Redevelopment Projects in Authoritarian and Hybrid Regimes

Journal of Urban Affairs

ISSN: 0735-2166 (Print) 1467-9906 (Online) Journal homepage: http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/ujua20

Cities as story: Redevelopment projects in authoritarian and hybrid regimes

Dorina Pojani

To cite this article: Dorina Pojani (2017): Cities as story: Redevelopment projects in authoritarian and hybrid regimes, Journal of Urban Affairs, DOI: 10.1080/07352166.2017.1360737 To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/07352166.2017.1360737

Published online: 22 Nov 2017.

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Download by: [UQ Library] Date: 24 November 2017, At: 23:27 JOURNAL OF URBAN AFFAIRS https://doi.org/10.1080/07352166.2017.1360737

Cities as story: Redevelopment projects in authoritarian and hybrid regimes Dorina Pojani The University of Queensland

ABSTRACT In the past decade, so-called hybrid regimes—authoritarian regimes in the guise of democracy—have emerged in Europe. Similar to the authoritarian or totalitarian regimes of 20th-century Europe, the association between urban design and politics is evident in the capital cities of hybrid regimes. This article recounts the stories of the recently proposed and/or completed redevelopment projects in the centers of Istanbul (Turkey), Skopje (Macedonia), and Tirana (Albania). In all 3 capitals, the interventions have been rather contentious, and have produced violent protests in the case of Turkey and Macedonia. The author has collected and presented the stories of the users of these three city centers and their reactions to these spaces before and after redevelopment. Users’ narratives bring to light elements of the situations and the characters involved that have so far been implicit. Conceptualizing urban planning through storytelling is meant to bring an element of Balkan magic realism into this field, which historically has been dominated by theories produced in the Anglosphere.

In the past decade, so-called hybrid regimes—authoritarian regimes in the guise of democracy—have emerged in European countries, including Hungary, the Czech Republic, Poland, much of the Western Balkans, and Turkey. These regimes are engaged in a remake of their place identity in order to legitimize their new political trajectories (Traynor, 2013). The association between urban design and politics is clearly evident in capitals or other major cities. This article recounts the stories of the recently proposed and/or completed redevelopment projects in the centers of Istanbul (Turkey), Skopje (Macedonia), and Tirana (Albania). In all three cities, the interventions have been rather contentious, and have produced violent protests in the case of Turkey and Macedonia. Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 However, the article goes beyond the discussion of the political forces propelling forward certain designs and the spatial outcomes of those designs—a task already carried out by other scholars, as well as journalists and reporters. The author has collected and presented the stories of the users of these three city centers and their reactions to these spaces before and after redevelopment. Their narratives bring to light elements of the situations and the involved characters that have so far been implicit. Users report those features of these events that are relevant according to their perspectives on the world. Given that different social groups have different perspectives, this compilation is crucial to comprehend the full dynamic of the events surrounding the redevelopment of these three centers. It might also speak to the experiences of people in other European hybrid states. Perhaps it could act as a catalyst for change. Conceptualizing “the urban” through storytelling is meant to bring an element of Balkan magic realism into this field, which historically has been dominated by theories produced in the Anglosphere.

CONTACT Dorina Pojani [email protected] School Earth and Environmental Sciences, The University of Queensland, St. Lucia Campus 35 (Chamberlain), 4th Floor, Brisbane, QLD 4072, Australia. Color versions of one or more of the figures in the article can be found online at www.tandfonline.com/ujua. © 2017 Urban Affairs Association 2 D. POJANI

The article opens with a discussion of city center design issues in authoritarian and hybrid regimes. This is followed by a historical overview of the three case study cities and the events surrounding the redevelopment projects of their centers. The third part discusses the theoretical conceptualization of the study and the data collection method, which consists of a specific technique, called narrative interviewing. The remainder of the article presents the analysis of the interview data, which is placed in the context of literary theory, in particular as it relates to Balkan folklore.

City centers in authoritarian and hybrid regimes Throughout history, urban design has served the causes of political leaders, whether monarchs, premiers, or mayors (Tuan, 1989; Jenkins, 1999). In recent history (i.e., the 20th century), the association between urban design and politics was evident in authoritarian or totalitarian regimes from both sides of the political spectrum. Like dictatorship itself, totalitarian urban design was set to dominate over the masses. As such, dictatorships attached a great degree of ideological significance to the built environment. Substantial political propaganda surrounded all construction. A common thread was the effort to emphasize the iconic significance of capital cities, especially their centers, as foci of state power and national unity. Another common thread was an obsession with sheer size, symmetry, and literal iconography: five-point stars, swastikas, axes. Idolatry was another device used to frighten the public into submissiveness (e.g., the Nazi Blutfahne in Nurenberg or the mummified corpse of Lenin in Moscow). Through awe-inspiring symbols, the “masses” were induced to fuse into a single, colossal, and homogeneous human (Arendt, 1958). The destruction of built tissue associated with preceding political regimes was also de rigueur (Abensour, 1997; Arendt, 1958; Miller Lane, 1968; Nizan, 1934; Sudjic, 2005; van der Wusten, 2000). Notwithstanding these common features, the aesthetic codes adopted by 20th-century authoritarian regimes varied. Modernized neoclassicism—logical, heroic, sanitized, permanent—was employed for the official buildings and public spaces of the Third Reich as a reminder of Aryan racial superiority. Symmetry, austerity, and monumentality were meant to intimate discipline and authority (Dick, 1984; Miller Lane, 1968). Even building materials were loaded with symbolism. Spanish Falangists favored stone, granite, and concrete. Spanish dictator Francisco Franco associated these materials with the perceived historical sources of the New Spain, the Roman and Hapsburg empires, and the ideal of a technically functional nation (Muoz-Rojas, 2009). Italy’s Benito Mussolini, on the other hand, adopted avant-garde rationalism as the official style of fascist Italy, with the intention of liberating people from the bonds to a traditional past (Baxa, 1968; Millon, 1978). Glamorous socialist classicism (an eclectic combination of neoclassicism and Art Deco) was adopted in the Soviet Union and its satellites during Joseph Stalin’s rule (Colton, 1995; McKernan, 2009; Popescu 2009). Stalinist

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 style was later condemned by Nikita Khrushchev as excessive and anachronistic, and was replaced by massive functional modernism. Communist countries independent from the Soviet Union showed a similar monomania. In the early 1980s in Bucharest, Communist leader Nicolae Ceauşescu razed an entire neighborhood to build a 1,000-room People’s House (Sudjic, 2005). After the fall of the Berlin Wall, much of Europe remained haunted by the specter of totalitarian pasts. The “transition” that ensued was marked by corruption, economic polarization, and privatiza- tion. Hopeful posttotalitarian societies turned increasingly cynical and disillusioned. For many, religion and its absolutist discourse were the only available recourse at this apocalyptic, meaningless time (Kolozova, 2015). Urban design in many capitals showed signs of lingering ideologies. The case of Berlin, which saw substantial construction in the late 1990s, is illustrative. In the words of one commentator (Marcuse, 1998, pp. 333–334):

What is being constructed in Berlin can certainly be called meaning; but it can also be called by its short name: power. . . [. . .] Framing the issues in architectural, or in representational terms, concedes the ball game before it is begun. The issues are power and its uses, wealth and its uses; framing the debate as one about form trivializes the issues, trivializes the history, serves to distract attention (perhaps deliberately?) from the underlying decisions. JOURNAL OF URBAN AFFAIRS 3

In the new millennium, it became apparent that a number of European states had settled into so- called hybrid regimes, as noted. Labels applied to hybrid regimes include electoral authoritarianism, market-based autocracy, neopatrimonialism, patronal presidentialism, and illiberal democracy. Russia represents the paradigmatic model of the European hybrid regime. At various degrees, the model is present in countries that are already part of the union, including Hungary, the Czech Republic, and Poland, and in aspiring European Union (EU) countries—the Western Balkans and Turkey (Kolozova, 2015; Laruelle, 2012; Traynor, 2013). Hybrid regimes might belong to the radical left or the radical right, but these positions are interchangeable. The main feature is a state-controlled economy and society, which is established through top-down regulation of every detail, in an excessive and intricate manner. Similar to the authoritarian or totalitarian regimes of the 20th century, an authoritarian but charismatic figure enacts the role of pater familias whereby the nation is treated as family or kin. Patriarchy enables ethnocentr- ism, religious conservatism, and strong state control by the “strict but just” fathers of the nation; opponents are reviled. Typically, this setup produces poverty and inequality as market mechanisms are designed to primarily meet the needs of the elite (Kolozova, 2015; Laruelle, 2012;Traynor,2013). As in the earlier authoritarian regimes, two opposing internal discourses are evident in the process of remaking place identity in hybrid regime settings for the dual purpose of ideologically unifying “the people” and attracting (foreign) investment to develop the economy. The first discourse is an emphasis on the “past glory” of capital cities, which looks back to a “golden age,” revises history, revives old symbols of power, and encourages nostalgia. And the second discourse is an emphasis on “modernity,” which leads to the construction of major infrastructure and architecture flagship projects by international “starchitects” (Manoliu & Fartatescu, 2009; Temelová, 2007; Young & Kaczmarek, 2008). Both these discourses are evident in the cities included in this study: Istanbul, Skopje, and Tirana.

Case studies The three case studies are tied together not just by their recent history of hybrid regimes but their shared past as part of the Ottoman Empire. Though Tirana and Skopje also share a communist past, the root causes of present government and governance tendencies in the region are likely to be found 2 or 3 centuries ago, not just 2 or 3 decades ago. This section provides an overview of the case study cities and the recent (proposed or implemented) redevelopment projects for their centers. The events surrounding redevelopment have been pieced together by reviewing the related academic literature and by canvassing the international news coverage at the time, in outlets including the New York Times, BBC News, CNN, The Guardian,

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 The Atlantic (CityLab), Der Spiegel, Reuters, Balkan Insight, Balkan Story, MINA, and Le Courrier des Balkans. The overview reveals that the strategies of the three cities follow the experience of liberal democratic Western cities facing socioeconomic problems, which have created new identities by drawing selectively on their pasts to create urban imagining of the present and the future (Young & Kaczmarek, 2008).

Istanbul Taksim Square is considered the geographical and cultural heart of modern Istanbul (see Figure 1). Located in Istanbul’s European side, it is famed as a tourist and leisure district. To the south, the square incorporates a park, Taksim Gezi Park, which is one of the few green spaces left in densely populated central Istanbul. Independence Avenue (İstiklal Caddesi), a grand pedestrian boulevard and shopping precinct and a symbol of Istanbul’s cosmopolitan glory, ends at Taksim Square. The square has a political meaning, too: It is associated with the foundation of the Republic of Turkey in 1923 and the disputed process of secularization (initiated by Kemal Atatürk and enforced through the military). An imposing Monument of the Republic and a modernist Atatürk Cultural Center are 4 D. POJANI

Figure 1. Taksim Square and Gezi Park (left) and proposed development (right). Map courtesy of Ruken Hazal Dilli, based on Google Maps.

located on the square. Throughout its history, Taksim has been an important venue for political protests. Now, the annual LGBT Pride Parade takes place on the square. As such, the square is a space of both conflict and coexistence (Levi Bismark, 2014). In the 19th century, the Halil Pasha Artillery Barracks belonging to the Ottoman military stood on the square. Designed by Armenian architect Krikor Balian and built during the reigns of Sultans Selim III and Mahmud II, the barracks were a splendid synthesis of late Ottoman Baroque architecture and Oriental style. Long dormitory wings enclosed a vast parade ground. The barracks flanked a park—the first of its kind in the Ottoman capital. Designed according to Beaux-Arts principles, the park accommodated strollers, beer gardens, cafés, and theater and music performers (Çelik, 1993). In 1909, the barrack building was damaged during a (failed) coup by Islamic-minded soldiers, intent on bringing in Sharia law. Seen as an ill omen by social reformers, the barracks were converted into a soccer stadium in 1921 and were finally demolished in 1940 to create Gezi Park following French architect Henri Prost’s master pan of Istanbul (Levi Bismark, 2014; Özgen, 2013). In 2013, the Turkish Prime Minister (now President), Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, advanced a plan to redevelop Taksim Gezi Park into a commercial center. Externally, the proposed building would have been a bric-à-brac replica of the Artillery Barracks while internally it would have been filled with consumption- and entertainment-oriented venues, luxury flats, and even a mosque. The main contractor, Kalyon Group, had close ties to the governing political party (AKP-Justice and Development Party). Initially, environmental groups opposed the project on ecological grounds. They were later joined by others who understood the plan as a political plan to tame a politically charged space and advance Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 the government’s agenda of neoliberalism, conservatism, and nationalism, as well as the president’s taste for megaprojects and a stylistic return to an Ottoman golden era (Penpecioğlu & Taşan-Kok, 2016). Protesters maintained that, though the project’s façade was purported to glorify Turkish values, the proposed interior celebrated the victory of global financial capital and real estate speculation, which have been major drivers of the Turkish economic boom (Levi Bismark, 2014). Some saw the project as inherently contradictory: While Erdoğan came to power in 2003 promising the demilitarization and democratization of Turkey, a replica of Ottoman-era army barracks would reestablish an emblem of military and Islamic “yoke” and “backwardness” at the same time disregarding Turkey’s Byzantine and Roman legacies (Özgen, 2013). Thus, a local disagreement escalated into a global event as protesters occupied the square and were violently evicted by riot police. Throughout the spring and summer of 2013, more than 3 million people across Turkey joined solidarity rallies in support of Istanbul protesters. More than 3,000 arrests were made, thousands were injured, and several were killed. The protests expanded beyond anger against the heavy-handed, managerial urban development tactics of the government to include all of the grievances against the state repression of individual freedoms, corruption, JOURNAL OF URBAN AFFAIRS 5

entrepreneurial and authoritarian state interventions, Islamist agenda, and encroachment on secu- larism (Penpecioğlu & Taşan-Kok, 2016). Eventually, protests took on some of the characteristics of the Occupy movement (a grassroots international movement against social and economic inequality). Foreign media covered the events extensively, though Turkish media coverage was meek due to either government pressure on media groups or ideological affinity between mainstream media and the government. Protesters finally succeeded in canceling Gezi Park redevelopment plans, if not in resolving other issues. One portion of the area was later paved over and pedestrianized. The protests were detri- mental to the Turkish economy. In addition, the EU temporarily suspended membership talks with Turkey due to the government’s handling of the protests and the excessive use of force by the police. Thus, a struggle over a park became a major challenge in Erdoğan’s term and the most significant national unrest in decades.

Skopje To place design issues in perspective, the dispute with Greece over the country’s right to adopt the name Macedonia has been a major issue. Greece blockaded the country for 25 years, thereby denying it access to the sea, and vetoed its application for membership in the EU, until a compromise was reached in which the country agreed to adopt the bulky name of Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. Greece takes the position that the name of the country cannot be Macedonia because Macedonia is also the name of a region in Greece. The naming dispute is rooted in the fear that Macedonia wants to claim a portion of the Greek patrimony and cannon of national heroes, which includes Philip of Macedon and his son Alexander the Great. The dispute suggests that neither country feels secure enough in its self-definition. The timing of the redevelopment of Skopje’s center project led to speculation that the project is Macedonia’s attempt to retaliate against, or put pressure on, Greece. Up until the late 2000s, Skopje’s center consisted of a modernist layout. It was built in the 1970s as part of Skopje’s masterplan of 1965 by Japanese architect Kenzo Tange, following a devastating earthquake in 1963. A few of the buildings in the center are icons of the metabolist and brutalist architecture of that era, and have replaced the earlier neoclassic buildings that were destroyed by the earthquake. An Ottoman-era bazaar of intricate, narrow alleys, small shops, and eateries, which escaped the earthquake, flanks the center. In 2010, the ruling conservative party (VMRO-DPMNE – Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organization – Democratic Party for Macedonian National Unity) announced a project for the

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 center, called Skopje 2014, with the intention of making the area more monumental and aesthetically pleasing, transforming the image of a city blighted by decades of socialist dullness and neglect, and glorifying the heritage of the nation (Figure 2). The project had an educational purpose as well: It was meant to teach Macedonian people their history through the built environment; the center was meant to become the nation’s living room (Koteska, 2011; Vangeli, 2011). The prime minister at the time, Nicola Gruevski, stated that the project was his idea. The project included the construction of 20 new buildings, 40 marble and bronze statues of historic figures and powerful animals such as lions and horses, several bridges and fountains, a triumphal arch, and a pavilion. A complete overhaul of the area was envisaged. Among the statues, the most conspicuous were the megafigures of Alexander the Great and his father Philip of Macedon. The style of the buildings was a mixture of neo-rococo and faux-Classical elements, which referred to the haute styles of European architecture (Graan, 2013; Mijalkovic & Urbanek, 2011). These styles were not meant to be applied with a sense of postmodern irony; on the contrary, they were used to send a serious note to the world that Macedonia, as a country in possession of a glorious past, belongs on the map of Europe (Koteska, 2011). Construction proceeded in a staggering frenzy. 6 D. POJANI

Figure 2. Neobaroque buildings and statues in Skopje’s center. Photo courtesy of Luca Conti.

Though tourist numbers have increased in Skopje, and the construction companies involved in the project have realized substantial profits, Skopje 2014 has been heavily criticized on multiple grounds. It has provoked grassroots opposition from a collection of critics—students, architects, public intellectuals, and social activists—and even violent protests. Opponents claim that Skopje 2014 seeks to impose a false vision of unity and a nationalist and populist narrative of a Macedonian heritage centered on Alexander the Great, on a multi-ethnic population made up of Macedonians, Albanians, Bosnians, and Romani. It emphasizes an origin, language, and culture based on a single heritage rather than a shared political system or civic existence. As such, it is seen as a physical manifestation of the purported racial superiority and primacy of ethnic Macedonians, while minorities are ignored or excluded (Mijalkovic & Urbanek, 2011; Zantvoort, 2014). Therefore, the project has increased rather than abated existing ethnic and religious tensions in the country. Some analysts have criticized this process of “antiquization” and social engineering because it delegitimizes the actual origins of ethnic Macedonians by assuming that there is a direct link between today’s Macedonians and ancient Macedonians. However, Macedonians are descendants of Slavs who migrated to Europe in the sixth and seventh centuries CE, rather than descendants of Macedons of the time of Alexander the Great, King of Macedon. The view of descendancy from the Macedons does not reflect the self-image of the majority of the Macedonian population (Institute of Social Sciences and Humanities, 2014; Vangeli, 2011), and the language of the country is Slavic rather than based on Greek. Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 The project’s ideology is contradictory in many other ways. For example, it draws heavily on Orthodox Christian symbolism (whereas large numbers of Albanian and Bosnian minorities follow are Muslims). In theory, public funding cannot be used for religious purposes because the Macedonian constitution mandates separation of religion from secular rule. Moreover, it has been a challenge to uphold that Alexander the Great was a Christian (Zantvoort, 2014). His suspected bisexuality is offending to conservatives because Skopje 2014 has a detectably pro-family bent: almost all of the women depicted in statues are engaged in some form of maternal activity, such as breastfeeding (Koteska, 2011). Moreover, Skopje 2014 seeks to impose aesthetic unity in the center negating large swathes of built layers from earlier eras. It marginalizes Skopje’s Ottoman and socialist pasts. The pharaonic scale of the buildings and statues dwarfs everything around. The employed styles have been derided as Disneyesque and Las Vegas kitsch. Opponents claim that to celebrate 21st-century progress and technology, sleek contemporary and urban styles would have been more appropriate. Many have been unhappy about this building extravaganza in terms of cost, in a struggling country where the unemployment rate is as high at 30%. Some commentators have speculated that JOURNAL OF URBAN AFFAIRS 7

the funds may have been loaned from foreign banks and financial institutions, a move that might sink the country into debt for decades. However, a lack of financial transparency surrounds the construction works (Institute of Social Sciences and Humanities, 2014). The expenditures have been entirely covered by the government, with estimates ranging widely from 80 to 500 million euro. Some see this mass production of tradition as a diversion from other issues facing the city, including the protection of “real” cultural heritage, which is decaying. The heavy-handed interference of the national government in local affairs has also been a target of criticism. Many have charged that the project is preoccupied with external presentation for foreign investors and tourists (defined as “buyers”) rather than internal issues (Zantvoort, 2014). As such, it is nothing more than “image building,”“city marketing,” and “nation branding”—a new modality of neoliberal governance, in which the state is imagined as an entrepreneurial subject. Rather than providing for the local people, the state-as-corporation needs citizens to participate in the presentation and promotion of the nation brand or city brand. This is especially important for Skopje, which until 1991 was not a capital but only a large provincial city in what used to be Yugoslavia. Sometimes branding tactics have been successful (i.e., have produced a “Bilbao effect”). But in this case, the opponents believe that Skopje’s facelift, far from being epic, is so unauthentic and farcical that it will only embarrass Macedonia and repel potential investors. As in the case of Istanbul, these critics turn the discourse of nation branding on its head in order to challenge state authority. They frame the project as counterproductive promotion and, as such, both an economic and existential threat to citizens (Graan, 2013). Gruevski’s political opponents have gained traction based on their opposition to Skopje 2014. In the summer of 2013, major popular demonstrations against the project took place in the capital— though they did not reach the scale of Istanbul’s. In 2015, protests escalated to include political issues such as the government’s authoritarianism. In 2016, major demonstrations erupted once again in Skopje against cronyism and the failure to prosecute corrupt politicians. Demonstrators paint bombed Skopje 2014 buildings; the events came to be known as the Colorful Revolution.

Tirana Tirana inherited a vast, bare, and portentous center from the fascist era (c. 1920–1945) and subsequently the socialist regime (1945–1990). At the end of socialism, the main square was encircled by government buildings and faceless cultural centers. The square itself was a large, open, and uninviting space encircled by two very wide boulevards built by Italian colonizers during World War II. The center and the boulevards were free of vehicular traffic because private car ownership was prohibited under socialism. A small but exquisite Ottoman bazaar was demolished in

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 the 1970s to erase Tirana’s Oriental heritage and make space for a Palace of Culture, a typical feature of socialist cities (Pojani, 2015). During the postsocialist transition, Tirana experienced a construction boom. Out of concern that the empty center might end up flooded with “ordinary” apartment buildings, like the rest of the city, the city of Tirana put a moratorium on construction in the center until an agreement was reached over further development. Local authorities believed that the center must have a special historical and monumental character, charged with symbolism, rather than be a business- and consumer- oriented activity space. The area remained unchanged until the early 2000s. Although commercial activities were virtually absent, the center became flooded with traffic, due to the city’s ring-and- radial monocentricity. Its wide boulevards became traffic barriers that divided the city. As a consequence, the center entirely lost its appeal as a local destination, although occasionally it was used for political meetings (Pojani, 2015). Concerned about the fading importance of the center, in 2004, 2008, and 2012, the city government issued calls for international competitions to redevelop and redesign it. The entire length of the boulevards was included in the scope of the first and third competitions. The second competition was limited to the central square. The competitions attracted broad attention, within Albania and 8 D. POJANI

abroad, and took place with much fanfare and press coverage. Proposals were received from international celebrity architects. The competitions were proposed as a tool to bring Tirana closer to an ideal “European” city. The public was not involved in the plan preparation or selection process. Some professionals and interest groups raised their voice against the lack of participation and transparency surrounding the process of selecting the winners, but this did not affect a process that, according to some critics, was largely predetermined (Pojani, 2015). Architecture Studio of Paris won the first competition, Brussels-based 51N4E won the second competition, and Grimshaw Architects, a major international studio, won the third. All three presented typical examples of “designer” interventions. Architecture Studio proposed the conversion of the main square into a pedestrian zone, decorated with fountains and palm trees arranged in a formal manner. A few mid-rise office and commercial buildings were planned around the main square to enclose the space while ten 25-story towers (skyscrapers by local standards) were proposed to fill the few remaining empty lots in the increasingly dense central city. These design proposals provoked sharp disagreements. Some political analysts attributed the ideas behind these plans to the mayor’s personal ego and ambition. Others assigned the motives to personal financial interests. Similarly, 51N4E’s approach was to create an enclosed plaza but with little urban furniture. The designers explained that this plaza would contrast with the city surrounding it, which they considered to be untidy and frenetic. The purpose of the proposed plan extended beyond aesthetics and accommodation of daily activities. The concept was meant to be a symbolic manifestation of the new, democratic Albania, “clean” of ideology (Pojani, 2015). Grimshaw Architects proposed the extension of the northern boulevard a further 3 km. This extension (following former, prewar plans) would serve as the “backbone” of new neighborhoods to come. The intercity train station, which was conveniently located at a walking distance from the main square, was moved to the end of the extended boulevard. Critics contended that this plan was a maneuver to free up more development space in order to enrich the mayor (Pojani & Stead, 2016). The press and political players became consumed in acrimonious debate about the plans. However, unlike Istanbul and Skopje, no violence ensued. Public discussions mainly focused on the symbolic significance of minute site design details, rather than the feasibility of the plans, their overall impact, or their usefulness as a tool to raise public revenue. The plans served as a means of expressing political visions and ideologies, rather than as a way to create an environmentally and socially sustainable future. Positions in the debate were frequently determined by political party affiliation or allegiance. However, all sides relied on rhetoric that focused on “Europeanness.” In Albania, a country that has rejected both its Ottoman and socialist past, a contemporary brand of Europeanness was embraced, as opposed to Skopje’s revivalist Europeanness. Despite the intense rivalry and mutual animosity between the two main parties (the political left-wing Socialist Party and

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 the political right-wing Democratic Party), their leaders (Edi Rama and Sali Berisha) clearly agreed on one point: Tirana’s center was the most important space in the country and its redevelopment would have major implications for the identity of the Albanian people as a whole (Pojani, 2015; Pojani & Maci, 2015). All of the plans were approved. The construction of the first two skyscrapers based on the first plan is nearly complete. The reconstruction and pedestrianization of the main square based on the second plan by 51N4E began in 2010, but was later interrupted due to power clashes between the local and the national governments. It was finally implemented in 2016, after the election in in Tirana of a mayor from the same political party as the prime minister. Therefore, this research pertains to the preceding stage during which a simple, elongated traffic roundabout with a grass center was put in place temporarily (see Figure 3). The third plan was approved and the construction started, but again due to political friction, it was interrupted for several years. At the time of this writing, it is only partially implemented. (The train station has been relocated to the outer peripheries.) In line with Tirana’s century-old tradition, these new identities are imported from abroad. The outcome is poignant considering the intensive planning efforts and vigorous debates surrounding the development of the center. JOURNAL OF URBAN AFFAIRS 9

Figure 3. Left: Tirana’s main square as it appeared between 2011 and 2016. The discussion in this article refers to this stage. Photo courtesy of Alket Islami. Right: Redevelopment project, inaugurated in 2016, shortly before the publication of this article. Photo courtesy of the City of Tirana.

Methodology Conceptualization The research employs storytelling as a tool to review the local experiences related to cities and to city planning, giving voice both to actors engaging in nostalgic reminiscing and to those actors that have had the courage to rehearse other ways of producing and occupying space. The context of the emergence of the concept of storytelling in city planning is briefly discussed below. In the 1970s, comprehensive rationality entered in crisis. Technicians’ hegemonic expertise appeared increasingly friable. In this general context, the identification of other models was required, which emphasized diversity and plurality. A stance named communicative turn emerged in the early 1990s (Healey 1992). The supporters of this approach wished to formulate the conditions for democratic debate in planning. They proposed opening planning to include the heterogeneity of situations, cultures, and thought patterns in cities. Telling stories (e.g., about one’s daily problems) was evoked as a means of participating in planning. This required accepting that nontechnicians speak in a narrative mode and be unfamiliar with professional reasoning and jargon. In this configuration, planners were assigned the task of mediating and coordinating different systems of reference and meaning (Boyer, 1996; Mandelbaum, 1991). Though in practice the stories of the masses were heard in a selective manner, formal citizen participation tools expanded throughout the 1990sandtheroleofstorytellinginplanningwas established.

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 In the new millennium, other theorists have expanded on the seminal works in communicative planning. According to some interpretations, planning itself is a tale that directs the future. Unable to claim universal certainties, planners’ work consists in producing stories, which compete against each other and, under the influence of various actors, ultimately create what is assumed to be “the reality.” Story is also a tool for simplifying planning projects so that ordinary people can own them. Other commentators maintain that the work of planners consists not only of telling stories, but also of shaping the public comprehension and reception of those stories. In this sense, planning is understood as an art of persuasion, and intentional storytelling as a tool for mediation, unification, and even control of the collective—in fact, much more effective than the Orwellian tools of totalitarian societies. The city is transformed from a machine-à-habiter into a machine-à-raconter. From a bottom-up perspective, not only do individuals and communities tell stories, but they are also active in creating those stories with their lives. Communities, and possibly nations, have core stories that give meaning to collective life and solidify culture. Such stories might be of peace-making, of generosity, of abandonment, of expectations betrayed (Bulkens, Minca, & Muzaini, 2015;Childs,2008; Goldstein, Taufen-Wessells, Lejano, & Butler, 2015; Pojani & Stead, 2015; Salmon, 2008;Sandercock,2003; Throgmorton, 2003;VanHulst,2012). 10 D. POJANI

Data and analysis This article is based on 36 interviews (12 per case study city) conducted in late 2014 with random adult users of the three city centers, some of whom also lived and/or worked in the area. This number of interviews is generally deemed adequate for studies like the present one that have a narrow focus (Baker & Edwards, 2012). The interviews were conducted in the native languages (Turkish, Macedonian, and Albanian), voice recorded, and later transcribed and translated into English. A specific interviewing technique was employed, called narrative interviewing. This is an unstruc- tured technique that is considered to be particularly useful in the case of projects investigating “hot” issues, such as specific development projects or local politics. To elicit a less imposed rendering of the participant’s perspective, the interviewer’s influence is minimal, and the setting is arranged for this purpose. Questions are purposely very general in order to allow the participant to use his or her own spontaneous language in the narration of events. No yes/no, why, opinion, demographic, or attitude questions are asked. In this case, questions such as, “What do you remember about the recent city center redevelopment activities?”“What memories of the city center do you have from the time when you were a child?”“What memories of the city center do you have from the time you were younger?” and “What memories of the city center do you have from before the redevelopment?” were asked, with simple follow ups such as “‘You said this . . . can you tell me more about it?” “What happened then?” and “What else can you remember about that?” The participants are allowed to talk as much as they like without being interrupted. On their own, they recall what has happened, put experience into sequence, find possible explanations for it, and play with the chain of events that shapes individual and social life. Given the nature of this technique, the duration of the interviews varies substantially, between a few minutes to one hour in this case (Jovchelovitch & Bauer, 2000). A structuralist analysis was employed to analyze the data. This type of analysis focuses on the formal elements of narratives. It includes two dimensions: a paradigmatic dimension and a syntagmatic dimension. In the paradigmatic dimension, all of the elements that appeared in the stories were ordered: events, protagonists, bystanders, settings, beginnings, explanations and reasons behind the situations, crises, values, judgments, endings (denouement), and moral conclusions. In the syntagmatic dimension, these elements were arranged in a two-dimensional sequence (a typical narrative arc) that could be compared across the narratives. Through an analysis of chronological and nonchronological aspects of the stories, the main plot was identified—which includes both the unfolding of events and the network of relationships and meanings (Jovchelovitch & Bauer, 2000).

Analysis Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 In the author’s interpretation, the master plots of the stories narrated by the participants develop along the lines of a common archetype called rescue. Some explanation of this literary archetype in world literature and in Balkan folklore is in order before proceeding with the analysis of the narratives provided by the interviewees.

The rescue master plot in world literature A number of theorists have argued that all stories (narratives) told in any medium can be categorized as following one of several archetypes or master plots. The number of archetypes enumerated varies by author (see Booker, 2005; Polti, 1924; Tobias, 2012), and some authors contend that all narratives are variations of a single great plot, which the entire human race has woven in an effort of making the world transparent to transcendence (Campbell, 2008). However, all lists contain a version of the rescue master plot—otherwise called “overcoming the monster,”“rivalry,”“daring enterprise,” or “underdog.” This type of plot has particular characteristics and develops more or less in accordance with a certain template, discussed below (based on Booker, 2005; Polti, 1924; Tobias, 2012). JOURNAL OF URBAN AFFAIRS 11

Typically, rescue stories are action driven. They contain a character triangle, which consists of a hero (protagonist), a villain (antagonist), and an innocent victim. The hero rescues (or attempts to rescue) the victim from the villain and possibly destroys the villain altogether. Generally, the protagonist is an underdog, unequally matched against the antagonist. The antagonist, which may be a person, animal, place, or thing (such as a force of nature or a state apparatus), has greater power than the protagonist and it takes courage and strength to defeat. The hero is defined by the relationship to the villain. The villain is a device whose purpose is to deprive the hero of what he/ she/it believes is rightfully his/hers/its. The victim, which can be an individual, an entire community, or even an inanimate object, is generally the weakest of the three characters and serves mainly as a mechanism to force the hero to confront the antagonist. In some variants, no victim is present and the sides are clarified by the moral issues involved. In either case, the moral argument tends to be black and white. A desire for justice and love and a battle between good and evil are the main themes of this master plot. The story usually begins at the point of initial conflict, briefly demonstrating the status quo. The action starts when the antagonist instigates against the will of the protagonist, possibly by confiscating or tampering with the victim. This is the catalyst scene, after which the hero goes out into the world to pursue the villain and usually must contend with the villain on the villain’sturf.Thedistancebetweenthetwobegins decreasing. A confrontation stage ensues. The villain’s power is revealed in all its terrible glory. The struggle between the rivals proceeds on the characters’ power curves. One is usually inversely proportional to the other: As one rises on the power curve, the other falls. The antagonist constantly interferes with the hero’s progress. In the first dramatic phase, the antagonist gains superiority over the protagonist, whereas the latter sufferstheactionsoftheantagonistandsoisatadisadvantage. The second dramatic phase reverses the fortune. The antagonist is often aware of the protagonist’s empowerment. The denouement stage closes the action. The villain is usually (but not always) defeated; the hero emerges victorious, reunites with, or retakes possession of the victim (if a victim is present); and is presented with treasure and/or fame. Applications of the rescue or overcoming the monster plot in world literature, theater, and film are numerous and include The Twelve Labors of Hercules, the Myth of Gilgamesh, David and Goliath, Beowulf, Dracula, Grimm brothers’ tales such as Little Red Riding Hood and Snow White, Seven Samurai, the James Bond franchise, the Star Wars trilogy, Jaws, Terminator, The Hunger Games, and Harry Potter. This plot is also common in Balkan folklore.

The rescue master plot in Balkan folklore Balkan folklore offers a wealth of elements. Without its knowledge, the region cannot be fathomed at all. Its legends and folktales reveal not only a number of oriental features from the centuries when

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 the peninsula formed an integral part of the Ottoman Empire, but also occasional traces of the ancient world of Greco-Roman mythology. Turkish, Macedonian, and Albanian legends have many parallels. The binary conflict between good and evil is a main theme, and good usually prevails (Elsie, 2001; Haase & Duggan, 2016). In the Albanian version of the rescue plot, the character triangle includes the kuçedra, the dragoi, and the Earthly Beauty (E Bukura e Dheut). Kuçedra (also kulshedra or sprija) is the villain. The term derives from Latin chersydrus and Greek khersydros (amphibious snake), and it is also used to denote a quarrelsome woman. The Macedonian version is lamya/aždaja/hala and the Turkish version is yilbegän/yelbeghen. Kuçedra is usually described as a dragon-like creature, extremely ugly and fearsome, with 7 to 12 heads each spitting fire. Sometimes she can take the form of a woman or an animal, such as a turtle, lizard, eel, or frog. She lives removed from the people, in a mountain cave or an underground lake. When she approaches, storm clouds fill the sky. Comparable to the Greek Hydra of Lerna, kuçedra is basically frightening and evil, though occasionally this demon transforms into a humorous or helpful matron. Her main weapons are her bodily fluids, which she uses to poison or drown her attackers; she often causes wells to run dry or poisons the villagers’ drinking water (Elsie, 2001). 12 D. POJANI

Kuçedra is often portrayed as guarding the Earthly Beauty, the victim. This character, which bears some resemblance to the ancient Persephone (also Proserpina or Libera), is the quintessence of beauty and a personification of springtime. She embodies good but sometimes also evil. She can play the part of the good fairy but can also do magic. The Earthly Beauty is usually sequestered by the kuçedra and guarded in an underworld palace. The desire of the hero is to possess the Earthly Beauty. In order to accomplish this, he must sneak past the kuçedra, blind, deafen, or slay her, and thus reach the Earthly Beauty. The Earthly Beauty might be demanding of the hero, but if he succeeds in performing the labors that she requires, she will become his faithful and loving wife. The figure of the Earthly Beauty is popular throughout the Balkans and is present in Turkish as well, as peri—beautiful, benevolent djinn (Elsie, 2001). Only kuçedra’s mortal enemy, the dragoi (i.e., the hero), is in a position to combat and slay her. The Albanian dragoi is a semi-human figure with supernatural powers, who defends civilization and humankind. Believed to live among people, he is born to honorable families wearing a shirt (symbolic of the caul). He has secret wings under the armpits and a golden heart with a jewel in the middle. Confrontations between the kuçedra and the dragoi produce thunderstorms. The term dragoi stems etymologically from the Latin draco (dragon) and is similar to the Slavic zmaj/zmej and the Turkish evren/ebren (Elsie, 2001). Though Macedonian and Turkish benevolent dragons are more often portrayed as winged snakes, they, too, encompass a mix of different traits from other animals and humans. This rescue master plot, populated by a triad of characters (hero, villain, and victim), echoes throughout the planning narratives reconstructed by the author. In combination, participants told a story of struggle between good and evil, in which good had not quite triumphed. The last acts of the stories are still being played out.

The rescue master plot in planning narratives In all three cases, the city centers had come to personify the beautiful, beloved, and vulnerable female victim (i.e., the Earthly Beauty). Before the redevelopment, they were described in flattering terms as having been “grand,”“warm,”“harmonious,”“discrete,” and “full of character.” They were the “pivotal points” of the respective cities. They were “breathing spaces,”“spaces of the people”— where people could enjoy freedom, well-being, and open vistas. Their former identity was precious, although some of the narrators admit that the centers were not necessarily special in terms of architecture or even very pleasing to the eye. Certain elements were highlighted as extremely meaningful to the people, although in reality they celebrated earlier governments. For example, in Tirana, praise went to a mosaic on a museum façade, which glorified the brutal local dictatorship, or

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 to buildings in rationalist architecture that were in fact symbols of Italian colonial power. In Skopje, Kenzo Tange’s buildings, which elevated the reputation of Yugoslavian leader Tito, were described as revolutionary and as having a “dark beauty.” When asked about their earlier memories of the center, participants evoked simple but heartfelt stories of fun weekend picnics with their parents under big firs and leafy chestnut trees, cheerful singing birds and fresh grass, kebab and ice cream rituals with their grandparents, puppet shows and football matches, baths in water fountains on scorching days, innocent photographs in front of historic statues and monuments, hangouts and guitar playing and movie going and clubbing with teenage friends after school, energizing bicycle rides, New Year’s dancing parties and fireworks, romantic summer evening promenades under pink skies, and falling in love at first sight with their future spouses. These memories, tinted in nostalgia and made up of sounds, tastes, and aromas as much as of visual elements, were frail and had now come under attack. The centers had been “exposed to danger,”“obstructed,”“choked,”“stuck,”“usurped,” or “suffocated” by a “jungle” of buildings, cars, and even people who do not legitimately belong in them (e.g., migrants from other towns and rural areas). Some participants employed the “alien invasion” metaphor to describe what was happening JOURNAL OF URBAN AFFAIRS 13

to “their” centers. Others feared a catastrophe: The centers would one day “explode” or “drown in a flood” from all the pressure—the flood metaphor recalling the Genesis flood narrative (God punish- ing humanity’s misdeeds by returning the Earth to its pre-creation state). The violence perpetrated by the villains had transformed the centers (especially Skopje and in Tirana), as it would a woman. Now they were “cold,”“dry,”“harsh,”“coarse,”“comatose,” “deformed,”“disfigured,”“bastardy,”“unclean,”“repulsive,”“wretched,”“ruined,”“scandalous,” or even “dead.” Parts of them had been “amputated,”“cut,”“swallowed,” or “ripped out.” People’s youthful memories had been “erased.” Tirana’s multiple plans for the center, which were not implemented, were discussed as having been “aborted.” Istanbul’s center was a “plucked goose.” As a result, the centers had turned into wicked, treacherous, and/or tragic places to be avoided. Due to the negative energy that the redevelopment projects emanated, they were rejected whole- sale. Even the pedestrianization they had created (in the case of Skopje and Istanbul) or the planting of a small park with fruit trees in Tirana were seen as “meaningless,”“ugly,”“silly,”“banal,” and “harmful. ” An elongated traffic circle in Tirana (which was in place between 2011 and 2016) was described as “a tongue” that stuck out to deride and humiliate the people. Skopje’s statues and rococo buildings were described as a “scar,” a “blemish,” or infection that was “spreading.” They were “too much for the eye and the soul.” Decorations placed in the centers were equated to “fake makeup” that could not possibly cover a rotten soul. However, most participants insisted that the old spirit of the centers needed to be resuscitated. To them, this intervention was key if the people (the hero of the story) were to find purpose and meaning and peace. The governments (but also the capitalist system) were cast in the role of the villain. Governments and capitalism were represented as the embodiment of evil; they were painted as incompetent, egocentric, disorganized, rogue, impulsive, aggressive, greedy, immoral, and destructive. Much like the distant kuçedra terrorizing the people and taking away their water, these antagonistic forces had blocked people’s access to the earlier cherished monuments in the centers or had overpowered those with new edifices, whether contemporary high-rises (as in Tirana), kitsch megastatues (as in Skopje), or revivalist low-rises (as in Istanbul). In Tirana, a rather flat man-made hill covered in grass on the main square was described as a “mountain” and a small see-though park was referred to as a “forest.” People were forced to cross these nearly unsurmountable obstacles to reach the other side of the center. In Skopje, one participant equated the redevelopment to a nuclear disaster. In all three cities, participants claimed that decisions regarding the center were made “in a storm”—that is, too fast. In Skopje, a participant recalled a local proverb: “The bitch that rushes gives birth to blind pups”—a female dog in the region being a symbol for a lewd or malicious woman. Another participant said that the government’s intervention in Skopje’s center paralleled a “shoemaker’s performing of open heart surgery.” As a result of this amateurish handling of its body,

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 the center had become “unrecognizable.” The damage was psychological, too. Some, especially in Skopje and Istanbul, characterized the redevelopment projects as an attempt to “imprint the minds of youth” with a new aesthetic. In all three cases, the hero of the story was the local people. Many a participant described him- or herself as a “child of the city” who was now estranged due to the mother-city’s transformation. All participants had a strong place attachment. The relationship to the center was particularly intimate and this space was bestowed with human attributes, as noted. However, the character of the hero was somewhat different in the three places. Only in Istanbul was the hero a young, active, and combative dragon. He was conscious of the villain’s attempts to control and repress him. He fought back to protect himself and the victim—Gezi Park, described as the “heart” and “lungs” of the city. If he allowed the villain to succeed, if the villain captured the heart, he knew that the battle would be over. A few participants who had partaken in protests described them as terrifying (“the police slaughtered youth”), but also as the most beautiful days of their lives. They said that the people who died in protest were honorable and they gave their lives to a good cause. The protests produced both sorrow and happiness. They showed that the hero is not useless, apolitical, or antisocial. Quite the opposite. 14 D. POJANI

In Skopje, the hero was painted as more passive. Though he was sure of his identity, he had not been willing to assert it sufficiently. One participant said that locals only had themselves to blame for the “horror” perpetrated in the center. Their collective silence and implicit acceptance had allowed the villains to reign supreme. Though the hero was highly “disturbed,”“confused,”“anxious,” “angry,”“panicked,” and even “sick” over the events in the center, he only raised his voice in social media eco chambers of like-minded comrades. While he “preached to the choir,” the villain gained territory unobstructed; only brutal force could stop him (a prediction that became reality about 1 year after these interviews were conducted). Another participant said that the Skopje people were unlucky to live through such painful times and witness the fall of their city center. Among all of the distress, the hero might “lose his mind” or “crumble.” There were also anti-heroes in this story: those who supported the project, who were castigated as “sheep”—that is, without the human intelligence and critical thinking of the hero. In Tirana, the hero was entirely inert and powerless. In a sense, the hero identified with the victim in this case. The evil forces were sometimes embodied in particular politicians. But in most cases, the villain was referred to as an impersonal “they”—a sort of nameless, malevolent, and omnipotent Big Brother that imposed himself on the people and slayed the victim. Though in theory the hero despised the villain and wanted him to change its ways, he did not have the willpower, strength, and courage to fight. Confrontation was avoided.

Conclusion The use of stories and storytelling in planning continues to be seen as an unorthodox method or epistemology. It is still neither fully understood nor sufficiently valued. Story is still often thought of as “soft,” unsystematic, feminine, or inferior (Sandercock, 2003). But this article shows that story has a special importance in cities and in planning. This is particularly true in hybrid regimes. Stylistically, this article aligns with the Balkan tradition of employing stories to reveal social and political preoccupations. Here, decades, if not centuries, of repression, which prohibited other forms of dissenting expression, have taught people the nonconfrontational and elliptical art of storytelling. In this sense, story can be understood as a form of protest. In the three Balkan hybrid regimes under study, interviews projected a rescue master plot with the local peoples (the heroes) fighting against the governments and the harsh forces of capitalism (the villains) to protect their city centers (the victims). As all archetypes, these simplify the world to its essence. From a planning perspective, the negative archetype associated with the government is particularly concerning. It probably has its roots in these nations’ authoritarian pasts, but it is also

Downloaded by [UQ Library] at 23:27 24 November 2017 supported by recent events. In a different setting, the government might have been symbolized by a maternal archetype (e.g., “motherland” or “nanny-state”). Naturally, the present interpretation carries some bias because it is based on the views of the participants who agreed to provide interviews, and it is quite possible that people who felt strongly against the redevelopment of the three city centers were more likely to want to speak out. Had people with opposing views been specifically sought, a competing plotline might have emerged. However, given the background information on the contentious events surrounding the redevelopment projects, this plot is likely to be owned by substantial portions of the local populations. Though the heroes of the plots have struggled, they have not fully prevailed in any of the three places. Now, it is not clear whether the local governments are willing to engage in dialogue and negotiations with the communities to turn this story around. In Istanbul, the prospect appears more distant than before, whereas Tirana has recently made progress toward restoring the center to its pre-redevelopment state. But it is clear that, in all three places, local publics are hurt and need to engage in some form of healing process and write a new, positive chapter in the histories of their cities. JOURNAL OF URBAN AFFAIRS 15

About the author Dorina Pojani, originally from Albania, is a Lecturer (Assistant Professor) of urban planning at the University of Queensland in Australia. Her research is focused on urban design and planning in both developed and developing countries.

ORCID Dorina Pojani http://orcid.org/0000-0002-2018-6338

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