800,000 people from at least 31 settlements (Figure 12) (COHRE, 2008). The sanctity of the master plan has led to innumerable human rights violations and another negation of Abuja’s claim to inclusiveness.

Figure 11. The specific land use plan for Abuja and its surrounds, From “Abuja capital master plan” by Wallace Roberts & Todd, 2014, retrieved from http://www.wrtdesign.com/projects/detail/ Abuja-Capital-Master-Plan/13

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Figure 12. A slum’s daycare marked for demolition, Lugube. From “The myth of the Abuja master plan: Forced evictions as urban planning in Abuja, Nigeria,” (p.66) by The Centre on Housing Rights and Evictions (COHRE), 2008, Geneva, Switzerland: D. Fowler.

Also reminiscent of colonial policy is the 1978 Land Use Act, which brought all land in the FCT under the ownership of the federal government, who then grants it according to zoning laws (Ikejiofor, 1998).

Abuja is designed under the planning theory of modernism, which is often seen as a divergence of colonial planning; the modern city prototype was developed by the Congrès Internationaux d’Architecture Moderne (CIAM) in 1940 (Ebo, 20068). James Holston (1989), in exploring the CIAM modern city, identifies its principles: “anticapitalist and egalitarian basis, machine metaphor and totalising rationality, redefinition of social functions of urban organisation, development of building typologies and planning conventions as instruments of social change, dectontextualisation and environmental determinism, and reliance on state authority to achieve total planning” (p.

43). In adopting the modernist model, Abuja reinforces the Western-centric narrative of modernity prevalent in colonial times.

Just as colonies were planning playgrounds for Europeans, so too was the ‘blank slate’ of Abuja seen as offering the planning freedom that Lagos restricted (Fabiyi, 2006). Modernity itself became

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the symbol of the city, at the expense of inherently Nigerian elements (Vale, 1992). House plans, types, and materials are imported; bungalows, garden houses, large yards, and contemporary architecture dot the city, but not a compound home is to be found (Morah, 1992). In traditional Nigerian cities, the central area is used for politics, leisure, religious functions, and meetings. In Abuja these uses are separated, there is no gathering space around public buildings, and axiality has replaced centrality. Streets are large, neglecting the close-knit setting of traditional cities; sidewalks are small, stripping the city of the social and commercial importance of the street (Holston, 1989). No space has been designated for stall businesses, which restricts street merchants (Ebo, 2006). The city does not meet the cultural needs of the people, a lack of consideration that has been at the root of much of the condemned ‘illegal’ buildings and activities: people are attempting to appropriate a space that does not accommodate them (Figure 13).

“In the hopes of presenting a modern face to the world, the city of Abuja embodies the eradication or suppression of patterns of development in existing Nigerian cities for a new, modernist model” (Ebo, 2006).

Modernist planning is the next stage of colonialism.

Figure 13. Muslims pray on the sidewalk in Abuja because there is no gathering space provided outside the National Mosque. From City design and social exclusion: Abuja, Nigeria in review (p. 49), by I. N. Ebo, 2006, Massachusetts Institute of Technology: Dept. of Urban Studies and Planning.

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Conclusion Abuja is intended as a symbol for the independence and modernity of a postcolonial state struggling to distance itself from its past. Its buildings are grand, its budget high (Vale, 1992). Yet, in analysing the motives and principles that underlie the movement of the capital, its construction, and its design, I note that Abuja retains much of the colonial planning discourse and ideals it intends to reject. Deliberately exclusionary, the new capital fled the insalubrity of Lagos only to find the same informal growth emerge on its outskirts.

In a steadfast dedication to fundamentally Eurocentric ideals of order and modernity, it has attempted to curb and eradicate this unplanned growth, only furthering the city’s exclusionary nature. The colonial mindset of planning has shaped more than just cities; it has become rooted in the very culture that today reproduces it.

List of Acronyms CIAM - Congrès Internationaux d’Architecture Moderne ERA - European Residential Area FCDA - Federal Capital Development Authority FCT - Federal Capital Territory LEBD - Lagos Executive Development Board TAZ - Three Arms Zone References Abumere, S. I. (1993). The socio-economic profile of the new capital territory and its city and regional planning implications. In J.O Abiodun, A. L. Mabogunje, & Nigerian Geographical Association (Eds.) Issues in urban and regional development in Nigeria, (pp. 285-277). Nigeria: Nigerian Geographical Association.

Akiyode, O. O. (2011). Urbanization Trend and Water Insecurity in Developing Economy Mega-city. A Case Study of Lagos, Nigeria.

Journal for Sustainable Development in Africa, 13(3), 194-212.

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Alayande, J F. (2006). Abuja: Readings in City Planning. S.l.: Booksurge Com. Aluya, J. U. (2008). Housing phenomenon in Abuja, Nigeria: A case study. Bloomington, IN: AuthorHouse.

Amba, K. (2010). The need for popular participation in Abuja: a Nigerian story of informal settlements. Journal of Place Management and Development, 3(2), 149-159.

Beeckmans, L. (2013) Editing the African city: reading colonial planning in Africa from a comparative perspective. Planning Perspectives.

28(4), 615-627.

Bigon, L. (2009). A History of Urban Planning in Two West African Colonial Capitals: Residential Segregation in British Lagos and French Dakar (1850-1930). Lewiston, N.Y: Edwin Mellen Press.

The Centre on Housing Rights and Evictions (COHRE). (2008). The myth of the Abuja master plan: Forced evictions as urban planning in Abuja, Nigeria. Geneva, Switzerland: D. Fowler.

Cherry, G. E. (1996). Town planning in Britain since 1900: the rise and fall of the planning ideal. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd. Dovey, K. (1999). Framing places: Mediating power in built form. London: Routledge.

Ebo, I. N. (2006). City design and social exclusion: Abuja, Nigeria in review (Doctoral dissertation). Massachusetts Institute of Technology: Dept. of Urban Studies and Planning.

Elleh, N., & Edelman, D. J. (2013). Exploiting public art, architecture, and urban design for political power in Abuja: Modernism and the use of Christian, Islamic and ancestral visual icons. Current Urban Studies, 1(1), 1-10.

Fabiyi, S. (2006). Colonial and postcolonial architecture and urbanism. In H. I. Tijani (Ed.), Nigeria’s urban history: Past and present (pp.

145-166). Lanham, MD: University Press of America.

Fagbongbe, M., & Tijani, H. I. (2006). Legal aspect of urban development. In H. I. Tijani (Ed.), Nigeria’s urban history: Past and present (pp. 167182). Lanham, MD: University Press of America.

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Frenkel, S., & Western, J. (1988). Pretext or prophylaxis? Racial segregation and malarial mosquitos in a British tropical colony: Sierra Leone. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 78(2), 211-228.

Holston, J. (1989). The modernist city: An anthropological critique of Brasília. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Home, R. K. (1983). Town planning, segregation and indirect rule in colonial Nigeria. Third World Planning Review, 5(2), 165-75.

Home, R. K. (1990). Town planning and garden cities in the British colonial empire 1910–1940.

Planning Perspectives, 5 (1), 23-37.

Home, R. K. (2013). Of planting and planning: The making of British colonial cities. 2nd ed.

London: Spon.

Njoh, A. J. (2007). Planning power: Town planning and social control in colonial Africa.

London: UCL Press.

Njoh, A. J. (2008). Colonial philosophies, urban space, and racial segregation in British and French colonial Africa. Journal of Black Studies, 38(4), 579-599.

Njoh, A. J. (2009). Urban planning as a tool of power and social control in colonial Africa.

Planning perspectives, 24(3), 301-317.

Peil, M. (1991). Lagos: The City Is the People.

London: Belhaven.

Porter, L. (2010). Unlearning the colonial cultures of planning. Surrey, UK: Ashgate Publishing, Ltd.

Ikejiofor, U. (1998). Access to land, development control and low-income housing in Abuja, Nigeria: Policy, politics and bureaucracy.

Planning Practice & Research, 13(3), 299-309.

Rasaki, R. (1990). The problems of managing a conurbation like Metropolitan Lagos. In O. Obasanjo, H. d’Orville, & Africa Leadership Forum (Eds.), Challenges of leadership in African development (pp. 227-253). New York: Crane Russak.

King, A. D. (2004). Spaces of global cultures: Architecture, urbanism, identity. London: Routledge.

Vale, L. J. (1992). Architecture, Power, and National Identity. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Kuczynski, R. R. (1948). Demographic survey of the British Colonial Empire: Volume One: West Africa. Oxford: Oxford University Press

Wren, P. C. (1925). Beau Geste. New York: Frederick A. Stokes Co.

Lugard, F. D. (1965). The dual mandate in British tropical Africa. 5th ed. London: Frank Cass & Co. Ltd.

Yeoh, B. S. (2003). Contesting space in colonial Singapore: Power relations and the urban built environment. Singapore: Singapore University Press.

Mabogunje, A. L. (1990). Urban planning and the post-colonial state in Africa: a research overview. African Studies Review, 33(2), 121-203.

Meacham, S. (1999). Regaining paradise: Englishness and the early garden city movement.

New Haven: Yale University Press.

Morah, E. U. (1992). Housing development in Nigeria’s New Capital at Abuja. African Development Review, 4(1), 64-86.

Myers, G. A. (2003). Designing power: forms and purposes of colonial model neighborhoods in British Africa. Habitat International, 27(2), 193-204.

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Asthma Prevalence and Risk Factors in North American Indigenous Peoples: A Systematic Review Ashley Bach ABSTRACT. Background: Chronic disease rates are often higher in Canadian and American Indigenous peoples and rates of asthma, a disease affecting the airways and lungs of children and adults alike, appear to be no exception (Public Health Agency of Canada, 2013; Statistics Canada, 2013, Barker et al., 2009). This systematic review examines the evidence supporting the claim that Indigenous peoples in Canada and the United States have a higher prevalence of asthma.

Methods: To assemble relevant evidence, I collected and critically appraised papers looking at asthma prevalence in Indigenous peoples at a communityand population-level as well as papers studying asthma risk factors for Indigenous peoples. I found a total of 14 papers from PubMed and Google Scholar.

My selection criteria was that the papers must have studied Indigenous peoples in Canada or the United States and be published in English during or after the year 2000. The study must be a cohort study, cross-sectional survey, or primary research examining asthma prevalence, rate, and risk factors.

Summary: I found that asthma prevalence in Canadian and United States indigenous communities is not as clear as previously stated in existing literature due to population-level studies concealing details of small populations and community-level studies displaying highly variable, extreme results. Asthma risk factors that most dramatically affect Indigenous peoples include access to primary health care services, location of residence (urban versus rural), but, unexpectedly, not housing quality. More research focusing on Indigenous communities is required to understand and alleviate the burden of asthma in the overall Indigenous population and create effective, culturally appropriate management plans.

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Chronic disease rates are often higher in Canadian and American Indigenous peoples than in non-Indigenous peoples, including asthma prevalence (Public Health Agency of Canada, 2013, Barker et al., 2009). The Asthma Society of Canada is especially concerned with asthma rates in First Nations and Inuit communities since treatment access in these communities is often limited (Barker et al., 2009).

Additionally, Statistics Canada has noted that asthma rates are higher in Canadian Indigenous communities (2013).

However, the claim that asthma rates are higher in Indigenous communities must be called into question due to confounding factors and the diverse nature of Indigenous communities. Indigenous communities have diverse histories and backgrounds, including socioeconomic, geographic, and cultural differences, but are often examined as homogenous entities. Furthermore, measuring the disease of asthma is difficult due to confounding factors influencing asthma onset and attacks, as well as varying definitions of asthma. For example, asthma can be acute or chronic in form, but either for can have onset or attack occurrence. Inconsistencies in disease metrics may obscure what type of asthma and what type of occurrence appear in a study.

appraisal techniques. I will then discuss asthma prevalence at a population and community level and asthma risk factors.

Finally, I will tie these aspects together.

Multiple systematic reviews and meta analyses have been performed on the topic of asthma incidence, prevention, and risk factors, yet they often focus on the general population (all individuals in the US).

Since Indigenous populations are small and often separated from the general population, a systematic review on asthma prevalence and risk factors in Indigenous communities is necessary.

Search strategies (Figure 1)

In this paper, I will take a realist perspective to systematically review the evidence behind the claim that asthma rates are higher in Indigenous communities and examine pertinent risk factors for asthma in Indigenous communities (2005). I will begin by explaining my search and critical

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Terminology As a general term, I will use Indigenous to indicate First Nations (also known as Aboriginal), Inuit, MĂŠtis, Native American, and Alaskan Native. I will specify particular groups when appropriate, using the same terminology as the paper I am referring to. I will not include Native Hawaiians and individuals belonging to non-North American Indigenous groups living in Canada and the United States in my paper due to the very different geographical and historical contexts surrounding their communities.

Researching methods To perform my systematic review, I researched papers related to asthma in Indigenous communities. The online databases I searched include PubMed, OVID, and Google Scholar. I also searched gray literature using Google search and government websites. My PubMed and Google Scholar searches brought applicable results.

My inclusion criteria are as follows: Study in or regarding an Indigenous community or population; study carried out in Canada or the United States of America; study published in English; study published during or after the year 2000; study in the form of cohort, cross section, or primary research; and study related to asthma risk factors or asthma prevalence or asthma rates.

My exclusion criteria are as follows: Case studies, reviews, and meta-analyses; studies on non-Canadian or American Indigenous peoples; and studies only regarding asthma-like or asthma-related symptoms

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Figure 1. Flowchart of my search strategy.

Critical appraisal

Prevalence

To critically appraise each paper, I asked the following questions provided

by Greenhalghâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 1997 paper on critical appraisal and realist review questions based off of principles taught in Pawson et al.â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 2005 paper (15):

My research produced contradictory results on asthma prevalence. I split the results into population level and community level to better differentiate the findings of each level. The population-based studies mostly found that asthma rates are higher in Indigenous peoples whereas the community-based studies had more variable and extreme results.

What are the objectives of the paper?

What type of study was done? Was the study design appropriate for the research question? Do the results make sense?

Does the discussion make realistic or unrealistic claims?

Results and discussion In total, I found 5 papers from two separate searches in PubMed and snowballed 9 papers from these. I used 14 papers for the systematic review.

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Population level I found six papers that looked at asthma prevalence in Indigenous peoples at a population level. Three of them found that asthma prevalence was higher amongst Indigenous populations, one found that asthma prevalence was higher for Indigenous adults and lower for Indigenous children, and two found that asthma

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prevalence was lower in Indigenous populations.

Loveland et al. (2008) found that, amongst Montana adults, being of American Indian (AI) race is not an independent predictor of increased asthma risk.

However, they concurrently found that AI adults in Montana have disproportionate exposure to asthma risk factors such as low income or obesity, and that, overall, AI adults have higher prevalence of asthma than white adults in Montana. Loveland et al. are careful to note that these findings might not be generalizable to all AI and Alaska Native (AN) populations because each tribe and region is different.

Brim et al. (2008) used 2001-2005 data from the National Health Interview Survey (NHIS) to analyze current asthma, lifetime asthma, and asthma attack prevalence for the AI and AN in the 2 to 17 year old population in the United States, among other underrepresented minority groups. They found that the AI and AN population, compared to the white population, have a higher prevalence of current asthma, lifetime asthma, and asthma attack or episode in the past 12 months (Brim et al. 2008). Brim et al. also looked at various demographic factors collected in the NHIS. Some striking demographic differences between the AI/AN population and the white population stood out.

For example 28.5% of the AI/AN population interviewed did not have health insurance, whereas only 9.3% of the white population did not (this statistic may have changed with the 2010 Affordable Care Act). Another example is that 25.0% of the AI/AN population interviewed had a household income of less than $20,000, whereas only 9.4% of the white population had a household income lower than $20,000. Finally, 6.3% of the AI/AN population did not have a usual place for sick care, whereas 4.3% of the white population did not. Overall, the AI/AN population in the United States was found to have a higher prevalence of asthma and a

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lower rate of access to care. These trends in access to care and asthma prevalence also occur in Canada, albeit at different levels.

Gershon et al. (2014) examined asthma and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) prevalence and health services use among Ontario Métis. They used a population-based cohort study design, drawing health administrative data from Ontario and linking that data to the Métis Nation of Ontario’s citizenship registry, which predominantly contains adults.

They found that “Métis people living in Ontario had a higher prevalence of physician-diagnosed asthma… than the rest of the Ontario population,” with a standardized rate of 15.6 per 100 people compared to 11.8 for the general Ontario population.

They also found that the Métis population, in general, had lower disease-specific visiting rates to primary care practitioners and specialists for asthma, at 178.2 and 32.4 per 1000 person-years respectively compared to 224.8 and 69.3 per 1000 person-years respectively for the general Ontario population. Furthermore, Gershon et al. found that the Métis population had a higher rate of emergency visits and hospitalizations for asthma, suggesting that this lack of disease-specific care could be resulting in more asthma attacks and emergency department visits.

Chang et al. (2012) performed a cross sectional survey on off-reserve Aboriginal children and adults in Canada to determine asthma prevalence and the specific asthma risk factors for this. They found that for Canadian Aboriginal adults, the prevalence of ever having asthma diagnosed at age 15 or older is 14.0%, greater than the general population. On the other hand, Chang et al. found that childhood asthma, diagnosed at age 14 or younger, is less prevalent in Canadian Aboriginals than the general population, at 14.3%.

This study had its flaws. Chang et al. performed the primary data collection using a questionnaire, but certain questions, for

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example “At what age were you first told you had asthma?,” left room for recall bias.

Additionally, Chang et al. did not go into depth with possible explanations of their results, even though they tested for many demographic, socioeconomic, household, childhood, and health-related factors.

Two studies had findings contradicting those above. Gao et al. (2008) found that Aboriginal children in the Northwest Territories, Yukon, and Nunavut had significantly lower prevalence of ever having asthma (5.7%) and currently having asthma (2.4%), than non-Aboriginal children (10.0% ever having asthma and 5.3% currently having asthma). Gao et al. appropriately controlled for characteristics such as: demographic considerations, individual level characteristics, household level characteristics, parental characteristics, and medical considerations for children with asthma-like symptoms.

They make an important note that the Aboriginal population was much more likely than the non-Aboriginal population to have asthma-like symptoms like wheezing, indicating reduced health care use or access that may have affected the rate of asthma diagnosis.

Gessner (2003) studied asthma prevalence in Alaska Native children under the age of 20 and found that the prevalence of asthma-related medication or care was 5.5%, significantly lower than that of non-AN Alaskan children, whose prevalence was 7.9%. However, when AN and non-AN residents were split into Anchorage residents and non-Anchorage residents (Anchorage is the largest city in Alaska and the state’s medical care centre), AN children who were Anchorage residents were found to have increased odds of having asthma compared to non-AN children who were Anchorage residents.

AN children in the study had a slightly higher hospitalization rate for asthma, at 0.28%, compared to non-AN children, at 0.17%.

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Thus, at a population level it appears that Indigenous peoples have a higher prevalence of asthma, likely due to increased exposure to asthma risk factors like lack of access to and use of health care and lower income. This prevalence is variable by age, geographic location (urban versus rural), and access to and utilization of medical care. Hospitalization rates for asthma and its complications are also higher for Indigenous peoples than non-Indigenous peoples at a population level.

Community level I found three papers that looked at asthma prevalence in Indigenous tribes, bands, and/or reservation communities.

Hendrickson et al. (2003) performed a retrospective cross-sectional survey to determine the frequency of asthma in children from the Assiniboine and Sioux tribes of Northeast Montana. They gathered data from patient charts from the Fort Peck Service Unit’s Resource and Patient Management System (RPMS) computer database, the same database Indian Health Services (IHS) uses. From that, they determined childhood asthma prevalence amongst these communities was 15.5%. However, 12% of the charts were miscoded and improperly diagnosed patients. This may have affected Hendrickson et al.’s results, but the paper does not address any compensation methods. The prevalence level of 15.5% is still much higher than their reference to the US national paediatric average of 6.7%.

Though imperfect, this study highlights the need to look at community-level asthma prevalence in minority populations that might be overlooked in general population studies.

Mark and Roberts (2003) examined the prevalence of asthma diagnosis amongst American Indian youth under 21 years old in Southeastern Montana by performing a cross-sectional survey on 20 years of RPMS data from the Crow Service Unit.

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The collected data mainly consists of members of the Crow and Northern Cheyenne tribes. Both tribes have relatively similar historical trajectories and socioeconomic locations in the United States, making them acceptable comparison groups in the study. Their results showed an overall increase in the prevalence of asthma from 1987-2006, similar to national data, but, differently, a decrease in asthma prevalence with age for both females and males. By 2006, the age-adjusted prevalence was 5.1 per 100 patients.

Mark and Roberts’ results run contrary to most population-level prevalence rates, as the prevalence rates they calculated are lower than those in the overall AI/AN and general populations. In their discussion, Mark and Roberts recognize that ethnicity is “a social, not a biological, category” and conclude that local asthma prevalence might be better determined by “the prevailing social and ecological microclimate.” They call for future research into social and environmental microclimates in the Crow and Northern Cheyenne communities.

Noonan et al. (2009) performed a cross-sectional survey of four reservation communities in Montana and Wyoming that participated in the Child Health Measures (CHM) project. In the CHM project, IHS and Tribal Health staff collected standardized health measures from grade school students, including height and weight. Students in grade 4 through 12 answered questions regarding their family’s history of asthma and their current asthma status. 4.4% students surveyed were not American Indian but the researchers determined this did not skew or invalidate results and only affected precision. The overall estimated prevalence for current asthma was 9.5%, but prevalence rates varied in each community. Of particular note, site 1 had an estimated prevalence of 5.6%, much lower than the NHIS estimate of 8.4% for the white population. In addition, site 4 had an estimated prevalence of 12.6%, which is close

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to the NHIS AI/AN estimate of 13.1%.

Noonan et al. mention that even though the communities in the study identify as Northern Plains Indians, the intertribal differences in prevalence is not surprising due to diverse cultures, traditions, and lifestyles.

In sum, community-level studies on asthma prevalence have varying results.

Each community has unique characteristics which cause difficulties in generalizing results. Social and environmental contexts must be considered when studying a community, even if the communities have a self-proclaimed similar identity. Nonetheless, community-level studies reveal which at-risk minority communities are experiencing disparately high prevalence of asthma and are in need of intervention, something which population-level studies overlook.

Risk factors Asserted in many of the above studies, asthma has multiple risk factors that increase an individual’s odds of having asthma and inducing asthma incidents.

Certain risk factors may be more prevalent in Indigenous populations and communities due to their history, socioeconomic status, geography, household characteristics, and more. Hence, it is important to examine risk factors within Indigenous populations and communities to better target management and encourage possible preventative actions.

Noonan et al. (2009), discussed previously, also calculated the Body Mass Index (BMI) of students included in their study.

The state of currently having asthma was found to be associated with BMI - students with a higher BMI had a higher prevalence of currently having asthma.

Sin et al. (2002) used Alberta population-based data to determine the Aboriginal rates of emergency and office visits for asthma compared to the non-Aborig-

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inal rates, spirometic testing rates, and rates of referral to specialist services.

They employed a retrospective cohort design using population-level data from the Alberta Health Care Insurance Plan, which contains demographic information and treaty (Aboriginal) status of all Alberta residents. Unfortunately, this data did not include appointments and emergency care from nurses, who are often the only health professionals in remote reserves. Sin et al. found that “within all age groups, Aboriginals had higher rates of emergency visits and office visits for asthma,” even in city centres. In addition to this, Sin et al. found that spirometric testing occurred only 452.8 per 10,000 in Aboriginals compared to 1,502.0 per 10,000 in non-Aboriginals. This finding is significant because spirometric testing is used to determine lung capacity, an indicator of asthma. Finally, only 921.6 per 10,000 Aboriginals who had a minimum of one doctor’s office visit for asthma were referred to a specialist like an allergist, paediatrician, or respirologist, whereas non-Aboriginals had a specialist referral rate of 1,431.5 per 10,000. Sin et al. propose in-depth explanations for their observed trends. Since the Canadian health-care system is “universal” and status Aboriginal people in Canada have extra health benefits like prescription coverage, financial barriers to accessing care may be minimal. More importantly, access to care may be a barrier because reservations and remote areas have fewer outpatient clinics, and this impeded access to primary care may increase emergency department visits. Sin et al. conclude with a call for future research on barriers to high quality health care and methods of reducing the burden of asthma and COPD in Alberta’s Aboriginal communities.

Access to care is further discussed by Gessner and Neeno (2005), who documented trends in asthma prevalence, inhaled corticosteroid use and hospitalization, race, and urban versus rural residence in AN and non-AN medicaid

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recipients under 20 in Alaska. They used a retrospective cross-sectional survey and data from the Alaska Division of Medical Assistance. Gessner and Neeno defined asthma as having “an approved claim for asthma-related medication use and care” during each study year, likely leading to a conservative estimate of the prevalence of asthma but ensuring the study population had asthma. They found that AN census regions with a resident paediatrician and previous involvement in asthma research had a much higher asthma prevalence.

As well, living in Anchorage was a risk factor for asthma, regardless of race, and AN race was a risk factor for hospitalization, regardless of residence. Gessner and Neeno attribute these results to “the existence of substantial geographic and temporal variations in provider use of asthma as a diagnosis.” In other words, ANs who live in rural areas may have limited access to paediatricians and doctors, whereas ANs living in Anchorage have exceptional access to care, as they live in the same city as all of paediatric allergy specialists in Alaska. Gessner and Neeno conclude that asthma prevalence might be increasing mostly due to increased diagnosis.

Crighton et al. (2010) delve further into the relationship between asthma prevalence and management in Canadian Aboriginal populations by examining geographic and socioeconomic factors.

They performed a secondary analysis of the cross-sectional Aboriginal Peoples Survey and Children and Youth Questionnaire that was distributed at a national level by Statistics Canada. Crighton et al. found that 12% of Aboriginal children had been diagnosed with asthma, a percentage lower than the national average of 13.4%.

On the other hand, Aboriginal adults had a prevalence of 11.2%, higher than the national average of 8.4%. Inuit children had a significantly low prevalence at 5%.

12.4% of children living off-reserve had a diagnosis of asthma versus 9.5% for those living on reserve. Similarly, 13.1% of children living in urban areas had been diag-

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nosed with asthma, whereas only 10.1% of children living in rural areas had been diagnosed. Crighton et al. proposed many explanations for their observations. They explained that Inuit children, on-reserve children, and children living in rural areas may have limited access to doctors, impeding diagnosis of asthma. Additionally, rural or Northern areas removed from city centres have less problems with outdoor air pollution. Finally, the hygiene hypothesis may come into play for children living in urbanized areas due to less microbial exposure, for example from farm animals.

None of the socioeconomic factors Crighton et al. (2010) looked at had significant results from the multivariate analysis, possibly because they were not sensitive enough parameters. The years in which childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s houses were built also did not produce any significant values, however living in a home in need of major repairs was a significant risk factor associated with diagnosis of asthma.

Crighton et al. (2010) found that children who had recently visited a health practitioner had a 13.4% diagnosis of asthma and only 19.6% of those children had an asthma attack in the past year, whereas 7.5% of children who had not had a health care visit in the past year had been diagnosed with asthma and 47.8% of them had an asthma attack in the past year. These results are logical because the diagnosis of asthma allows for prescription of asthma managing medications. Of Aboriginal children living in British Columbia, 59.1% included in the data had an asthma attack in the past year, at least 13.6% higher than children in other provincial regions.

Crighton et al. did not discuss this finding. One possible explanation could be climatic differences and the following seasonal allergy differences and mould-encouraging humidity differences (Mark et al. 2003).

Considering these analyses, asthma risk factors for Indigenous peoples are incredibly varied and complex. The most import-

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ant risk factors appear to be access to health care services like primary care physicians and urban versus rural residence.

Final discussion and conclusion My systematic review found that asthma prevalence in Indigenous populations on the national level is higher than that of white populations. At a state, provincial, or broad regional population level, asthma prevalence varies, likely due to the contexts and conditions of each Indigenous community within the specified area. At the community level, asthma prevalence is even more variable. Individual communities and census regions in Montana, Wyoming, and Alaska had significantly higher and lower prevalence of asthma.

This variability can be partially explained by geographic factors, like urban versus rural residence, which affects proximity to specialized doctors and air quality (11, 12). Other influencing factors include historical, cultural, and socioeconomic contexts of communities (7,8). It is important to realize that Indigenous communities are not homogenous and that population-level studies can often overlook variability between communities. Community level studies, while not as generalizable as population level, serve an essential purpose of bringing into view communities with disproportionately high prevalence of asthma.

Risk factors for asthma in Canadian Indigenous communities include access to care due to rurality or remoteness, utilization of care, and region of residence (11,12). A risk factor for asthma attacks in Canadian Indigenous communities was not seeing a doctor within the previous year, likely because preventative medicine could have prevented the attacks. This may be solvable, as Canadaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s universal healthcare model and prescription benefits given to treaty status Aboriginals may negate financial barriers to care (Gessner et al.

2005). In Indigenous communities in the United States, access to care was also a

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risk factor for asthma, due to both rurality or remoteness and financial barriers.

Housing quality was not found to be a risk factor in the national Canadian Indigenous population by Crighton et al. (2010), though housing quality is known to affect the presence of asthma aggravators like mould (Barker et al. 2009). An interesting positive association between BMI and current asthma presence was noted by Noonan et al. Associations between BMI and asthma are supported by recent literature (2009), and possibly open up new potential management strategies. Future management strategies should take into account the historical and cultural context and compositions of the communities they target.

In conclusion, asthma prevalence is indeed higher in Indigenous populations than white populations in Canada and the United States, whereas prevalence in Indigenous communities is more variable.

Limitations My systematic review was limited by the lack of data on Indigenous populations and communities. Consequently, I could not focus only on children and childhood-onset asthma or only on adults.

Additionally, this lack of data forced me to combine different populations and communities for the analysis, making it difficult to factor in differences in demographics, geography, history, and other important characteristics. Many studies from the US were situated in Montana due to the large American Indian population there. Consequently, it is difficult to account for geographic region in my paper because there are not enough studies from other parts of the US (for example, the Navajo Nation in the Southwest).

Different definitions of asthma may lead to different results. Some papers did not distinguish between ever having asthma and currently having asthma, and others required an asthma medication prescription to count the patient as having asthma.

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Acknowledgements: I would like to thank Professor Nancy Ross for her health geography courses and academic encouragement, which have influenced me to pursue this research. I would also like to thank my community, Mishkeegogamang Ojibway Nation, for supporting me and my educational aspirations. Finally, I would like to thank Alex Jackson for assisting me with editing my paper.

References Barker K, Carriere S, Randell O, Green K, Elliott S, Gillespie J et al. Ensuring quality of life for adults and children with asthma and allergies in First Nations and Inuit communities in Canada [Internet]. 1st ed. Asthma Society of Canada; 2009 [cited 18 December 2015].

Available from: http://www.asthma.ca/adults/ Shared_Vision_English.pdf Berghout J, Miller J, Mazerolle R, O’Neill L, Wakelin C, Mackinnon B et al. Indoor environmental quality in homes of asthmatic children on the Elsipogtog Reserve (NB), Canada.

International Journal of Circumpolar Health.

2005;64(1).

Brim S, Rudd R, Funk R, Callahan D. Asthma Prevalence Among US Children in Underrepresented Minority Populations: American Indian/ Alaska Native, Chinese, Filipino, and Asian Indian. PEDIATRICS. 2008;122(1):e217-e222.

Chang H, Beach J, Senthilselvan A. Prevalence of and risk factors for asthma in off-reserve Aboriginal children and adults in Canada. Canadian Respiratory Journal. 2012;19(6):68-74.

Crighton E, Wilson K, Senécal S. The relationship between socio-economic and geographic factors and asthma among Canada’s Aboriginal populations. International Journal of Circumpolar Health. 2010;69(2).

Gao Z, Rowe B, Majaesic C, O’Hara C, Senthilselvan A. Prevalence of asthma and risk factors for asthma-like symptoms in Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal children in the northern territories of Canada. Canadian Respiratory Journal. 2008;15(3):139-145.

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Gershon A, Khan S, Klein-Geltink J, Wilton D, To T, Crighton E et al. Asthma and Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) Prevalence and Health Services Use in Ontario MĂŠtis: A Population-Based Cohort Study. PLoS ONE. 2014;9(4):e95899.

Gessner B. Asthma prevalence among Alaska Native and nonnative residents younger than 20 years enrolled in Medicaid. Annals of Allergy, Asthma & Immunology. 2003;90(6):616-621.

Public Health Agency of Canada. Chronic diseases and mortality in Canadian Aboriginal peoples: learning from the knowledge. Public Health Agency of Canada; 2010.

Sin D, Wells H, Svenson L, Man S. Asthma and COPD Among Aboriginals in Alberta, Canada*.

Chest. 2002;121(6):1841-1846.

Statistics Canada. Select health indicators of First Nations people living off reserve, Metis, and Inuit. Statistics Canada; 2013.

Gessner B, Neeno T. Trends in asthma prevalence, hospitalization risk, and inhaled corticosteroid use among Alaska Native and nonnative Medicaid recipients younger than 20 years.

Annals of Allergy, Asthma & Immunology.

2005;94(3):372-379.

Greenhalgh T. How to read a paper : getting your bearings (deciding what the paper is about). BMJ. 1997;315(7102):243-246.

Hendrickson R, Bresette J, Bemer J. High Frequency of Asthma in Native American Children Among the Assiniboine and Sioux Tribe of Northeast Montana. The IHS Provider. 2003; 38-39.

Loveland K, Kessler A, Helgerson S, Harwell T. Is There a Disparity in the Prevalence of Asthma Between American Indian and White Adults?. J Asthma. 2008;45(7):557-560.

Mark D, Roberts M. Low Prevalence of Asthma Among American Indian Youth in Southeastern Montana. The IHS Provider. 2007;:366-370.

National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute.

What is asthma?. U.S. Department of Health and Human Services; 2014.

Noonan C, Brown B, Bentley B, Conway K, Corcoran M, FourStar K et al. Variability in Childhood Asthma and Body Mass Index Across Northern Plains American Indian Communities. J Asthma. 2010;47(5):496-500.

Pawson R, Greenhalgh T, Harvey G, Walshe K. Realist review - a new method of systematic review designed for complex policy interventions. Journal of Health Services Research & Policy. 2005;10(suppl 1):21-34.

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VOLUME 5

Zones of Exception: Queer Urban Space in Singapore Karlene Ooto-Stubbs

ABSTRACT. Singapore’s unique identity as a city-state with a complex meld of cultures provides many opportunities for analyzing urban space from a non-normative perspective. As the city incorporates larger amounts neoliberal policies in hopes of increasing its position on the global stage (and as a global city), significant changes in the state’s approach to homosexuality have been made. Efforts to become a creative city run in opposition to homophobic government legislation, but recently the government’s approach to the regulation of sexual minorities has changed. During a 2007 reform of Singapore’s Penal Code, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong rejected calls by gay and lesbian activists for the removal of a colonial-era statute that prohibits ‘gross indecency’ between two men, but has stated that an active approach in enforcing this law will not take place. In terms of urban geography, areas which are known to have been home to queer communities are undergoing transformation as well. This paper examines the history of queer space in Singapore and how neoliberalism has influenced queer neighborhoods. Using Aihwa Ong’s analysis of neoliberal exceptionalism, I analyze how spaces for queer people in Singapore’s Chinatown exist as a zone of exception, in contradiction to the Penal Code.

Key terms: neoliberalism, queer space, zone of exception, urban development, creative class, global city

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Over the last 50 years, the city-state of Singapore has transformed itself from a declining trade post of the British Empire to a First World economy. Completely devoid of natural resources such as land and population, Singapore depends on the global market for capital, labor, materials, and food to develop its domestic economy.

Therefore, the city-state will require the means necessary to become a place where openness to the world and diversity take place. As an innovative hub, Singapore is savvy and conscious to economic opportunities emerging in the global market.

The People’s Action Party (PAP), under the first Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew, ruthlessly suppressed dissent and opposition in the decade and a half of its ascendancy to absolute political power. By the early 1970s, the Party had eliminated all effective political opposition and has since governed as a single-party dominated state without any effective opposition in parliament. It has also modified electoral rules and procedures which help to insure the party’s return to power in general elections (Chua 2014, 29).

Fundamentally, Singapore has been constructed as a heteronormative state, with emphasis placed on normative family values. Within Singapore’s Penal Code is Section 377A, a colonial-era statute prohibiting “’gross indecency’ between two men,” (Singapore Ministry of Home Affairs 2006). During a 2007 reform of the Penal Code, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong rejected calls by gay and lesbian activists for the removal the statute, but stated that an active approach in enforcing this law will not take place (Lee H L, Speech to Parliament on Reading of Penal Code Bill). Gay Singaporeans’ existence is one which is punishable by the state yet prized in terms of economic development, working according to economist Richard Florida’s work on the importance of the “creative class” (Hospers 2006, 323) in economic development.

More than fifteen years ago, David Harvey

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called attention to the rise of entrepreneurial urban strategies (Harvey 1989), pointing to emergent features of the urban policy environment that have since been normalized. Applied to many entrepreneurial cities in the past few decades, there seems to be a gap in the analysis of queer space in Singapore. How neoliberalism has changed where queers in Singapore gather, and if it has made being LGBT easier for those living in the margins is not widely discussed. By exploring the history of queer urban spaces in Singapore as well as how neoliberalism and the push to appeal to the creative class has changed them, I explore the implications of neoliberalism on the future of queer space in the city, and how these spaces become (using Aihwa Ong’s term) zones of exception.

Inevitably, the question of whether or not a creative class can be fostered without the inclusion of Florida’s belief of gays as cultural representatives emerges. The majority of the literature on the creative class comes from Western-based scholarship, which has many different connotations in regards to tolerance of diverse sexualities than Asia and Singapore in particular.

Using Aihwa Ong’s framework on geographical zones of exception and the interplay between biopolitics and neoliberalism, I will analyze how the rhetoric surrounding global cities and the creative class encounter Section 377A of Singapore’s Penal Code. The terms employed to discuss sexual deviance effected by the Penal Code are queer, LGBT, gay and homosexual, and will be used interchangeably to indicate queerness. In particular, the areas which have historically been spaces for queers in Singapore are of my attention. As Ong states, “geography is never only about physical spaces (although these matter greatly) but, fundamentally, about the emerging contours of power shaped by human decision and institutional agency” (Ong 2008, 118). As such, zones of exception emerge when queered areas become tolerated by the state due to their human capital and correlation with

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the creative class. I will discuss the transformation of queer space in Singapore, the role of neoliberalism and establishment of Singapore’s queer areas as zones of exception. Queer space in Singapore represents biopolitical assemblages “as sites where the dynamic play of strategies resolve challenges by constantly situating and resituating populations in particular scales of regulation,” (Ong 2008, 118). Singapore’s state actions prove an awareness of the importance of the creative class, as well as deep neoliberal intentions.

The importance of creative appeal Urban theorist Richard Florida believes that economic growth is driven by human creativity, and because creativity flourishes best in an urban environment, it is a “vibrant city that will be the ultimate powerhouse of future economic development” (Hospers 2006, 323). His contribution to urban studies in the form of his work on the creative class has influenced many Asian cities in their attempts of branding their cities as progressive and worthy of foreign investment. Encapsulated in this rhetoric is that cities must attract the new creative class with hip neighborhoods, an arts scene and gay-friendly atmosphere in order to pull off the creative city identity.

Florida’s thesis that cities must attract and retain a finicky class of creative people whose labor is a sign of growing economic development speaks to the ways many Asian cities are trying to develop their image. By promoting the three T’s of technology, talent and tolerance (Florida 1), these innovative urban spaces will become capable of fostering creative capitalism in developing urban environments that are open, diverse, and cool. A tolerant area attracts diverse people with different sets of ideas and skills. Diversity and concentration, in turn, speed the flow of knowledge (Sadler 2005, 132). Florida states the economic geography of talent is “associated with diversity or openness— what I refer to as low barriers to entry for human capital. It also explores the effect

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of the economic geography of talent on high-technology industry and regional incomes, suggesting that concentrations of talent are associated with both,” (Florida 2002, 742).

By looking at where human talent locates, Florida’s research finds that the measurement of diversity is strongly associated with the location decisions of high human-capital individuals.

Florida’s measurement for diversity (also known as the “gay index”), concludes the gay index is a good proxy for diversity, defined as lower barriers to entry for human capital (Florida 2002, 746). The experience of discrimination and ostracism of LGBT individuals limits where large queer populations choose to live, which functions as a geographical marker that the region is open to various other groups, as other marginalized peoples may find comfort in being situated in proximity to other marginalized communities.

Conversely, Singapore’s appeal to this neoliberal approach of urban growth remains at odds with the creative class’s main argument. As an authoritarian citystate, the promotion of open and dynamic environments is incongruent with its political structuring. Of importance is Singapore’s Penal Code banning homosexuality and the oppressive resistance to LGBT rights in the country. Recently, a more gay-friendly stance has been voiced, partly because Singapore’s government has bought into the notion that there is a causal link between tolerance towards sexual minorities and the successful development of urban creative economies.

Yet at the same time there has not been an overt government stance changing homophobic rhetoric on the issue of gay and lesbian rights.

Using works from across various sexuality studies literature demonstrates the necessity of “examining how urban developmental strategies, as well as national ones, rely on and perpetuate the exclusion

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of a diverse range of people on the basis of sexual normativities and non-normativities,” (Oswin 2015, 560). Viewing queer space as biopolitical zones, the tolerance of gays in Singapore can be linked to Aihwa Ong’s concept of zones of exception, as queered areas are become tolerated by the state due to their human capital and correlation with the creative class. Ong focuses on the “situated play of politics that continually configure and reconfigure different scales of regulation and intervention… (it) centres on the practices of government that target different figures of the human in specific spaces,” (Ong 2008, 117). According to Ong, neoliberalism is important in understanding the transformation of geographies where market-driven calculations help to manage populations. This biopolitical mode of governing is surely at play in Singapore, as both Oswin and Ong discuss.

Transformation of queer space in Singapore Since the 1970’s, Chinatown has been a hotbed of LGBT activity and remains to be a staple in the existence of queer Singaporean identity. Originally an area where transgender women would congregate, areas like Bugis Street evolved into a place where sexual deviancy was permitted and only sometimes persecuted. The vicinity included parts of Malabar Street, Malay Street and Hailam Street, where transwomen involved in the sex trade would locate and seek out clients (Yue and Zubillaga-Pow 2012, 119). Other men would go to the unused Muslim cemetery at Jalan Kubor, which became known as one of the more popular cruising grounds. In the 1970s, the area was patronised mainly by local Chinese, but as Singapore’s South Indian foreign worker population swelled, the racial character of the patrons of the Jalan Kubor cemetery changed. More recently, in 2010, after a lapse of almost two decades, a police entrapment operation was carried out in the cemetary and an unfortunate Malaysian Indian foreign

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worker was arrested after he “chatted with and touched the chest and groin of a police decoy,” (Yue and Zubillaga-Pow 2012, 120). Interestingly, the arrest was not carried out in Chinatown, where deviant sexualities have become a part of the local economy.

Hong Lim Park (now the current venue for the yearly Pink Dot LGBT gathering) was also used widely for cruising until the bushes were trimmed and bright lights installed in the early 1990s to deter such activities (Yue and Zubillaga-Pow 2012, 121). Outside of the city in the 1980s, a stretch of the East Coast was reclaimed by land filling, creating new opportunities for queer space to emerge. Because the minimum period for the earth to settle before the new land could be developed on it was ten years, this unclaimed space became a gay haven until the mid 1990’s.

Before the 1980s, gay life and culture in Singapore were largely absent from popular memory. Some accounts name a gay bar called Le Bistro in the late 1960s, and a few other short lived venues. Accounts of lesbian life are even fewer, and they usually focus on isolation and loneliness of queer women. Chua writes that during this time “at most, there were a few places where gays and lesbians could socialize clandestinely. No community or visible gay culture existed, fear of detection and sanction loomed, and no one imagined the possibility of collective action. Such are the stories that old-timers tell,” (Chua 2014, 47). In the 1980s, signs of visible gay life began to grow as bars and businesses catering to gay clientele increased.

Those who cruised “ran the risk of arrest, whereas visits to gay bars could coincide unluckily with police raids,” (Chua 2014, 48). In November of 1993, police arrested twelve men along Fort Road in the Tanjung Rhu district for homosexual activity.

Local newspapers published the names, personal details, and photographs of those who were arrested. To this day, that operation remains the incident to which activ-

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ists refer as “the Tanjung Rhu arrests.”

(Chua 2014, 54).

Gentrification is n important factor governing the ever-changing locations of contemporary outdoor cruising areas. Older areas which had been popular were abandoned as urban development obstructed conditions conducive to cruising like poor lighting, lack of human traffic and the presence of dark, derelict buildings or environments. Today, the existence of cruising areas in the Ann Siang area can be explained by the shift of activity from Boat Quay to the region around China Square, and to Ann Siang Hill. These areas were successively gentrified, pushing queers to further find other space to occupy. Examples of redevelopment such as the Plaza Singapura Shopping Centre, the former National Library at Stamford Road, and Raffles City Shopping Centre saw cruising spots relocated (Yue and Zubillaga-Pow 2012, 124).

During the 1990s, young queers would venture to the Boat Quay and the adjoining back alleys parallel to the Singapore River’s west bank before the area was rejuvenated with the current street of various restaurants. Interestingly, Hong Lim Park remained popular with the older generation, possibly for nostalgic reasons. During this decade “police patrol cars would occasionally drive up and record the Identity Card (IC) numbers of gay men who were doing nothing other than chatting with each other as a form of intentional harassment,” (Yue and Zubillaga-Pow 2012, 125). As the stereotypical gay man portrayed in Singapore’s state-owned media “is a drug-taking, hard-drinking, sexual deviant,” (Philips 2014, 46) the history of queer space in Singapore is always changing depending on development policies and political atmosphere.

Today, Singapore’s Chinatown (including the areas of Tanjong Pagar and Bugis Street) has anchored the country’s queer geography. Located conveniently close

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to the central business district, the area appeals to many queer white-collar workers and tourists alike. Like many queer ghettoes in North America (such as in Montreal), the area evolved out of historical red light districts, opium dens and other locales labeled deviant. The success of gay businesses here is due to the state allowance for the usage of historically preserved buildings, as long as the enclave is preserved as a mainstay of Chineseness (Tan 2014, 1). Taking advantage of the “illiberal pragmatic inconsistencies produced by the state’s urban planning policies,” (Tan 2014, 13) LGBT entrepreneurs set up businesses in the mid-1990’s that became today’s gay Chinatown. The state sanctioned conservation of the area’s iconic tenement blocks in the late 1980’s has shifted the function of Chinatown from residential to mainly commercial.

Tan believes the queer colonization of Chinatown is therefore evidence of the “business acumen of gay men and lesbians.

While it is by no means a conscious Gramscian counter-hegemonic effort, it still subverts the state’s original intent to shore up local Chinese culture,” (Tan 2014, 8).

Many of the gay businesses which opened in the 1990’s evolved from the end of the state-sanctioned conservation project, as conservation companies offered affordable rents in attempts to appeal to new tenants for their freshly renovated real estate. A degree of political indifference combined with neoliberal fiscal incentives played a role in these companies willingness to lease to queers, regardless of their type of business. In this way, Tan states that gay Chinatown functions like an “architectural closet: just as a bedroom needs such a space to keep clothes concealed but readily accessible, so does mainstream society require the metaphorical closet to hide unruly homosexuality to give heterosexuality its facade of dignified propriety,” (Tan 2014, 10). Here, homonationlism (a conceptual framework for understanding how tolerance of gay subjects has become a barometer by which the right and capac-

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ity for national sovereignty is evaluated) (Puar 2007, 2) combines with economic initiatives to produce a specific kind of queerness that is acceptable in Singapore.

As such, neoliberal development is one of the main influences in producing today’s gay Chinatown in Singapore.

Neoliberalism and the creative class in Singapore Neoliberalism is defined by David Harvey as when a state exhibits an “institutional framework characterized by private property rights, individual liberty, free markets, and free trade” (Harvey 2005, 3).

Complicated the term further is that Florida believes that economic development, depends on a region’s ability to foster “three main ingredients: tolerance, talent and technology (the 3T’s). A tolerant area attracts diverse people with different sets of ideas and skills. Diversity and concentration, in turn, speed the flow of knowledge” (Sadler 2005, 132). Singapore’s economic rise in the past 50 years has largely been labeled an economic neoliberal success story in which openness to the world economy is a necessity (Chua 2014, 29). Because the region is largely void of natural resources, Singapore must rely on the international market for economic stability. The rise of Singapore has largely been dependent on innovation, technology and informational technology sectors, the futures of which depend on Florida’s analysis of the creative class. In his view, the main competitive threat to the economic hegemony of the United States does not come from low-wage countries, but from tolerant and liberal places across the globe that are able to attract and keep creative people (Hospers 2006, 324). The attraction of these people comes down to “passionate quests for experience” (Sadler 2005, 132), as well as access to a tolerant and diverse social life.

Nothing demonstrates Singapore’s attempts at attracting the creative class as the changing approach of the state

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towards LGBT individuals. Gays were once persecuted, humiliated and fined, the state has taken on a more tolerant strategy in dealing with homosexual conduct while maintaining Singaporean values.

During a parliamentary speech in 2007 on Penal Code 377A, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong openly discussed the issue of homosexuality in Singapore, stating that the code would not be repealed but that queers are “free to lead their lives, free to pursue their social activities” (Oswin 2010, 128). This is a far cry from the oppression faced by queer Singaporeans for the past 50 years, and a sign of the future possibility of a more tolerant Singapore.

We can draw correlation between the state’s newfound allowance of queers with the economic impact of the creative class rhetoric. It has been widely discussed in academic literature that gay prosperity also sustains the concept of the “‘pink dollar’…this myth claims that gay men and lesbians, with their higher disposable incomes from having no children, make both prime targets for niche marketing, and a significant voting bloc for effecting liberal social changes,” (Tan 2014, 4).

Cities wanting to remain competitive in the global market perpetuate this notion, as they must include ‘gay villages’ in urban centres to do so (Bell and Binnie 2004, 1810). So important is the business from the so-called ‘pink dollar’ that even normatively heterosexual businesses have begun to market towards the queer community in Singapore (Tan 2014, 2). Neoliberal calculations become a mentality employed in ways that favour some bodies in society and not others. The necessity of appearing tolerant in attracting the creative class has allowed for “experimental systems of ruling that always manipulate existing political space and operationalize new scales to be invested with economic or political value,” (Ong 2008, 118).

As neoliberal capital accumulation policies combine with ‘pink dollar’ ideals, homonormativity emerges in Singapore

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as wealthy queers begin to imagine a future in the city-state. Chinatown houses the businesses of this imagined future, as when officials planned “Chinatown as an ‘oasis of difference’ (Kong and Yeoh, 2003: 140) in an otherwise- homogenous concrete city, they did not foresee that this ‘difference’ would extend to unruly sexualities,” (Tan 2014, 9). Singapore is now faced with reconciling different forms of lifestyles within a rigid and strict state structure.

Queer Chinatown as a zone of exception Aihwa Ong’s concept of neoliberalism as exception rests on two sets of frames of analysis which combine to create the ways in which neoliberal capitalism functions to monitor and control populations via institutional structures. She names the first as “technologies of subjectivity”, and the second “technologies of subjection” (Ong 2008, 6). Through her dissection, we can see that neoliberalism inhibits bodily and mental practices, as well as bodily control through policy and institutions.

The pertinence of neoliberalism’s effect on governing is especially relevant in the case of Singapore. Capturing the meaning of Michel Foucault’s concept of biopower, neoliberal projects based on principals of biopower can both restrict and advance discourses of human rights and equality.

Biopower is a form of governing regulatory controls “exerted on the population and on individuals in order to harness and extract life forces. Neoliberalism is merely the most recent development of such techniques that govern human life, that is, a governmentally that relies on market knowledge and calculations for a politics of subjection and subject-making that continually places in question the political existence of modern human beings,” (Ong 2006, 13).

Ong claims Singapore’s authoritarian regime re-engineers its citizens to best

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fit neoliberal criteria, resulting in a new mode of citizenship in which educated labour occupies a prominent social position, while the importation and exploitation of low-skilled labour is normalized (Ong 2008, 130). I claim that it is this biopowered approach which has granted queers (and queer space) in Singapore more leniency in recent years, allowing Chinatown to function as a hub of queer activity as an exception to the Penal Code.

Foucault maintains that modern governing is about biopolitics in that it centres on the living conditions and lives of individuals within specified territories. The neoliberal biopolitical mode of governing focuses on the ability of individuals in the population to be seen as resources, and thus harnessed and utilized by governments for economic benefit. This interaction within environments manipulates political space to optimize economic investments, driven by an “anticipatory action to secure new spaces of exception, in an endless game of spatializing strategies and mappings of power,” (Ong 2008, 120). Space making, Ong believs, is about solving biopolitical problems of wealth, wellbeing and security. Neoliberal decisions, and exceptions to them, “interact in creating diverse, operationalizable spaces of governing that are linked to, but not totally constrained by, preexisting political cartography,” (Ong 2008, 120).

Singapore’s Chinatown has been utilized by this rhetoric in becoming a place which serves the purpose of attracting the creative class as well as supporting the local economy, but is constrained to remain in areas which the state allows this exception to the Penal Code to occur. The state’s political control over queers informs the way in which queer space is regulated for productivity, including its role in recruitment of the creative class. The neoliberal politics of queer confined space reflects a more fundamental separation of what type of queerness is acceptable and where.

The lack of agency for queers in Singapore

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to establish openly queer ventures outside of Chinatown demonstrates a “biopolitical division between ‘human’ and ‘less than human’: the ‘outside’ of the neoliberal city is not merely the periphery or ‘dangerous zone.’ It is the biopolitical threshold that traces the difference with the ‘less than human,’ with those bodies marked and presented as degraded, unrecognizable life that have become more immediate than ever,” (Giorgi and Pinkus 2006, 103).

Neoliberalism as exception is introduced in sites of transformation where “market-driven calculations are being introduced in the management of populations,” (Ong 2008, 3). Gay spaces in Singapore’s Chinatown are evidence of these calculations, as the area actively supports homosexual activities condemned by the state’s Penal Code. Chinatown emerges as a zone of exception, exempt from large-scale political agitation on behalf of the state.

Here, the Penal Code’s lack of enforcement creates a subaltern geography in which homonational neoliberal queer activity is permitted under the guise of its economic usefulness in attracting the creative class. Chinatown also presents several ironies, as “where once the developmentalist state denied the sexuality of gay Singaporeans, the post-developmentalist neoliberal state now provides the space that commodifies homosexuality and sells it back to the once- curtailed citizens,” (Tan 2014, 9). The biopolitical exception to the Penal Code in Chinatown manifests a geographical dimension of the “level at which human life is inscribed, constituted, recognized, and defined within a given sociopolitical order,” (Giorgi and Pinkus 2006, 99). Likewise, Chinatown as an exceptional space proves “political exception can favour or thwart neoliberal valorization by creating spaces of ethical exception to market forces. The dynamic interactions between neoliberal logic and political exception shape different scales of value,” (Ong 2008 121), in which value

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is placed on tolerance and diversity.

As a post-colonial state, the way in which Singapore has constructed its values towards deviance since its conception is based on its relationship with its former colonial power. Former British law condemning homosexuality was reinforced by the PAP after independence, contributing to the “’tensions of empire’ that have enriched understanding of the colonial situation by attending to the significant role that certain colonized actors played in shaping sexual norms as the subsequent ascendance of these actors to positions of power after independence has played an important part in narrowing the imagination of intimacy in contemporary Singapore,” (Oswin 2010, 131). It is only because of economic incentives that queerness in Singapore is now exempt from law enforcement. Neoliberalism and the drive to attract the creative class is reconfiguring relationships between “governing and the governed, power and knowledge, and sovereignty and territoriality. Neoliberalism is often discussed as an economic doctrine with a negative relation to state power, a market ideology that seeks to limit the scope and activity of governing.

But neoliberalism can also be conceptualized as a new relationship between government and knowledge through which governing activities are recess as nonpolitical and nonideological problems that need technical solutions” (Ong, 2008, 2).

The contradictory policies dictated by Prime Minister Lee in 2007 have created a zone of exception within Chinatown. As an attempt to “maintain the fine balance that exists between several antipodes that frame Singaporean culture and inform many policy decisions: cosmopolitans versus heartlands, Singapore versus the west, Christians versus others and tradition versus modernity,” (Philips 2014, 48), the Singaporean state has admitted its willingness to tolerate sexual diversity in light of globalization and market forces.

Since post-colonial Singapore has indeed been shaped by a “desire `to be even more

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consistently modern than the former colonial masters were’,” (Oswin 2010 131), we may see more contradictory policies from the government surrounding biopolitical activities in the near future.

Richard Florida and other mainstream urban policy advisors now “popularly argue that successful cities within the global economy are ones that are ‘gayfriendly’…the city is a more important terrain for struggles over sexual equity than ever before,” (Oswin 2015, 558). In Singapore this struggle has taken a notably homonational turn, as progress from the leniency of the 2007 Penal Code reform works to simultaneously “retard the country’s nascent LGBT rights movement by remaining largely closeted. By granting access to privatised consumption without challenging the heteronormative status quo of Singaporean society, gay Chinatown buttresses homonationalism,” (Tan 2014, 1). The commodified closet enables, rather than inhibits, the expansion of capitalist entertainment venues for gay men (Tan 2014, 11), while simultaneously furthering neoliberal geographic and economic rhetoric under the behaviour of attracting the creative class.

Conclusion The ability for Singapore’s Chinatown to exist while the state’s Penal Code condemns homosexual conduct demonstrates the fact that it is a zone of exception from the law. Biopolitical discourse combined with neoliberal economic incentives have created a geographic space in which queers can fundamentally circumvent the laws of the state. Chinatown is proof that geography is never solely about physical spaces “but, fundamentally, about the emerging contours of power shaped by human decision and institutional agency” (Ong 2008, 118). It remains an area which plays into Florida’s creative class appeal as a way to ensure continued economic success. This results in the area valuing homonationalism and neoliberalism, creating a specific

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type of queerness which is prioritized by the state. The 2007 reform of the Penal Code has de-politicized Section 377A, while maintaining its importance in the state’s biopolitical control of its citizens.

The history of queer space in Singapore has always been transitory and migratory, yet today it seems to have found a home in Chinatown due to neoliberal governance.

Its existence, ability to be tolerated and its confinement are all products of the state’s biopolitical governing technology. The neoliberal transformation of queer space in Singapore has resulted in a unique geographical location, mostly exempt from police harassment and a contributor to the local economy. What the future of queer space will look like in Singapore is yet to be told, but it seems as though this zone of exception may pave the way for other relaxations of Singapore’s biopolitical social policies.

References Bell D and Binnie J (2004) ‘Authenticating Queer Space: Citizenship, Urbanism and Governance,’ Urban Studies 41(9): 1807–1820.

Brooks, Ann, and Wee, Lionel (2014) Key Issues in Modern Sociology : Consumption, Cities and States : Comparing Singapore with Asian and Western Cities. London, GBR: Anthem Press.

Chang, TC (2014) ‘‘New Uses Need Old Buildings’: Gentrification Aesthetics and the Arts in Singapore,’ Urban Studies: 1-16.

Chua, Lynette J (2014) Mobilizing Gay Singapore: Rights and Resistance in an Authoritarian State. Singapore: NUS Press.

Florida, R. (2003) ‘Gay-tolerant Societies Prosper Economically.’ USA Today May 1, A13.

Florida, R. (2005) The Flight of the Creative Class: the New Global Competition for Talent.

New York: Harper Business.

Florida, Richard (2002) The Rise of the Creative Class: and How it’s Transforming Work, Leisure, Community and Everyday Life. New York, NY: Basic Books.

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Foucault M (2000) Essential Works of Foucault, 1954–1984. New York: The New Press.

Giorgi, Gabrial and Pinkus, Karen (2006) ‘Zones of Exception: Biopolitical Territories in the Neoliberal Era,’ Diacritics 36.2: 99–108.

Harvey, David. (2005) A Brief History of Neoliberalism. Oxford University Press.

Hospers, Gert-Jan (2006) ‘The Rise of the Creative Class: And How It’s Transforming Work, Leisure, Community, And Everyday Life The Flight of the Creative Class: The New Global Competition for Talent – Richard Florida,’ Creativity and Innovation Management 323-324.

Huat, Chua Beng (2011) ‘Singapore as Model: Planning Innovations, Knowledge Experts,’ Worlding Cities: Asian Experiments and the Art of Being Global 29-54.

Lee H L (2007) Speech to Parliament on Reading of Penal Code (Amendment) Bill, 22 October, http://www.parliament.gov.sg/parlweb/ gethighlightedcontent.jsp?docID=805171&hlL evel=Terms&links=LEE,HSIEN,L OON G&hlWords=%20%20&hlTitle=&queryOption=1&ref=http://www.parliament.gov.sg:80/ reports/public/hansard/title/20071023/20071 023S0003T0002.html#1 .

Ong, Aihwa (2006) Neoliberalism as Exception: Mutations in Citizenship and Sovereignty.

Duke University Press, Durham and London.

Ong, Aihwa (2007) ‘Neoliberalism as a Mobile Technology’, Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 32: 3-8.

Ong, Aihwa (2008) ‘Scales of Exception: Experiments with Knowledge and Sheer Life in Tropical Southeast Asia,’ Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography 117-129.

Oswin, Natalie (2006) ‘Decentering Queer Globalization: Diffusion and the ‘Global Gay,’ Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 777-790.

Oswin, Natalie (2008) ‘Critical Geographies and the Uses of Sexuality: Deconstructing Queer Space,’ Progress in Human Geography 32(1): 89-103.

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Oswin, Natalie (2010) ‘Sexual Tension in Modernizing Singapore: The Postcolonial and the Intimate,’ Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 128-141.

Oswin, Natalie (2014) ‘Queer Time in Global City Singapore: Neoliberal Futures and the ‘Freedom to Love,’’ Sexualities 17: 412-433.

Oswin, Natalie (2015) ‘World, City, Queer,’ Antipode 557-565.

Phillips, Robert (2014) ‘”And I Am Also Gay”: Illiberal Pragmatics, Neoliberal Homonormativity and LGBT Activism in Singapore,’ Anthropologica 45-54.

Puar J K (2007) Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Robinson, Jennifer. (2012) ‘(Re)theorizing Cities from the Global South: Looking Beyond Neoliberalism’, Urban Geography 33 (4): 593-617.

Sadler, Thomas R (2005) ‘The Rise of the Creative Class,’ The Journal of Socio-Economics 133-135.

Singapore Ministry of Home Affairs (2006) ‘Consultation Paper on the Proposed Penal Code Amendments’, http://www.agc.gov.sg/ publications/docs/Penal_Code_Amendment_ Bill_Consultation_Paper.pdf Tan, Chris K.K. (2014) ‘Rainbow Belt: Singapore’s Bay Chinatown as a Lefebvrian Space’, Urban Studies(forthcoming) 1-16.0042098014544761.

Yue, Audrey, Zubillaga-Pow (2012) Queer Singapore: Illiberal Citizenship and Mediated Cultures. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press.

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Field Notes, Volume 5

OUR CONTRIBUTORS LILLIAN FRADIN Lillian Fradin is an honors urban studies student with minors in Arabic language, Persian language, and GIS + remote sensing. This summer she will be working on various remote sensing projects in Montreal and Ottawa before her final semester in the fall. Her research interests include urban geography in the Middle East specifically, remote sensing, and dismantling the patriarchy.

RICHENDA GRAZETTE Richenda Grazette is a fourth year student in women’s studies and Canadian ethnic & racial studies. Her main areas of interest are black feminism, identity, and diaspora studies.

MÉLANIE WITTES Mélanie Wittes is a U3 student pursuing Honours in Anthropology and a double minor in Indigenous Studies and International Development Studies.

Her primary research interests include sustainability, infrastructure studies, and cartography. Mélanie plans to pursue a Masters in Geography in the near future.

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REBECCA MACINNIS Rebecca MacInnis is a U3 Honours student with a major in Sustainability, Science, and Society and a minor in Urban systems. Her interests include urban sustainability and environmental justice, specifically the intersection of the two. Life beyond McGill remains a mystery for Rebecca, but she plans to retain a critical eye and an open mind to guide her through the next stages of her life.

CLARISSA SAMSON Clarissa Samson is a recent McGill graduate with a Bachelorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s of Arts and Science degree in the Interfaculty Program of Sustainability, Science and Society with a minor in International Development Studies. She is interested in becoming more involved with environmental management, economics, and international relations and will soon be pursuing a masters in either international relations or ecological economics in the UK. SHIRLEY ZHANG Shirley Zhang is a fourth year Bachelor of Arts and Science student in International Development Studies (States and Governance) and Environment & Geography. She is experienced in both urban and physical field work, as well as quantitative and qualitative research. Shirley is interested in field investigations of climatic, geomorphic and biological systems in extreme environments.

KATHERINE KEYES Katherine Keyes is a U3 student in Urban Studies and Sociology. Her primary interests include walkability and wine, and she always keeps a few postcolonial facts in her back pocket for parties. Upon graduation, Katherine will be pursing a Masters in Urban Planning.

ASHLEY BACH Ashley Bach is a U3 majoring in environmental science, concentrated in renewable resource management, with a minor in interdisciplinary life sciences. She is also a member of Mishkeegogamang Ojibway Nation. After graduating she plans to continue researching the intersections between the physical environment, policy, and Indigenous health and pursue further education at the masters level.

KARLENE OOTO-STUBBS Karlene Ooto-Stubbs is a fourth year political science and urban studies student, interested in the application of queer theory to urban space. Her specific focuses include urban design and policy, and how these effect the inhabitants of a city. Upon graduation she plans to pursue a masters degree in urban planning.

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