War and Cultural Heritage

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WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

Biographies of Place

The reconstruction of society after conflict is complex and multifaceted. This book investigates this theme as it relates to cultural heritage through a number of case studies relating to European wars since 1864. The case studies show in detail how buildings, landscapes, and monuments become important agents in post-conflict reconstruction, as well as how their meanings change and how they become sites of competition over historical narratives and claims. Looking at iconic and lesser-known sites, this book connects broad theoretical discussions of reconstruction and memorialisation to specific physical places, and in the process it traces shifts in their meanings over time. This book identifies common threads and investigates their wider implications. It explores the relationship between cultural heritage and international conflict, paying close attention to the long aftermaths of acts of destruction and reconstruction and making important contributions through the use of new empirical evidence and critical theory.

Marie Louise Stig Sørensen is a Reader in Archaeology at the University of Cambridge and Professor of Bronze Age Studies at Leiden University. She coordinates the University of Cambridge’s postgraduate degree program in archaeological heritage and museums, one of the first degree courses in this field. She has considerable research experience, including partnerships on projects such as the EU project Emergence of European Societies, the Leverhulme-funded project Changing Beliefs of the Human Body, the Hera-funded Investigation of Creativity and Craft Production in Middle and Late Bronze Age Europe, and the Cultural Heritage and the Reconstruction of Identities after Conflict – EU FP7 (CRIC) project. Her publications include Heritage Studies: Methods and Approaches (co-edited with John Carman, 2009).

Dacia Viejo-Rose was a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellow (2012–2014) and has recently been appointed to a lectureship focusing on cultural heritage in the Department of Archaeology and Anthropology at the University of Cambridge. Her current research project is on cultural violence and violence against culture. She is the author of Reconstructing Spain: Cultural Heritage and Memory after Civil War (2011). Viejo-Rose was coordinator of the European Cultural Foundation’s UK national committee, organising a series of seminars at Chatham House (2003–2005). She also worked at UNESCO in the Department of Cultural Policies for Development (2000–2002), where she managed the UNESCO Cities for Peace Prize. She was a Postdoctoral Fellow on the Cultural Heritage and the Reconstruction of Identities after Conﬂict – EU FP7 (CRIC) project.

WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

BIOGRAPHIES OF PLACE

EDITED BY MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND DACIA VIEJO-ROSE 32 Avenue of the Americas, New York, ny 10013-2473, usa

Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge. It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107059337 © Cambridge University Press 2015 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2015 Printed in the United States of America A catalog record for this publication is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data War and cultural heritage : biographies of place / M.L.S. Sørensen and D. Viejo Rose (eds.). pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Cultural property – Protection – Europe. 2. Postwar reconstruction – Europe. 3. Memorialization – Europe. 4. War and society – Europe. 5. Architecture and war – Europe. 6. Historic preservation – Social aspects – Europe. 7. Historic sites – Conservation and restoration – Europe. 8. Monuments – Conservation and restoration – Europe. 9. Landscape protection – Europe. 10. Europe – Antiquities. I. Sørensen, Marie Louise Stig. II. Viejo-Rose, Dacia. CC135.W37 2015 940.2–dc23 2014034179 ISBN 978-1-107-05933-7 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of urls for external or third-party Internet Web sites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Web sites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. CONTENTS

List of Illustrations page vii List of Contributors xiii Acknowledgements xix

Introduction: The Impact of Conﬂict on Cultural Heritage: A Biographical Lens 1 Marie Louise Stig Sørensen and Dacia Viejo-Rose

1 Dybbøl: The Construction and Reconstruction of a Memorial Landscape 18 Marie Louise Stig Sørensen and Inge Adriansen

2 ‘The Cemetery of France’: Reconstruction and Memorialisation on the Battleﬁeld of Verdun (France) 46 Jean-Paul Amat, Paola Filippucci, and Edwige Savouret

3 Something Old, Something New: The Materiality of Tradition and Power in the Post–Civil War Reconstruction of Gernika’s Foru Plaza 69 Dacia Viejo-Rose

4 The Dresden Frauenkirche as a Contested Symbol: The Architecture of Remembrance after War 98 Karl-Siegbert Rehberg and Matthias Neutzner

5 The Prison of Carabanchel (Madrid, Spain): A Life Story 128 Alfredo González-Ruibal and Carmen Ortiz

6 ‘A Heritage of Resistance’ – The Changing Meanings of Belgrade’s Generalštab 156 Ben Davenport

7 Grand Ruins: Ledra Palace Hotel and the Rendering of ‘Conﬂict’ as Heritage in Cyprus 183 Olga Demetriou

v vi CONTENTS

8 Changing Meaning of Second World War Monuments in Post- Dayton Bosnia Herzegovina: A Case Study of the Kozara Monument and Memorial Complex 208 Dzenan Sahovic and Dino Zulumovic

9 Imagining Community in Bosnia: Constructing and Reconstructing the Slana Banja Memorial Complex in Tuzla 225 Ioannis Armakolas

Postscript 1 TheTimeofPlace 251 David Uzzell

Postscript 2 When Memory Takes Place 261 Carsten Paludan-Müller

Bibliography 269 Index 285 ILLUSTRATIONS

1.1 Map of the area. Top, map of Slesvig, with the location of Dybbøl shown in relationship to the 1864 and the 1920 Danish- German border. Bottom, depiction of the layout of the battleﬁeld presented on a postcard from the time; such postcards were very popular. page 21 1.2 Woodcut showing Danish and German soldiers collected for burials. Note the person appearing to be keeping a record and the striking similarity to composition of the classic presentation of game after a hunt. 25 1.3 Examples of F. Brandt’s photographs of Dybbøl immediately after the war. 25 1.4 Woodcut showing the victory parade [Köningsparade] on 20 April 1864 at the village of Adsbøl, near Dybbøl. 29 1.5 Photograph of the Düppel-Denkmal monument from 1890. 30 1.6 German postcard from Dybbøl dated to 1890 showing the Düppel-Denkmal in its wider landscape setting and presenting Dybbøl as part of a natural memorial landscape. 33 1.7 Collage of Danish memorial stones at Dybbøl erected after 1920. 38 1.8 Photo showing the ruins of the Düppel-Denkmal shortly after it was destroyed in 1945 and before the remains were removed and buried. 39 2.1 Left, the Ossuary at Douaumont, general view. Right, the Victory Monument, Verdun (note the central fountain and planting added in 2003). 49 2.2 Ossuary exterior: window grill evoking medieval portcullis and columns with ‘sword’ and ‘shield’ motifs. 50 2.3 Left, ossuary exterior: column with ‘gun turret’ motif. Right, gun turrets, Fort Douaumont. 51 2.4 Left, ossuary, back view of central apse. Right, ‘Pamart’ gun turret (1917), Fort Vaux. 51 2.5 Victory monument: twentieth-century rampart incorporating vestiges of Roman/medieval bastion. 53

vii viii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

3.1 Old map of Gernika (c. 1765 by Tomás López) showing the five streets that give shape to the town with the square at the centre. 73 3.2 The old, pre-war Town Hall of Gernika. 75 3.3 Early plans for a national-syndicalist Gernika from the 1938 article by Angoso. Note the parade stadium (top left) and memorial park containing ruins of the town (top centre). 79 3.4 Model for the main square of Gernika as exhibited in one of the many exhibitions organised by the regime on the reconstruction of Spain. 82 3.5 Top left, one of several front covers of the magazine Reconstrucción, showing images of the work in Gernika; here we see a view of the reconstructed Town Hall. Top right, an aerial view of the state of the town’s reconstruction with the square in the foreground, January 1941. Bottom, officials of the ‘New Spain’ walking past the ruins of Gernika, February 1943. 85 3.6 Top, photograph showing the state of the square and surrounding areas as construction on the Town Hall begins; we see the outer walls already in place and the Church of Sta María, which survived the bombing. Bottom left, aerial view of the square and adjoining street close to completion. Bottom right, photograph of men at work on Artekalea in 1944, the street which formed the fourth, and open, side of the square. 88 3.7 Left, inauguration of the square being celebrated with a folk dance in 1945. Note the column topped by a cross in the centre. Right, the column and cross in its new, and far less prominent, location, having been displaced by the statue of Don Tello in 1966. 90 3.8 Top, the Town Hall as it stands today seen from inside the square. Bottom, Foru Plaza today showing the Peace Museum on the left, Kulture Etxea on the right, the Church of Sta María behind, and the statue of Don Tello in the foreground. 91 3.9 ‘Spirit Figures: Passages of Peace in the Plaza of Fire and Light’ installation by artist William Kelly, April–May 2005 in Gernika’s Foru Plaza. 94 4.1 Dresden, Schloßstraße. Range of postcards offered by a souvenir seller, October 2011. Visitors to Dresden can choose between images of three townscapes – the mythical city of art before its destruction, the landscape of ruins after February 1945, and the resurrected Dresden. The most prominent motive is the Frauenkirche, depicted in the same metamorphoses. 99 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ix

4.2 14 February 2009: A police cordon blocks demonstrators who want to protest against radically right-wing groups accessing the Neumarkt area and the Frauenkirche. 101 4.3 Double page from a book of photographs published in Dresden in 1946. The arrangement of the photographs and their dates are used to point to the responsibility of the German National Socialists (assumption of power in 1933) for war and destruction. 104 4.4 13 February 1983: On the evening of the anniversary people gather in front of the ruins of the Frauenkirche to commemorate the 1945 destruction outside the official rituals of the state. 107 4.5 14 February 2009: ‘Funeral March’, organised by the extreme right-wing organisation ‘Junge Landsmannschaft Ostpreußen’. The poster uses the distinctive outline of the ruins of Frauenkirche to emphasise the statement ‘We commemorate the victims of Allied mass murder’. 110 4.6 Dresden, Altmarkt (Old Market Square), view towards Wilsdruffer Straße and Neumarkt. The buildings are examples of three distinct phases of reconstruction extending over a period of more than fifty years – the ‘Stalin baroque’ of the 1950s (on the right), the more industrialised building concepts a decade later (in the centre), and the re-creation of historical architectural ensembles after 1990 (in the background). 114 4.7 Mid-1930s: The dome of the Frauenkirche towers above the baroque residential buildings of Rampische Gasse near Neumarkt. 116 4.8 13 February 1987, state-organised mass rally in front of the ruins of the Frauenkirche. 119 4.9 Dresden, December 2011: Neumarkt ensemble with Frauenkirche. 124 5.1 Prisoners and Mats (1943). Drawing by José Manaut. This artist produced a series of drawings and paintings depicting his experience in Spanish prisons in 1943–1944. 133 5.2 Top, aerial photograph of the old Model Prison of Madrid, at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. Bottom, plan of Carabanchel Prison, including later additions until 1998. The intermediate zone shown in grey. 136 5.3 Top, inauguration of the prison (22 April 1944). Bottom, bishop blessing the entrance to a gallery from the panopticon (23 May 1955). 138 5.4 The vision of the victor and the vision of the vanquished. Left, authorities in an official visit to a brand-new gallery in x LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Carabanchel Prison. Right, prisoners moving into Carabanchel with their bedding. 139 5.5 The prison panopticon from the outside. 2007. 140 5.6 Youth reformatory in Carabanchel (24 September 1960). Note that the religious foundations of the disciplinary system are still obvious: the letters on the plinth of the statue read redención [atonement]. 142 5.7 Prisoner undergoing a session of electroshock. Psychiatric hospital at Carabanchel, 9 March 1962. 143 5.8 Top, post-abandonment graffiti with prison theme, July 2008. Bottom, rally inside the prison, May 2008. The preservation of part of the prison as a memorial occupied an important place in the demands presented by the neighbours at this meeting. 151 5.9 Commemoration of the second anniversary of the destruction of Carabanchel Prison: Carabanchel en la memoria [Carabanchel in memory], March 2010. 154 6.1 Top, location map of the Generalstab. Redrawn after Kulic, Architecture and the Politics of Reading (2010: 17, fig. 7). Bottom, the Generalštab under construction (c. 1960). 158 6.2 Archival photograph of the Generalštab. 163 6.3 Architectural sketches of the Generalštab expressing Dobrovic´’s notions of architectural techtonics. Redrawn after Kulic, Architecture and the Politics of Reading (2010: 35, figs. 20 and 21) 166 6.4 Top left, Partisan Memorial, Tjentište. Bottom, Generalštab in 2010. 168 6.5 The ruin of the Generalštab, 2010. 175 6.6 Graffiti on the Generalštab, 2009. 177 7.1 Map showing the position of Ledra Palace within the Buffer Zone, Nicosia. 186 7.2 Collage showing different phases of the Ledra Palace: clockwise from top left: 2010, 1963, 1974, 1970s. 192 7.3 Collage of photos from the Ledra Palace’s interior. 197 7.4 Collage of photos from the Ledra Palace’s exterior. 199 8.1 The Mrakovica monument. 210 8.2 The Kozara museum building. 213 8.3 Wooden cross at the entrance to the Mrakovica Memorial complex. 217 8.4 Original Second World War exhibition covered by white cloth. 220 8.5 ‘Three Genocides against the Serbs’ exhibition. 221 9.1 The memorial civilian cemetery. 237 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xi

9.2 Memorial to the Fallen Defenders of Tuzla from the 1992–1995 war. 239 9.3 Memorial to the Fallen Decorated Soldiers of the 1992–1995 war. 239 9.4 Socialist-era monument recently renovated. 243 9.5 Busts of socialist-era heroes regrouped in the ‘Avenue of Heroes’. 245 9.6 The central commemorative space with its ‘Bosnianized’ ﬂoor. 245

CONTRIBUTORS

Inge Adriansen is a professor at Syddansk University and curator at Museum Sønderjylland, Sønderborg Slot, Denmark. She has a PhD in Nordic ethnology and cultural history from Copenhagen University and is an expert on the sociocultural and political life of the border region of Schleswig-Holstein during the last centuries. She has published extensively on the Prussian wars, national symbols, and memorial sites. Amongst her publications are Nationale symboler i Det danske Rige 1830–2000 (2003) and Erindringssteder i Danmark – Monumenter, mindesmærker og mødesteder(2010), both from Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen. Email: [email protected] Jean-Paul Amat is a professor at the Université Paris Sorbonne – Paris IV, UFR de Géographie et Aménagement, and director of the UMR8185 Espaces, Nature et Culture (ENeC). He is president of the Centre d’Études Argonnais, vice-president of the Société des Amis du Musée de l’Armée in Paris, and member of the Conseil ScientiﬁqueoftheMemorialoftheBattleof Verdun and of the future Museum of the Great War at Meaux. He is a historical geographer and has considerable expertise with regard to the use of historical sources and methods. He has considerable research experience including involvement with international and inter-disciplinary projects and has published extensively on the destruction and reconstruction of landscapes in the Great War and other wars, with a particular focus on forests, on the issues surrounding Great War heritage in France, and on territorial management and sustainable development in rural and urban areas. Email: [email protected] Ioannis Armakolas is a lecturer in Comparative Politics of South-East Europe in the Department of Balkan, Slavic and Oriental Studies, University of Macedonia (Thessaloniki). He has been the ‘Stavros Costopoulos’ Research Fellow at the Hellenic Foundation for European and Foreign Policy (ELIAMEP), where he headed the foundation’s South-East Europe Programme, and he was editor-in-chief of the journal Southeast European and Black Sea Studies. As a CRIC researcher he was aﬃliated with PRIO Cyprus

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Centre. He holds a PhD in social and political sciences from the University of Cambridge and an MA in international relations from the University of Kent at Canterbury. His doctoral thesis focused on political competition, civic politics, and war in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Ioannis has taught at several universities and other research institutes in Greece and the United Kingdom. He has also worked as consultant and policy analyst for U.S. and U.K. governmental projects in Bosnia and Kosovo. Email: [email protected] Ben Davenport was a research assistant and administrator on the ‘CRIC Project – Cultural Heritage and the Re-construction of Identity after Conflict’ at the McDonald Institute of Archaeological Research at the University of Cambridge. Since completing his Master’s degree at Cardiff University in ‘The European Neolithic’ in 2005 he has worked for both the Cambridge Archaeological Unit and Department of Archaeology and has been involved in research projects in Southeast Europe on ‘Changing Beliefs of the Human Body’ and Southeast Asia on the ‘Cultured Rainforest Project’. His current research focuses on the role of memorials and cultural heritage in contemporary memory and identity discourses in Belgrade, Serbia. Email: [email protected] Olga Demetriou is a senior researcher with the Cyprus Centre of the Peace Research Institute, Oslo (PRIO). She has a long-term interest in the anthropology of space and place. Her research on the politics of urban space amongst Turkish speakers in Greece has been published in various journals and edited volumes. Since completing her PhD on the topic in 2002, she has focused on processes of socialisation in the Cyprus conflict. Her work covers issues of marginalisation and rights, specifically minority, gender, and citizenship/ migration-related rights. Prior to joining PRIO, she had held posts at the University of Cambridge and University of Oxford as well as a research position with Amnesty International. Email: [email protected] Paola Filippucci is a lecturer in Social Anthropology at Murray Edwards College, University of Cambridge, with a background in both social anthropology and archaeology. She has long-term research interests in the perception and politics of the past and of heritage in Europe. She has been an investigator on several major international interdisciplinary projects in Europe, including the European Union project ‘Environmental Perception and Policy-Making: Cultural and Natural Heritage and the Preservation of Degradation Sensitive Environments in Southern Europe’. In France she has conducted extensive field research on archaeological and historical heritage and on social memory in one of the Great War battlefield areas. Email: [email protected] Alfredo González-Ruibal is a staff researcher at the Heritage Laboratory (LAPA), Spanish National Research Council (CSIC). He was an assistant professor in the Department of Prehistory, Complutense University of LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS xv

Madrid (UCM) (October 2006–September 2009) and had a Fulbright Post- doctoral fellowship at the Stanford Archaeology Center (2005–2006). Alfredo is interested in how modernity fails or goes wrong, how it produces ruins and rubbish. He studies the confrontation between modernity and traditional cultures in Spain, Brazil, and Ethiopia and how ruins of modernity are filled with pain and trauma. Email: [email protected] Matthias Neutzner finished his studies in aviation technology and data processing as a certified engineer. He has dealt in different professional positions with communication processes at the interfaces of society and technology and is employed as a management consultant for public admin- istrations. He is the instigator and leader of the association ‘February 13, 1945’, an intergenerational project in which both the survivors of the February 1945 Dresden bombings and younger people have been working for peace and human rights topics. As a historian he has been researching the history of the region of Dresden under Hitler’s National Socialism and during the Second World War as well as the dynamics and efforts to commemorate these events. Matthias is the author of several monographs and media productions on this topic. Email: [email protected] Carmen Ortiz is a Senior Researcher at the Institute of History, Spanish National Research Council (CSIC). Since 2000 she has been secretary of the editorial board of the CSIC journal Revista de Dialectología y Tradiciones Populares. She has a PhD in prehistory and ethnology and was Assistant Professor of Ethnology at the Complutense University of Madrid from 1984 to 1986. Her recent research and publications focus on popular culture and manners of expression in urban contexts, especially with regard to material culture and consumption, use of public space, and the social construction of cultural heritage. She is the editor of the recent book on the Carabanchel Prison Lugares de represíon, paisajes de la memoria. La cárcel de Carabanchel (2013, Libros de la Catarata, Madrid). Email: [email protected] Carsten Paludan-Müller has been general director of the Norwegian Institute for Cultural Heritage Research (NIKU), Oslo, Norway, since 2002. He is also treasurer and board member of the European Association of Archaeologists (EAA) and has been working for the past two years as an expert on cultural identity and citizenship with the Council of Europe. His current research work and interests relate to the changing role of cultural heritage in its contemporary contexts through time, with a particular focus on the large-scale transformations that worldwide challenge the way we conceive the role of the past in our present. Email: [email protected] Karl-Siegbert Rehberg has held the Chair of Sociological Theory, History of Sociology, and Sociology of Culture at Dresden University of Technology xvi LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

since 1992, being the senior professor since 2009. He studied sociology and political science from 1969 to 1973 in Cologne and later Aachen where he gained his doctorate. He was president of the German Sociological Association from 2003 to 2007 and a visiting professor in Leiden, Rome, Naples, Lausanne, and Paris and for ten years in Trento. He is a member of the Collegio San Carlo in Modena and has sat on many scientific committees, including at the Goethe- Institute. His main fields of research are sociological theory (institution analysis) and cultural studies, especially sociology of art. He also researches the transformation of East Germany after the re-unification, including work on the politics of identity and cultural heritage. Email: karl-siegbert. [email protected] Dzenan Sahovic is director of the European CBRNE Center, a centre for the advanced studies of societal security and vulnerability, in particular connected to incidents involving (C)hemical, (B)iological, (R)adioactive, (N)uclear, or (E)xplosive substances. He completed his PhD in the Department of Political Science, Umeå University, with the thesis ‘Socio-Cultural Viability of International Intervention in War-Torn Societies: A Case Study of Bosnia Herzegovina’. Since 2006 he has been a lecturer in political science and peace and conflict studies in the same department. In 1999 he was programme assistant at the International Organization for Migration (IOM) Balkans Head Office in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. He is also a lecturer in Peace and Conflict Studies in the Department of Political Science, Umeå University. Email: [email protected] Edwige Savouret is a lecturer (Maître de Conférences) at the Université Paul Verlaine, Metz (UPVM). She is a member of the Département de Géographie and of the research laboratory ‘GEOPOL’ of the CEGUM (Centre d’études géographiques de l’Université de Metz), which focuses on territorial management in relation to geopolitics and defence. She attained her doctorate from the University of Caen Basse-Normandie, France; her thesis raised the expression of ‘geographical event’ to the rank of concept in order to specify the building of a new geographical space devoted to memory following a historical shock. This approach was applied to the Landings Beaches of Normandy, a coast where the military operations of 6 June 1944 induced major environmental and societal impacts, and to explain the transformation of historical sites into memorial places today. Edwige has worked on the CRIC Project –‘Cultural Heritage and the Re-construction of Identity after Conflict’ creating a Geographical Information System (GIS) in order to record historical, cultural, and ethno- logical characteristics of the battlefields of the Great War (Verdun/Argonne, Marne, Somme), permitting spatial and temporal analysis of the relationships between conflicts, heritage, and identity in the case of the so-called Eastern frontier of France. Email: [email protected] LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS xvii

Marie Louise Stig Sørensen is a Reader in Archaeology at the University of Cambridge and professor of Bronze Age studies at Leiden University, The Netherlands. She created and has been the coordinator of the University of Cambridge’s postgraduate degree in ‘Archaeological Heritage and Museums’, one of the earliest degree courses in this field. She has considerable research experience, including being a partner on several projects, such as the EU project ‘Emergence of European Societies’, the Leverhulme-funded project ‘Changing Beliefs of the Human Body’, and the Hera-funded investigation of ‘Creativity and Craft Production in MiddleandLateBronzeAgeEurope’. Her interest within Heritage Studies has mainly focused upon the link between heritage and identity with specific attention towards gender and nationalism. Her recent work investigates the impact of slavery. Amongst her publications are Heritage Studies: Methods and Approaches (co-edited with John Carman, 2009, Routledge). Email: [email protected] Homepage: http:// www.arch.cam.ac.uk/~mlss/ David Uzzell is Professor of Environmental Psychology, a Fellow of the British Psychological Society, and Director of the Environmental Psychology Research Group at the University of Surrey. His principal research interests focus on public understandings of climate change, critical psychological approaches to changing consumption and production practices, environmental risk, and identity and the past. He has undertaken a substantial amount of research investigating the role of social and community processes such as social cohesion and social identity processes on environmental and heritage attitudes and behaviours, and the evaluation of the effectiveness of exhibitions, museums, and interpretive facilities and services. His concept of ‘hot interpretation’ has been used extensively to design heritage displays. Email: [email protected] Dacia Viejo-Rose was a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellow (2012–2014) and has recently been appointed to a lectureship focusing on cultural heritage in the Department of Archaeology and Anthropology at the University of Cambridge. Her current research project is on cultural violence and violence against culture. She is the author of Reconstructing Spain: Cultural Heritage and Memory after Civil War (2011). Dacia was coordinator of the European Cultural Foundation’s UK national committee, organising a series of seminars at Chatham House (2003–2005). She also worked at UNESCO in the Department of Cultural Policies for Development (2000–2002), where she managed the UNESCO Cities for Peace Prize. She was a Postdoctoral Fellow on the Cultural Heritage and the Reconstruction of Identities after Conflict – EU FP7 (CRIC) project. Email: [email protected] Homepage: http://www.arch.cam.ac.uk/~dv230/ xviii LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Dino Zulumovic graduated with a degree in history from the University of Sarajevo. He has worked in the field of cultural heritage in Bosnia and Herzegovina for a number of years and was previously employed by the Commission to Preserve National Monuments of Bosnia Herzegovina. From 2009 to 2012 he worked as a researcher for the Bosnian part of the ‘CRIC Project – Cultural Heritage and the Re-construction of Identity after Conflict’. In this capacity he has conducted extensive fieldwork at case locations and has been active in collection and processing of data at national and media archives throughout Bosnia and Herzegovina. Email: [email protected] ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The chapters collected here all relate to work conducted as part of the research project ‘Cultural Heritage and the Reconstruction of Identities after Conflict’ (CRIC) funded by the European Community’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP/2007-2013 grant no 217411). Working on such complex, and at times still traumatic, issues tests researchers in multiple ways – emotionally as well as analytically. Together we had to find coherent and constructive responses to difficult methodological and ethical challenges, select case studies that would aid understanding, and engage with the results at both specific and general levels. We would like to acknowledge all of the project participants, including those not authoring chapters in this volume, for their important contributions to the development of the research. They are Cristina Sánchez-Carretero, Costas Constantinou, Mete Hatay, Barbara Lubich, Fiachra McDonagh, and María Oianguren. We are also grateful for the assistance given by the numerous facilitators during fieldwork, and to the many who shared their memories and insights through interviews and conversations; they are too numerous to mention, but the generosity with which they shared their experiences was an essential contribution to this work. Finally, we would like to thank Ben Davenport for his invaluable help in the preparation of the volume, Benjamin Morris for proofreading and insightful comments, Dora Kemp for significantly improving the quality of many of the images, and Lindy Fleming for managing the production of the YouTube videos. As an additional means of communicating about the densely complex places discussed in this volume, a number of videos were made in which the authors talk about their research findings. In some of these videos authors’ narratives about the places are accompanied by additional images that could not be included in this volume. Both the videos and an archive of photographs from the project are publically available, providing readers with access to further materials and to the voice of the researchers.

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Videos are available at: www.youtube.com/user/CRICResearchProject http://vimeo.com/user9075853/videos Additional images from the case studies can be found at: www.dspace.cam.ac .uk/handle/1810/214815 INTRODUCTION

THE IMPACT OF CONFLICT ON CULTURAL HERITAGE: A BIOGRAPHICAL LENS

Marie Louise Stig Sørensen and Dacia Viejo-Rose

he concern of this volume is the web of meanings and connotations Tassociated with particular places as a result of wars, conflicts, and their 1 aftermaths. It is about how cultural heritage is both affected and generated by conflict, and how such heritage is subsequently interpreted, responded to, and used. The chapters brought together here arose from a large collaborative research project, funded by the European Union, that explored the uses of cultural heritage in post-conflict reconstruction processes in five countries: Bosnia and Herzegovina, Cyprus, France, Germany, and Spain, with case studies added from Denmark and Serbia. The authors who together explored the varied facets of these processes brought with them a wide range of academic backgrounds, including archaeology, environmental psychology, geography, history, international relations, politics, and social anthropology; and all perspectives were needed as these are complex and intractable processes which affect individuals, generations, and policies. Together we explored different aspects of the historical processes and sought suitable methods for investigating dramatic and often still traumatic parts of the European cultural space. One major outcome is the detailed account of a number of specific places as presented in this volume and in the YouTube videos (http://www.youtube.com/user/CRICResearchProject)thataccompany it. Through these two sources the means by which places are rethought and remade during post-conflict phases, including reconstruction, are considered and analysed. In particular, the volume demonstrates that places are not just ‘the heritage of war’ but actively participate in the recovery and remaking of communities.

1 2 WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

Situated within the growing literature on the agents of memory of war (e.g., Ashplant et al. 2004; Bevan 2007; Gegner and Ziino 2012; Winter 2001), this volume demonstrates that the aftermath of conflicts can be analysed through the changes wrought to particular places as they absorb the impacts of conflict and emerge with altered roles, connotations, and meanings. This, however, does not mean that place is a passive receptor. On the contrary, the chapters show that place itself, just like people and institutions (Gegner and Ziino 2012: 3), can exercise agency, a dimension of post-conflict heritage construction that has been little explored. The scope of the volume is, therefore, at once broad, paying particular attention to post-conflict heritage landscapes, and sharply focused on the minute, and the at-times seemingly banal changes that post-conflict reconstruction activities introduce to the places we live in and with. There are several reasons for the approach advocated in this volume. First, the approach recognises that the complex phenomena of post-conflict heritage needs to be analysed and contemplated at different scales, ranging from studies in the instrumentalisation of decision making to the scrutiny of the links between actions and effects. Second, it acknowledges the importance of materiality and aims to introduce this underexplored dimension into debates about post-conflict heritage. Third, by investigating place the volume responds to the need to shift the gaze from the impact of conflict on particular monuments or collections to encompass a broader understanding of heritage including the significance of the temporal and geographical dimensions of place and how these contribute to the wider meanings of heritage. Finally, the approach retains the intimate relationship between heritage, place, and identity helping to demonstrate their interconnectedness. The particular focus of the volume is on what may loosely be termed ‘reconstruction activities’, taking these as the analytical lens through which we examine the impact of conflict and its aftermath on social identities – in particular, the construction of meaning and the sense of belonging in places. These complex relationships can be analysed from a number of angles and at different scales. Here we have chosen to investigate the biographies of particular places. This specificity allows us to pinpoint how cultural heritage is affectedorindeedmadebyconflict, and how it can become activated by post-conflict reconstruction and recovery activities. Place was selected as a means of addressing both the concrete impacts and the intangible marks that conflicts leave on the fabric of specific sites: buildings, monuments, bridges, parks, or squares. Place is a powerful focus because it is at once the means and the medium for reconstruction and recovery efforts. In addition, there is clear evidence that places imbued with symbolism have often been targeted for deliberate destruction during conflicts. This gives such places additional layers of meaning post-conflict causing them to become foci of attention during reconstruction. History shows us both how frequently INTRODUCTION 3 such places are deliberately targeted and how often they have been used as tools for the rebuilding of belonging and meaning. The concept of biography of place is therefore a powerful tool for analysing in detail how meaning of place is reconstituted during conflict and post-conflict. Accordingly, this volume presents the biographies of a number of places that, through a series of circumstances born of modern European conflicts, came to play important historical roles in their particular localities and in the shared imaginary of Europe as a whole. Each place has in various ways been affected by conflict and reshaped by post-conflict activities, tensions, and intentions. The aim is to explain the importance of such places for the reconstruction of society after conflict and to show how they are used in various ways to voice concerns, claims, and interpretations of the conflict, to ‘move on’ or to silence memory. Embodying certain discourses, these sites become significant, influencing how societies come to formulate accounts of events and how they envision the future. What the case studies clearly indicate is that some places become iconic representations of complex events, gaining an array of meanings that transform them into signifiers for understandings that go well beyond their own context- specific histories and which sit apart from official heritage valuation and management policies. Irrespective of their ‘heritage value’, such sites become ‘invested places’ that are owned by larger communities. Some of the chapters make it possible to explore these dynamics and to analyse the processes through which sites become iconic, their destruction becoming ‘memory events’, and their very names signifiers for wartime violence. When looking at these sites we therefore try to look beyond the layers of symbolism to understand what actually happened at and to the place. Indeed, one of our aims is to track the processes through which places acquire or lose meaning, how particular understandings are generated, but also how these may be manipulated or changed. The biographical approach allows the authors to hone in on particular places, analysing how the processes of interpretation and reinterpretation unfold through time, and how claims about historical events are shaped through different post-conflict stages and experiences and by different kinds of actors. In so doing the volume also explores how conflicts can continue to live on in different forms as a result of the reconstruction and remaking of places. Our overall ambition is to aid the understanding of post-conflict reconstruction processes and their impacts by connecting wide-ranging, theoretical appraisals of reconstruction and memorialisation to the insights that arise from analyses of the specific physical places through which they are articulated.

ON LEGAL INSTRUMENTS AND ESTABLISHED PRACTICES The consistent connection between war and heritage is the main concern underwriting this volume. Examples are wide-ranging, including cases from 4 WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

different historical contexts and from different countries, and they consistently illustrate how heritage can be called upon to back political claims, legitimise power, or inflict harm on opponents. The destruction can take many forms (Viejo-Rose 2007: 103), including deliberate targeting, misuse, looting, vandalism, and iconoclasm. A key moment in the official recognition of this relationship dates to the Napoleonic Wars, when the vast scale of rampant looting and destruction was acknowledged at the Congress of Vienna (1814– 1815). This concern was furthered through the development of nation-states, which throughout the nineteenth century boosted a sense of identity through references to a national past (e.g., Díaz-Andreu and Champion 1996), resulting in growing awareness of national ownership of cultural heritage. As a result, the notion of national cultural property became increasingly important in the definition of identities, belonging, and boundaries (Anderson 1983). This national reframing of heritage was accompanied by various attempts to develop formalised and binding legal instruments, including some pertaining to cultural property during war. These were not heritage laws as such, but rather regulations included under rules of war. The Lieber Code of 1863, prepared during the American Civil War (1861–1865), is often cited as the first stage in this process of codification (Schindler and Toman 1988). It detailed the conduct of Union soldiers, ordering them to protect art, libraries, scientific collections, and instruments ‘against all avoidable injury’, and to acknowledge and protect ‘cultural objects and sites in occupied territories’ (Boylan 1993). The Lieber Code was instrumental for the subsequent formulation of the Hague Conventions on land warfare of 1899 and 1907 and other international treaties. Today the 1954 Hague Convention on the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict and its subsequent protocols of 1999 are core instruments; the principles for cultural property set out in these conventions have become part of customary international law (O’Keefe 2006; Toman 1996). A number of significant issues pertaining to our understanding of heritage and its protection are embedded within this legal history. One is the disquiet about the deliberate destruction of heritage as opposed to collateral damage that gradually became an area of explicit concern. The distinction was clearly acknowledged in the 1954 Hague Convention and has become further emphasised in more recent texts such as the 2003 UNESCO ‘Declaration concerning the Intentional Destruction of Cultural Heritage’. Another is the complex relationship between heritage and conflict as revealed in early legal texts, notably in their reference to ‘cultural property’ rather than heritage. This terminology, of course, connects heritage to concepts of ownership and material value, and focuses concerns on return and reparation – a conceptualisation that overlooks the complexities of immovable and intangible heritage and introduces an unhelpful (and often inaccurate) assumption of ownership being well defined. A further consequence of the focus on heritage as property is INTRODUCTION 5 that legal concerns are limited to its physical integrity and develop no measures to protect against other forms of misuse and appropriation. These attitudes to heritage are carried forward into post-conflict reconstruction efforts. In practice, reconstruction plans often focus entirely on tangible cultural heritage with scarce recognition of its intangible dimensions and are carried out within a simplistic understanding of ownership and heritage value. There is also a strong tendency for heritage reconstruction to be undertaken separately from concerns about social recovery, resulting in links between different aspects of communities’ recovery being poorly understood and the importance of cultural dimensions underappreciated. Heritage reconstruction guidelines are primarily formulated according to architectural conservation practices such as those in the Venice Charter of 1964; the ideal is that the integrity of the monument should not be distorted (Articles 14–15). This means maintaining or returning the monument to its original state, employing minimal interference and clearly marking interventions. The guidelines are grounded in a position that sees the original state as the authentic form, thus leaving it unclear how later historical additions and changes, including those caused by conflict, can become part of the site and may need to be acknowledged during reconstruction. This reflects an attitude towardsheritagethatpresumesitcanexistinisolationfromitswidercontexts. Post-conflict reconstruction of heritage is carried out as if it involves a purely technical process, a matter of stone and mortar, rather than of meaning and symbolism. Moreover, post-conflict reconstruction as a social project is usually discussed from the point of view of politics, where security, rule of law, and governance overshadow interrelated issues to do with memory and cultural impact. The collaborative effort presented in this volume has therefore been guided by the pressing need to analyse reconstruction processes historically to understand what is actually involved, in what is never just a project of physical conservation, but also part of the establishment of a new meaning-scape. Without analyses of the seminal decisions and dynamics that drive the (re)construction of symbolic places, the nature and consequences of these processes will continue to evade us. The chapters in this volume thus seek to connect the material aspects of reconstruction with their symbolic, social, and political dimensions to understand them as processes, and thus trace how meanings are generated, shared, contested, and transformed.

ON THE AGENCY OF MATERIALITIES: HERITAGE, SITES, AND PLACE In the past two decades the ways in which we look at cultural heritage have evolved dramatically, and we are beginning to come to grips with its complex nature and its multi-faceted ramiﬁcations. The research that underlies this volume made a conscious choice to move beyond traditional sites of heritage, 6 WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

such as monuments and museum collections, to look closely at how particular places become so laden with symbolic meaning and affective associations that they are seen as cultural heritage by various groups or by the state. In so doing we hope to enrich our understanding of heritage and more specifically the multiple ways in which conflict creates and transforms it. Motivating this decision was also our concern that there is a lack of substantive work on how cultural heritage fares in situations of armed conflict and their aftermath, despite a recent growth in the study of heritage sites representing or embodying conflict or contestation – often collectively termed ‘dissonant’ heritage (Tunbridge and Ashworth 1996), ‘difficult’ heritage (Logan and Reeves 2008; MacDonald 2009), ‘heritage that hurts’ (Uzzell and Ballantyne 1998), or ‘dark’ tourism/ ‘dark’ heritage (Lennon and Foley 2000; Carr 2012). We have also seen a growing concern with the relationship between war and memory that includes deliberations over the role of heritage (e.g., Gegner and Ziino 2012; Winter 2001). Nonetheless, we still lack in-depth analysis and comparative studies of the nature of such sites, including debates about on what basis we identify some as ‘sites of conflict’ or ‘war heritage’ while ignoring others. To understand this intuitive nomenclature, we need to scrutinise the processes through which such sites come into existence, their varied impacts, and what causes the meanings associated with them to change over time. This volume aims to link such considerations to detailed factual investigations. It is well known that heritage sites act as anchors of symbolic meaning in urban and rural spaces, that they contribute to the construction of places, and that they are crucial to the relationship between people and their built environments. Not all places are the same, however, and why and how some become linked to heritage in a significant manner is not well understood. At one level, their construction as significant heritage depends on recognition and agreements; it is in this sense that heritage is a process or discourse rather than merely tangible remains (Smith 2006). Nonetheless, we argue that the places themselves – their physical character – also matters, and that understanding the impact of materiality, and the effects and influences that tangible heritage may have, is essential to detailed analysis of such places. This concern with materiality sits in an interesting tension with recent discussions of the concepts of site and especially that of place, as there have been calls for more nuanced insights into how such spatial entities are created and how they are contingent on their construction through meaning making and action. Within such discussions ‘site’ is often used to imply a physical location, whereas ‘place’, it is argued, is created through meaningful engage- ment or is considered to represent the social construction of ‘placeness’. The tension is only an impression, however, as both site and place need anchorage; both concepts comprise materiality even if this characteristic has not been the subject of substantial consideration in recent theorisation. The exception is the INTRODUCTION 7 phenomenological approach to landscape in which the physical setting plays a formative role through its impact on how individuals interact with space (e.g., Tilley 1994). Here we aim to demonstrate that materiality is an important aspect of place. It affects our phenomenological encounter with particular places through both their physical presence and their visual effects; but impact goes beyond the bodily encounter. Places are also loci for experiences and events, means of recall, and foci of memory. Through these connections places provide testimony to events: they are evidence. They are the tangible results of bombings, battles, reconstructions, decay, and dismantling. Places exist in networks of references, citing other places through repetition or borrowing of forms, and in their materiality places carry meaning – linked to other places and over generations. Our experiences of the built environment that we inhabit, and our formation of connections to it, are profoundly influenced by its materiality. In terms of conflict and post-conflict activities these tangible qualities of place are important, helping to explain why such places become targeted – for both destruction and reconstruction. Firstly, their physicality creates an obvious focus for attention and activities; alterations to their physical form can be observed and responded to: the ‘message’ of the destruction is unavoidable. Second, as argued above, they matter because within this physicality lie intangible values, which explain why some places are imbued with symbolic meaning and emotions and others are not. Places can therefore be used as tools both for the destruction and for the rebuilding of society, including ephemeral aspects such as belonging and meaning, sense of value, and notions of integrity. Conflict affects the heritage in a manner that can be tangible, immediate, and visual, and through this it also affects the intangible meanings and associations linked to such heritage; post-conflict reconstructions similarly affect both dimensions. Moreover, because of the close interconnections between tangible and intangible heritage, it is difficult to damage the one without also affecting the other. Understanding the quality of materiality is therefore essential to our task, as it provides the tangible focus of experiences, practices, and meanings. The aim of the volume is therefore not only to explore how war impacts certain places but also how these in turn, irreversibly transformed by the conflict, shape behaviour and attitudes. Responding to this challenge, this volume provides the biographies of a number of places, analysing how through their tangible presence and transformations they came to play specific roles in post-conflict processes of rebuilding and recovery. In some cases the particular buildings or sites studied became memorial sites, in others they became sources of conflict and dissonance, and yet in others they were used for the purpose of reconciliation or in the creation of new identities. Comparison across the cases illuminates the variegated ways in which place has agency, how in the aftermath of conflict it 8 WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

shapes attitudes and creates atmospheres, and how it acts as a signpost of meanings both old and new. Collectively the cases therefore help to illustrate some of the diversity of how these connections are drawn and redrawn.

ON DESTRUCTION AND CONSTRUCTION: THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN CULTURAL HERITAGE AND WAR The relationship between cultural heritage and conflict involves a dynamic of construction, destruction, and reconstruction: new heritage sites emerge as a result of conflict even as existing ones are targeted, obliterated, and reinter- preted. Existing research on the impact of armed conflict on cultural heritage tends to focus either on its destructive effects on the physical integrity of sites or on the attempts to mitigate that destruction, increasingly expressed in terms of ‘cultural emergency relief’ (e.g., Frerks et al. 2011). Although these are all important contributions, what this volume addresses is the often-neglected dimension of conflict as transformative of cultural heritage, how it engenders new sites and adds new symbolic dimensions to existing ones even as others are destroyed and disappear. It thus adds to the emergent research areas concerned with the creation of war heritage (e.g., Gegner and Ziino 2012), but aims to bring attention to the processes and mechanisms involved by presenting sites as co-authors of their own history in order to avoid treating heritage merely as a victim or product of war. Heritage sites have particular agency for they are effective means of creating narrative links between people, their pasts, and their surroundings including potentially contradictory claims. The memorial site at Verdun is both one of mourning and loss, and one of creation of a national spirit, pride, and hope for a different future. Dresden’s Frauenkirche can be simultaneously a symbol of hope and of suppression, just as Gernika’s rebuilt square can be an aspiration to both tradition restored and the establishment of a new order. Such cases show how places may contain semantic contradictions without losing their evocative power. Conflict transforms how landscapes are read and buildings understood; battles and atrocities imbue certain places with new significance even as others seem to be forgotten. This can be observed in media coverage of wars in which dramatic headlines single out specific places or events, such as ‘The Tragedy of Guernica. Town Destroyed in Air Attack’ (The [London] Times, 28 April 1937), or more recently ‘Mostar’s Old Bridge Battered to Death’ (New York Times, 10 November 1993). As a result, certain heritage sites are prioritised, drawing horrified gazes to their destruction. But as argued above the relationship between cultural heritage and armed conflict runs far deeper than such material damage, and questions arise about intentionality and consequences that accompany the destructive acts (Viejo-Rose 2011a: 53–58) and which deeply influence their long-term impact. Cultural heritage can be deliberately targeted INTRODUCTION 9 in order to damage an opponent’s morale or its tourist industry, to send a message about the cultural distinctiveness of the ‘other’ or to defy the international community, threatening and installing fear. The consequences of this form of violence pan out over a long period: from the immediate shock and grief, to a protracted period of mourning over the loss, to longer-term feelings of resentment, to a generation that grows up without the materiality of that cultural referent. This volume shows that only by considering the long view is it possible to begin to appreciate the full impact of violence on cultural heritage. Post-conflict reconstruction efforts are a crucial part of this impact. Even when buildings and monuments are rebuilt, the narrative of their destruction usually remains mixed in with the new mortar. The impossibility of recovering the damaged heritage sites as an untainted original by restoring them to their pre-conflict state is clearly a reality on the ground, although belied by most reconstruction rhetoric and guidelines. Different examples of these tensions are explored in the volume. In the cases of Gernika and Dresden, we investigate the transformation of places that were already highly symbolic before they were subjected to catastrophic aerial bombardments, whereas in the case of Belgrade’s Generalštab the symbolism arose directly from the building’s destruction.

MEANING AND MATERIALITY IN THE AFTERMATH OF CONFLICT: A SLIPPERY RELATIONSHIP The impact of conflict on heritage is thus not limited to the conflict itself, for cultural heritage is equally used and transformed during post-conflict phases when efforts are aimed at the recovery of society. Moreover, the interpretations and propagandistic uses of the conflict and its destruction of heritage usually last well into the post-war period and taint the reconstruction (Viejo-Rose 2011a and b). In the aftermath, cultural heritage can therefore be used to serve a number of functions acting simultaneously as receptor, container, and reflector of intention, meaning, and emotion. Whether it is rebuilt, restored, ignored, or preserved in a ruined state, each action will be presented and interpreted as part of the construction of the new, post-conflict, society. New heritage sites emerge as a result of this process. Despite these complex links, the aftermath of conflict is a weakly defined area of cultural politics, and although there are some legal precedents and frameworks available for reparation and repatriation activities, such as the 1954 Hague Convention, there are no clearly formulated guidelines for post-conflict reconstruction planning, responses, and directions. The guidelines that do exist, moreover, are often fragmented in terms of differentiated tasks spread out and formulated by a wide array of institutions with varying agendas and more-or- less short-term aims. In practice, the reconstruction of material cultural heritage is therefore commonly separated from the thinking about the urgent and 10 WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

pressing needs of societies emerging from conflict. In recovery, culture is set well down the list of priorities, which are headed by ‘hard’, though undoubtedly crucial, political goals such as security and rule of law. As a result, the reconstruction of cultural heritage is primarily formulated according to architectural and museum conservation guidelines, such as the 1964 Venice Charter, that indicate professional ‘best practice’ for the conservation and restoration of monuments generally. This approach focuses on technical processes and does not provide nuanced guidance on the essential influences and importance of symbolism, nor how these influences are intricately linked to societies through a fine mesh of associated ideas, beliefs, and traditions. In this volume, we seek to bring these two dimensions back together and explore how what happens to cultural heritage during conflict and in its aftermath ultimately impacts on the reformulation of community values and identities.

BIOGRAPHY OF PLACE The concept of biography has in recent years been applied outside its original reference to the stories of individuals and is used increasingly as an approach to the study of things as well as landscape and place. The concept of the biography of things is, for example, widespread within cultural studies. Influenced by writing such as Kopytoff’s 1986 article ‘The Cultural Biography of Things’,itis argued that people and things are entwined, or that they inform each other: ‘[a]t the heart of the notion of biography are questions about the links between people and things; about the ways meanings and values are accumulated and transformed’ (Gosden and Marshall 1999: 172). In its application to portable things the concept of biography has been useful for acknowledging and analysing the changing meanings of objects and of seeing the relationship between people and things as a kind of entanglement (Appadurai 1988). Although it may be criticised for maintaining an anthropocentric understanding of how the world is constituted, it replaced earlier approaches that tended to present things as passive reflections of society and people’s intentions. Granting importance to the biography of things also carved the way for later arguments about the agency of objects leading to increased recognition of the formative influence objects may have and how they assert agency on their environment, including affecting meanings and actions (e.g., Gell 1998) or arguments for the blending of human life and things (Latour 2005; Olsen 2010: 129ff.). Surprisingly, the concept, and thus the analytical lens, that the biographical approach can provide, has mainly been used for the study of portable objects. Other kinds of materialities, such as places, have not been equally explored, ignoring the potential for enhancing analyses of places both as artefacts of material practices and as agents. Granting things and places agencies would move us ‘towards understanding them as co-constitutive of the world, as beings INTRODUCTION 11 in the world alongside other beings’ (Olsen 2010: 9). This does not, however, mean that they per se are all similar or equal, as different agents act on the world in distinct manners; but the mutual dynamic between people and things (in which we include places) is an essential aspect of how we make and experience the world. Olsen even argues for an increased mixing, stating that ‘more and more tasks are delegated to nonhuman actors, and more and more actions are mediated by things’ (ibid.: 9), and further that

these other entities do not just sit in silence waiting to be embodied with socially constituted meanings. Landscapes and things possess their own unique qualities and competences that they bring to our cohabitation with them. Throughout history, the property of soil and water, bone and stone, bronze and iron, have been swapped with those of humans. (ibid.: 10) Few studies have explored ‘biography of place’ as an approach. Amongst these are Sian Jones’s examination of the cultural biography of the eighth- century a.d. Hilton of Cadboll cross-slab in northern England (2004), Yannis Hamilakis’s work on the Parthenon marbles (1999), Wendy Ashmore’s discussion of biographies of place at Quirigua, Guatemala (2009), and Kate Brown’s account of the history of the borderland between Russia and Poland (2005). In this volume we depart, in part, from these earlier works not only because of the character of the conflict and post-conflict places that our research focuses on, but primarily because we aim to use the biographical lens as a means of close-grained analysis rather than as a metaphor or a tool for the production of narratives. Rather than a singular version, we maintain that biographies can have many strands, and that despite their temporal nature, biographies are not necessary sequential in terms of effects and understandings. As argued above, we also wish to stress the agential character of places themselves.

POTENTIAL OF APPROACH The use of a biographical approach helps to emphasise the ﬂuidity and dynamism of places, warning against singular monolithic interpretations of heritage by policymakers and heritage management professionals. The case studies in this volume show how places change through time acquiring new meanings layered upon older ones, how these meanings can be manipulated and their history appropriated, and how various physical aspects of places are part of their aﬀective agency. In the process of presenting these places, variations on Pierre Nora’s seminal concept of the lieux de mémoire (Nora 1984–1992), realms of memory, are explored. Yet here we apply his notion to physical sites, rather than to the more metaphysical ones he presents. Indeed, throughout this volume it is the assemblage of the material and the symbolic realms that sits at the heart of the analysis, and which makes it possible to hone in on the very 12 WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

processes and tangible qualities through which these sites come to act as reference points, markers in narratives of shared history and belonging. This volume argues that using a biographical approach helps to reveal the entanglement of places, people and events, providing a helpful analytical means of focusing on temporality and of recognising different kinds of time. As with things, where the biographies ‘can make salient what might otherwise remain obscure’ (Kopytoff 1986: 67), writing and analysing the biography of places makes it possible to simultaneously discuss the unfolding of processes, analyse their effects, and trace their changing meanings: how they are redefined and used. When emphasising the effect of temporalities we refer to how meanings, connotations, and associations accrue around places through time – places are never blanks but carry the imprint of what happens to them even if discourses are constructed so as to negate their history. For instance, when considering the example of the Frauenkirchen in Dresden it is clear that although the firestorm in some ways created a tabula rasa, the event that caused its destruction is central to its memory and has deeply affected subsequent actions connected to the site. Reconstruction of such places, whether faithful to the original or totally new, will contain interpretations of the destruction. The chapters also remind us that we do not yet comprehend how long this will continue – will the memory of the firestorm in Dresden continue to haunt the identity and the projection of the image of the place for generations to come, or do such events gradually cease to determine the ways we understand a place? The analysis of Franco’s reconstruction of Gernika is informative in this regard. Gernika was one of Franco’s adopted cities, and the reconstruction of its civic places, such as its Town Hall square, was undertaken according to his vision of the ‘new Spain’ whose virtues were to be expressed in architectural styles and decorative details, amongst other domains. Nonetheless, the new square was gradually absorbed into the town’s urban identity with the ideological vision behind it being lost. Interestingly, there have been no significant subsequent efforts to restore buildings only partially damaged or later claims for a return to the original architecture of the town. Whereas writing the history of Gernika’s destruction and setting the facts of the destruction are still hotly debated topics in the town, the architectural changes wrought through the Franco regime seem to have been accepted to the point of being almost forgotten. Other examples debated in this volume also point to the effects of time. The battlefield of Dybbøl in Denmark has in recent years undergone a dramatic reassignment in terms of how its history and meanings are officially presented, with the site being increasingly used to perform conciliatory events between Germans and Danes or used as part of the leisure industry – rather than blandly continuing its role as a national memorial park. This is in interesting contrast to the Ledra Palace in Nicosia, which began its life as part of a luxury leisure INTRODUCTION 13 industry, got caught up in the frontlines of conflict, was used as a site for negotiations that ultimately failed, and became the headquarters of UN peace keepers, today gradually falling into a state of dereliction. The analysis of such places suggests that with time the accrual, or layering, of meaning can alter perceptions of places. Comparatively analysing sites affected by recent conflicts, such as places in Bosnia, Cyprus, and Serbia, forcefully demonstrates how the change in meaning is often a deliberate part of political instrumentalisation: such changes can, as demonstrated in the analysis of the Kozara and Slana Banja case studies from Bosnia, take place within a strikingly short span of time. Both cases reveal the explicit political strategies behind changes in the meaning of monuments and memorials once intended as memory markers for all of Yugoslavia. The biographies of places are not random; their layering of meaning cannot be conceptualised merely as a palimpsest or as a sedimentation, as such interpretations lose sight of the various long-term effects of crucial events and the often explicit and deliberate re-awakening and re-use of earlier meanings, and the ability of society to absorb or negate others. This use of heritage as backdrop for performing reinterpretations of identity comes through in all of the cases. Another important point is the presence of different kinds of time within the biographies. By this we refer to how time is not experienced as sameness nor can its effects be considered through a simple linear timeline. Time is perceived in terms of events, watersheds, ruptures, and seminal points, some of these producing a condensation of time: of time standing still or collapsing. Such points and characteristics are crucial to the biography of places and to how events are often recalled or re-remembered and acted on in various ways. In the case studies we encounter places that were destroyed, reconstructed, abandoned, and recovered through time, and their biographies help to convey an understanding of their changing meanings. It is only through such an approach, which at once hones in on specifics and yet allows a broad chronological scope to be encompassed, that we can hope to achieve a new level of understanding about the fate of cultural heritage during conflicts and its subsequent reconstruction, and how both of these apparently different interventions can have profound and transformative effects on communities. This concept of a biography of place, with its implication of progression through different phases as well as formative junctures, transitions, and gradual transformation, helps us to extract and investigate places in terms of change, impacts, and consequences. What was the status of the place before the conflict, how was it (materially, culturally, and politically) affected by the conflict, and what followed afterwards? What were the crucial decisions at each stage of its life? Who made them, with what intentions, and within what contexts? These characteristics are, by necessity, placed within their specific cultural contexts and historical situations. We consider this to be similar to Clifford Geertz’s (1973)conceptof‘thick description’ within ethnography, which may be seen as 14 WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

‘an account of intentions, expectations, circumstances, settings, and purposes that give actions meanings’ (Greenblatt 1997:16), although we add a stronger emphasis on change and process as this may elude a concern simply with thick description. We aim to give the reader a palpable sense of the changing meanings of these mutable and disputed places through time in a level of detail that goes beyond simply referring to the eﬀect and aﬀect of place – providing insight into the processes which produce and maintain these sites, and the cultural myths and meanings that come to surround, and at times consume, them.

STRUCTURE OF THE VOLUME The case studies brought together here all come from Europe. The focus on a continent with a shared history has greatly enriched the value of the volume in terms of comparisons, and the shared use of a biographical approach provides additional cohesion. Examples range over 150 years, a temporal scope that allowed us to investigate the short-, medium, and long-term effects of acts of destruction and reconstruction. Through these qualities the volume both complements and supplements existing work in other regions (e.g., Logan and Reeves 2008; Purbrick et al. 2007), while also making it possible for future work to consider whether certain characteristics – such as the concern with authenticity, traditions of materiality, and the role of civic society – vary from one region to another. The volume benefits from being the outcome of a research consortium. This means that although each case study has been investigated in its own right and is the intellectual and analytical responsibility of its individual author or research team, the case studies have been discussed, debated, and critiqued during the entire research process by all the authors and partners in the research consortium. This means that whereas the methodology is not shared in a narrow sense, the case studies have in common a concern with extracting and investigating the biography of each of the places selected. Given the need for a detailed analysis as the basis for theorising the effects of post-conflict reconstruction activities, the chapters are all concerned with the construction and reconstruction of meaning through the rebuilding of heritage. This means that theoretical discussions on the motivations and impacts of reconstruction are connected to specific physical places where this process is played out. Through empirical studies the nuanced and complex political and social nature of sites and their meanings are identified, and the types of cultural meanings that are drawn and redrawn in the process of societal reconstruction are analysed. The raison d’être of this volume is that it is possible to identify shared characteristics within the reconstruction processes and locate the underlying mechanisms involved only by widening our knowledge about the specific ways INTRODUCTION 15 reconstruction of heritage takes place. This means investigating the various forms of meanings that are generated (intended and unintended) and analysing their impacts. This, collectively, is what the chapters aim at. Moreover, the level of details provided in each chapter allows the authors to go beyond merely identifying the effects of conflict on places, in order to engage analytically with the processes that produce and maintain these sites and the cultural myths and meanings surrounding them. We chose to structure the volume loosely based on the dates of the conflicts in question; we say loosely because the roots of both the conflicts and the heritage usually reach further back in time than what a specific start date suggests. Within the biographical approach, these roots are recognised as important, as are the continuous impacts and changing configurations and connotations of the ways that destruction is remembered and reconstruction is undertaken. The breadth of the case studies is based on a careful selection aiming at a wide time span, a range of different types of conflicts, and sites that are at once representative and significant. There are three case studies from the former Yugoslavia, one from Serbia and two from Bosnia and Herzegovina, two case studies from Spain, and one each from Cyprus, Denmark, Germany, and France. This multiplicity of cases responds to the diversity and complexity encountered in the fieldwork as well as the diverse range of conflicts. The time span ranges from the First Prussian War of 1864 to contemporary conflicts: the nineteenth-century Danish-Prussian War, the First World War, the Spanish Civil War, the Second World War, the Cypriot conflict, and the Yugoslav wars of the 1990s. In each case the short- and long-term aftermaths are considered. The sites were primarily selected for their iconic status and significance within regional, national, and at times international discourses and meaning-making mechanisms. In addition, they represent different kinds of places: battlefields and towns, rural and urban landscapes, single buildings and monuments. The chapters collectively illustrate how particular places come to play specific roles in the reconstruction of society after conflict. The cases include examples in which a site was purposefully reconstructed after events and others where reconstruction was intentionally stalled or where new constructions were prioritised; equally, we give examples of changes in ownership or regime with associated changes in ideological influences. Collectively the chapters help us to identify shared characteristics and locate some of the underlying mechanisms activated through the reconstruction of heritage sites. Although the chapters each focus on a particular material site – be it a building, square, monument, park, or battlefield – in all instances the authors have included within the scope of their analysis the discursive and physical topoi of the sites examined: their place within a symbolic and spatial topography. 16 WAR AND CULTURAL HERITAGE

A deliberate choice was made to tackle a variety of more and less well- known sites in order to include consideration of why some sites become iconic whereas others seem to crumble into ruined oblivion or emerge rebuilt with seemingly little attention. Gernika and Dresden clearly belong to the first category, as sites that became iconic representations of complex events, gathering an array of meanings over time that transformed them into signifiers whose readings and uses continue to extend beyond their specificcontexts and histories. Such iconic sites have come to represent acts of destruction irrespective of place; they have become part of a shared collective history, reference points signalling the horrors of war, and core entries in the repertoire of European sites of memory. Other sites such as the battlefields of Dybbøl and Verdun held positions of national importance but were also used to define relationships between former enemies and allies. Urban sites such as the Carabanchel Prison in Madrid, the memorial complex in Tuzla, and Belgrade’s Generalštab had important symbolic and ideological resonance at the municipal level. Yet other places such as the Ledra Palace Hotel moved in complex ways between local importance and a degree of relevance at the level of international actor, the latter furthermore expressed at military, diplomatic, and humanitarian levels. In contrast, the example of Kozara changed from being a stage set for the performance of a united Yugoslavia to becoming an exclusively ethnic memorial site. The state of ruination of a place adds a complex mesh of further meaning: its poignancy as a ‘wounded’ building introducing a visual sign of victimhood that can feed post-war identity narratives. The significance of the ruined site as a generator of new meanings can be seen throughout the cases presented here, especially compelling in Dresden’s Frauenkirche, Madrid’s Carabanchel prison, the Ledra Palace in Nicosia, and the Generalštab in Belgrade. By adopting a biographical approach, the specific and general are united: each case study addresses how a particular place was used and interpreted during various phases in a conflict and post-conflict scenario. The keen attention to detail and the observation of variations on themes help us to realise that contestation, and particularly tensions over meanings and interpretations of culture, were acute during supposedly peaceful post-conflict phases. One of the very important conclusions drawn from all the chapters is, therefore, that the impact conflict has on heritage is not limited to the actual moments of conflict: rather, cultural heritage is equally used and transformed in the long post-conflict periods when efforts are aimed at rebuilding and recovery. Moreover, the chapters provide telling examples of how interpretations and propagandistic uses of the conflict-induced destruction of heritage taint the motivations for and the aims of reconstruction (Viejo-Rose 2011a). This is powerfully documented in the case of Dresden. Such areas of practice have fewer legal frameworks or guidelines in place than those pertaining to heritage and conflict, despite their INTRODUCTION 17 potentially longer-term impact on how communities re-make themselves within these spaces. This volume investigates the life cycles of places that have been affected by conflict and which, through their post-conflict assignment of meaning, have become important places of memory and symbolic meaning. Through their biography we illustrate how such sites are used to voice and create meanings and how political groups with very different ideologies draw on them. This approach also reveals the centrality of such places for the recovery of post-conflict societies, for by embodying certain discourses they can come to influence how communities formulate both accounts of past events and projects for the future.

NOTE

1. We use the terms ‘conflict’ and ‘post-conflict’ rather than ‘war’ and ‘post-war’ to embrace a fuller range of armed conflicts and organised violence than is signalled by the term ‘war’ and to avoid debates about whether a particular conflict constituted a war or not. War is nonetheless the main form of conflict that we are considering, albeit in different forms, and our main focus is the aftermath of war. CHAPTER ONE

DYBBØL: THE CONSTRUCTION AND RECONSTRUCTION OF A MEMORIAL LANDSCAPE

Marie Louise Stig Sørensen and Inge Adriansen

INTRODUCTION This chapter investigates the construction of the battlefield of Dybbøl, Denmark, as a memorial site with particular changes of connotations and cultural and political meanings over time. Dybbøl is the site of a decisive battle in the Schleswig-Holstein war of 1864, won by Prussia and used by Bismarck to initiate his campaign of creating Greater Germany. After the war, a large part of the Danish monarchy was lost to Germany including the area where the battle occurred. This political situation lasted until 1920 when some of the area, including the battlefield, was incorporated with Denmark as a result of a 1 plebiscite (agreed upon as part of the Treaty of Versailles). This introduced a period of re-nationalisation of the battlefield as a Danish memorial landscape (Adriansen 2003, 2010a, 2010c). After Germany’s entry into NATO in 1955 and Denmark’s entry into the EU in 1973 the old animosity between the two warring partners was officially forgotten, and rapprochement between the two sides within the border region began; the effect of this on the usage of Dybbøl has been seen especially since 2000. The chapter proposes that the concept of ‘biography’–with its implication of progression through different phases as well as formative junctures, transitions, and gradual transformation – can be used as an effective means of exploring the afterlife of the battlefield and the changes in the meanings of the site. In the particular case, this approach helps to show how the degree of access to the site

18 DYBBØL 19 matters, stressing the difference between a site that is physically controlled and one that exists only as a place within the imagination and through emotional linkages. The chapter accordingly argues that the connotations of a place are influenced by the kinds of relations that can be constructed, making the difference between political and legal control as opposed to emotional claims significant for memorialisation purposes and practices. The change in the relationship to the site in 1920, due to the transferral of ownership, is, therefore, a dramatic and unusual rupture in the meaning of the memorial landscape, resulting in radical alterations of motivations and strategies regarding the site. This rupture makes it possible to analyse how a consensus about the meaning of the place is machinated, in the process showing something about the malleability of nationalism in terms of its expressions and formation. Historical landscapes of wars are often stressed as a means and focus of ‘a nationalistic narrative of a unified history and culture from the past to the present day’ (Raivo 2000: 145), but Dybbøl shows how political changes can interfere in this unified narrative and challenge an otherwise normalised relationship.

RELEVANCE OF THE CASE STUDY In addition to simply being yet another example of the biography of contested and meaningful places, a number of special features make this case study particularly relevant to this volume. Firstly, with the battle taking place almost 150 years ago the case study provides us with the means of following changes over a substantial time period. Secondly, the lessons learnt from the changes in the ownership of the site provide important insights into deliberate processes of nationalisation, making it possible to closer scrutinise aspects of memorialisation and rebuilding processes. Thirdly, the record of what has happened to the site is detailed and multifaceted, making a biographical study that aims at tracing the change of meaning, including documenting the several phases of the site’s transformation, a feasible project. Using a biographical approach means that time becomes central to our study. It is often assumed that time affects the experience of war, that it will influence the strengths of emotions, making them fade and thus undermine the sense of onus, causing claims and insistence on entitlement to lose their relevance. At a general level, we also experience how time changes perceptions and memories so that events that took place a long time ago lose some of their potency. Time, we assume, will ‘heal’ and influence the sensation of needs and desire in terms of redressing or coming to terms with events. Time is also integral to our experience of memory and recall. It seems, however, that time is also more confusing in its effects. For instance, it interferes with our ability to recall and with the form our memories take. In particular, it introduces selection and distortion. There is a complexity in our responses to (and through that our 20 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

memorialisation of) war that cannot be accounted for merely by referring to the dulling effect of time (e.g., Ashplant, Dawson, and Roper 2000; Winter and Sivan 1999). Significant questions need to be asked about the lasting impact and the kind of aftermath specific wars or battles have, as we need to understand better why some wars continue to play a role and can be used to mobilise people, whereas others lose their potency. The investigation of the long-term history of battlefields, including the changing forms of their memorialisation and uses in the constructions of identities and claims, can contribute to this. Indeed, the question of whether the sites of battles continue to have ‘owners’ or whether (and why) at some point they cease to exist in the public awareness and become transformed into new kinds of places is one that has been little debated (but see Carman 2005). This is despite the concrete relevance of this in terms of practical routine decisions about the protection or, alternatively, the erasure of such sites. Battlefields, as memorial landscapes or heritage sites, are illustrative of the complex processes that unfold after the end of wars, and how the fighting may shift into new arenas. An enhanced understanding of how the meanings of battlefields change and how they may be used in negotiating established as well as emerging identities and roles would add to the knowledge needed to better manage our places of history (in the sense of responding sensitively and sensible to their meanings and purposes in contemporary society). This case study offers an opportunity to trace the changes in perceptions, concerns, and meanings of a particular site, allowing us to investigate the factors involved in these changes and to identify how the transitional points in its history affect its character as a memorial landscape for two nations.

LOCATION AND HISTORICAL BACKGROUND Dybbøl is located on Sundeved, a peninsula on the east coast of Schleswig (Figure 1.1a–b). In Danish national and public consciousness, Dybbøl is strongly associated with two events: the war of 1864 and the reunification of the northern part of Schleswig with Denmark in 1920.Itisthereforeimportanttoemphasise that Dybbøl and the area around it, like most other parts of Schleswig as well as regions farther north in Jutland, saw battles during the First Schleswig War of 1848–1850. The reasons for the two Schleswig wars are very complicated. The First Schleswig War was a civil war in the Danish monarchy. Liberals in Schleswig and Holstein revolted and tried with support from Prussia to establish an independent Schleswig-Holstein state. Ultimately the war resulted in a Danish victory. A second conflict, the Second Schleswig War, erupted on 1 February 1864, when Prussian forces crossed the border into Schleswig. The war culmi- nated on 18 April with the Prussian storming Dybbøl and ended on 29 June with the Prussian capture of the island of Als. The war ended officially on 30 October 1864, when the peace treaty of Vienna forced Denmark’s cession of the duchies 1.1a–b. Map of the area. Top, map of Slesvig, with the location of Dybbøl shown in relationship to the 1864 and the 1920 Danish-German border. Bottom, depiction of the layout of the battlefield presented on a postcard from the time; such postcards were very popular. (Sønderborg Museum, Sønderborg Slot.) 22 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

of Schleswig and Holstein. The Danish monarchy saw its population decrease by 33 per cent and its territory by 40 per cent. Another result was that the earlier Danish conglomerate state was changed into a nation-state. Although Dybbøl was already used as a battlefield during the First Schleswig War, the decisive battles of that war were located at other places in Jutland. Therefore, although the area of Dybbøl in 1864 already contained the physical scars of a previous war, it seems that the location did not have strong pre-existing symbolic, emotional, or political connotations, and, if anything, the landscape prior to the fighting has tended (both then and now) to be presented as a rural idyll, a peaceful farming landscape. The landscape into which blood was spilled is thus presented as innocent. This is an interesting contrast to some other battlefield areas, such as Verdun, where earlier events had a strong presence in the awareness of both the soldiers fighting in the area and amongst politicians and the general public (P. Filippucci, pers. comm.). Despite its location in a classic border region, the area of Dybbøl was until 1864 part of a duchy belonging to the Danish monarchy. Its incorporation into Greater Germany, as a result of the Prussian victory in 1864, therefore substantially altered the official national belonging of the area of the battlefield. Importantly, and somewhat unusually, its belonging changed again in 1920, when a large part of the land lost in 1864, including the area of the battlefield, was ‘reunited’ with/incorporated into the kingdom of Denmark based on the results of an internationally controlled referendum.

THE BATTLE Just like the political background to the war, the military sequence of the battle at Dybbøl has been examined with great care and attention to detail. On the basis of military documents, political directives (including the telegrams sent from the two governments to their generals at the front), and newspaper 2 accounts, it is possible to reconstruct and follow the progress day-by-day as well as the unfolding of particular events and attacks during the battle(s). This includes lists of the number of shells fired in a single day, detailed topographical descriptions, numbers of casualties, and, especially from the accounts of foreign newspapers, an impression of the conditions as experienced on the battlefield. These accounts also provide glimpses of human frailty as bad judgements were made (both in Copenhagen and on the battlefield) (Nielsen 1987), and how lives were lost unnecessarily. These insights into the human scale of decision making and suffering provide a means of feeling empathy and involvement. This may have influenced some aspects of the reactions that characterise the aftermath of the battle, as the war moved from the realm of abstraction and politics to a more direct sense of human sufferings. These accounts mean that we do not need to discuss the battlefield and the battle here apart from the barest of an outline. DYBBØL 23

THE DANISH DYBBØL FORTIFICATION The fortification ‘Dybbøl Skanser’ was built in 1861–1864 and consisted of seven large and three smaller redoubts. As already mentioned, the conflict in the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein had deep historical roots, and although Denmark was victorious in the 1848–1850 war, the problems of the border region had not at all been solved. It was not, however, until February 1864 that direct military action began again. By April of that year Prussian and Austrian3 troops had occupied large parts of Jutland, and most of the Danish army had pulled back to the fortification at Dybbøl, which was besieged by the Prussian army with its siege artillery targeting the fortifications from across the strait at Broagerland (see Figure 1.1b). The Prussian army was not only larger but also technically superior to the Danish, and the redoubts at the Dybbøl fortification were gradually ground to rubble, providing minimal protection and little strategic advantage. The attacks on Dybbøl gradually intensified until 18 April 1864, the day of ‘the storming’ of Dybbøl, when Prussian troops stormed the Dybbøl redoubts and conquered the fortification, and Danish troops were forced to pull back to the island of Als. Although the military campaign took place over a couple of months, there is a strong tendency in later memorialisation activities to focus on this single day, when the Danes effectively lost the decisive battle and Prussia won it. Similar to the effects caused by the attention to details in the accounts, this emphasis on the battle as a distinct event creates a moment saturated with potency – it provides a focus for emotions, concentrat- ing them on a single day as a well-defined tragedy or victory and thus enhances the sense of a human-scale drama. It is difficult to assess the actual casualties of the war, and different sources provide widely different numbers with obvious biases affecting the numbers given for each side. Depending on their nationality, wounded soldiers were movedto(andpossiblydiedat)different locations. In addition, many of those who were originally recorded as missing or deserters are now often considered to have been casualties as well. Descriptions of the physical collapse of the redoubts, being ground into heaps of timbers, stone, and earth, as well as the impact of the shelling, which sources described as tearing bodies apart, make it very likely that many bodies were mutilated beyond recognition, that they were never recovered, and that disarticulated body parts were not included in the counting. The human scale of the war is therefore merely captured, rather than necessarily accurately accounted for, when it is stated, for example, that on the 18th of April the Danish loss was nearly 50 per cent of the Dybbøl defenders: 808 dead, 909 wounded, 2,872 captured, and 215 missing, 4,804 in all. The Prussian loss was 1,201, of whom 263 were dead; this loss constituted 3 percentoftheirtotal numbers (Nielsen 1991). 24 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

RESULTS AND IMPACTS: A STORY IN FOUR PHASES The aftermath of the battle at Dybbøl is varied and found at different levels and in different forms. Both distinct and shared characteristics are found between the two sides. Within these the battle site itself, as the place of both supreme sacrifice and humiliating defeat, or for the other side the convincing victory, has loomed large and has been used as a potent symbol and rallying point through time. Nonetheless, its meanings have changed in important ways. Within these changes we can trace, amongst others, a change of meaning from being the site where war happened to a designated memorial place, and from being a highly charged symbol in the national psyche to becoming a more common element of mass culture. Moreover, whereas some of these changes appear modest and subtle, almost incidental, others are clearly stage-set and must be recognised as orchestrated by the state or particular political or interest groups. These changes can be observed through several factors: the form the site is given, how it presents itself, the kind of experiences it makes possible, and in how it provides a point of symbolic reference. They are also reflected by how references to the site (as a stand-in for the battle and its connotations) are found within and utilised by different forms of cultural and political activities. The records, accounts, texts, images, memorials stones, and souvenirs relating to Dybbøl provide important evidence of these changing meanings. Of course, different biographies with different temporal resolutions can be constructed; the one we have selected here is focused on four very distinct phases that the site undergoes in order to discuss how changes in connotations and meanings are linked to the passing from one to the other of these phases.

THE PHASE OF RECOVERY, RECORDING, AND ACCOUNTING The first phase began as soon as victory was declared in the afternoon at the battle site, and it lasted during the initial cease fire and the days immediately following. It may analytically be understood as a recovery and recording phase during which the immediately involved soldiers and officers from the two sides as well as a number of international observers, journalists from different papers, and German photographers were engaged in recording the ‘outcome’ of the event. These records are focused on two areas of concerns: the dead (and wounded) and observations of the battlefield and its damage.

Dybbøl Banke as a burial ground As the cease ﬁre was declared, people began to recover the dead and wounded. Basically, this part of the ﬁrst phase was about accounting for people and ‘cleaning’ up the site. The dead were being moved; they were collected together, counted, and, depending on military rank, were then either immediately buried DYBBØL 25

1.2. Woodcut showing Danish and German soldiers collected for burials. Note the person appearing to be keeping a record and the striking similarity to composition of the classic presentation of game after a hunt. (From Illustrated London News 1864; Sønderborg Museum, Sønderborg Slot.)

1.3a–c. Examples of F. Brandt’s photographs of Dybbøl immediately after the war. (Sønderborg Museum, Sønderborg Slot.) 26 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

or taken away for burial elsewhere. Thus, in the immediate aftermath of the battle, all dead soldiers not of officer rank appear to have been treated in a similar manner, although they were kept physically apart based on nationality and military unit. The row of four collective graves (three for Danish soldiers and one for German ones), some hundred metres from the trenches, suggests a central overseeing of the treatment of the dead, and little discrimination between Danish and German soldiers. There also seems to have been record keeping as the numbers buried in each grave (209, 100,and25 Danish soldiers, and 28 German ones) were written on the markers that were later placed on the graves. Despite presumably great chaos and a ruinous, destroyed landscape, there was a sense of establishing order, and in particular of being able to account for the dead. The officers were buried in individual graves at other locations. The coverage in some contemporary newspapers gives an impression of the horrendous conditions, which would have been worsened by the weather, the stench, and the chaotic, ruined topography. A Danish newspaper published a highly emotive piece a few days after the battle, which, despite its bias, captures a sense of the conditions at the battlefield:

After a much superior artillery had shattered the cannons and turned the redoubts into gravel heaps, after a bombardment, the like of which the world had hardly known before, had killed and maimed hundreds of defenders, robbed some of their senses, and induced lethargic indiﬀerence in others. (Dagbladet Fædrelandet, 25 April 1864, after Adriansen 1976: 44) In view of such physical conditions, the attempt at an accurate record is an interesting insight into the concerns and behaviour of the time.

The recording of the battlefield Another level of recording focused on the physical place, accounting for the installations that had been there and the degree of their destruction. As had been common, several illustrators, especially those working for various international newspapers, were present during and after the battle, and although they wrote from particular positions and with a bias towards the Danish side, they do provide records and eyewitness accounts. In addition, the area was also thoroughly photographed by photographers employed by the Prussian General Staff to record the battlefield. The best known of these was Friedrich Brandt from Flensburg. The photographic record of the Dybbøl battlefield is amongst the earliest uses of war photography, together with its employment in the Mexican-American War (1846–1848), the Crimean War (1853–1856), the Indian Rebellion of 1857, and the American Civil War (1861–1865). As with these examples, one can question the nature of the photographs: who were they aimed at and what were their aims? Were they DYBBØL 27 meant to provide a record of the events and the physical impacts on the site? Due to the technology at the time, we know that these were all installations in the sense of carefully planned and time-consuming executions, rather than snapshots capturing ongoing activities. It has been common to label such images propaganda material, but this raises questions about what constitutes propaganda – does it refer to the intentions built into the production of the images, and if so how was this done – were there explicit instructions to that effect, instructions about what should be emphasised in the compositions – or was it through their use that the images became propaganda? Unfortunately, the description of the task and conditions Friederich Brandt were given from the Prussian General Staff, whengivenpermissiontojointhecampaign,arenotknown(Steen1989). If we turn to the images (see Figure 1.3), then the most striking feature is the absence of death. It is clear that Brandt primarily aimed at a documentation of the conquest of Dybbøl, and the dominant theme is the military installations themselves, in details and as landscapes. The photographs show numerous versions of trenches, entrances, and wooden constructions, often devoid of any human element, and if accompanied by soldiers, they appear as groups of people, often in the distance, rather than personalised. Despite this absence and the aesthetic emphasis, the horror of the war is still communicated through Brandt’s photographs. However, if the intension was to provide propaganda, it seems to have been about the technology of war: these are the military installations that we conquered and destroyed! This, however, is not paralleled by propaganda about the conquest in terms of people. Therefore, whereas these photographs were not true records, scenes unaffected by intensions, we should perhaps nonetheless be careful of labelling them as propaganda in the modern sense. This does not imply that earlier photographs did not have an impact, they certainly often did; but it is important to consider how their impact was linked to the types of images taken and the contexts of their use, rather than assuming that all war photographs are propaganda. For the Danes, the recording and recovery phase also started immediately after the battle; but by necessity it took different forms. The leading Danish newspaper Berlingske Tidende published a report from the battle. It described the dogged endurance of the Danish soldiers who suffered greatly, but the power against them was too great. The defeat, the newspaper wrote, would arouse ‘heartfelt grief everywhere in Denmark’ (Adriansen 1976: 44). The defeat, moreover, was presented as inevitable because of the superior military technological of the Prussian army. English newspapers such as the Morning Herald supported this interpretation of the battle and wrote about the bravery and steadfastness of the Dane, ‘the like of this the world had never seen’ (Adriansen 1976: 42). Through such writings, which were widely cited, the foundation of a public image of what had happened was created. The elements selected then – bravery, 28 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

steadfastness, and sacriﬁces – became fundamental to the Danish narrative about Dybbøl that developed during the following phase.

THE PHASE OF REACTION – CONSTRUCTION OF VICTORY AND HONOURABLE DEFEAT (1864–1914) The second phase moves into the creation of specific meanings about the battle as represented by the physical site and the sacrifices and deeds associated with it. At this stage the two sides began to construct distinctly different narratives about the event as they focused on the construction of victory and defeat respectively. The core concern was the creation of a ‘place’ to which the memorialisation of the event could be linked; but here substantial differences emerge. Although both sides aimed to respond to the event in some fashion, and wanted to honour its dead, their differing access to the physical site, to the ‘sacred land on which blood was spilled’, forced them to construct their memorial-scapes differently. For both sides, the site was made into a new kind of landscape – a memorial landscape – but whereas the Germans could do so in terms of a physical site, for the Danes it had to be a place of the imagination, maintained and created through references. The resulting meaning-scapes were deeply affected by this difference. Pre-existing cultural symbols and metaphors were being reworked and utilised in these processes, and linkages to established cultural forms and topoi were used as additional tools in the shaping of meanings. The importance arising from the differences in access is significant. It forcefully shows the challenges that arise when people after conflict are differently situated regarding control over and access to ‘formative events’, physically as well as psychologically. Clearly, in post-conflict scenarios, access and control are important aspects of how events can become reconstructed as places imbued with meaning, or whether other cultural forms have to replace actual places. The Prussian side engaged in two types of activities: one aimed at creating a point of celebration and victory, and another aimed at turning the area into a more effective defence system. In contrast, the Danish side, affected by a culture of defeat, needed some years before formulating their responses: memorialising the dead and celebrating the battle by re-interpreting it in a manner that changed it from an undeserved and severe defeat to an honourable fight.

Prussian victory, Dybbøl as a German symbol Immediately after the victory Dybbøl became a German symbol of courage and the will to ﬁght (Adriansen 2003: 256). The area was now a Germany landscape, and memorials to German oﬃcers and deeds were erected. Two types of constructions appeared: ‘Victory monuments’, with associated parades and celebrations, and burials. DYBBØL 29

1.4. Woodcut showing the victory parade [Köningsparade] on 20 April 1864 at the village of Adsbøl, near Dybbøl. (Sønderborg Museum, Sønderborg Slot.)

Victory monuments and activities: Upon receiving the news of the victory the Prussian King Wilhelm I left for Schleswig, and on the 20th of April a victory ceremony was staged at the village of Adsbøl, during which twenty thousand Prussian soldiers marched past the king in their uniforms from the battle, bearing the conquered flags and oak leaves circling their helmets as a sign of victory (Figure 1.4). The planning of two monuments began already in 1865. Most prominent and central amongst these was the memorial to the battle of Dybbøl, the Düppel-Denkmal (Figure 1.5), with the second one being the very similar Alsen-Denkmal erected at the same time at Arnkil on Als. The monuments were inaugurated in 1872. The Düppel-Denkmal was constructed over the foundation of the blockhouse in what was originally the Danish redoubt 4 and thus placed in the middle of the former battlefield. It was a neo-Gothic sandstone monument shaped like a tower, with a square plinth with a relief panel on each side and four larger than life-sized soldiers (each with a different type of weapon) on the corners. On this base rested a highly ornate pinnacle; in total the monument was 24 metres high. It was designed by J. H. Strack, the architect who a few years later designed the Siegessäule in Berlin in memory of the three 30 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

1.5. Photograph of the monument Düppel-Denkmal from 1890. (Sønderborg Museum, Sønderborg Slot.)

victories which were seminal to the unification of Germany: Dybbøl 1864, Königgrätz 1866, and Sedan 1870. The relief panels, in neo-Classical style, showed scenes from the battles: the building of the siege trenches, the siege, and the ‘storm’. In the latter panel the Prussian hero Private Carl Klinke was shown together with the Danish hero Lieutenant J. A. P. Anker. The text on the monument read: ‘In eternal Memory to the victorious Fallen in the storm on the Dybbøl redoubts 18th of April 1864’. There are several interesting aspects to this monument. Its text does not stress the nationality of the fallen, and the monument includes a reference to the 4 heroism of a Danish lieutenant. In addition, the monument does not explicitly stress the importance of the battle for Germany, although the depictions show actions that took place on the battlefield. The depictions are solely focused on DYBBØL 31 the soldiers and their equipment, showing them working and fighting together. The monument is textually and visually dedicated to the Prussian soldiers and may thus be considered a memorial. Nonetheless, it has consistently been interpreted as a victory monument, and it is common to see statements from both German and Danish commentators to the effect that the monument was meant to represent the greatness of the new Germany. There is no doubt that this interpretation was widespread then, and it is still generally held. The official unveiling passed off with great pomp. A poem, composed for the event, referred to the monument as der Siegesmal des Heldentums [The heroes’ victory monument], and this is how it has been referred to since. The architectural intension may have been different or at least more ambiguous. Different factors support this. Firstly, the visual and textual message of the monument is the victorious fallen rather than the victors or victory. Secondly, in contrast to the Siegessäule [victory column] in Berlin, this monument was called a Denkmal [memorial] with no direct reference to victory. In addition, the Düppel-Denkmal and the Siegessäule are stylistically very different with the former referencing monuments from the beginning of the century, whereas the latter was far more modernistic in its design. The point is that there can be a distinct difference between, on the one hand, the meanings residing within a monument in terms of its architectural references and, on the other hand, the socio-political meanings that become attached to the monument. Labels carry meaning, and calling this a victory monument rather than a memorial creates a particular connotation. Therefore, regardless of the possible intent of the architect, both Danes and Germans labelled this as a victory monument and saw it as such. Victory and anniversary ceremonies took place regularly at the monument, with particularly elaborate ones at important anniversaries, such as the visit of the Kaiser in 1890. The last German celebrations took place during 1914.On the 18th of April that year, the German-minded population in the region celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the victory at Dybbøl and the ‘liberation of the Schleswig-Holstein’ with a procession from the nearby town of Sønderborg to the Düppel-Denkmal, where speeches were given and wreaths placed at the German graves. An even larger celebration was held on 29–30 June when Prince Heinrich, brother of the German Kaiser, attended a ceremony to celebrate the conquest of the island of Als, the last stage of the war, together with approximately three thousand veterans from Germany. The Düppel-Denkmal, together with the fortifications and the communal graves for the fallen German soldiers, made Dybbøl a favoured tourist destination during the Wilhelmine Empire (Adriansen 1992: 265). Its attraction is illustrated, for example, by the building in 1885 of a large hotel, the Düppelhöh, opposite the Düppel-Denkmal, with space for a thousand diners. The popularity of the place is also demonstrated by how the iconic elements of Dybbøl appear on many German postcards until 1914 with the Düppel- 32 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

Denkmal a recurrent theme. The pre-printed texts typically read something like ‘Greeting from the Dybbøl redoubts’, which suggests it was obvious what this referred to. There are different genres amongst the postcards of Düppel-Denkmal; amongst these two stick out. In one, the monument, or parts of it, fills the image. There are variations in the details included, such as the number of relief plates shown and in what manner, but the postcards are all solely focused on the monument. The other genre shows various images of the monument in its landscape setting, whether surrounded by foliage and shrubbery or set on a background of fields and the sea. These pictures convey a sense of idyll, at times enhanced by the presence of women and children. A striking example of this genre is the one reproduced here (Figure 1.6). A branch of oak leaves (symbol of victory) separates the text panel from the image. In the front of the image Düppel-Denkmal rises from the shrubbery, in the middle ground lies the nearby fields with the outlines of three redoubts, and behind them is the sea. The horizon forms the background, dominated by the sun rising from the sea, its beams radiating over the sky. In the composition the monument and the sun balance each other, creating a strong visual connection between the two; there is almost a sense of the monument watching a new dawn over a clean and neat landscape. The text on the right reads: ‘Greeting from the cradle of Germany’s Unity’, whereas the longer text on the left (a transcript of the poem composed for the inauguration) reads:

Walk proudly on Dybbøl mount pyramids of German glory, radiating widely over land and sea the victorious lustre of heroism! Blaze aloud: of this soil, German Empire did you arise. Here is the stone, which the will of God chose for you as a foundation stone.

For Germans, the ideological potency and special importance of Dybbøl was as the place where the unification of the many German states into one had begun. Dybbøl became a name that all Germans would know. This attitude is clearly indicated in mass culture products from the period, such as these postcards. Memorials and burial:In1865 the Prussian government arranged for markers to be placed on the four communal graves. Whereas the burials appeared strikingly similar and ordered, the markers, due to their varied forms, made them visually slightly different. Interestingly, the concern seemed to have been to mark each grave differently rather than have the markers express any rank or in other ways give different values to the graves. Each grave marker carries a similar text in German, stating that ‘Here rest [number] courageous Danes/Prussians’; the repetition of this wording DYBBØL 33

1.6. German postcard from Dybbøl dated to 1890 showing the Düppel-Denkmal in its wider landscape setting and presenting Dybbøl as part of a natural memorial landscape. (Sønderborg Museum, Sønderborg Slot.) adds to the impression of a unified construction despite the different nationalities of the soldiers in the graves. Over the years, further burial markers were placed for fallen German soldiers at different locations throughout the redoubts, although it was only officers who were honoured in this manner. The single exception was Private Carl Klinke, who had been made into a Prussian national hero. Prussian defence work: In addition to the focus on victory and mourning, the Prussian government also used the area as the centre for an extended fortification: the Festung Sonderburg-Düppel, which was created in 1867–1868. The fortification aimed to consolidate the Prussian position and to deter any further military action from Denmark. The new fortifications were in many instances built directly on top of (and thus eradicated) the physical remains of the 1864 battle – the battlefield to be memorialised was not tied to any of the military installations but rather made use of Dybbøl as a general place which, as the place of heroic efforts, could co-exist with its physical transformation.5 This attitude is understandable if we remember that the Prussian had fought over a larger area than the redoubts themselves, and that Dybbøl for them was the endpoint rather than the place defended; their potential memorial-scape went beyond Dybbøl to the peninsula of Broager and the island of Als.

Denmark – the culture of defeat There is no doubt that the defeat was a traumatising event for the Danish monarchy, which until then had consisted of the kingdom of Denmark and the 34 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

duchies. The monarchy was heavily reduced in size and population, and it had lost the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein, some of its richest territories. It is much more difficult to construct monuments to defeat than to victory, and Danish monuments to the war were never erected (Adriansen 2010b: 99). The main cultural and socio-political responses to the battle were found in mass culture and the development of a ‘culture of defeat’ (see Schivelbusch 2003). The soldiers – responses and burials: The defeat was difficult to accommodate psychologically, and although contemporary newspapers stated that the soldiers were not to blame, the need to make this point reveals that an atmosphere of blaming had developed within the first week after the defeat. In common with reactions to defeat observed more widely, the soldiers, as the individuals most directly involved, were the focus of the first wave of responses, and upon the army’s return to Copenhagen it received no cheering crowds or other public acclaim (unlike their victorious return after 1850). Nor were distinctions of honour or medals of courage given out to any soldier or officer (Adriansen 2011). As the Danes could not access the battlefield after 1865, they could not link the memorialisation of their dead to the actual place of their deeds. Either the state had to create a replacement location or leave the dead un-memorialised. The latter was the action chosen by the state, creating an absence that was gradually filled in a number of ways. One of these responses was the development of what we here shall label a distributed memorial landscape. Ideas about distributed personhood and things have been extensively explored in recent years in order to engage with a particular kind of relationship that can exist amongst dispersed objects and amongst people (as well as between these different categories) (Gell 1998; Strathern 1996). Briefly, distributed meaning is about how the meaning of one entity may be related to, indeed be dependent on, the meanings of other, similar or connected entities. Moreover, in such cases it is in the relationships and linkages between entities that the meaning of each is constituted. Such distributed people or things may be seen as a particular means of creating coherence and identity. The development of a distributed identity or meaning may thus be seen as an ontological tool, through which the action or existence of one is made meaningful through the awareness of the linked existence of others. We introduce these theories to suggest that a similar linked existence can be found amongst memorials, and that the appearance of graves and memorial stones throughout Denmark during the last decades of the nineteenth century is understandable as a distributed memorial landscape. As the war is implicated in each stone, each stone shares its meaning, indeed, is made meaningful by its relationship to the other stones. Collectively the stones constitute social meaning rather than individual burials and memorials. This linkage is created through the shared understanding (and visual and rhetoric grammar) which evolved DYBBØL 35 around them, and which resulted in them becoming similar, in the sense of being recognisable for what they are – they take on a familiar form so that the encounter with one is simultaneously a reminder of the others (and therefore of the war and the fallen). The construction of a distributed memorial landscape as a non-discursive – but nonetheless recognised –‘solidarity’ began to appear a few years after the war, as graves and memorial stones were being erected in Danish provincial towns. A recent study of these monuments, through the project ‘The Monuments in the Danish Provincial Towns from the War of 1864’, has established that most of the graves were constructed between 1870 and 1910 and were placed within churchyards. Starting some six years after the end of the war, they are unlikely to be the immediate response to the death of soldiers and were more likely part of a delayed reaction. This is further strengthened by the dedication of many of the memorials to the casualties of both the 1848–1850 and the 1864 war, an association that is interesting although not surprising because the first war was a clear Danish victory and thus might be used to lend legitimacy and honour to the second one. The study further concluded that the memorials have very few decorative elements and that their texts are prosaic rather than poetic. In the main, they merely state that the stone serves to honour the dead soldiers. Interestingly, these memorials were usually organised and paid for by associations of soldiers or veterans or simply arranged for by the town, suggesting that the civic society and the associations of soldiers had taken on what ought to have been the duties of the state.6 The culture of defeat: The culture of defeat expressed itself in many different ways, often classic in their formulations and intensions. One expression was the development of a new symbolism, as in the case of the emerging interpretation of the rebuilt Dybbøl Windmill as a symbol of Danish bravery. The windmill had been destroyed by German troops in 1849 during the First Schleswig War but was rebuilt. In 1864 it was at the centre of intense fighting, and it was reduced to rubble. After the war, the mill was reconstructed by the mill family, who had strong Danish sympathies: all Danes visiting the battlefield also visited the mill. But one more incident was significant for turning this building into such a powerful national symbol: the trip in 1877 of the well-known Danish author Holger Drachmann (Adriansen 1997). He visited the battlefield, mean- dered over it, and in response to the stirring of his emotions published a volume titled Derovre fra Grænsen, Strejftog over det danske Termopylæ (Als-Dybbøl) [Over There from the Border. Wanderings over the Danish Termopylæ (Als- Dybbøl)]. The volume became very popular (van der Liet 2008), articulating the emotional essence of the place it contributed to making the Dybbøl Windmill a Danish national symbol and a memorial site. Later commentaries on the period between 1864 and 1920 often emphasise the strong patriotic feelings which became attached to Schleswig as the ‘lost 36 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

land’ and which often centred on Dybbøl as a locus memoriae. Such feelings were expressed through a number of outlets, from academia to mass culture products, and included poems that were turned into popular songs performed during school assemblies and public life (for a detailed discussion of such cultural products see Adriansen 2003; van der Liet 2008). Many of these did, however, first appear from the late 1870s onwards, and we again observe a delayed reaction. This is often neglected in accounts of the period. The events that took place, and the emotional interpretations that developed, between the two seminal dates of 1864 and 1920, are, as a result, often condensed into one coherent patriotic response. This response is characterised as a patient waiting and preparation for the return of the land, personified by the lines ‘The 7 daughters of Slesvig never forget’. A popular image of two young girls in traditional costumes from Schleswig was mass produced and consumed. Theirs was not a fighting spirit but rather hushed sorrow – a sentiment interpreted as their reaction to living under German rule while being true to Sønderjylland and their Danishness. The image communicated a clear message that many could connect to, and it was sold in the thousands, being reproduced as book illustrations and as decoration on all kinds of objects such as coffee cups, scarves, and clay pipes (Adriansen 1988).

THE PHASE OF ‘DANEFICATION’ (FORDANSKNING) OF THE LANDSCAPE (1920–1972) The reunification of the lost land in 1920 was the seminal event in Danish twentieth-century history. The celebration of the reunification was extensive, dramatised through celebrations and popularised through many object of mass cultures, such as stamps, wall plates, and pictures. Its emotive depth is captured in phrases such as the lines from a popular poem by Henrik Pontoppidan from 1918: ‘A stolen daughter deeply mourned has returned saved’. In these celebrations Dybbøl was in various ways used as a very potent stage setting of the Danish nation, and the place was used for the main reunification celebration on 11 July 1920, when strong nationalistic metaphors and claims were symbolised, including links to the prehistoric past (Sørensen 1986, 1996). The celebration took place in the German redoubt, where the celebration of 1914 had also taken place, adding an additional event and layer of meaning to the place as a memorial site. The Danish government in 1919–1920 requested that the Düppel- Denkmal should be moved to Germany, but this request was ignored by the German government (Bak 2003:15). It therefore became important for the Danes to alter and add to the memorial landscape in order to give it a Danish look and character. The alterations that followed were both mundane, such as placing a very tall flagpole close to the Dybbøl Windmill and a memorial stone DYBBØL 37 in the German redoubts where the royal family had been seated during the reunification ceremony, and also more substantial. In the emotionally charged atmosphere the desire to return to the battlefield of 1864,tofinally mark and re-memorialise the heroic defeat and to honour the fallen on the battlefield, found easy roots. A countrywide collection initiated in 1922–1924 raised enough money to purchase the area (the minimal donation was kept at 8 1 krone so that most people could contribute), and in 1924 the land encompassing the battlefield was bought and given to the Danish state as a national park. Over the next eighty years the cultural landscape of Dybbøl was subjected to a process of ‘Danefication’. As one of the first steps, ‘the German redoubt’, which had been used for the feast in 1920,wasrenamed ‘the King’sredoubt’, beginning a process through which collective awareness of this being a central part of an extensive Prussian defensive fortification from 1867 would gradually disappear. Simultaneously, for the German side, Dybbøl begantoloserelevance,probablydueto more recent battles, victories, and defeats replacing it in German collective consciousness. Through such gestures the nature of Dybbøl, and not merely its nationality, changed as it now became a precisely delimitated national memorial landscape rather than a more loosely defined physical site. Since then a commemoration dedicated to the fallen from 1864 has been conducted on the 18th of April at Dybbøl each year with the laying of wreaths and military parades. In addition, elaborate events have been organised around major anniversaries such as the hundredth anniversary of the battle in 1964 and the fiftieth anniversary of the reunification in 1970. As instruments of reiteration and citation these events have helped to construct significance and traditions; they have been a powerful means of creating and maintaining a sense of the importance of the place.

Memorials and burial stones Reunification also introduced a period of re-nationalising the battlefield as a Danish memorial landscape through a focus on the fallen Danish soldiers. Adriansen has studied the means used in this process (Adriansen 2010b). Her study shows that these memorials were influenced by very different intensions than those affecting the earlier ones, both those erected by the Germans on the site and those placed in Danish provincial towns by the Danes. Time is expressed in two separate ways within this new memorial landscape. On the one hand, it is seen in the continuous emphasis on the event of the battle itself in terms of the time it happened. The memorial stones consistently record the day of death, just like any gravestone, but in contrast the date of birth is not consistently mentioned. In addition, the place of death is stressed, not in terms of a named place but rather of ‘here’, on this spot, at the place you, as the 38 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

1.7. Collage of Danish memorial stones at Dybbøl erected after 1920. (Photos Megan E. S. Sørensen.)

spectator, look at, this soldier died and now rests. This is a case of memorials dedicated to soldiers’ death, not their lives. But as their deaths happened on the same day, or within a few days, the impact on visitors to the site becomes one of the volume of dead; the individuals as persons are part of the collective death. The other, very diﬀerent, aspect of time is articulated through the dating of the memorials themselves, a gesture through which our recognition of their sacriﬁces is also inscribed into the landscape; that is, by dating the erection of the DYBBØL 39

1.8. Photo showing the ruins of Düppel-Denkmal shortly after it was destroyed in 1945 and before the remains were removed and buried. (Sønderborg Museum, Sønderborg Slot.) memorials we stress ourselves. Although this is not done consistently, it is sufficiently frequent to purvey a layered sense of time and a stratigraphy of events. It provides an emphasis on the ‘we’ who do not forget, and functions to update the relevance, in terms of it still mattering, of the place and through that the sacrifices. The 1940–1945 German occupation of Denmark constitutes yet another rupture in the site’s biography, as the land once again was under German control. There were, however, no attempts at a German re-nationalisation of the battlefield from the occupying forces. The potency of Dybbøl, with its ambiguous Danish-German identity and the tension between defeat and victory, must, however, have been an obvious focus during the period, and shortly after the end of the war, on 13 May 1945, the Düppel-Denkmal was blown up, presumably by members of the resistance. (Figure 1.8) A month later, in June, its sister monument, the Alsen-Denkmal, was blown up as well. The remains were buried in a gravel pit.

PHASE OF DISTANCING – LEISURE AND RECONCILIATION (1973 TO THE PRESENT) The fourth phase is characterised by a new kind of detachment, but also the accrual of new meanings, including the performance of joint Danish-German 40 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

memorial events during recent years. Many of the new meanings tend to be emotionally removed from the site’s earlier functions as an explicit memorial landscape. This demonstrates how it is possible to develop new and contemporary meanings for the site formed around notions of and desire for leisure, political strategies and performances (reconciliation), and tourism. In this case, the changed political ﬁguration of Europe due to the development of the EU has also been instrumental in the formal changes both rhetorically and in terms of actual practice. Amongst these recent changes the move towards reconciliation is worth noticing.

Memorialisations and anniversaries – multiple rights to mourning In the change of nationality in 1920 theGermansidewasnotdeprivedof access to the site, although they were marginalised and restrictions were made about the types of events they could arrange. The German tradition of memorialising the fallen has, therefore, continued, usually on the 18th of April in the afternoon, with the Danish events taking place in the morning. In 1966 Germany’soffer of a joint annual anniversary was rejected, a reaction that is often explained by the lingering resentments in the local population over the conscriptions from the Danish minority living in Schleswig in World War One. Since Denmark joined the EU in 1973, the sense of the nation, including its relationships with other European nations and in particular its neighbours, has gradually changed. Along with the increased emotional distance to the events, the sense of Dybbøl as an exclusively Danish memorial landscape began to change. This was in line with general political changes within Europe as well as changes in the understanding of the nature of heritage sites, as it was increasingly argued ‘that the past belongs to all’ and that all sides of a conflict should be given access to mourning and memorialisation. These changes did not come easily, however, and distinctions continued to be madebetweenthetwosides.In1998 a few German soldiers were for the first time invited to participate, as spectators, in the Danish memorial arrangements in the morning. Since 2002 a company of German soldiers has been present at the annual event, but without permission to carry weapons and military colours and without participating in the march through the town (Daugbjerg 2009: 438–39). On 18 April 2011 Danish and German soldiers marched together for the first time with the colours of both sides and participating in a joint ceremony. Each year the press covers the gradually changing memorial events, picking up on expressions of discontent amongst the public while also noting the emergence of a new consensus. Diverse opinions still exist, as demonstrated by quotes from the local newspaper (Sønderborg Jydske Vestkysten) published on 19 April 2011 in response to the shared anniversary ceremony the day before: DYBBØL 41

It makes me happy that we can remember the fallen soldiers together. That we can show that the border of today is an element that unites us and not something that divides us. (Christoph Jessen, German Ambassador to Denmark)

I certainly have nothing against the Germans, but in my opinion it is two diﬀerent things that are being marked today [18th of April]. TheGermans,afterall,markavictory,whereasweremembera defeat. ...We can well be friends and allied for the rest of the time, but today we ought to remember the events separately. Even that it is a long time ago. (Member of the general public)

CONCLUSION A number of themes have emerged through this biographical analysis of the aftermath of the battle at Dybbøl and the construction of the battlefield as a memorial landscape. The main themes may be summarised in a few points. First, the meanings and connotations of the site changed through time. Influenced by the effect of time, but also by larger social and political contexts (including European politics), the site changed dramatically due to ruptures in its history, creating new significances and causing the site to become used in new ways. This is not primarily a matter of new interpretations, as the account of what happened has been relatively static and agreed upon, but rather that new uses of and responses were given to these interpretations. We see this mostclearlyintherecentpoliticalattemptsatusingthesiteasameansof symbolising the connections and shared interests between the two sides rather than their conflicts. Such rapprochement can have different effects on the interpretation given to a site. In this case, rather than resulting in increased attempts at forgetting or downplaying the importance of the battle, it has led to increased emphasis on mutuality, evoking the sense of a shared experience, and emphasising the suffering and sacrificesonbothsides.Thisisnotan uncommon use of ‘hurtful’ history and its corresponding heritage sites in the early twenty-first century; but the political context has to be right for it to be a realistic response. There are also other, more subtle insights. One relates to death and to how society has changed in its response to death. We find it upsetting that in early official memorial practices, the ranks and differentiations that existed amongst the living continued to matter in death. In that sense, the important distinction was not, as one might have expected, between German or Danish soldiers, but between the soldiers who were buried anonymously, incorporated into the shared phrase ‘courageous soldiers’, and those others who were singled out due to their rank. There is, therefore, a tension between the memorialisation of the different kinds of individual dead and the celebration of the collective death. 42 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

There is also an important transformation in the nature of the site itself, in the construction of topography. It changed first from being a battlefield, an area of land transformed to serve military needs, to a place bearing witness to its destruction, and then it became a tourist destination. At that stage it seemed to have been both a special place, the cradle of Greater Germany, and a general landscape, an unbounded area, and a place of vistas. Then in 1924, through its dedication as a national cultural park, it changed again as the designation created a site from the landscape and imposed limits to it: within its borders was a sacred area, outside it were normal fields. In these changes, we see both a change in the topographical perception of the place and, as discussed by Carman (2005) in his study of battlefields, how the artifice of designation, with its implication of a physical limit and measurable significance, makes the landscape into a site. The biography of Dybbøl also demonstrates the importance of having access to the physical site where events unfolded. This clearly affects memorial and anniversary activities, but probably even more so the burial of the dead. Not having control over the land encompassing the battlefield results in various displacement activities framed within a culture of defeat. In this case, a distributed memorial landscape emerged as civic society and various organisations took on some of the duties of the state; but as a result, mourning spread out and gained a presence in provincial Denmark. The biographical analysis also demonstrates the decisive roles anniversary and other memorial activities can have. It shows their reaffirming role, how they provide a rhetoric and establish meanings, but also, as suggested by the most recent phase, that despite the appearance of being traditional they are changeable, responding to the needs and desires of their time. In addition to raw facts, myths as well as illusions are attached to the place now, different ones for different groups depending on variables such as nationality and age, but also on the degree of localism as local versus national experiences and meanings have been formed and reproduced. One of the authors (M.L.S.S.) grew up on Als and throughout her childhood regularly visited Dybbøl either as part of annual school trips or on family outings. Through such visits the meaning and significance of the place were continuously affirmed, and her memory is of solemn visits to a place of Danish sufferings and defeat against an overwhelming enemy. Within this understanding was interwoven an embodied sense of visiting the actual physical place, a place where the soil had been soaked in blood and tears. She understood the trenches and fortification, the concrete and bumps one saw in the grass, to be the physical remains and reminders of where the Danes had fought so bravely and yet hopelessly – the discrepancies between this emotive reading of the place and the characteristics of the actual physical remains, which reflect the German renovation and building of a new fortification system, were never realised. It is our impression that such illusions, despite the texts that guide the visitors DYBBØL 43 towards another understanding, are still strong amongst many visitors from the local region, and that many Danes interpret the visual landscape, which they encounter, as bearing the marks of the Danish defenders – this is where they fought and fell. The other author grew up elsewhere in Denmark, but she has for decades been a curator at the historical museum in Sønderborg castle and is responsible for the museum in the Dybbøl Windmill. For her it is of great importance to promote knowledge of Dybbøl being a memorial landscape for two nations. When visiting the site today, the shifting relationships and the connotations embedded within the park can be traced through the dates on the memorials; but their story of changing meanings exist only as a subtle sub-text. A few specific elements are pointed out to the visitors, as ‘windows’ into the site’s history. The place of the Düppel-Denkmal is, for example, marked with a prominent board explaining the history of the monument, and white concrete lines mark the outline of the redoubts. This board, however, was erected only in 2002 on the initiative of the museum in Sønderborg castle and should be seen as yet another example of the ongoing transformation of the site. Until this board was erected both the history of Dybbøl as a German national symbol and the Danish destruction of the German monument in 1945 were invisible within the memorial landscape. The fortifications are still not marked in a way that facilitates easy understanding of the defence structures (that is left to the museum); they do not function as anchoring points for an experience and understanding of the physical history of the site. Rather, they appear as enigmatic lumps, and the place is open for varied interpretations. The redoubts and the memorial park have become a place of multiplemeanings.Ithasbecomeaparkforwalkingdogsasmuchasitisa solemn memorial landscape; it is, however, still both, and such diverse meanings seem to be able to co-exist on the site. It is easy to assume that the increased leisure use and the influences from tourism have dulled the awareness and sense of reactions to the events of 1864 – that the relevance is gone. It is therefore sobering to note the emergence of new expressions of involvement with the history of the place and the accompanying desire to understand it as well as to provide reminders of what took place. This has in particular been expressed through new historical docu-dramas, such as Buk-Swienty’s books about the battle (Slagtebænk Dybbøl [The Butchery Bench Dybbøl], 2008, and Dommedag Als [Doomsday Als] 2009), which have received much attention and have been translated into English and German. Finally, let us return to our proposal regarding phasing. Breaking time into fragments always means that more fluid and complex ways of accounting for the connectedness between events are compromised. Nonetheless, we believe it provides a useful means of appreciating the historicity of what happens in the ‘aftermath’ and of forcing continuous adjustments of the analytical lens used. 44 MARIE LOUISE STIG SØRENSEN AND INGE ADRIANSEN

Clearly, we all appreciate that the aftermath is not just a simple static sequence, but there is nonetheless a tendency to collapse the complex stages in the recovery after war into that simple term ‘aftermath’. Using the concept of ‘biography of place’ enforces awareness of the continuity of change; it also brings curiosity about and awareness of the possibility of non-linear changes into the mentality of the study. Moreover, some of the most obvious phases recognised in this case study are classic and can be discerned in examples of other wars and battlefields. The existence of a short recording phase is, for example, typical of the immediate aftermath of many wars, battles, or disasters, usually coming before the allocation of blames or the call for re-compensation or retaliation. It can be traced in the consistent use of photographs (and other means of recording) immediately after the event, as seen, for instance in the recording of the bombed-out Dresden or the destroyed Gernika. Such recordings may be affected by and later used in political propaganda, but we suggest that they also have an element of reaction – of the photographer, as a witness, responding with a desire to give expression to the witnessing. The other common type of recording is the quantification of the event – the number of casualties, the amount of ammunition shelled, the degree of damage, and the creation of some order out of the chaos. The first phase of the aftermath at Dybbøl is thus one we may recognise in many other aftermath situations. Similarly, the construction of a culture of defeat also has shared characteristics (see Schivelbusch 2003). Focusing on the phasing of the aftermath thus adds to our insights about the long-term impacts of such sites. In particular, the approach provides a means of dissecting the development of different responses and discussing their reasons; it allows us to bring a comparative perspective to the analyses of the aftermath of different wars, battlefields, and disasters. The impacts of battles, which took place a long time ago, can then help us to come closer to comprehending some of the reactions that followed, giving rise to new ideas about rapprochement and reconciliation methods.

NOTES

1. Words such as lost or returned or reunification suggest a particular political interpretation of the political events in Schleswig-Holstein. We attempt to avoid taking sides in our choice of words and presentation of events. We do not, however, strive to be ‘neutral’ as it is not at all clear how such a position could be claimed. Should it be the case that the politicised and emotional nature of battlefield memorialisation nonetheless shines through in our account, then, in our opinion, this is not inappropriate nor does it undermine the analysis, but should be recognised as a result of the need to read and engage with the data with some element of compassion. 2. The military actions were given close international scrutiny, and substantial commentaries exist. A selection of the coverage in contemporary newspapers, both from each side of the warring partners and from England and France, has been published (Adriansen 1976) and provides telling insight into the different perspectives. DYBBØL 45

3. Austria and Prussia were allies in this war. 4. It is not uncommon for the victors to acknowledge the heroism of the defeated; in part this can be a means of acquiring even greater honour. 5.By1884 Greater Germany was so powerful that it was no longer concerned with maintaining its defences against Denmark, and the defence system was abandoned. Nonetheless, as late as 1890 a major military manoeuvre under Kaiser Wilhelm II took place in the area and was centred on Dybbøl; the association with 1864 helped make this a powerful demonstration of Germany’s power (Adriansen 1992: 267). 6. This characterisation of the memorial monuments has been based on website data (http://dendi gitalebyport.byhistorie.dk/monumenter/and www.monument.dk) supplemented by Adriansen’s comprehensive study of memorials in Denmark (2010b). 7. A much-used phrase from a popular song by the Danish author Holger Drachmann. 8. Approximately 10 pence in today’s money. CHAPTER TWO

‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’: RECONSTRUCTION AND MEMORIALISATION ON THE BATTLEFIELD OF VERDUN (FRANCE)

Jean-Paul Amat, Paola Filippucci, and Edwige Savouret

INTRODUCTION ‘Here is the cemetery of France’: with these words French President Michel Lebrun described the Ossuary at Douaumont at its inauguration ceremony in 1932 (see IOD 1932: 55). The Ossuary and its adjacent cemetery were created to hold the bodies and scattered bones of the approximately 150,000 soldiers fallen on the battlefield of Verdun in 1916, during what is widely considered ‘the worst battle in history’ (Horne 1993: 327;cf.Prost2002a). The battle in February to December 1916 resulted in around seven hundred thousand combined French and German casualties (of which approximately five hundred thousand dead). The huge number of casualties is linked with the (unofficial) aim of the battle to exhaust the French army by attacking a target that they were honour-bound to defend in spite of its relatively minor strategic importance (see Brown 2003: 37ff.; Horne 1993: 5, 46ff.). Verdun was symbolic as a fortress associated with the long history of France (it is here that Charlemagne divided his empire amongst his sons in 843)andasthelast line of defence between Paris and the fortifications farther east, such as Metz, formerly defending the Franco-German border and lost to Germany in 1870 (e.g., Brown 2003: 25ff.; Horne 1993: 5). Its history made the fortress-city of Verdun a key lieu de mémoire [site of memory] for the French in 1916 (Prost 2002a;cf.Nora1989), partially explaining why the battle was fought here, and with such brutal tenacity on both sides.

46 ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 47

The aftermath of the battle saw the creation of a monumental and memorial landscape on the battlefield, an area to the north of the city utterly devastated by the heaviest artillery bombardment the world had ever seen (Horne 1993). In 1919 this area of almost 200 square kilometres was classified as ‘Red Zone’,closed to habitation and normal usage and reserved for forestry and commemoration. The Ossuary at Douaumont, situated at the highest point of the battlefield, was the largest of many monuments, memorials, and burials built across the area. The city was to be part of this commemorative landscape: Douaumont’s tall tower was intended to be visible from the terrace of the Monument to Victory [Monument de la Victoire], completed in 1929 on the site of the worst bomb destruction in the Verdun city centre to commemorate the battle in general and the French victory in particular. Efforts to ‘etch the memory of the battle in the very soil of Verdun’ (Prost 2002a: 53) began in 1917 with plans to build this monument, but the bulk of construction after the war was on the battlefield itself. This marked a shift of the ‘site of memory’ from the city to the battle, which from 1916 became the dominant historical association of the name ‘Verdun’ in France and beyond. Ashiftinthesymbolic‘site of memory’ at Verdun substantially shaped the creation of the physical landscape of remembrance post-1916, examined in this chapter through the ‘biographies’ of the two monuments already mentioned, the Ossuary at Douaumont and the Monument to Victory. Both monuments commemorate the same event and were erected as elements of a memorial landscape uniting the city and ‘its’ battlefield through ritual and symbolism. However, this picture is complicated by the fact that monuments are physical entities located in a concrete landscape. This brings to the fore the political and economic dimensions of post-war reconstruction and highlights the divergent interests that emerge from conflict and shape efforts of commemoration both in the short and in the long term. In particular, this chapter argues that in the phase of reconstruction, local opinion in the city of Verdun tended to claim the battlefield as an economic resource that could contribute to the city’s revival, clashing with its appropriation by other constituencies as a site and source of non-material value. In the longer term, the symbolic value of the battlefield for non-local constituencies has endured – and arguably grown, as new layers of meaning have accrued. Its economic value has been downplayed until recently, when the dynamics of commemoration, and specifically the approach of the centenary of the battle and of the war, have once again brought it to the fore. As a result, almost a century after the battle, the city of Verdun is once again claiming the battlefield as an asset, this time in competition with adjacent rural municipalities which have an administrative claim on the battlefield, rendering war remembrance a significant stake in local rural-urban relations. Discussion of this case study suggests that by taking into account the physical dimensions of symbolic memory sites, the politics of 48 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

reconstruction and commemoration are seen to be in part a territorial politics, unfolding both at local and at national levels.

THE OSSUARY AT DOUAUMONT AND THE MONUMENT DE LA VICTOIRE: ORIGINS AND EARLY HISTORY The history of the Ossuary of Douaumont is said to begin on 22 November 1918,a few days after the Armistice, when the Bishop of Verdun, Monseigneur Ginisty, toured the battlefield. On seeing human remains scattered about, he had the idea to create an ossuary that would be ‘at once a grave, a mausoleum and a sacred temple ...should we abandon their sacred remains to the desolation of this desert populated by these dead, littered with desiccated corpses, and bury them under a shroud of thorns and weeds, of forgetting and ingratitude?’ (Fêtes 1927: 22). As these words suggest, burial was considered a duty towards the dead, reciprocat- ing for their immense and ultimate sacrifice, a central sentiment animating post-war commemoration (see, e.g., Winter 1995;Sherman1999). Gathering the dead was also part of the urgent task of clearing the battlefield, given that visitors and tourists began to flock the area almost before the war was over (see Meyer 2007: 78; Prost 2002a: 56; cf. Sørensen this volume). Ginisty and one of his chaplains managed to raise enough support to erect a provisional wooden ossuary on the ridge of Thiaumont by February 1919, holding 130 coffins filled with anonymous bones; and the first stone of the definitive ossuary nearby was placed in August 1920 by the chief military hero of the battle, General Pétain (e.g. Horne 1998: 132ff.). The construction was largely a private (as opposed to state) project. Fundraising was coordinated and carried out by a committee of priests, military personnel, political figures, and other private individuals, who travelled across Europe and to the United States and Canada. A fraction of the cost (1 million francs out of 15 million total) was covered by state funding, through the intervention of the Mayor of Verdun who was also a deputy in Parliament (see Barcellini 1996: 85). The burial vaults were inaugurated in 1927, and some bodies were transferred to them from the provisional ossuary and from wartime cemeteries scattered across the battlefield. The Ossuary was finished in 1932,by which time the remains of 130,000 unidentified bodies (labelled as ‘French’ despite most likely being a mixture of French and German) had been buried in forty-six granite sarcophagi covering fifty-two coffins, standing over vaults of 14 cubic metres each. At each end of the building, vaults of 350 cubic metres contained surplus bones, to which were gradually added those retrieved from the battlefield, between one and two thousand bodies a year in the 1920s and early 1930s. Some fifteen thousand bodies were also buried from 1925 onwards 1 in the cemetery stretching in front of the Ossuary, inaugurated in 1929. The design for the Ossuary, chosen throughanarchitecturalcompetitionin 1923, was charged with symbolism. The location was selected for its geographical ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 49 centrality to the battlefield and as its highest point, dominating the former front lines, and for its proximity to Fort Douaumont, one of the key symbolic (although not strategic) targets of the battle. Just as the battle for Verdun was ‘awarwithin the war’, Fort Douaumont, lost near the start of the battle and recaptured near its end, became for the French the epicentre of the battle and central to its ‘heroisation’ during and after the war (Denizot 2008). The monument also incorporated the battlefield within its interior: forty-six stone sarcophagi held the bones of the fallen in forty-six named sectors of the battlefield, chosen for their significance in the battle. The sarcophagi were furthermore grouped in pairs ‘to symbolise even in death the camaraderie that reigned among our soldiers 2 during the war and which was a major factor in the Victory’. The structure and layout too were symbolic. Its massive body faced towards the east, towards the enemy attack and interpreted (on a fundraising postcard of the time) as ‘symbolising the dam that the heroic defenders of Verdun formed with their chests against the enemy line’.3 This also alludes to the words of General Nivelle at the end of the German advance: ‘They shall not pass’ (see Brown 2003: 186). The horizontal body was surmounted by a ‘Tower of the Dead’ visible from the different sectors of the battlefield as well as from the city, with a ‘Victory Bell’ offered by American private donors in 1927. The tower was lit with a beacon every night throughout the 1930s (and occasionally since) 4 to symbolise ‘the funeral wake which our great dead lacked on the battlefield’. Its red and white beacon signified, respectively, the blood spilt and the souls

2.1. Left, the Ossuary at Douaumont, general view. Right, the Victory monument, Verdun (note the central fountain and planting added in 2003). (Photo author.) 50 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

purified by sacrifice, even though the red light was added because the French aerial navigation service had complained that white light might confuse aircraft (Echo de Paris 1930). The symbolism of ‘sacrifice and immortality’ was also attached to the windows of purple glass lighting the interior of the building. Overall, funerary and religious symbols dominated over military ones: for instance, the image of a sword on its massive door was surmounted by the word ‘peace’ and the Christian motif of ‘the palm of martyrdom’. The religious and funerary nature of the building was stipulated in the design tender that called for a ‘non-confessional’ building with Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, and Muslim ritual spaces to reflect the faiths of the fallen (Concours 1923), even though the Catholic sanctuary would have pride of place, given the larger number of Catholic fallen (see Barcellini 1996: 83). In practice the Catholic chapel was the only one built. The Jewish dead were remembered in a memorial outside the monument, built in 1938, while a small stone was erected to commemorate the Muslim dead in 1971, and a space for Islamic worship in 2006. Funerary imagery infused contemporary readings of the monument. An architectural journal at the time of its inauguration described it as ‘conceived with the sober simplicity that befits the greatness of the subject, the monument globally resembles a vast gravestone covering the battlefield, surmounted by a lamp of the dead [as commonly found on French graves] where a symbolic flame glows, the flame of souvenir and of homage’ (M.T. 1932: 20). The same theme was chosen by the Archbishop of Verdun in a speech highlighting the

2.2. Ossuary exterior: window grille evoking medieval portcullis and columns with ‘sword’ and ‘shield’ motifs. (Photo author.) ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 51 crosses decorating the tower: ‘we needed the Cross on the tomb of our Dead’ (I.O.D. 1932: 32). Sometimes funerary and military themes were blended, as did General Pétain describing the provisional Ossuary in 1927 as ‘simple and sober like the soul of the soldier, vast and noble like the greatness of the sacrifice; durable and imperishable like the souvenir of the heroes of Verdun’ (L’Est Républicain 1927: 2). The military theme also emerges through a closer analysis of the building. The windows along the façade are covered with a grille recalling portcullis and decorated with geometric motifs recalling sword blades and shields, as well as the profile of the gun turrets on nearby Fort Douaumont. The profile of the wings of the main building also recalls bunkers, and the plan and elevation of the horizontal body of the building recall the so-called Pamart turrets, gun turrets installed in 1917 on the top of nearby Fort Vaux.

2.3. Left, Ossuary exterior: column with ‘gun turret’ motif. Right, gun turrets, Fort Douaumont. (Photo author.)

2.4. Left, Ossuary, back view of central apse. Right, ‘Pamart’ gun turret (1917), Fort Vaux. (Photo author.) 52 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

Some contemporary texts also see the tower as representing a shell case [obus], an interpretation still heard today. Others today say that the building represents a giant sword pushed into the ground to the hilt, an image not documented at the time of construction, but suggested by the recurrent motif of a sword on this and other coeval monuments in the area (e.g., the nearby Tranchée des Bayonnettes [Bayonet Trench]). The variety of interpretations and the very fact that people seek to interpret the shape of this building reveals the exceptional symbolic charge of the battlefield for survivors and posterity but also the multivocality of the monument as at once a tomb, a memorial to the fallen, and a monument to the battle and the war. For Prost (2002a) the Ossuary is unclassifiable, neither religious, nor civil, nor military, and ‘an immense war memorial’ (ibid.: 58), a type of monument that he regards as simultaneously civic/republican and funerary and reflecting the prevailing mood of mourning in inter-war France, and the pacifist agenda of veterans’ associations (Prost 2002b, 1992). At the same time, as suggested, its architectural shape may have enabled military and triumphalist reading for those who held such sentiments. Military symbolism was much more explicit and unambiguous in the Monument à la Victoire et aux Soldats de Verdun [Monument to the Victory and to the Verdun Soldiers], erected in the city on the initiative of local, regional, and national politicians with a mix of public and private funding (Meyer 2007: 110;Barcellini1996: 81). When the idea of a monument to commemorate the battle was voiced in 1917, it was imagined as a ‘Monument du Souvenir’ [Remembrance Monument] holding the remains of seven ‘unknown soldiers’ from the Western Front, resting in a city cemetery after one had been selected for 5 the national Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Paris. The first stone of the monument was laid during the celebrations for the first official anniversary of the battle on 23 June 1920, but lack of funds and political instability in the municipality delayed completion until the tenth anniversary of the battle on 23 July 1929 (Meyer 2007: 111–114). By then the Ossuary at Douaumont was almost finished, and the idea of an ossuary in the city was abandoned in favour of a monument celebrating ‘the Victory of France’ and holding Rolls of Honour with the names of all the soldiers who had fought at Verdun, dead and living. The inauguration ceremony gave a leading role to General Pétain, before whom the President of the Republic bowed before being led by him into the chamber to sign the Rolls of Honour. On the door of the chamber were engraved Pétain’s famous words, ‘on les aura’ [we will beat them], said to have been pronounced when he took the command at Verdun on 26 February 1916 (Brown 2003: 89). The monument was a massive statue of a medieval armoured knight holding a sword at rest, standing on top of ramparts above a staircase, rising to the base of the statue amongst tall bastions. On each side Russian guns (captured by Germans and recaptured by the French) pointed east towards the frontier with Germany. ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 53

2.5. Victory monument: twentieth-century rampart incorporating vestiges of Roman/medieval bastion. (Photo author.)

Although the city’s wall and fortifications were partly decommissioned and destroyed after the Great War, the theme of ramparts, walls, and fortifications is 6 pervasive in the post-war monumental iconography in and around the city. In the case of the Monument to Victory, this theme is also found in inscriptions from speeches by Raymond Poincaré and André Maginot: ‘here are the walls on which was shattered the supreme hope of imperial Germany’ and ‘to the glory of all those who here have erected the wall of their chests to ensure that the enemy would not pass’. This iconography evoked the longer-term history of the city as a key fortified garrison on France’s ‘Eastern Frontier’ with Germany (see, e.g., Brown 2003: 37ff.), with the armoured knight ‘symbolising a century and a half of struggles and sieges the city had borne’ (Vétéran 1929). Drawing another link with the city’s history as a fortress, the monument incorporated the remains of a Roman/medieval bastion and tower, uncovered by the city’s bombardment in 1916 and appropriately, if coincidentally, known historically as the Rempart de la Fermeté [Rampart of Firmness/Solidity]. Its location on the east-facing slope of the rock of the citadel gave the monument a panoramic view towards the north, north-east, and east, the direction of the enemy attack, and made it, in theory, visible from the Ossuary (Meyer 1983: 55). The overall message of the monument was thus explicitly warlike, even though inter-war use of ‘medieval’ style and iconography in 54 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

war commemoration may also have expressed a ‘discourse of mourning’ (Goebel 2007: 14). The two monuments were not only intervisible but also elements in a unified ritual landscape of commemoration. Just as the ceremony for the inauguration of the Ossuary in 1932 included the Victory monument in its itinerary, so too in the inauguration of the monument in 1929 the authorities had visited the Ossuary as well as the cemetery of the Fabourg Pavé to pay homage to the seven Unknown Soldiers. Both events included speeches by the same political and military figures (notably the President of the Republic and General Pétain), and patriotic songs like the Marseillaise sung by children, also sung in Armistice Day ceremonies at war memorials across the country and honouring the fallen as republican heroes and citizens (Prost 2002b: 30–33). Ritual practice and symbolism thus united these monuments and the city and the battlefield, but a closer look at the rituals and meanings attributed to these monuments in the context of post-war reconstruction reveals as much unity as division between them.

RECONSTRUCTING THE ‘SITE OF MEMORY’ BETWEEN CITY AND BATTLEFIELD The reconstruction of Verdun and its surroundings in the decade following the war was at once physical and symbolic. Reconstituting the material surroundings of the battlefield and the city generated much debate about the roles of these sites for remembrance and for communicating the story of the war to survivors and posterity. In both city and battlefield, what was being reconstructed was as much a pre-existing historical landscape as a legendary one, based in turn on veterans’ memories, political rhetoric, and mass media representations (cf. Gough 2004; Halbwachs 1992). So, for instance, it was because of the legendary importance of Fort Douaumont as the emblem of French ‘heroic resistance’ (e.g., Denizot 2008; Horne 1993: 105ff.) that the Ossuary was named 7 ‘of Douaumont’ despite being located in the municipality of Fleury. The inscription of the battle’s mythology onto the physical surroundings of the battlefield registered to both the role of the battle in national history and identity and the role of the battlefield as an ‘emotional’ landscape for survivors (Denizot 2008: 120). These correspond with separate ‘collective memories’ of the war and of the battle that developed in the inter-war period (Barcellini 1996; following Prost 2002a). One was national and patriotic, centred on the symbolism of victory and military heroism, and championed by national and local media and elites. The other was the memory of the Verdun veterans, personal and charged with emotion, anguish, and grief and in some sense antiheroic (Barcellini 1996: 79; cf. Prost 2002a). For Barcellini these parallel memories shaped the commemorative landscape of Verdun, with the former embraced by the municipal authorities and embodied in the Victory monument and other ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 55 urban landmarks, while the latter was embodied by the Ossuary and other battlefield landmarks. This distinction was amplified by ceremonial practice. Although the itinerary of inter-war commemorative ceremonies often included both monuments, each was also the focus of a separate annual commemoration of the battle. The Victory monument was the main venue of the official commemoration on 23 June, a date chosen as marking the end of the enemy advance in 1916 but also as attractive for outdoor festivities. Protagonists of the day were national and local authorities who emphasised victory and national heroism in their speeches (Barcellini 1996: 82). The battle was instead commemorated at the Ossuary on 21 February, date of the German attack, and the main actors were veterans who remembered the dead with a funeral wake and/or silent processions rather than speeches ‘because one dare not speak in front of the dead’ (Barcellini 1996: 84–85). They were unconcerned by the often wintry, harsh weather conditions.8 Thus the parallel memories structured, and were structured by, a divided time-space in inter-war Verdun. Yet they also clashed over the issue of visits to the battlefield. Travel to the battlefield began almost before the war was over by veterans, relatives and friends of combatants, and those curious to see locations rendered famous by the unprecedented media coverage of the conflict (Sherman 1999; Laqueur 2008; Lloyd 1993; Brandt 1994; Eksteins 1994). Battlefield tourism was seen as a means of raising funds for reconstruction, and in Verdun, it was endorsed by the departmental administration of the Meuse and by the Verdun municipality (Meyer 2007: 78ff.; cf. Lloyd 1993: 29). In 1918 the municipality applied for the city to be classed as ‘tourist station’ in order to gain the right to charge for visits to memorials and military installations; and a ‘war museum’ was created by the local tourist commission in town (Meyer 2007: 85). By the 1920s, several local operators offered daily tours of the battlefield, and Verdun boasted six hundred hotel establishments. Lloyd (1993) notes that guidebooks and visitors preferred the term ‘pilgrimage’ rather than ‘tourism’ to describe battlefield visits, and in Verdun the hostel built near the Ossuary at Douaumont in 1932 was named Abri du Pélerin [Pilgrim’s Shelter]. Veterans were most vocal against the idea of tourism, as in this account in a promotional newsletter raising funds for the Ossuary:

I went back [to the battleﬁeld] with my heart full of memories of those I saw fall and who were my comrades; I went back as into a church, hardly daring to walk where their blood had been spilled. Groups of tourists went up too. They weren’t going on a pilgrimage – they spoke and laughed loudly. And there, as I climbed, I saw them all again, my former comrades who fell during a night-time attack, the missing, the anonymous dead. And the others climbed with me, and sang. (Binet-Valmer 1922) 56 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

Although the imagery of blood-soaked ground resonates with nationalistic rhetoric, here it is used to express and justify a reflective, respectful, and mournful mood associated with sacred spaces juxtaposed to the carefree behaviour of ‘tourists’. In Verdun veterans were amongst the most active in fundraising for the Ossuary. They saw themselves as guardians of land rendered ‘sacred’ by the blood of the fallen, a burial ground haunted by the presence of the dead (Lloyd 1993: 24; cf. Amat forthcoming). Religious imagery (‘sacrifice’, ‘suffering’) was widely used to give meaning to the war’s losses (Lloyd 1993: 73; cf. Becker 1998; Winter 1995). For Lloyd (1993: 7, 40) the image of the thoughtless, carefree tourist was less real than a rhetorical device to claim that survivors’ grief and the achievements of the fallen should not be trivialised, and that the deaths and suffering had not been in vain. For veterans, the contrast between tourist and pilgrim may also express their perception of a gap in knowledge and understanding of the war between themselves and non- combatants (Dyer 1994: 17; Lloyd 1993: 24; Amat forthcoming). In expressing distaste for tourists, Verdun veterans were at odds with the municipality, whose plans for the city’s reconstruction included the promotion of tourism as a significant resource. War remembrance and reconstruction were linked at the inauguration of the Monument to Victory, dubbed the ‘fête de la renaissance de Verdun’ [festival of the renaissance of Verdun], celebrating ‘A city destroyed in ten months and reconstructed in ten years’ as its Mayor put it (Gauny 2009: 2; Meyer 2007: 111–14). In truth, Verdun’s ‘renaissance’ faced more challenges from its underlying economic weakness than from war destruction. The extent of the city’s destruction was regularly exaggerated in contemporary sources including in photograph postcards of the ruins on sale in Verdun and elsewhere (Meyer 1983: 43), in another example of ‘mythical’ inscription of the war onto the landscape. However, apart from localised sectors in the historic centre, the city was far less damaged than the battlefield, and nowhere near 96 per cent destroyed as some claimed (Meyer 1987: 8; 1999: 121; cf. Hottenger 1918: 11). Although the city was shelled throughout the war, most damage was accidentally caused by German long-distance guns trying to target bridges, and there is no evidence that ‘the enemy systematically pursues the destruction of anything that remains of our dear and old Verdun’ (1918, cit. in Meyer 1983: 5). Such comments expressed the emotion of the Verdunois, shocked by the damage to city landmarks such as the Cathedral; amongst non- locals they were ideologically coloured to bolster claims of ‘German barbarity’ (Meyer 1983: 4ff.; R.L. 1917: 1; cf. Kramer 2007). Ideology and emotion explain proposals to preserve the city in its ruined state. Victor Péquart, a former mayor and Director of the Société pour le Relèvement du Pays Meusien [Society for the Resurgence of the Meuse department and of Verdun], campaigned to preserve the city centre ruins to witness to the horrors of the war and instruct future generations and as ‘the most ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 57 beautiful plinth in the memory of the defenders of Civilisation and Right’ (Péquart 1917: 14; cf. Meyer 1987: 10; 1983, 57ff.). This captured the imagination of the national media, which praised the ‘sublime lesson to consciences’ of such a ‘spectacle of tragic splendour’ (cit. in Meyer 2007: 16). An earlier proposal during the battle (November 1916) to the Municipal Council by General Dubois, commander of the Verdun defence, had asked to preserve the pre-modern ruins of fortifications exposed by the bombardment in the city centre for their ‘artistic and archaeological interest [but also to] link to Verdun an idea of strength and inviolability’ (Reg. Del. 20 Nov. 1916: 1). The response of the deputy for the Meuse illustrates the view of the Municipal Council about the future of Verdun: ‘leaving Verdun its particular character of ville guerrière [warrior city] should not prevent the formulation of a reconstruction plan that would ensure its commercial and industrial development’ (ibid.: 7). The Municipal Council was strongly supported by many local residents and businessmen, keen to return to their houses and businesses in the city centre (Meyer 1987: 10). The imperative to develop economically was also dictated by the loss of the garrison, Verdun’s main source of business, because the army planned to decommission the fortress now that the border had moved further east. The initial plans for reconstruction were ambitious, envisaging the expansion of the city beyond its walls, and attracting entrepreneurs with the availability of war reparations (purchased from former residents not wishing to return) and of spaces left vacant by the army. In the event these plans failed due to bureaucratic delays in allocating war reparations, the army’s reluctance to cede its properties, and other factors such as the distance of Verdun from Lorraine’s industrial centre (Meyer 1999). Reconstruction largely reproduced the pre-war city and hopes for economic revival came to rest on tourism, pitting local authorities against the wishes of veterans and also of those who saw a focus on the battlefield as preventing Verdun from moving on from this tragic part of its past (Meyer 2007: 91). But tourism too did not achieve the ‘renaissance of Verdun’, because visitors’ numbers declined fairly quickly after the war (cf. Lloyd 1993: 101ff.). The city’s economy was rescued by the army, which decided in 1922 to retain a significant contingent in Verdun. When the army finally left the city in the early 1980s, this led to a new crisis in the local economy, which almost a century after the Great War put battlefield tourism back on the agenda as a potential local development opportunity. In the context of Verdun’s post-war reconstruction, the creation of the Monument to Victory thus embodied the city’s bid to focus commemoration on itself and so to set itself up as the symbolic and economic gateway to battlefield (cf. Barcellini 1996: 82). However, the battle had superseded the city as a national lieu de mémoire, and the former battlefield had emerged as the privileged site for remembrance and commemoration, particularly for veterans centred on the Ossuary and on the February ceremonies. Thus the Victory 58 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

monument, seemingly part of the same physical, ritual, and symbolic landscape as the Ossuary, was in fact separated from it both by its mediation of a more patriotic and national memory and by its closer spatial and institutional association with a municipal government that saw reconstruction as a forward- looking move past the war, harnessing the past primarily as a potential economic resource via tourism. By contrast the Ossuary mediated a more personal, emotional, and memory-laden perspective on the aftermath of war, which enshrined and sacralised the war past as a moral resource for the contemplation and consolation of contemporaries and a warning to posterity. This last aspect was no doubt shared by many local inhabitants and authorities but publicly mainly championed by non-local constituencies such as veterans’ associations and the families of the fallen, less concerned than the Verdunois with recreating a habitable, economically viable place. This multivocality has continued beyond the generation of immediate survivors.

RECONCILIATIONS In the long aftermath of the Great War the significance and meanings attached to the Verdun battlefield has shifted even if the Ossuary at Douaumont has remained its most visited site. In particular it has come to be a ‘site of memory’ for France, Germany, and Europe in relation to the idea of peace and of reconciliation after the world wars (Prost 2002a). This aspect emerged in the inter-war period as the main French veterans’ associations promoted a pacifist agenda that in July 1936 led twenty thousand of their members to meet at the Ossuary with a German delegation to proclaim jointly an oath to safeguard 9 peace (Barcellini 1996: 89,n.20; Prost 1992). Because of the new world conflict it was not until September 1984 that a similar gesture was repeated when Chancellor Kohl (whose father had fought at Verdun) and French President Mitterrand (who had fought in the area during Second World War) declared Franco-German reconciliation and friendship in the name of united Europe by famously holding hands in front of the Ossuary and of coffins draped with the two national flags (e.g., Domange n.d.: 7). This meeting was held after German authorities had not been invited to Normandy for the fortieth anniversary of the landings the previous June, suggesting that First World War, more remote in time and without the shadow of collaboration, offered a less politically contentious background against which to proclaim Franco-German amity (Barcellini 1996: 90; cf. Rousso 1991 and below). Since then the link between Verdun, reconciliation, peace, and Europe has been reiterated at every anniversary and ceremony at the Ossuary (for instance, in President Chirac’s speech for the ninetieth anniversary that presented peace, reconciliation, and the advancement of ‘Europe’ as the fulfilment of survivors’‘duty’ towards the fallen). More recently there has been an effort to acknowledge what is known ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 59 in official literature the French and German mémoire partagée [shared memory]. On 13 November 2009 a German flag was flown for the first time on Fort Douaumont, to remember and honour six hundred German soldiers buried alive in the fort by shelling; this was followed in May 2013 by a statue donated by a private German citizen placed in the interior of the fort. To date, however, no acknowledgement of the German fallen is found at the Ossuary, in spite of the fact that it is likely to contain the remains of German soldiers. This suggests that underlying the positive and hopeful rhetoric are lingering tensions about the historical relations between France and Germany; these also surface in relation to the connection between the Ossuary at Douaumont and General Pétain. After the war Pétain was celebrated as ‘the hero of Verdun’, the general who had ‘won the battle’ embodying France’s heroic resistance (see, e.g., Horne 1998: 132ff.). His reputation made him the natural choice of leader after the defeat of 1940, which, however, led to his being condemned for treason and exiled in 1945 (Ousby 1999). In his will of 1938 Pétain had asked to be buried in the cemetery at Douaumont, but between 1945 and 1951 (when he died) his name was removed from commemorations in Verdun and from the register of honorary citizens. In 1958 De Gaulle (himself a Verdun veteran) decided to transfer Pétain’s body to Douaumont but abandoned the idea when Pétain’s supporters demanded a full rehabilitation. On the fiftieth anniversary of the battle in 1966 De Gaulle declared at Douaumont that Pétain had indeed acquired glory at Verdun but that he could not be buried here because the Ossuary was ‘a monument of national unity’ and ‘should not be troubled by later divisions among survivors’ (Denizot 2008: 130). In 1984 the Association for the Defence of the Memory of Marshal Pétain and the Committee of the Ossuary of Douaumont made an agreement that ‘when the time is ripe’ the Committee will apply to the government for Pétain’s remains to be buried there (Denizot 2008: 131). Since 1993 a wreath to Pétain amongst other generals has been laid on Armistice Day at Douaumont, while in Verdun it is rumoured that Pétain supporters hold a private mass for him in the Ossuary annually on the day of his death. The problematic presence/absence of Pétain at the Ossuary surfaces in Chirac’s speech for the ninetieth anniversary that evoked Pétain’s role as ‘the victor of Verdun’ but also mentioned ‘the dishonour of collaboration’ describing it as a ‘French tragedy’ that is ‘part of our history’.10 As if to qualify this assertion Chirac concluded by citing historian and resistance fighter Marc Bloch, shot by the Gestapo in 1943, on the need to sacrifice oneself and work for national liberty. A link between Douaumont and the Resistance was also made in March 2010 when a plaque was inaugurated inside the Ossuary remembering ‘volunteer combatants of the Resistance and the deported of the Meuse Department’. The inaugural speech made by the president of the Departmental Union of the Volunteer Resistance Fighters and Deported and 60 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

their Families evoked Pétain who ‘was crowned by victory at Verdun but plunged the country into servitude, slavery, nazification and shame’ and the Verdun veteran De Gaulle who ‘brought hope and refused to lose the war’ (L’Est Républicain 2010). The case of Pétain shows how the site of Douaumont is still charged with meaning in relation to France’s twentieth-century history, in which the two world wars have become inextricably tangled both at the level of history and of memory. The scenario of ostensibly ‘achieved’ Franco-German reconciliation is complicated by the reality of the still-troubled memory of wartime for the French and the slow progress of ‘Franco-French’ reconciliation. At the same time especially in the twenty-first century the themes of peace and reconciliation associated with Verdun have been harnessed to affirm other ‘reconciliations’. So in his ninetieth-anniversary speech at Douaumont, Chirac remembered the former colonial troops who had ‘died for France’ particularly in the recapture of Fort Douaumont in October 1916 and for whom a new, large monument was erected in 2006. The speech concluded that ‘it was France in its diversity’ who had resisted the enemy thanks to all its ‘soldier-citizens’, perhaps a veiled reference to contemporary debates about citizenship surrounding France’s Muslim population. In a similarly inclusive vein President Nicolas Sarkozy, who in 2008 held the national Armistice Day ceremony at Douaumont for the first time since the inter-war period, remembered the soldiers ‘shot at dawn’ for alleged cowardice, who had been rehabilitated in 1922 but never publicly commemorated. In his speech he said that they had been ‘shot but not dishonoured, not lazy but pushed to the extreme limit of their forces’,suffering as much than others and deserving our gratitude and admiration. He thus phrased the rehabilitation of the soldiers shot at dawn in terms of the ‘shared humanity’ of soldiers from all sides, presented as victims of forces greater than they. Arguably Sarkozy used the theme of suffering and emotion both in this and in an earlier visit to Verdun as a presidential candidate, to stage the image of a politician in direct, poignant contact with the country’s tragic yet heroic past (Offenstadt 2010: 115). However, the theme of soldiers’ suffering has come to pervade public as well as scholarly representations of First World War in recent years (Prost and Winter 2005). At Verdun, it dominated a speech on the ninety-fifth anniversary of the battle on 27 June 2011 by French Prime Minister François Fillon. Fillon opened with a lengthy citation of a soldier’s letter to his mother describing the unspeakable conditions during the battle. Fillon also stated that since the death in 2008 of the last French veteran of the Great War, ‘the soldiers of the Great War live on through us. It is our task to 11 relay their voices, to perpetuate their testimony’. Fillon’s speech in June 2011 was at the Ossuary, which since the seventy-fifth anniversary of the battle has superseded the Victory monument as the venue for 12 the June commemoration of the battle. The Victory monument has gradually ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 61 become secondary to the Ossuary in representing ‘Verdun’ in the public and official imagination. An iconic image of the French defeat of June 1940 was the photograph of German troops marching in front of the Victory monument, and De Gaulle chose it in 1948 to launch the conservative Rassemblement du Peuple Français (Gauny 2009). In the post-war period it has remained the focus of annual ceremonies surrounding the flame of the Unknown Soldier, brought to it in early November from the tomb in Paris lit till 11 November (Armistice Day). However, recently (2003) the meaning of the monument seems to have been changed by the addition of a fountain at the foot of the monument said to symbolise ‘the continuity of life’ or ‘life flowing from its source in 1918’ (Gauny 2009: 6). This resonates with the presentation of Verdun as ‘world city of peace’ 13 that has been promoted since the 1960s. At the same time, however, the fountain’s design links the monument visually and architecturally to a newly pedestrianised area in the city’s main commercial thoroughfare, recently refurbished with the city centre’s ‘revitalisation’ as a commercial hub. By comparison with the Ossuary at Douaumont, standing alone in a space set apart from everyday life and exclusively dedicated to commemorating the battle, the Verdun Victory monument seems to have lost its symbolic potency as the war has receded into the past, becoming a taken-for-granted element of the urban landscape relevant for its shape and location more than for its evocative and commemorative power. Over time, commemoration of the Great War both on the battlefield and in the city has become linked to global values such as peace, human suffering, and human rights, largely moving away from the symbolism of victory and nationhood (even if this occasionally resurfaces). This perspective recalls the attitude once held by veterans, and it is perhaps significant that the Ossuary, once the key ‘veteran’ site, should have now become the privileged venue for commemoration. It is also interesting that this shift occurred as the last survivors have passed away, as if, in the words of Fillon cited above, they now ‘live through us’.Ashiftofthe‘site of memory’ from the city to the battlefield may also reflect the fact that whereas direct survivors may have held a ‘layered’ memory of the battle that incorporated the pre-war symbolic and emotional power of the city of Verdun, their descendants have gradually come to focus their impressions and feelings of the conflict on the battlefield. This shift matches the decline in popularity of other sites in the city associated with the mythic history of the war, such as the cemetery at Faubourg Pavé and the Citadelle Souterraine 14 [Underground Citadel], both linked with the Unknown Soldier as well as with the image of the fortress city. Both sites were key visitor destinations in the inter-war period (and for a time in the second post-war period), but there has been a sharp decline in visitor numbers, and they have not been touched by new initiatives of ‘valorisation’ that had taken place on the battlefield since the eight- ieth anniversary of the war. It is only with the approach of the centenary of the war that the city has expressed renewed interest in these sites. It is in this context 62 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

that a tension between the city and the battleﬁeld has re-emerged, in terms of who ‘owns’ the public memory of the battle and the war.

‘THETIMEOFHISTORY’: MEMORIALISATION AT VERDUN TODAY With the approach of the centenary of the Great War in 2014–2018, substantial public funding (approximately 40 million Euros) has been promised by various sources (state, region, department, and others) to five main areas in the Meuse department including the Verdun battlefield, for initiatives aimed at valorising the sites to attract mass tourism, including ‘one million visitors to the Meuse in 2016’, centenary of the battle (L’Est Républicain 2009). The project is managed and coordinated by the Conseil Géneral of the Meuse through its ‘Mission Histoire’, a committee presided over by Serge Barcellini, a historian and official in the Ministry of Defence. In a report of June 2009 (Barcellini 2009)he affirmed the need for a concerted public policy of valorisation and presentation to the public of the former battlefields in what he calls ‘le temps de l’histoire’ [the time of history]. Barcellini distinguishes the present day both from ‘the time of souvenir’ (survivors’ remembrance and memory, 1918–1968) and ‘the time of memory’ (self-conscious commemoration based on received memory, 1968–2008) when commemoration could be left to spontaneous, grassroots initiatives (Barcellini 2009: 3). The passing of the last survivors introduces ‘the time of history’, requiring a conscious effort to transmit to younger generations a knowledge of the conflict and its actors based on historical scholarship and new media (museums, Internet sources, reconstructed ‘pedagogical trenches’, etc.) (Barcellini 2009: 3). To date, a Commission d’Animation Mémoire de la Grande Guerre en Meuse has been created to coordinate various war-related initiatives including, in June 2009, promoting an ‘updated’ version of the annual commemoration of the battle ‘to better cater for social needs of today’ (CMGG 2010). The programme was centred on the concept of the Trench and included films, exhibitions, a symposium, costume re-enactments, and visits to the battlefield in the name of ‘History and Respect’ (ibid.). Meanwhile the Mission Histoire has begun to discuss plans for the centenary, signing agreements with other national and local agencies including the Souvenir Français, the Association pour le Souvenir de la Bataille de Verdun, the Forestry Service (ONF), and local municipalities including Verdun and the rural communes in whose territory falls the battlefield. The plan includes the refurbishment of sites on the battlefield, including the Ossuary at Douaumont and the Fort Douaumont, and sites in Verdun including the Citadelle Souterraine, updating its display. The new presentation will highlight the presence of soldiers from several nationalities including Germans, to overcome an exclusion attributed to the ‘time of souvenir’ (Barcellini 2011). ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 63

The centenary is seen as an opportunity to double the annual number of visitors to the Verdun battlefield from 250,000 to 500,000 by upgrading the tourist offerings of the Verdun battlefield and in the whole of the Meuse (described in documentation as Département Mémoire de la Grande Guerre). Various programmes have been formulated, including an application to UNESCO (jointly with other battlefield regions) to declare the Western Front a World Heritage Site labelled ‘European Heritage’: if successful, this would be the first time that UNESCO has listed a site with purely military associations, and one that sits across national boundaries (Barcellini 2009). The plan at the departmental level is also to harmonise the information available both on and off site and improve site accessibility and upkeep across five key areas including the Verdun battlefield. In each area working groups will prepare projects for a tourist programme focused on a distinct theme such as, for Verdun, ‘The heroism and survival of soldiers’ (TH n.d.). The Verdun battlefield is described as the central space of the département- mémoire because the battle was ‘the mother of battles’ of the Great War; the aim is to increase the number of visitors by improving the existing tourist information, which for now consists of panels situated in the vicinity of many sites and monuments (though not the Ossuary), created at various times and thus uneven in their detail and content (TH n.d.). Seven key sites will be improved in terms of information, accessibility, and safety including the Ossuary. The overall aim is to improve what French policy calls ‘animation’–structures and programmes for tourisme de mémoire [memory tourism] – by organising guided visits and events about the history of the battlefield. In this plan, the city of Verdun will be the tourist point of entry into the battlefield, with a tourist information centre and a centre for genealogical research (CdM 2010: 16). The integration on paper between the city of Verdun and the battlefield does not match the current (2011) political reality. When the Barcellini plan was unanimously approved by the Conseil Général of the Meuse in July 2009, the sole amendment was proposed by the Mayor of Verdun, Arsène Lux, in order to modify a sentence that he deemed ‘insulting’. The offending sentence read: ‘the city of Verdun, after which the battlefield is named, is external to the battlefield’ (see L’Est Républicain 10 July 2009; cf. Barcellini 2009: 19). Lux stressed the work undertaken in the municipality of Verdun to elaborate a strategic plan centred on the tourist valorisation of the Battle of Verdun as the ‘symbolic battle of the First War’ (L’Est Républicain 10 July 2009). In a similar vein in March 2011,he contested the ‘geographical butchering’ of the Meuse into five zones for centenary valorisation, which relegates the city of Verdun to the ‘French rear of the front’ and ‘questions the indissoluble link of the city with its battlefield ... [perpetrating] ...an outrage towards the city of Verdun, deliberately destroyed to more than 90% in its most prestigious and historical part’ (Lux 2011). Critics both in the local media and in ethnographic interviews conducted during 2009 64 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

and 2010 claim that the municipality of Verdun opposes the plans of the Conseil Général and the Mission Histoire as a bid to monopolise tourism related to the Great War. For example, in 2009 the municipality contested plans to grant the Conseil Général/Mission Histoire the renovation and management of the Citadelle Souterraine, Fort Douaumont, and Fort Vaux (Barcellini 2009). In May 2010, the Mayor of Verdun in a letter to the Minister of Defence accused Barcellini of using the Mission Histoire website to mount a vicious and unfair 15 attack against the tourist and memorial policy of the municipality. This led to the closure of the homepage of the Mission Histoire website. A more collaborative attitude towards the efforts of the Conseil Général and the Mission Histoire was expressed in ethnographic interviews by other local bodies involved in the management and development of war-related tourism, notably representatives of the Communauté de Communes (Codecom) of Charny, a group of municipalities on whose territory today lies the battlefield of Verdun. Interviews indicate that the Codecom tourist officers have been working closely with the Mission Histoire on this and other projects. They also hinted at ‘inertia’ and ‘political blockages’ hindering progress in the centenary preparations in the Meuse by comparison with other departments. They also alluded to tensions with the Verdun tourist office over who should be the main tourist actor on the battlefield. The approach of the other rural municipalities to the valorisation of the battlefield is not itself devoid of internal tensions. Exponents of the Tourist Office at Charny interviewed in March 2009 argued that a key asset for the area is ‘green tourism’, exploiting the area’s natural heritage. An important part of this heritage is the battlefield itself that, because of its largely undisturbed state for almost a century, now hosts outstanding biodiversity including several protected plant and animal species – especially on the plateau containing the Ossuary, now an EU zone Natura 2000. However, these policymakers said that their ability to ‘valorise’ this natural heritage is limited by existing norms about respect des lieux [respect for the sites] linked with the historical role of the site as focus of ‘pilgrimage’ and introduced by a prefectoral decree of 1965 that forbids within the boundaries of the ‘red zone’ any sports, picnics, and music, which in practice are central to most types of tourism ‘development’. The Director of Tourism at the Codecom of Charny expressed frustration at these prohibitions, which in his view have hindered an effective tourist experience centred on the battlefield: ‘Of course we are in a place where awful things have occurred, so we need a respect for places. ...[B]ut we must continue to live, one can animate the territory while 16 respecting the places, while for today we can do nothing on that territory’. In his view, a diversification of the experience is crucial now that ‘the last soldier has died’, in that there is no longer a living memory and ‘future generations will stop coming because there is no longer a direct link, only history books’. This diversification will encourage visitors to stay longer than the few hours it takes to ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 65 visit the ‘memory sites’. Such a view is partly shared by the working party on the centenary who envisage a relaxation of the terms of the decree through a ‘segmentation’ of the battlefield space into key sites where the prohibitions will be upheld and areas where freer usage is allowed. It is hoped that new norms can be created that balance a tolerated or authorised field of activities with a ‘“moral code” regulating individual behaviour’ (Reunion N3: 3). However this hope clashes with the wishes of other key actors concerned with the sites, notably the 17 ‘mayors’ of the so-called villages détruits [destroyed villages] and the Association for the Souvenir of the Battle of Verdun, both of whom see it as their mission to preserve the memorial ‘sacredness’ of these places – bringing into the twenty-first century a debate about the nature of this site that, as shown above, began almost as soon as the battle was finished. The ‘natural heritage’ aspect of the battlefield is of interest not only to visitors from outside the area but also to the inhabitants of Verdun and the surrounding villages themselves, for whom ‘the battlefield’ is a vast natural space close to the city for recreation and leisure such as walking, cycling, horse-riding, and hunting. These uses have long taken place (certainly in the post-war period) but are hedged by prohibitions regarding respect des lieux and also about safety because of the dangers of ordnance and military structures. In the future, this group of stakeholders may see their access to the battlefield also regulated by the creation of a national park for which an application was submitted in early 2010, spearheaded by the Office de Tourisme of Charny/Pays Verdunois in conjunction with the Codecom, Meuse Departement, and the Region. The aim is to encourage ‘green tourism’ and respond to ‘quality of life’ demands from local inhabitants. While the promoters of this project explain that this need not clash with the memorial aspects of the battlefield, the institution of a national park would entail restrictions to usage and behaviour that could well clash with the project to encourage mass tourism in 2014–2018.

CONCLUSIONS: THE MATERIAL LIFE OF A SITE OF MEMORY The Ossuary at Douaumont and the Monument to Victory in Verdun began as sites of mourning and pilgrimage, responding to the brutality and losses of the Great War, most powerfully symbolised for the French by the Battle of Verdun. For the Ossuary in particular, the site was almost overwhelmed with meaning and symbolism, as the centre of a landscape in which history and myth merged relatively seamlessly, providing an ‘emotional landscape’ for both those who had participated in the battle and others. Physically the site has changed little since its inauguration in 1932, except in its surrounding landscape, no longer bare and desolate, but richly forested and dotted with other monuments. The main addition is the Mémorial, a museum built by veterans in the 1960s to mark the gradual demise of survivors and the emergence of a less worshipful, more 66 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

pedagogical relationship with the war past increasingly based on understanding through the medium of history. At the same time, the site has been co-opted to the agenda of peace and European identity centred on the reconciliation of the former enemies: less explicitly it plays a role in a more painful and slower reconciliation, within France itself for its divided past. Most recently, the passing of the last survivors has led to reinforce its didactic and pacifist aspects and to give it global resonance for universal values of peace and human rights, ushering in a ‘time of history’ after those of ‘souvenir’ and of ‘mémoire’. Less explicitly, this passing seems to have led to a revival of the former ‘veterans’ perspective, centred on individual suffering and mourning. By contrast the more patriotic symbolism associated with victory and heroism has largely waned in public discourse, partly explaining why the Victory monument seems to have lost poignancy. This may also be because of its location, in an urban environment that in recent years has been gradually refurbished to make it more cheerful, pleasant, and accessible. It has been suggested above that this completes a shift of the ‘site of memory’ at Verdun from the city to the battlefield. This linear sequence of phases, charting the passage of time and the sequence of generations since the war, does not fully do justice to the scenario in which the Ossuary of Douaumont, the Monument to Victory, and the Verdun battlefield as a whole exist. At the level of meaning and symbolism this scenario is rife with contradiction: between sacred and profane use, between war and peace symbolism, between Pétain’s and De Gaulle’s wars, between heroism and defeat. Despite the clear and detailed guidelines drafted in view of the centenary, interviews with local actors suggest that uncertainty remains about what to do with the battlefield area and what value to see in it today. Memorial value enshrined in the norms imposed by the prefectoral decree of 1965 clash with heritage value central to the initiatives linked with the forthcoming centenary, and both seem at odds with the idea of natural value identified by some users of the area. This suggests that the value and ‘ownership’ (both in terms of usage and of identity) of the battlefield is today contested between various actors including tourists, veteran and other associations, local residents, and local and national policy actors. While the Ossuary remains firmly a site of remembrance and commemoration (indeed, it is the privileged site for both), it too is concerned by this clash given that the plateau on which it stands is singled out as having particular environmental value, which may create conflicts of management and usage. Meanwhile, the city is reclaiming its stake of this value (whatever it might be), and in so doing may be revising the value of sites such as the Monument to Victory, sites that may yet regain memorial visibility in the context of policies for the centenary celebration. It is not yet clear how the current discussions about the ‘valorisation’ of the battlefield will evolve, and therefore what will take place there during the centenary observances. What is clear from this material is that the politics of ‘THE CEMETERY OF FRANCE’ 67

Great War commemoration at Verdun not only engage national and international war memory and identity, but also local-level politics of territorial management. The lieu de mémoire is mapped across two physical and administrative locations for which it is a potential territorial and economic resource. These locations compete for resources from higher levels, representing and catering for constituencies with different and often competing interests. In turn, this conflictintersectswiththe level at which the site is given symbolic value, involving local and non-local actors in debates about its meaning and significance at different historical moments. None of this is new: as the above discussion has shown, even in the immediate aftermath of the battle and of the war the crystallisation of a new lieu de mémoire at Verdun, took place, inflected by the material interests of a variety of actors and agencies at the local level, within the concrete processes of reconstruction and the economic and political management of the aftermath of war. This focus on monuments as physical as well as symbolic entities thus brings into focus the complex interplay of symbolic meaning and material interests that make up the nature of ‘sites of memory’ at each point in time.

NOTES

1. See early twentieth-century unpublished documentation in the Bibliothèque Archive Municipal, Verdun. 2. Text from fundraising postcard, n.d., author’s translation, Bibliothèque Archive Municipal, Verdun. 3. Author’s translation, emphasis in the original. 4. Author’s translation, emphasis in the original. 5. See note 16. 6. For instance, in the city’s own war memorial, the Monument aux Enfants de Verdun Morts pour la France [Monument to the Children of Verdun Dead for France]. 7. Another well-known example is the so-called Tranchée des Bayonnettes [Bayonet Trench], a monument erected to commemorate the alleged burial of two platoons by a shell burst, so that the tips of their bayonets remained visible emerging from the ground (see, e.g., Prost 2002a: 54–55). This episode had great symbolic resonance in the French national imaginary about the battle but was quickly dismissed by veterans as false (Barcellini 1996: 83). 8. Veterans may even have welcomed rigid winter conditions on the former battlefield in February. For Lloyd (1993: 147) in post-war accounts of battlefield visits veterans commonly stated the wish to re-live aspects of wartime experience. 9. This gesture was undermined by the fact that the German veterans’ associations had been infiltrated by National Socialist sympathisers, of which the French veterans were apparently unaware (Domange n.d.: 6). 10. www.anciencombattant.com/article.cfm?id=101925, accessed 31 March 2010. 11. See www.gouvernement.fr/premier-ministre/francois-fillon-la-france-enracine-a-verdun-une- part-de-sa-legende, accessed 14 July 2011. 12. See www.verdun-meuse.fr/index.php?qs=fr/directeur-mission-histoire/, accessed 1 July 2011. 13. Verdun created a Peace Medal and a ‘Livre de la Paix’ [Peace Book] in 1966 (Barcellini 1996: 94). The first ‘World Assizes of Peace’ was held there in 1982 for pacifist associations and for cities hit by war; Verdun also joined the Union Mondiale des Villes Martyres [World Union of Martyr Cities] 68 JEAN-PAUL AMAT, PAOLA FILIPPUCCI, AND EDWIGE SAVOURET

and in 1988 was the seat of the first world meeting of Villes Messagères de Paix [Cities Messengers of Peace]. In 1994, the so-called Centre Mondial de la Paix was created in the former Episcopal Palace of Verdun, now named the ‘World City of Peace’. 14. The French Unknown Soldier was selected by a veteran from amongst eight unidentified bodies collected in the main French battlefields of the Western Front. The selection took place on 10 November 1920 in Verdun’s Citadel. The chosen body was taken to Paris for a state burial under the Arc de Triomphe; seven others were buried in Verdun where they still rest today (cf. Ben-Amos 2000: 212 ff.). 15.See www.verdun-meuse.fr/index.php?qs=fr/president-du-conseil-general-de-la-meuse/au-sujet- dun-courrier-de-monsieur-arsene-lux, accessed 10 November 2010. 16. Interview conducted by the author in August 2011. 17. These are villages within the Verdun battlefield destroyed during the war and never reconstructed. A law in 1919 granted them a Municipal Commission with a president with powers and prerogatives similar to a mayor and a Municipal Council, both nominated by the Prefect. These ‘municipalities’ in 2008 formed into an intercommunal body. See http://www.codecom-charny.fr/villages_detruits.asp; http://www.lesvillagesdetruits.fr/. CHAPTER THREE

SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW: THE MATERIALITY OF TRADITION AND POWER IN THE POST–CIVIL WAR RECONSTRUCTION OF GERNIKA’S FORU PLAZA

Dacia Viejo-Rose1

The city in its complete sense, then, is a geographic plexus, an economic organization, an institutional process, a theatre of social action, and an aesthetic symbol of collective unity. – (Mumford 1937/2007: 87)

uring the spanish civil war (1936–1939) cities and towns Dbehind Republican frontlines were the target of aerial bombing cam- paigns carried out by the Franco-led military. These bombings were reported in the national and international media at the time. Yet it was the bombing 2 of the town of Gernika on 26 April 1937 that captured the world’simagi- nation, echoing internationally then and remaining a poignant symbol still today. As Gernika had been a symbolically signiﬁcant town before its bombing, this act of destruction added further dimensions that at times appeared to overshadow the pre-existing ones such that the name of the town became synonymous with the act of its destruction. The resilience of the town’s symbolism, however, contrasts sharply with the fragility of its materiality. Only 1 per cent of buildings remained intact: the entire town centre, its main square, Town Hall, market, sporting and cultural venues, and the Church of San Juan along with numerous residential buildings were completely destroyed. This chapter explores the materiality of the town and its physical reconstruction after the bombing, focusing on the Foru Plaza/Plaza de los Fueros of Gernika, a central square where the Town Hall was located.

69 70 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

The two aspects of its reconstruction that are the focus of this study are the attempts to restructure space by constructing a ‘centre’ and the attempts to effect symbolic meaning through this building process. These two aspects inform one another: symbols create a ‘centre’, endowing it with reference points, and the establishment of a physical centre can have the effect of imposing or naturalising certain symbols. A dominant centre can lend a material presence to the authority that builds and controls it. The variegated nature of the town square also makes it particularly interesting as a focus of study, for it is both a core towards which municipal life gravitates and a crossroads through which people move but do not remain. It is at once an empty space and a constructed place, a negative and a positive, a void shaped by its surrounding buildings that is nonetheless filled with significance. Gernika’s Foru Plaza is the square on which the Town Hall is located. The town hall square, often known as the Plaza del Ayuntamiento or Plaza Mayor, has long played a central part in Spanish urban planning. Towns built both in Spain and throughout the New World place this partnering of building and square at the heart of the urban matrix (Low 2000: 84–100). In the Spain of the 1930s, the Plaza del Ayuntamiento was at once a civic centre and a highly symbolic site, embodying part of Mumford’sdefinition of a city as being ‘a theatre of social action and an aesthetic symbol of collective unity’ (1937: 87). The Town Hall marked the political-administrative centre of power in a town, its balcony serving as a pulpit from which sermons, political speeches, and decrees were pronounced. The square in front of the building acted both as tribune for an audience and as a stage on which official festivities and public gatherings could be held. It is not surprising then that post-war reconstruction plans in Spain focused on this urban centre, particularly as they were drawn up by a regime preoccupied with notions of hierarchy, order, and tradition. Before the war had ended their importance was already being indicated:

We deliberately mention ‘town squares’. Because it is a traditionally Spanish urban element that has achieved beautiful creations, adapted to the needs of current life and re-cast in the new spirit it must constitute the central nucleus of civic centres. (D’Ors 1937) The above quotation illustrates the value given to what were perceived as expressions of the ‘traditionally Spanish’ as well as the ambition of modernising these expressions and stamping them with a ‘new spirit’. These seemingly contradictory trends indicate an intention of re-interpreting heritage in order to shape it and its contribution to the new version of Spain being envisioned. This aspiration to mould Spanish heritage to suit the needs and values of those that won the military victory guided the post-war reconstruction. Post-conflict rhetoric is frequently pregnant with symbolic meaning. In Spain, this rhetoric was translated into a material form in the process of SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 71 rebuilding. The question is to determine first in what forms symbolism was crystallised, whether through the architectural styles chosen, the materials used, or the performances of inaugurations, and second whether it remained at a surface level or permeated more deeply to influence social and civic ideas, behaviours, and mores. The Francoist regime attempted to impose its own layer of symbols with their associated moral values and historical references (Viejo-Rose 2011b): in Gernika it is possible to see both the methods of this imposition and the breadth and limits of its success. In the context of the post–civil war reconstruction of cultural heritage in Spain, the choice to orient a biographical focus on Gernika’s main square is manifold. In the first instance it was the most ambitious project undertaken in the town by the regime, strictly in terms of the magnitude of the resources dedicated to it, the quality of the materials, the amount of manpower, and the time dedicated to the project. Furthermore, the time frame for the reconstruction of the square, from 1939 to 1953, coincides with the timeframe of official reconstruction interventions in the town. Finally, it is an apt focus for understanding the reconstruction policies of a regime which prioritised the rebuilding of town halls and their adjacent squares as central physical and political nuclei. Focusing on this particular space and place is revelatory of attempts at urban and social ordering and at materialising the vision of Spain that the victors of the war sought to forge. This vision of Spain was concurrently a heritage of the civil war, a direct result of the ideologies that had been in conflict and had been shaped by that conflict (Viejo-Rose 2011b), and what its architects sought to leave as an influential inheritance for future generations. The aim of this chapter is to trace the relationship between the symbolism and the materiality of a site as potent as Gernika by examining the texture of the town’s urban layout and constituent buildings. Doing this will reveal the aim of the reconstruction project to give a desired shape to the symbolism of the place and anchor it in the urban landscape in an attempt to influence emergent post-war identities. Before turning to the aftermath of the war however, it is first necessary to examine the origins of Gernika’s square and the evolution of the town’s urban and symbolic fabric through the years.

THE ORIGINS OF GERNIKA’S MAIN SQUARE References to Gernika appear in a text dating from 1051, but it was on 28 April 1366 that Gernika was oﬃcially designated as a villa by Don Tello, Count of 3 Biscay. This designation granted a series of privileges, rights, and obligations to Gernika, giving the town more civic power than the designation of elizate/ anteiglesia of the proximate town of Lumo, which had also been a contender for the title. The privileges included a vote and seat at meetings of the Bizkaiko Jaurerria/Juntas Generales del Señorío de Vizcaya. This designation recognised 72 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

the strategic geographic location of this medieval town. It was situated at an important crossroads, connecting the coastal town of Bermeo with the inland 4 industrial town of Durango and with Bilbao, capital of the province. Gernika’s port lay at the inland tip of the Urdaibai estuary, which was then navigable, connecting Gernika to towns along this waterway and to the sea. Gernika was also on the northern Camino de Santiago route, meaning that pilgrims passed through the town. A conflation of events and its strategic emplacement turned Gernika into a trading centre, an important market town, and the meeting site of the lords of Biscay. One architectural characteristic of Gernika’s buildings that appears in historic prints and photographs is the abundance of long, narrow balconies enclosed in glass galleries (acristalados). Most buildings in Gernika used wood as the principal building material with the exception of official buildings, religious buildings, and noble houses, in which stone prevailed. The predominance of wood meant that the town was susceptible to fires (as in 1521, 1537, and 1835) and to inundations, such as when heavy rains coincided with high tide and the estuary flooded. Thus, although Gernika was to live through several conflicts throughout the centuries preceding 1937, the material damage that it suffered seems to have largely been caused by fires and floods. The building of Gernika’s first Town Hall began in 1545 (Sesmero Pérez 1970: 70). Due to Gernika’s hosting the meetings of the Juntas Generales on 7 January 1741, it was decreed that the town should have its own Casa Consistorial, and work was done on the Town Hall building to embellish it in 1743, cementing its place in Gernika’s urban landscape. Prior to this it is possible that the square had actually served as docks; the remains of moorings having been found amongst the foundations of houses during posterior building 5 works. The medieval town centre was formed by four parallel streets – Barrenkalea, Artekale, Azokakalea (previously named Aróstegui-Cantala), and Goienkalea (previously Somera) – all of which were crossed by the transversal street of Andra Mari (or Santa María, referring to the church by the same name). A census carried out in 1760 confirms that these streets constituted the heart of the town, with the Town Hall at their centre (Figure 3.1). In 1786 works were carried out to embellish the town hall square: a wall was torn down to open it up, and the façades of the houses surrounding it were repaired (Gernikazarra 1987: 13). While Gernika gained an official, political centre during these years, its symbolic nucleus continued to be determined by the pull of Gernika’s Arbol 6 Foral (Foral Tree). The Fueros was a form of governance in the Basque regions and Navarre, in which, in a practice originating in the Middle Ages, meetings were held around the base of specially designated oak trees. Gernika’s oak tree came to take precedence over others in the region, becoming a key gathering site. In 1476 the Tree became the site of an act of symbolic resonance when SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 73

3.1. Old map of Gernika (c. 1765 by Tomás López) showing the ﬁve streets that give shape to the town with the square at the centre. (Biblioteca Nacional de España: BNE- MSS/ 7311(H.515R).)

King Ferdinand of the royal couple known as the Catholic Kings, pledged to respect the Basque fueros in a ceremony held around the Tree. A map of the Urdaibai basin by Pedro Texeira dating from 1634 shows the town, spelled Garnica, together with a legend that reads ‘El Arbol de Garnica’, as the only tree signalled out. The town’s importance as a centre for the Basque fueros was further consolidated in 1825 with the construction of the Casa de Juntas (meeting house) built adjacent to the tree (Etxaniz Ortúñez and del Palacio Sánchez 2003: 109). It was at the site of the tree and Casa de Juntas, rather than the Town Hall, that Gernika’s symbolic signiﬁcance was materially anchored. During the Napoleonic invasion of Spain, Gernika seems to have been under the control of French troops for a few days in July 1795. Their presence in the town gave rise to accounts that French soldiers had lain down their weapons and paid homage to the Tree of Gernika (Cava Mesa 1996: 39). War came to Gernika in 1833 with the ﬁrst secessionist Carlist War; the town sided with the Carlist contenders to the Spanish throne, and particularly critical battles were fought on its streets in April 1835. During the Second Carlist War (1872–1876) Gernika became a gathering place for Carlist troops in April 1872 74 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

(Cava Mesa 1996: 39–40). The role of Gernika during these wars – namely, its support of Carlism – strengthened its role as a gathering point in the region and added a dimension of opposition to the monarchy in Madrid. Carlists, and their militia known as Requetés, would later come to play an active role in the war of 1936–1939. Gernika gradually grew in size, and after centuries of rivalry on the 8th of January 1882 Gernika and Lumo were united as one municipality. The town’s physical expansion was limited on the one side by the hill of Lumo and on the other by the train tracks running along the river, so it spread along the Bilbao- Bermeo road (Gernikazarra 1987: 13). This urban expansion was matched by a growth in population, from some nine hundred inhabitants in the sixteenth century to forty-five hundred in 1920 and six thousand by 1936 (Gernikazarra 1987: 11–12). Gernika’s accessibility by road, rail, and water also meant that it grew in importance as a trading centre, leading to the emergence of its famed Monday market, where merchants from a wide region congregated on a regular basis. The market and the ferial [fairgrounds], where the selling of animals took place, became a centre of activity for the town with bars and restaurants springing up around it to cater to traders. This influx of people on market days had another side effect: it heralded the beginning of Gernika’s importance as a centre for pelota matches (the Basque handball sport) and the building of a closed frontón court in 1925 to complement the open-air ones. And, in 1913 an industrial centre began to emerge with factories being built along the waterway and train tracks. All of these developments meant that by the 1930s Gernika had at least five clear spheres of activity, and while they were overlapping, each had a discernable urban core: the tree and meeting house for the symbolic, the Town Hall and its square for the civic (Figure 3.2), the market and ferial for trade, the factory area for the industrial, and the frontón for the sporting and social life that came with pelota. A painting from the 1930s by Gernikan artist Antonio Zaldumbide (Txaparrito) depicts the Foru Plaza on carnival day. The painting shows an open square with a street, probably Azokekale, delineating one of its laterals and three houses with balconies flanking its other side; adults, children, people in costume, and onlookers standing in the balconies of surrounding houses are watching a performance on the square. In this image, the building of the Town Hall is the only apparently official building on the square; it has a long balcony running the length of the first floor, a four-arched portico, and a clock-face crowning its façade, with a small bell apparent at the peak of the roof. The square was also the site for daily markets (Cava Mesa 1996: 89). A man from Gernika who grew up there during this pre-war period remembers the streets around the centre being so narrow that a favourite children’s game was to see who could cross from one side to another with the fewest leaps – the best managing it in four. He also remembers that the enclosed SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 75

3.2. The old, pre-war Town Hall of Gernika. (Gernikazarra.) balconies protruding from the town’s houses made the streets even narrower at the level of the ﬁrst and second stories; he recalls the diﬃculty that this later caused for buses negotiating the narrow streets.7 In his memoirs written in exile José Antonio Aguirre y Lecube recalled a pre-war Gernika:

Like all the towns of Euzkadi, it was a conglomerate of clean, small, white houses, looking out together over narrow shady streets, standing out from the rest were three buildings, symbolic bases of Basque life: the church, indicator of the religiosity of our people; the Casa Consistorial, representing its civility, and the frontón, that speaks to us of the strength of the race. (Aguirre y Lecube 1944: 25)

DESTRUCTION OF GERNIKA’STOWNCENTRE DURING THE CIVIL WAR In February1936 general elections were held in Spain which led to the formation of a government of the Popular Front, composed of representatives from a range of political parties and regions. This government of the Second Republic agreed to regional governance that in turn lead to the election of a Lehendakari – a Basque president. José Antonio Aguirre was elected to the post, and the new Basque government met in Gernika in a session during which Aguirre was sworn into his position in a ceremony that took place under the 76 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

oak tree. This gesture reinforced Gernika’s significance as a symbol of political self-rule in the Basque region and of democracy more broadly. With the failed military coup of 18 July 1936, the regions of Spain for whom Gernika’s symbolism was most poignant were divided, with Vizcaya and Guipuzcoa siding with the Republic while Alava and Navarra sided with the rebel military factions. This divided former allies: the Requetés and Carlists, heirs of the nineteenth-century wars, now faced Basques in favour of self-rule under the Republic, many of whom had voted for the PNV (Basque Nationalist Party) lead by Aguirre. These circumstances partly explain why the destruction of Gernika by forces acting on behalf of the rebel military proved to be such a conundrum for the Francoist side: the destruction angered their allies in Navarre and Alava. On the 26th of April 1937 Gernika was bombed in several waves of aerial attack by German and Italian forces, breaching the Non-Intervention Pact signed a few months earlier, and with the possible participation of Spanish 8 planes collaborating with the military rebellion led by Generals Franco, Sanjurjo, and Mola of the self-labelled Nacionales. The bombing killed, 9 injured, and maimed numerous civilians and effected the near-total destruction of the urban centre of Gernika including the Casa Consistorial, which had housed a refuge in its former prison area (Refugio del Ayuntamiento), and the buildings that framed its adjacent square. It furthermore gave rise to a propaganda battle inside Spain and abroad, with contested accounts of what had happened presented in official communiqués of the different political parties and in the media. The bombing was used to denounce the involvement of Germany and Italy and to back requests made by the government of the Republic for assistance from France and Great Britain. While the urban centre was almost entirely destroyed, two other important nuclei of the town survived with little damage. The town’s symbolic centres – the Casa de Juntas and the Tree of Gernika, which sit on a small hill just above the Church of Santa María – were not severely damaged. And the town’s industrial centre, harbouring its factories, including those manufacturing war material such as guns and explosives, similarly survived relatively unscathed. The long-standing symbolic significance of Gernika expanded with the shock of the bombardment through widespread reporting of the attack in national and international fora. As a result Gernika’s symbolic capital changed, taking on new dimensions. This development was further propelled by Pablo Picasso’s world famous painting: Guernica. All of these factors meant that the bombing took on iconic dimensions in a way that few other acts of destruction during the war did. In order to understand the context in which Gernika was reconstructed, it is important to understand how those who were victorious in the civil war and consequently shaped its aftermath represented the town’s destruction. With the SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 77 end of the war in April 1939, the Francoist regime initiated a national project to document the crimes of the ‘reds’. In order to collect data for this vast project, called the Causa General [General Cause], municipal authorities were given detailed forms to fill out. One of the categories of questions was:

Account of the torments, tortures, building fires, destruction of churches, religious objects, profanations and other criminal acts that by their circumstances, for the alarm or terror that they produced, should be considered as serious. With the exclusion of murders that were committed during the 10 period of red dominion. (Causa General c. 1940) Under this category the response offered by Gernika’s local authorities reads: ‘There were no criminal acts of those mentioned in this category for if buildings burned down it was through an act of war which left the entire centre of the town destroyed by the fire’ (ibid.). This response is remarkable for its relative neutrality compared to the official version of events put forth by the regime in the Informe Herrán,11 which accused the ‘Basque separatists’ of burning their own town. Yet the Francoist regime’s version of the war was explicitly woven into the narrative of the reconstruction. An early report on the reconstruction of the town sets out an account of Gernika’s destruction as follows:

The 18th of July 1936 arrived and Spain became divided into two sides. The town found itself under the control of the enemies of God and Patria, of the falsiﬁers of history that detested the traditions enclosed in its stones, and suﬀered the cruel circumstances of the war and the cowardice of its occupiers. (Regiones Devastadas c. 1940: 5)

RECONSTRUCTING GERNIKA’S URBAN CENTRE In October 1936, less than three months into the war, a government was set up in Burgos with Franco at its head to counter the democratically elected government of the Second Republic, led by the recently elected Juan Negrín. The Burgos government established several state institutions, amongst which was the Servicio de Regiones Devastadas y Reparaciones [Service for Devastated Regions and Reparations]. Once the war ended, the Nationalist government restruc- tured these institutions, and the Service became a General Directorate (hereafter referred to as Regiones Devastadas). Several months later, on the 23rd of September 1939 a Law of Adoption was created through which Franco and the state adopted those towns most severely damaged by the war as recipients of particular material and ﬁnancial assistance in the reconstruction process. Gernika was one of the ﬁrst to go on the list. Initial plans for Gernika’s reconstruction were ambitious; an early report on the topic lists no fewer than nineteen reconstruction projects (Regiones 12 Devastadas c. 1940: 5). While the Town Hall comes ninth on this list, the 78 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

resources and attention dedicated to it reveal that it was the priority. Several other projects on the list, notably the reconstruction of the Church of San Juan, were never realised. In practice the eﬀorts of Regiones Devastadas came to focus on the main square, its three framing buildings, and adjoining streets.

The role of the Plaza Mayor and Ayuntamiento in the reconstruction of Spain Once the rebel military had won, its power had to be transformed into an ordering authority. Richard Sennett has said of authority that ‘In ordinary life, authority is not a thing. It is an interpretation of power which seeks for itself the solidity of a thing. Faith, sin, and despair transformed into stone churches’ (Sennett 1980: 19). Through the reconstruction of Spain the post-war regime deliberately aimed to lend materiality to its authority. The chosen locus of this representation of author- ityfrequentlylayintheshapeofthe Town Hall and its adjacent square. Regiones Devastadas selected a doyen of Basque architecture – José María Smith Ibarra, then in his seventies – to take charge of designing the reconstruction of the Main Square of Gernika. The reconstruction of the town itself was placed under the leadership of two architects from the Directorate, Gonzalo de Cárdenas and Luis María de Gana, with Moreno Torres, Director of Regiones Devastadas,astheoverarching ﬁgure.Itissigniﬁcant that a known Basque architect was chosen; it suggests an attempt to strive at ‘tradition’, a key value of the regime, in such a way that a balance might be found between Basque and ‘Spanish’ versions of this. Even as most of the town lay in ruins well into the late 1940s, its town hall square remained the priority for rebuilding. It received substantial resources and meticulous attention paid to the details of its construction, revealing the underlying policies of the Francoist reconstruction program. In focusing on this one square, and its location in a symbolic town, the regime sought to use the reconstruction to crystallise its vision of a New Spain, to back up its narratives of Spanish history, culture, identity, and destiny, and ultimately to shape attitudes and behaviour. We now turn to how this ambitious plan was approached.

Reconstruction plans: 1938–1939 (Falange and National Socialist plans) Before the war had ended, plans for the reconstruction of Gernika were already being made. An exhibition organised in Burgos by the Falange13 included a plan for Gernika that would have transformed the town through a combination of grandiose national socialist structures, including a large stadium reminiscent of Speer’s Deutsches Stadion, and an exaltation of its ruins. Ángel Angoso published four drawings of these plans in the French magazine La Construction Moderne, arguing that ‘in the Spain that is reborn Guernica will be the national-syndicalist centre of the Basque region’ (Angoso 1938: 452). From the project drawings it is possible to see that the centre of Gernika (including the site of the old Town SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 79

3.3. Early plans for a national-syndicalist Gernika from the 1938 article by Angoso. Note the parade stadium (top left) and memorial park containing ruins of the town (top centre). (From the magazine La construction moderne, 5 June 1938.)

Hall) was to be transformed into a memorial park that would preserve some of the ruins of the town ‘to show future generations what the old town had been like’ (Angoso 1938: 454). The plans also include a Square of the Empire to be built and a stadium with parade grounds (Figure 3.3). Although these early plans never came about, Angoso’s explanation of the plans reveals what might have been the Falange’s intention: to absorb the speciﬁcity of Gernika’s symbolism into a larger identiﬁcation with Spain’s history. He writes:

But Franco’s Spain is not an enemy of Basque traditions and recognizes that the history of Guernica and its tree are narrowly united to the name of Spain. Therefore, it is necessary that at the foot of this secular tree the first National-Syndicalist town of the Basque Country be erected, and uniting the Casa de Juntas with the Square of the Empire would serve as a constant reminder to the Basques that they are before all and over all Spanish. (Angoso 1938: 452) The various projects drafted later offer possible clues why Gernika’s reconstruction received a significant amount of attention and resources in the post-war period of scarcity. For instance, in a report on the reconstruction of the town prepared by Casto Fernández-Shaw in 1940, he writes:

Nearly two hundred years of liberalism meant that many Spanish provinces lost their faith in the power of the State to create, and Vizcaya was perhaps one of the provinces that firstlostthisfaith. Categorically, with the reality of facts more than with words, the Spanish State has come to Vizcaya to demonstrate that it fulfils its promises. The reconstruction of Guernica was begun, and currently the Town Hall, Post and Telegraph Office,theCourts,andthenew market are being built, thus giving a categorical reply to those who believed that nothing could be done. (Fernández-Shaw 1940: 45) 80 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

Urban layout: authority, order, and hierarchy The reconstruction projects of Regiones Devastadas all included an important dimension of ordering and sanitising. This dimension was often materialised as the widening and straightening of streets. The ideas of order and sanitation were moral as well as structural, which helps to explain why these projects so often focused on the Town Hall and on the most important church of the town. One ramification of this selection was that the town plans drawn up frequently had either two or three nodes: the Town Hall and its adjacent square, a principal church with its corresponding square, and at times a third small square on which a memorial to ‘the glorious fallen’ would be placed (Viejo-Rose 2011b: 57–59, 79–84). These three nodes would at once triangulate the heart of the town and weave together a potent message about where political and moral power lie. What remains to be seen is how this was played out in Gernika. Here, the five central streets that had formed the medieval town were maintained along with Artekale, which formed the open side of the main square, broadened and straightened to become the main artery of the town centre. This meant that any traffic passing through the town centre would pass the Town Hall and its square, thus enhancing the visibility of this urban core. The architect Luís Saracho was charged with building a series of three adjacent buildings on the stretch of Artekale facing the open side of the square, buildings which were to be made of similar materials as those on the main square. They were built between 1944 and 1949 and came to house the offices of the Falange and a school (Muñoz Fernández 2006: 8) as well as some of the wealthier families 14 in town. Another change in the urban fabric of the new Gernika was the position of the market. It had traditionally been held on the square of the schools near the main square and the Town Hall, but it was now moved to a location closer to the train station and the industrial quarter. Not every design broke with a past, however. As well as maintaining the streets of the town centre, albeit in slightly different lengths and widths from their original measurements, reconstruction authorities renewed a project dating from 1897 and renewed in 1923 to divert water from the river into an irrigation canal (Muñoz Fernández 2006: 10). An article which appeared in the first issue of the magazine Reconstrucción (the official publication and propaganda instrument of Regiones Devastadas) dedicated to Gernika briefly sketches the town’s history, dedicating one paragraph to its destruction and blaming ‘those who, in a total ignorance of the facts, falsified the history of Spain, the enemies of God and Patria, like cowards set fire to the town that they were unable to defend like men’ (Cárdenas Rodríguez 1940b: 25). The article then goes on to contrast this ‘ignorance’ and ‘falsification of history’ with the reconstruction plans for the town; the article has a section entitled ‘Representative Zone’, which begins: SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 81

It is not possible to plot out a city without remembering and meeting the standards of tradition and patriarchy of the genuinely Spanish cities; in them, the representative area was always condensed in a square and a street. In a square on which were located the buildings representative of the State, the Municipality and the Church, and on a street with arcades, where there was trade. (Cárdenas 1940: 26)

Building the Town Hall of Gernika

All of the buildings of this square will form a compulsory and imposed architectural whole. (Fernández-Shaw 1940: 31) The planning documents for Gernika’s reconstruction contain few references to the conservation and restoration of the pre-war town or to the artistic or historic value of particular buildings. Instead, the emphasis is placed on building a new Gernika. In an article from 1942 in the Falangist newspaper Arriba is the following reference to the old Town Hall and Main Square: ‘The old Guernica lacked a digniﬁed urban centre. Its Town Hall stood in a tiny square, with little circulation’ (Arriba 17 May 1942: 4). The article states that the reconstruction project aims to improve on the situation: ‘In the project of reconstruction the Main Square is given the traditional character of Spanish squares’ (ibid.). A project document presented by the architect Manuel Maria Smith Ibarra to Regiones Devastadas in October 1939 outlines the plans for the Town Hall, the ﬁrst building that the Directorate would focus on. As it lays out the tone for the reconstruction project of the square as a whole, it is worth quoting from it at length. The document opens by stating that the people of the town see the construction of a Town Hall as the ‘genuine representation of the town’ as their priority. It then explains the decision not to attempt to reconstruct the old building:

It would be pointless to try to rebuild the old Casa Consistorial, destroyed to its very foundations; but even if the catastrophe had not been so great, the needs of the municipality of Guernica, whose life continues ostensibly vigorous despite the misfortunes suﬀered, would require the creation of a perfect site linking up the administrative installations, impossible to do in the old building. (Smith Ibarra 1940a) The document proceeds to explain that after looking at the urban layout of Gernika, it was decided that, as it was located at the heart of the town, the new Town Hall should be built on the same site as the old one. The street of Artekale/Artecalle was to be embellished with arcades and widened, rendering it and the Town Hall the main axis of the new urbanisation. The following section is an example of the ﬁne line that Smith Ibarra tread between the various rhetorical themes of Regiones Devastadas: between tradition and improvement, old and new, Spanish and local styles: 82 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

3.4. Model for the main square of Gernika as it was shown in one of the many exhibitions organised by the regime on the reconstruction of Spain. (AGA: 082F04257-33-27.)

The building will be given the style that seems to us the most characteristic through tradition and adaptation to the region in which it is located. It is a style of Spanish Renaissance, in which the use of noble materials dominates such as stone masonry and the iron native of these mountains. In the centre of the main façade, a niche with the patron saint of the town will be placed together with the coat of arms of Guernica-Lumo, and in the predominant angle a great national coat of arms will be placed adding a colourful element to the classical stone cylinder that will be used to resolve this angle. (Smith Ibarra 1940a) While Smith Ibarra was developing a model for a square that followed a Basque regionalist style, the ﬁnal design that was actually built also coincided with those being built by Regiones Devastadas throughout Spain (Figure 3.4). The town hall squares of the towns of Las Rozas, Blázquez, and La Pola (León) were all similarly structured on the basis of a raised square with centrally placed stairs, with three sides created by buildings with porticos and one side left open, a three to four-storey Town Hall with porticos, a balcony for authorities to give speeches from, and a clock tower. All of these squares also included decorative pinnacles and spheres (Blanco 1987: 27).

The Town Square: creating an ‘empty space’ The narrative behind the construction of the main square reveals the theatricality of intention behind it: to conceal and reveal, to create a surface appearance SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 83 of tradition and a material permanence through noble materials that all pointed to the place as ‘heritage’.By1952 the three buildings framing the space of what was to be the Plaza de los Fueros were complete: first, the Ayuntamiento,thenthe Juzgados, Correos y Telegrafos building, and finally the Escuelas de Artes y Oficios.At the end of that year, in December 1952, Regiones Devastadas drew up a project for the square itself.15 The project document16 signals that with the buildings finished: ‘it is necessary to project the square on which the mentioned public buildings are located. Given its location it can be considered the heart of the town for radiating from its contours are the principal official buildings’ (Smith Ibarra 1952). The document goes on to explain the intended impact of the square in shaping future generations: ‘The character that we want to give to this square should be one of enduring memory for future generations of the town and that it can be a motive to yearn for the typical place that is today being formed’ (ibid.). It was at this moment that an obelisk was placed in the centre of the town square. Although it could be interpreted as a commemorative addition to the square, the project document clearly sets out that ‘in the centre of the square is placed an obelisk with an ornamental purpose, replacing the fountain that is usually the custom, because it is felt that with this solution a better aspect of cleanliness is achieved’ (Smith Ibarra 1942). The obelisk was a granite pillar standing on a stone base and topped by an elaborate wrought iron cross: its style, materials, and decorative elements were all reminiscent of the Herrerian style that was used by the regime in the construction of official buildings and sites throughout Spain, as an echo of the Escorial and the architecture of a period of imperial grandeur (Viejo-Rose 2011b). Urban projects used architectural forms such as the cross or obelisk as memorials, thus planting omnipresent visual and spatial markers that acted as reminders of the debt of gratitude society owed to the ‘martyrs of the heroic crusade’. The decorative elements of the Directorate’s architecture further added to the historic, symbolic, and value-laden referencing through the use of stylistic designs. The coat of arms, with the double-headed imperial eagle that Franco chose for the ‘New Spain’, was imbedded into the facades of Town Halls and official buildings throughout the country – an action that often involved interfering with or adding to a historic façade. The inauguration of the square was celebrated with folkloric dances. Folklore was an expression of local cultural distinctiveness that the regime welcomed, in stark contrast with its repression of the use of different languages. The use of this square for celebrations dated back to pre-war times, illustrated by photographs from a carnival in 1915 that show people dancing and in harlequin costumes performing in the square in front of the old Town Hall (Gernikazarra 2007: 42–44). Ironically, while the regime supported folkloric activities, the celebration of carnival – seen as threatening with its chaos, masks, and large groups of disguised people – was banned. 84 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

A TOWN SATURATED IN SYMBOLISM In January of 1940 Smith Ibarra presented a project to Regiones Devastadas for the second building planned for the square: the Juzgados, Correos y Telegrafos (Courts, Post and Telegraph Office). The plan sets out that this building is intended to be the ‘twin’ of the Town Hall that – together with the third building, the Escuelas de Artes y Oficios (Schools of Arts and Trades), and the street of Artecalle/Artekale – would frame the square. The document sets the intended nature of the square ‘which we wish to stamp with the sober and characteristic stamp of the Spanish Renaissance, with a nuance proper to the Basque Country of the practical shelter of the arcades so welcoming in our climate’ (Smith Ibarra 1940b). An article in Arriba from 17 May 1942 entitled ‘Guernica, in the midst of reconstruction because of the will of the Caudillo’ describes how on the previous day the Minister of Interior, Gobernación, Colonel Galarza, together with the Director General of Regiones Devastadas, Moreno Torres, the Chief Architect of the same Directorate, Gonzalo Cárdenas, and the Mayor of Gernika inaugurated the new Casa Consistorial. The article mentions that the Correos y Telégrafos building is nearly complete, noting that the official group took part in a stonelaying ceremony for the construction of two apartment buildings. The minister also took part in a similar ceremony for a private project to build housing (probably referring to the project by Talleres de Guernica to build housing for its employees). The article also details how on his visit to the town the minister also visited the ‘historic Casa de Juntas’ and ‘took with him as a souvenir several leaves from the centennial tree’ (Arriba 1942: 4). The plans produced by the architects of Regiones Devastadas were minute in their attention to detail. A plan from 1941 for the urbanisation of Gernika includes a ‘Project for the construction of gardens in Guernica: maps, project and budget’ (Regiones Devastadas c. 1940). The plan details what will be planted at the sites of each of the reconstruction projects planned by the Directorate, the pattern to be created, the costs, and the variety of each plant to the point of specifying their colour. Blue hortensias and rosemary predominate, with the most elaborate plans drawn for the planters around the Church of Santa María (which survived the bombing relatively intact), incorporating geraniums, helio- tropes, chrysanthemums, weeping willows, and bougainvillea with the blue hortensias. This attention to detail is not accidental. On the contrary, it reveals a hypersensitivity to certain symbols: the colour red, so closely associated with the political left, was carefully censored from many places (Viejo Rose 2011b: 45– 46, 77) while the colour blue, adopted by the Falange and their militants known as ‘blue shirts’, was favoured. The materials used were similarly selected not only in favour of obtaining the best quality available, but also in terms of their symbolic resonance. Granite SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 85

3.5. Top left, one of several front covers of the magazine Reconstrucción which showed images of the work in Gernika; here we see a view of the reconstructed Town Hall (Reconstrucción no. 55, September 1945.) Top right, an aerial view of the state of the town’s reconstruction with the square in the foreground, January 1941. (AGA: AGA082F04244-32-01.) Bottom, officials of the ‘New Spain’ walkingpasttheruinsof Gernika, February 1943. (AGA: 082F01343-34-02.) was favoured as a ‘noble’ material over the offensive ‘red’ brick, for the same reasons. Whenever an official building was concerned, the construction project’s detailed accounts of how ‘noble’ materials were to be used became a constant refrain. Even in the case of the construction of the new market (the other project that Regiones Devastadas focused on) the architect Jesús Basterrechea emphasised the quality of materials: ‘With regards to the materials we have gone for the most noble ones possible within the character of the building, insuring for the building a decorous old age’ (Basterrechea 1942–1943). The magazine Reconstrucción frequently carried a section called Arquitectura popular española dedicated to building elements seen to be particularly Spanish. One such piece concerning wrought iron concludes: ‘Slowly we will restore to our towns their character, forming a healthy base, to continue evolving, and we will contribute to the real moral and material reconstruction of our country’ (Reconstrucción 1942: 64). 86 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

In Smith Ibarra’s 1940 document for the Juzgados, Correos y Telegrafos building, he speciﬁes that the construction ‘will be ennobled with solid materials used’ (Smith Ibarra 1940a). He indicates that the materials typical of the best traditional construction of the region will be used, praising their durability and good conservation and mentioning marble and carved wood. The plan for the reconstruction of the third building to frame the square, the Escuelas de Artes y Oﬁcios, continues the theme of giving the square a character of ‘sober Spanish Renaissance’ through both style and choice of materials; here the elements designated to create this tone are arcades, pilasters, and ‘robust forged iron 17 balconies’ as ‘reminders of the ancestral public constructions of the country’ (Smith Ibarra 1940b).

RHETORIC VERSUS REALITY Although the clearing away of the wartime rubble and the rebuilding works received optimistic timeframes, they soon ground to a slow pace. This, however, was not the case with the enthusiasm for propagandist performances of various kinds. The Boletín Oficial de la Provincia de Vizcaya of 27 May 1940 includes a note from the General Directorate for Tourism stating that ‘For the required propagandistic effectiveness of local festivities or attractions that tend to attract tourists to be met, this Directorate General recommends that posters, pamphlets, etc. be sent at least three months in advance’. The intent guiding these acts, especially when concerning the inauguration of reconstruction projects, was to stamp the image of the New Spain upon these events. An article from 1943 which appeared in El Correo Español reports on several construction projects in three towns of Vizcaya. The lead sentence of the article exemplifies the tone with which these projects were officially described:

As we had announced, yesterday several acts of great importance were celebrated in Munguía, Guernica, and Amorebieta, acts that are a living testament to the policy of realities that the new National-syndicalist State imposed on itself from the first hour of the Crusade. (El Correo Español, 13 February 1943) The intentions and aims indicated in the rhetoric of the reconstruction were one thing, but the reality of scarce resources, the materials available, the lack of labour, and the massive undertaking of clearing away ruins were another entirely. (All of these were further accentuated once the Second World War began.) Consequently the differences between reconstruction plans and what was actually built were plentiful. Before any reconstruction work could take place in Gernika, or in any other place so severely damaged, Regiones Devastadas faced the task of the descombro, of clearing away the rubble left by the destruction. This was slow, unglamorous, SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 87 and lengthy work that lacked the propagandistic value of building projects. The first project for the descombro of Gernika dates from February 1939; in March 1945 Gernika was entering the third phase of its descombro. And as the project for this third phase outlines there were still 35,000 cubic metres of rubble to be displaced and transported to a dump and 10,000 cubic metres of ruined buildings to tear down (Regiones Devastadas 1945). In the reconstruction of Gernika’s urban centre, the rhetorical aim of it being traditionally Basque and made with ‘noble materials’ was undermined by the force of reality in various ways. Critically, it was prisoners of war and political prisoners who carried out much of the actual building work until 1945 (Muñoz Fernández 2006: 3; Extaniz Ortúñez and del Palacio Sánchez 2003). The regime’s policy of displacing prisoners from their home regions meant that many of the men who worked on rebuilding the ‘traditional Basque’ main square were not Basque. While this did not necessarily impede the materialisation of the square designed by Smith Ibarra, it partly forfeited the possibility of drawing on local knowledge and craftsmanship of traditional building practices. As has already been noted, the original plans for the reconstruction of Gernika were ambitious. The main square with its constituent buildings and the adjoining street of Artekale/Artecalle with its arcades, together with the far more modest projects of the municipal abattoir and a new market (both built between 1940 and 1943), were the only projects to materialise. Other projects such as the reconstruction of the Church of San Juan, a new frontón, a new bus station, a hostel, Civil Guard headquarters, and a fairground were never seen through. In order to evaluate the meanings communicated by the choice to focus reconstruction efforts in this way, it is necessary to examine the wider picture of Gernika’s post-war circumstances with regard to reconstruction projects. With a few exceptions, Regiones Devastadas focused its efforts in Gernika mainly on public buildings, with housing under the responsibility of the Instituto Nacional de la Vivienda. The acute lack of housing, due to the wartime destruction and to large population movements towards urban centres, was a major issue in Spain well into the 1950s (Viejo-Rose 2011b: 102–103). In Gernika this situation was particularly acute. In the memories of those Gernikans who lived through this period are particularly poignant images of extended families living together in the cramped quarters of the one-family apartment or caserío that had survived the war (Cava Mesa 1996). Accounts of the time also describe the many people who commuted to Gernika by train for years while living in the homes of family members (siblings, cousins, in-laws) in neighbouring towns that had not suffered the same degree of devastation (del Palacio 2006: 36–42). 18 When official state agencies built housing, the materials were of poor quality, to the extent that those people for whom they were intended were reluctant to move in on the designated inauguration dates. Thus while reports in 88 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

3.6. Top, photograph showing the state of the square and surrounding areas as construction on the Town Hall begins; we see the outer walls already in place and the Church of Sta María, which survived the bombing. (AGA: F04244-31-11-02.) Bottom left, aerial view of the square and adjoining street close to completion. (AGA: AGA082F04244- 31S-11-01.) Bottom right, photograph of men at work on Artekalea in 1944, the street which formed the fourth, and open, side of the square. (AGA archive reference: AGA082F04244_32_02.)

the media and official records describe the inauguration of housing in November 1943 with elaborate ceremonies of handing over keys and the presence of state and religious officials, these apartments were not immediately fit to be inhabited. The poor quality of these materials stands in sharp contrast with those used for the town square and its adjacent buildings. There was a further difference worth noting: stylistically these housing projects were rationalist and functional without the mimicry of historicist styles used for official buildings. The simple, functionalist approach was too closely associated with the Republic and its modernist tendencies, and so attempts were made by officials to cloak it in a rhetoric of order associated with the new regime: ‘We seek to give these constructions a style of luxury and atmosphere such that it will always be known in what period they were built, that is to say in the Franco period’ (Moreno Torres 1944: 8). SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 89

The difficulties presented in the reconstruction project by the scarcity of materials and the concessions that had to be made to the use of ‘noble’ materials comes out in many project documents. In November 1941 the Arquitecto Jefe Comarcaly de Obras de Guernica de la DGRD, Don Félix Cortina Prieto, requested a deadline extension for the construction of the new market due to the shortage of labour ‘that the depopulation of the town has caused’ and the ‘difficulties and delays in obtaining materials especially tiles and metal armatures’ (Regiones Devastadas c. 1940). Despite initial intentions, improvised solutions were often found that skirted the desire for ‘luxury’ materials. For instance, according to Smith Ibarra’s project for the Town Hall, there was to be a large protruding section of the roof (alero) traditionally made of carved wood. Unable to find high enough quality wood, a typical model of such a piece was dismantled from another building in the region, and a plaster mold made so that the one that forms part of the Gernika Town Hall was a cement reproduction painted to resemble the traditional wood construction (Arriba 17 May 1942).

EVOLUTION OF GERNIKA’S FORU PLAZA IN THE TOWNSCAPE AND SYMBOL-SCAPE The square that resulted from the reconstruction project was not built as a place for people to gather, sit, or spend long periods of time. It was built as a focal point of officialdom and became a space in which to concretise a strategy for absorbing a uniquely symbolic place into the aesthetic symbolism of the regime. For those who lived in the town through the 1950s and 1960s, the square is 19 remembered as the stage setting for official Francoist ceremonies. Throughout the 1960s and 70s Gernika’s other centres were gradually rebuilt. In 1963 a new covered frontón was finally inaugurated to replace the one lost in the bombing. Designed by the architect Secundino Zuazo, at the time of its inauguration it was the most advanced court in the world (including fondly- remembered heated seats). With this building Gernika’s role as a key locality in the world of pelota was restored, attracting the best players of the time and large crowds that regularly inundated the town. Some of the changes that took place during this period reinforced the original aims of the square’s reconstruction. In 1966 large-scale celebrations were organised to mark the 600th anniversary of Gernika’sofficial designation as a villa by Don Tello. As part of the celebrations, which Franco attended, the wrought-iron cross that had stood at the centre of the main square since its inauguration by Regiones Devastadas was replaced by a statue to Don Tello, which still stands there to the present day. The cross was moved to another part of the town behind the Escuelas Públicas, where it stands in a corner, its earlier protagonism at the centre of the square largely forgotten. 90 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

3.7. Left, inauguration of the square being celebrated with a folkloric dance in 1945. Note the column topped by a cross in the centre. (AGA archive reference: AGA082F04246-08-05.). Right, the column and cross in its new, and far less prominent location, having been displaced by the statue of Don Tello in 1966. (Photo author.)

This statue and its pedestal illustrate a continued effort on the part of the regime to acknowledge the symbolic resonance of Gernika for the Basque region and its historic significance for the Basque fueros – while at the same time weaving this uniqueness into a broader narrative of Spain and Spanishness. Don Tello had been alférez mayor to the then-King of Castille and had been a major landowner in the region. On the pedestal were inscribed the names of the different regions of Biscay accompanied by embedded bronze bocinos [horns] that were traditionally used to call people in rural areas to town meetings. Thus the monument upheld the values of the regime,actingasanimplicitreminderofthelinksofthetownwithCastile, emphasising the power and importance of the landowning classes and under- lining the core value of unity. The symbolic appropriation of this commemoration by the regime did not go unnoticed: the statue was subsequently attacked with various explosive devices (ABC Sevilla 28 March 1968: 42; ABC Madrid 6 December 1970: 22). After Franco’sdeath,theForuPlazawasmodified as both the square and its buildings were put to new uses. An early and highly symbolic act took place on the square in 1977 when Basque artists were invited to participate in a collaborative reinterpretation of Picasso’s Guernica. (The resulting piece is exhibited today in Gernika’shighschool.)Thiseventhadseveralechoesin subsequent years, such as in 1981 when Basque artists were invited to produce and exhibit murals in homage to Picasso on the centenary of the artist’sbirth SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 91

3.8. Top, the Town Hall as it stands today seen from inside the square. (Photo author.) Bottom, Foru Plaza today showing the Peace Museum on the left, Kulture Etxea on the right, the Church of Sta María behind and the statue of Don Tello in the foreground. (Photo author.)

(coinciding with the year when the painting ﬁrst arrived in Spain, travelling from New York to Madrid on its ﬁnal transatlantic voyage). For the sixtieth anniversary of the bombing in 1997,theKultur Etxea (Culture House) organised a similar event in which some thirty local artists and art students 92 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

collaborated, on the Plaza de los Fueros, on a joint piece referencing the bombing of the town. These acts can be read as a means of claiming Guernica for Gernika, as a reminder of the bombing and a denunciation of the years of false propaganda about it. They transformed the square into a platform for the reclamation of Gernika’s political symbolism and historical significance. Changes in the uses of the square were accompanied by an evolution in how its buildings were used. The Artes y Oficios building changed function shortly after Franco’s death and became an art school run by one of the survivors of the bombing, Luis Iriondo. Kultur Etxea was established in 1987, coinciding with the fiftieth anniversary of the bombing, and its presence strongly influences the atmosphere and uses of the square, as it organises many of the artistic events mentioned above. In 1997 the Juzgados, Correos y Telégrafos building ceased its original function, reopening in 1998 as the Museum of Gernika. In the first two years of its existence the museum held exhibitions on the exile caused by the civil war and celebrated International Museum Day. As of the year 2000 two themes emerged which came to shape the museum’s future direction. One was the historiography of the bombing of Gernika, focusing on the recovery of oral memory of the event from those who had witnessed it. Second was the incorporation of peace symbolism, which began to take root with the museum’s participation in the UNESCO Manifesto 2000 scheme of the International Year for a Culture of Peace. In 2002 the museum was refurbished and re-inaugurated as the Gernika Peace Museum. The inaugural ceremony was rich in symbolism: two survivors of the bombing and two children carrying doves took part alongside the 20 Lehendakari. The newly baptised museum displayed its name on its façade, looking out across the square to the Town Hall – thus establishing a visual dialogue by which the local authorities daily faced a reminder of the significance of the association of the town with peace. This symbolic association has been further emphasised through the museum’s uses of the square, curating peace- themed installations and exhibitions in it. In 2005, for instance, the artist William Kelly, in collaboration with the museum, created an installation called 21 ‘Spirit Figures: Passages of Peace’. Through its permanent exhibition on the bombing it has also materialised the narrative of the old square and Town Hall, their destruction, the tabula rasa of the descombro, and their subsequent reconstruction. As in the prewar period, Gernika today has several urban nuclei, each with different purposes. The Pasealekua/Plaza de las Escuelas is a gathering place for children and teenagers. Another is the D. Alegría Plaza outside the structure that houses Gernika’s famous Monday markets, which continue to attract local farmers and growers, swelling the population of town, and in SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 93 particular its bars, and offering a propitious occasion for exchanging news and gossip. The town’s senior members often gather on the benches of the square to observe these affairs and contribute to the exchange of information. The Plaza de San Juan Ibarra is an after-school favourite: with its open space, playground area, benches, out-door cafes, and ice-cream store, it is quickly filled with children and their minders. The Casa de Juntas and the Foral Tree are in a gated area that is closed in the evenings, rendering this symbolically charged area one of official ceremony and tourist visits as opposed to everyday use. Due to the presence of the Town Hall, the Foru Plaza remains the civic centre of the town. It is a stage for public demonstrations of various types such as civil service strikes, protests against measures taken by the local authorities, or events to mark International Women’sDay.Duringperiods of violence in the Basque region the square was used to hold a one-minute of silence at 12:00 in the aftermath of every attack by ETA.22 Acts of protest 23 against government policy are not normally held there but in the old ferial nearby where there is more pedestrian and vehicular traffic and hence more 24 visibility. The square’s meanings have also evolved as the uses to which the buildings that frame it have changed. The Kultur Etxea, with its public library, games room, and exhibition centre, attracts a broad spectrum of visitors including students and artists. The Jai Alai is a venue for meetings, concerts, film screenings, and exhibitions similarly attracting various audiences. Undoubtedly the presence of the Gernika Peace Museum is a significant marker on the square, a constant reminder of the town’s past and of its present aspirations as a symbol of peace. As well as the banners on the museum’s façade announcing its name and exhibitions, the museum also has open-door days and organises artistic interventions on the square. These various institutions and uses come together on particular occasions. One such yearly encounter is the commemoration activities that mark the anniversary of the town’s bombing. (See Table 1 for examples.)

THE RELATIVE RESILIENCE OF MATERIALITY AND THE MEANING

This visual language expressed the need of an uneasy, unequal, and unwieldy people seeking the reassurance of place; the forms sought to convey that a durable, essential Rome stood somehow outside the ruptures of history. And though Hadrian spoke this language master- fully, he may have known it was all a ﬁction. (Sennett 1994: 121) The reconstruction of Gernika’s Foru Plaza involved the use of symbolic and stylistic elements along the lines of ‘something old, something new, something 94 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

1977 Interpretation of Picasso’s Guernica created through collaboration between various Basque artists. 1997 Artea kalean/Arte en la Calle [Art in the Street] project: Artists and art students collaborate on a work of art referencing the bombing. 2000 De la destrucción a la construcción [From Destruction to Construction] Project: Paintings and sculptures created and exhibited on the square. 2001 Sua eta argia plazan [Plaza of Fire and Light] installation by William Kelly: High-school students, children, and school choirs from twin cities participate; a spiral of 1,000 candles is created with volunteers keeping it lit throughout the night. 2005 Bakearen bidea/Camino de la Paz [Peace Walk] project between the twin cities of Pforzheim and Gernika, a ‘peace walk’ begins in the German town on the anniversary of its bombing (23 February). The walk covers 2,000 kilometres in relay crossing France along the Camino de Santiago and concluding with festivities in Gernika’s square on the 26th of April. 2005 Spirit Figures: Passages of Peace installation by William Kelly: Silhouettes symbolising those who were lost in the bombing are placed in the arches around the square and illuminated. 2006 Gernika eta Picassori omenaldia [Tribute to Gernika and Picasso] specially choreographed dance to a funerary march composed by Pablo Sorozabal performed by a Basque school of dance (Eskola Euskal Dantza Taldea) with dancers wearing tunics with images from Picasso’s painting. 2007 A temporary exhibition dedicated to the bombing and to peace in the Basque Country set up under a large canopy during week of the seventieth anniversary.

table 1. Actions organised on the square on anniversaries of the bombing

3.9. ‘Spirit Figures: Passages of Peace in the Plaza of Fire and Light’ installation by artist William Kelly, April–May 2005 in Gernika’s Foru Plaza. (©William Kelly.) SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 95 borrowed, and something blue’. The Francoist reconstruction attempted to evoke Basque tradition while adapting it to the image of a ‘new’ Spain by borrowing from the style of sixteenth-century imperial architecture and even referencing colours associated with the political ideology of the regime. That this square became the focus of the town’s reconstruction project shows a fixation with a strong centre around which the rest of the town revolved, in which distance from its core was a reflection of distance from power – a material manifestation of the regime’s valorization of ordered hierarchy. This aim recurred throughout the regime’s urban restructuring plans, particularly in the priority of reconstructing and restoring Spanish town halls and their associated squares. Examination of one locality reveals, however, the multiplicity of its lived-in centres, each with its own gravitational pull. Gernika shows just how the pull of those different cores eventually came to give shape to the town as it exists today. In this chapter, we have seen how the post-war construction of Gernika’s town hall square was saturated with meaning, from the building materials used to the architectural styles adopted. We have also seen how the uses of the square layered further meanings onto the site by turning it into a stage for the performance of political speeches and folkloric activities. Above all we have seen what dimensions of the reconstruction have been most resilient and which have not. For instance, the idea that the square was built as a ‘traditional Basque square’ has persisted as have the links with a Castilian past in the form the Herrerian decorative details. What has not survived so successfully is the idea of the square as representing the Spanish state, nor the uni-polar order of one core pulling the town together through a gravitational force of which that representation of the state is the centre. In many ways the more poignant symbolism of Gernika is today dispersed: in the Plaza de los Fueros, by the oak tree, the market, the cemetery, and in the absence of what was lost through the bombing, such as the after-image of the Church of San Juan. Gernika’s main square is a civic centre of the town, but its symbolic heart remains at the Tree and the Casa de Juntas, and its social centres are divided amongst the various squares that attract trade, children’s games, and café life.

NOTES

1. The author would like to thank her colleague on the CRIC project Fiachra McDonagh for his help on the ground in Gernika ﬁnding answers to her numerous factual questions. She would also like to thank Iratxe Momoitio, Director of the Gernika Peace Museum, Ricard Abaunza, Director of Kultur Etxea, and José Ángel Etxaniz (Txato), local historian from the Gernikazarra Historia Taldea group, for their generosity in answering her questions. 2. There are several spellings of the town’s name: Guernica is used in Castilian and English and is the spelling chosen by Picasso for his painting; Gernika is the Basque spelling. Occasionally a 96 DACIA VIEJO-ROSE

combination of the two, Guernika, appears. I have chosen to use the Basque spelling; when quoting directly from other texts, however, I use the spelling used by their authors. 3. These place names have Basque spellings (Bizkaia), Castilian spellings (Vizcaya), and occasionally English spellings (Biscay). When an English-language spelling exists I have privileged it, otherwise I give the Basque/Castilian spellings. When citing directly I have used the spelling of the original text. 4. There are three Basque provinces: Vizcaya (Biscay), Guipuzcoa, and Álava. 5. This information was gathered as a result of conversations between Luis Iriondo, a survivor of the bombing, and the author on 24 April 2007 and further follow-up interviews conducted by Fiachra McDonagh in 2007. 6. The Foral Tree relates to the fueros and thus to the ancient regional laws. 7. Interview with Luis Iriondo, April 2007. 8. Etxaniz and del Palacio Sánchez (2003) have found documents indicating the participation of Spanish planes in the bombing. 9. Estimates as to the number of casualties caused by the bombing still vary with figures ranging from 200 to 1,000; however, most approximations today are around a figure of 250 (Cava Mesa 1996: 145–147). 10. Details of the latter were requested in a different section of the form. 11. The Informe Herrán was a report on the bombing of the town drafted in the summer of 1937 by a commission set up by the Francoist side; it was published in England in 1938. 12. The projects proposed in the document (listed in the original order) were Group of Affordable Housing, Juzgado, Correos y Telégrafos, schools in the neighbourhood of Sta Lucía, Headquarters of the Guardia Civíl, Police Headquarters, reconstruction of the Hospital of Asilo Calzada, restoration of the Church of Sta María, reconstruction of the Church of San Juan, Town Hall, Abattoir, Public Granary, Municipal Laundry, School of Arts and Trades, Fire Station and Municipal Water Deposit, Frontón, Market Fairground, Bus Station, water distribution, and sanitation system. 13. The Falange Española de las Juntas de Ofensiva Nacional Sindicalista (FET de las JONS) was the political party representative of Falangism, the Spanish fascist ideology. 14. The rents for these apartments varied between 1,800 and 3,000 pesetas compared to the 45–65 pesetas range proposed for apartments intended for factory workers (Muñoz Fernández 2006: 13). 15. The project outlined in this document is very similar to the one drawn up in March 1942, nearly ten years earlier, by Smith Ibarra before the three buildings were complete. 16. At the bottom of the document there are three typewritten positions with corresponding signatures; they are Arquitecto Jefe Comarcal [Chief Architect for the District], Arquitecto Jefe de Proyectos [Chief Architect of Projects], and Arquitecto Jefe Autor del Proyecto [Chief Architect Author of the Project] (AGA-04-111TOP76/13 SIG1352). 17. The project document was signed by Manuel Smith Ibarra, architect, in August 1940 and by José Macazaga, builder, in May 1941. 18. Housing projects undertaken by private businesses could receive beneficial credits from the state. Talleres de Guernica built twenty houses along the train lines. 19. From responses to questions put by the author to the directors of local cultural institutions (Gernika Peace Museum and Gernikazarra Historia Taldea) via Fiachra McDonagh, 9 February 2011. 20. As in previous note. 21. Email interview by the author of Itatxe Momoitio Astorkia, Director of the Gernika Peace Museum, 7 February 2011. SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW 97

22. From e-mail questions transmitted to Fiachra McDonagh by the author and put by him to the directors of Gernika’s cultural institutions (Gernika Peace Museum and Gernikazarra Historia Taldea), 9 February 2011. 23. Protests against the government’s policy to separate people linked to ETA and imprison them outside of the Basque regions, for instance. 24. From e-mail questions transmitted to Fiachra McDonagh by the author and put by him to the directors of Gernika’s cultural institutions (namely, Kultur Etxea), 7 February 2011. CHAPTER FOUR

THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL: THE ARCHITECTURE OF REMEMBRANCE AFTER WAR

Karl-Siegbert Rehberg and Matthias Neutzner

INTRODUCTION The name Dresden stands worldwide for the historical event of catastrophic destruction during the Second World War. It also, however, represents a special instance of the continuity of remembering, with political, social, and cultural effects that continue to the present. In Dresden, as in other places marked by wartime destruction, the material legacies of the past have become the medium, sites, and objects of collective remembering. To investigate these relationships, we must ask how communities turn cultural heritage into ‘remembrance objects’ and how this is ‘inscribed’ into the fabric and meaning of that heritage. This chapter applies the biography of place approach to the Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady) in Dresden within the context of the city itself as a historical symbol, thus arguing for the biography of Dresden as a lieu de mémoire in which the fate of no single building can be understood separately from the analysis of the site as a whole. In the first section, we look at the formation of the symbol of Dresden that codified the narrative of remembering the 1945 firestorm and became a reference point for the politics of history and identity construction. Overviewing more than six decades of attitudes, we outline the manner in which the different protagonists used remembrance, and interpreted and activated it in social practice. This will show the influence of historical references on the collective self-image and how they were condensed into a foundation myth of the city. On this background, the second part of the chapter

98 THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 99

4.1. Dresden, Schloßstraße. Range of postcards oﬀered by a souvenir seller, October 2011. Visitors of Dresden can choose between images of three townscapes – the mythical city of art before its destruction, the landscape of ruins after February 1945, and the resurrected Dresden. The most prominent motive is Frauenkirche – depicted in the same metamorphoses. (M. Neutzner.) focuses on the utilisation of the Frauenkirche, an architectural structure of formative importance for the (lost) cityscape, in the various processes of remembering and in the social appropriation of history. The outstanding position of Dresden in the German landscape of memory after 1945 made it an early topic of research (e.g., Bergander 1977; Neutzner 1 1995; Taylor 2004), with the evolution of the historical symbol examined by 2 Neutzner (2005), and numerous scholars investigating its expressions in art (e.g., Schmitz 2005). Other studies have explored the cultural framings of the city’s identity discourses (e.g., Christmann 2004; Rehberg 2005a; and the exhibition ‘Mythos Dresden’, Deutsches Hygiene-Museum 2006). It is only recently, however, that studies of local memories of aerial war and their corresponding national accounts from other places have become available (e.g., Süß 2011; Viejo-Rose 2011b), allowing the developments in Dresden to be put into a comparative perspective. Most of the bombed German cities developed signs and rituals to remember wartime destruction, with well-studied examples being Hamburg (Thießen 2007), Nuremberg (Gregor 2009), Würzburg (Seiderer 2009), and Magdeburg (Arnold 2009); yet the continuity, intensity, and nationwide impact of the commemoration of the Dresden ﬁrestorm is without parallel. Our analysis of the Dresden case suggests that the peculiarity of its culture of commemoration 100 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

from the very beginning developed not despite but because of the political instrumentalisation of the historical memory. Not all forms of remembrance were determined by the interpretations of the ruling class; a variety of actors expressed contradictory meanings, developed their own rituals, and, in certain historical situations, were even able to dominate the public discourse. However, the swift and lasting formation of Dresden as a symbol was driven by state actors and initiatives – starting with the National Socialist propaganda, followed by the politics of history in the Soviet Occupation Zone and in the German Democratic Republic (GDR). All these actors could build on a deeply rooted local myth: the idealised self-image of a city of beauty and cultural value. This provided the starting point for channelling the account of the February 1945 catastrophe into a tale of sacrifice. Connecting the long-standing reputation of ‘Germany’s city of art’ with the claim of an incomparable tragedy a double superlative was created: the unique destruction of a unique city. Disconnected from its historical context, the canonised symbolic narrative offered possibilities for varied, even contradicting, interpretations and connections, which were used in state politics as well as in private and collective remembering. Over decades a broad range of collective rituals, public representations, and individual reflection developed. They formed – in a spatial as well as in a figurative sense – a national place of memory, a lieu de mémoire, which had international echoes.

THE ‘ANNIHILATED’ DRESDEN AS HISTORICAL SYMBOL More than half a century after the Allied air raids on Dresden, every February the mass media still reports on intensive discussions, political controversies, and legal measures that reference the public remembrance of these historical events. The anniversary of the ‘Destruction of Dresden’ mobilises tens of thousands in and beyond Dresden, leading to ﬁerce, even violent confrontations, and triggering a broad debate throughout Germany. Nowhere else in the country is the commemoration of the destruction of the Second World War waged so diversely and emotionally, so publicly and conﬂict-laden. Here the past has become a narratively condensed and widely accepted historical symbol that refers to broader contexts. Analysis of institutional mechanisms (Rehberg 1994, 2006) suggests that social relationships are often institutionally stabilised by the presence of successful symbolic ideas and patterns of order. Constructs of time and history also play an important role in developing an institutional work on memory that is concretised, for example, in foundation myths and genealogies. For each important event, images of the beginning and the course of history are produced in a ‘self-history’, creating a kind of institutional ‘biography’. Each event is more or less distinct, but necessarily embedded in comprehensive ‘framing narratives’, for example, with respect to spatial relationships (such as regions), time constructions (such as THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 101

4.2. 14 February 2009: A police cordon blocks demonstrators who want to protest against the presence of radical right-wing groups in the city from accessing the Neumarkt area and the Frauenkirche. (M. Neutzner.) epochs), or larger patterns of order (such as state systems or movements). In this way historical symbols evolve, which can be understood as codiﬁed and named narratives that represent past events in their entirety and allow individuals to experience and communicate them within a given cultural frame (see also Krausnick 2004: 154). The most common construction principle of these symbolic narrations refers to a time-spanned ‘identity’; but myths of discontinuity may also be constructed. The Dresden case incorporates both perspectives.

‘BIOGRAPHY’ OF A CONTESTED HISTORICAL SYMBOL By the end of the Second World War, the British and American air raids on 3 Dresden between the 13th and 15th of February 1945 were already seen as a terrible climax of the strategic aerial war against Germany. The landscapes of ruins and rubble had become the visible sign of total defeat; nearly every major German city (and many smaller towns) lay destroyed beyond recognition. Dresden, however, seemed to have surpassed the general horror. In December 1945, a group of Western journalists, the ﬁrst allowed to visit the Soviet Occupation Zone in Germany, described Dresden as ‘a grim ghost city’ (New York Times, 3 January 1946), ‘a ghastly rubble of brick and stone and charred timbers’ (Washington Post, 3 January 1946). Indeed, the air raids against Dresden had caused a catastrophe – above all by the suddenness, eﬃciency, and totality of the inner city’s destruction. Being situated 102 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

far inside the German Reich had given Dresden relative security until 1943,when the Allied air forces became able to reach almost all parts of Germany. Although disastrous air raids against the nearby city of Leipzig in December 1943 caused deep shock, the Dresdeners continued to hope that their city might escape – in contrast, the authorities prepared themselves systematically for the catastrophe they expected (Neutzner 2003: 27). But even they were overwhelmed by the technical efficiency of the Allied attacks starting on 13 February 1945 – in particular the two successive raids during the first night that extinguished the city centre within hours and left up to twenty-five thousand people dead. However, neither the catastrophic dimension of the air raids nor the extraordinary cultural value of the destroyed city suffice to explain the significance which Dresden still possesses as a place of remembrance. Dresden as a symbol is above all the product of a political instrumentalisation of experience, memory, and commemoration. The ‘biography’ of the symbol, that is, the changes of meaning within the discourses and rituals, will be outlined below through six chronological phases. Such phasing can be helpful not only to highlight the most important political, social, and cultural developments influencing the development of the symbol, but also to offer starting points for a comparative perspective. The proposed chronological structure should not, however, be understood as strictly sequential and sharply restricted; phases overlap in time and impact.

PHASE 1: THE CONSTRUCTION AND PLACEMENT OF A SYMBOLIC NARRATIVE German war propaganda began a concentrated campaign of propaganda only hours after the firestorm, succeeding in presenting the air raids on Dresden as the ultimate deplorable manifestation of the Allied bombing of Germany. Dresden was immediately portrayed as a city unconnected to the war effort, with the implication that its destruction was senseless in military terms. By multiplying the documented number of victims and spreading vivid images of the nighttime firestorm, Dresden was successfully presented as an incomparable destruction of an ‘innocent’ city. To prove that ‘innocence’, the propaganda cleverly exploited the self-perception and international reputation of Dresden as the ‘Florence on the Elbe’. In listing the destroyed historic architectural monuments and lost art treasures, while recalling Dresden’s rich cultural tradition at length, Goebbels’s propagandists effectively hid the city’s importance for the German war effort – its high-tech arms industries, its extensive military facilities, and its importance as a logistical hub and administrative centre, which in February 1945 was situated only one hundred kilometres behind the retreating Eastern front. Within just a few weeks, the Dresden narrative had spread worldwide. This last propaganda campaign of Hitler’s Germany had several aims. One was to discredit the strategies of British and American warfare. Another was to THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 103 motivate the Germans’ will to resist. More important than such tactical aims, however, was the far-reaching intention of creating the message of the ‘Destruction of Dresden’ (a German propaganda term suggesting no less than the total annihilation of the city) to claim it as the biggest massacre of civilian populations during the entire war – an Allied war crime that could be used as an argument to exonerate the National Socialist leadership of its crimes (Neutzner 2005a). The National Socialist propagandists recognised immediately two essential preconditions for success: the catastrophic dimension of the events and the mythical aura of the city. They condensed the descriptions of the events into a dramatic narrative, hid all facts not fitting the intended meaning, added supplementary motifs to increase the impact, and exaggerated the events to the superlative. To spread the narration, media and broadcasting were used as well as Flüsterpropaganda [everyday communication]. When forming a collective image of what happened, those affected by the air raids (both in the narrower and wider sense) interacted with this symbolic framing. The language provided by the state instantly found its way into the ‘joint manufacture of the past by conversation’ (Welzer et al. 2002: 18). Dresdeners followed the official interpretation only as far as it could be inte- grated into the reality of their own experiences; yet individual recollections were affected by official descriptions of the sequence of events, the times, numerical data, and the narrative images. The message of this as ‘the most radical destruction’ corresponded with the shocking experience of the survivors; they adopted the semantic exaggerations and accepted as truth the vague, upwardly open information about the death toll. Even when the much lower casualty figures of the Dresden police statistics became known on the quiet (they were never officially published), they could not shake the conviction of the persons affected. It was precisely these inflated figures that the Berlin Foreign Office had transmitted to its press departments in the neutral countries two weeks earlier with the repeated instruction to use it for intensive local propaganda (Neutzner 2005a: 117). Even after the Nazi dictatorship was defeated twelve weeks later, the Dresden narrative continued. It had already become ‘knowledge’ not only of the people in Dresden, where it provided an essential anchor of family biographies, but of most Germans. In collective communication, the historical symbol outlasted the regime change and remained a connection point for new interpretations.

PHASE 2: LINKING THE SYMBOL TO A NORMATIVE HISTORICO- POLITICAL INTERPRETATION Although the propaganda constructs within the Dresden narrative could easily have been discarded after the defeat of Hitler’s Germany, the new powers-that- be in Eastern Germany had no interest in doing so. The Communist Party and 104 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

4.3. Double page from a book of photographs published in Dresden in 1946. The arrangement of the photographs and annual figures points to the responsibility of the German National Socialists (assumption of power in 1933) for war and destruction. (Kurt Schaarschuch‚‘Bilddokument Dresden 1933–1945’, Dresden 1946.) state officials employed the previously cemented Dresden narrative in unchanged form already in 1946. The way in which the Destruction of Dresden was interpreted by the increasingly authoritative state Communist Party hardened into a normative formula between 1946 and 1949.Atfirst, while the Soviet occupying power prohibited all accusations against the Allies, the responsibility for the bombardments was attributed to the German fascists, who were held responsible for the war. Two years later (in the meantime the anti-Hitler coalition had virtually been broken), those responsible for the air raids, now categorised as Western imperialists, were accused of having ‘cold-bloodedly devised mass extermination’ in the course of their ‘barbaric plans to conquer the world’ (Neutzner 2005b: 147ff.). Since the GDR propaganda maintained the fiction of an innocent city beyond the war, the accusation of imperialism interpreted the Dresden firestorm as being intended either to hinder the advance of the Soviet army or to lay waste the future Soviet Occupation Zone and hamper its reconstruction. Thus Dresden was portrayed as one of the first battlefields of the Cold War. Both fascism and imperialism remained central elements of the official historical interpretation of the Destruction of Dresden in the GDR. Fascism and imperialism were both seen as the rule of capital, which was abolished in the new social order of the GDR in contrast to, first of all, the Federal Republic of Germany (West Germany). In this way it could be suggested that the culprits THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 105 for the war and suffering were to be found exclusively in the West, while citizens of the GDR might feel themselves to be a victim of both fascist war and imperialistic aggression. The construction of a new city in a new society thus was positioned as an anti-fascist mission. Anti-fascism became the foundation myth of the East German state and the decisive demarcation criterion towards West Germany (see Grunenberg 1993). This state position offered the citizens of Dresden the possibility to place their own biographies within an anti-fascist tradition. This, however, was tied to the condition of adherence to the new order. In the case of Dresden, residents were able to make personal use of the canonical narrative and to transfer the still- unchallenged claim of the innocence of the city to their own behaviour under National Socialism. This led to the introduction of new elements in the 13th of February recollections: portrayals of the unscrupulousness and cowardice of the fascist leaders, illustrations of one’s own family’s anti-fascist position, mentions of solidarity with prisoners-of-war or forced labourers. By the beginning of the 1950s, it had become natural in public remembrance to place the people killed during the air raids on Dresden beside the victims of the Nazi dictatorship; after 1964, their graves were gathered in the city’s Heidefriedhof cemetery into a monumental Ehrenhain – an ‘honour grove’. In this political framing, the GDR leadership assigned historical meaning to the Destruction of Dresden. The firestorm was interpreted as a Fanal,asasymbolic sign in which the ‘true character of the war-mongers’ in the West had been proven. The ‘sacrifice’ of the people of Dresden should oblige the citizens of the whole republic to overcome fascist and imperialist violence once and for all by constructing a new, socialist society. Peace became the official reference for the Symbol of Dresden. Pointing to achievements in reconstructing the destroyed city, the GDR presented itself as a society which had uncompromisingly elimi- nated the social roots of war and whose main ideal was peace. In contrast, the West was accused not only of the Destruction of Dresden in the past, but also of military armament, political confrontation, and ‘war-mongering’ in the present: “Not for the third time the West German militarists shall succeed to destroy the lives of many millions of people” (Sächsische Zeitung, 13 February 1960: 1). The official commitment to peace made it easier for many citizens to identify with the East German state and its social system. The dominant conviction amongst the war generation of ‘Most important, No war’, was replied by the propaganda with ‘Socialism, guarantor of peace’. In the early 1950s, such narratives mobilised hundreds of thousands of people from across the GDR for the annual commemoration in Dresden. The instrumentalisation of Dresden’s remembrance by the state was to remain intact until the end of the GDR – with varying degrees of intensity, shifting interpretations of the historical events, and pragmatically flexible alignment to current political affairs. In other German cities that suffered wartime destruction, whether in the 106 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

East or in the West, active memory of their bombing gradually waned or at least was overshadowed by other historico-political concerns. The GDR’s rulers, in contrast, continued to reinforce the signiﬁcance of Dresden as a place of remembrance year after year, and the symbol radiated far into West Germany. Located behind the Iron Curtain, and thus, in the Western imagination, captive of a renewed catastrophe, Dresden became a focus of a collective remembrance of the wartime bombing for the whole German population.

PHASE 3: INTERNATIONALISATION AND UNIVERSALISATION During the first two decades after the end of the war, the GDR’s propaganda efforts kept the Destruction of Dresden in international awareness. At the height of the Cold War, the city’s ‘Hate America Demonstrations’, as the New York Times summarised the anniversary events in 1953 (Neutzner 2005b, 149), forced both the United States and United Kingdom to counterattack with government statements, while Soviet Marshal Georgy Zhukov officially made it clear that the Red Army “would never had been able to commit such barbarism” (Bergander 1994: 289). The public presence of the Dresden narrative in the Western world increased dramatically in 1963 when the British historian David Irving published a spectacular monograph in which he described the air raids on Dresden as the ‘greatest bloodbath in European history’ (Irving 1964: 293), basing his assertion on a minimal estimate of 135,000 people killed (ibid., 257), a figure that even exceeded the causalities known at the time of the atomic bomb in Hiroshima. Irving’s descriptions and interpretations together with the media reactions can be seen as one of the most influential factors for stabilising the Dresden narrative in the Western world. This narrative resisted later corrections of the death toll, as the latter was first shown to be wrong and later proven to be a deliberate deception (Evans 2001: 193ff.). Numerous political and media reactions and above all artistic reflections strengthened the Symbol of Dresden internationally. For example, in 1967 the West German dramatist Rolf Hochhuth took up the Destruction of Dresden in his play Soldiers, causing a political scandal in Great Britain with his accusations against Winston Churchill (Der Spiegel 19/1967: 158ff.). It was, however, the American author Kurt Vonnegut who above all canonised the Dresden narrative of the city and its unique destruction with his novel Slaughterhouse-Five or The Children’s Crusade, published in 1969. He referred to Irving’s bigger-than-Hiroshima claim as a proven fact (Vonnegut 2005 [1969]: 12, 240), as did other artists. Harry Mulisch, for example, in his traumatic imagery of the anti-hero Corinth returning to Dresden, cites the figure of 250,000 victims of the bombing (Mulisch 1969: 69). Although the state propaganda efforts in Dresden gradually fell silent during the 1970s due to the political détente between the Cold War opponents, the name of THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 107 the city had become an international synonym for the bombings during the Second World War. Dresden served (and serves to this day) as a symbol of military violence against civilians, as an argument in discourses, as an internationally recognisable metaphor and parameter of comparison. Within this framing, its symbolic narrative remained disconnected from proven historical facts, its superlative event remained unchallenged, and its narrative images could be embellished practically at will. Following decades of propaganda, including denying or ignoring any military aspects of the bombing, the historical events could be interpreted as destiny, revenge, or apocalypse – all of this material for artistic reflections on human existence supporting a mythical narrative of universal relevance.

PHASE 4: CHALLENGING THE INTERPRETIVE MONOPOLY With the Cold War ﬂaring up afresh at the beginning of the 1980s, the Dresden remembrance came back into the focus of GDR state propaganda – this time,

4.4. 13 February 1983. On the evening of the anniversary day people gather in front of the ruins of Frauenkirche to commemorate the 1945 destruction outside the oﬃcial rituals of the state. (M. Neutzner.) 108 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

however, primarily as a reaction to domestic challenges. Since 1982, independent peace activists backed by the Christian churches had used the anniversary of the Dresden air raids as a platform for critical statements against the increasing militarisation of everyday life, especially in education and propaganda. The spectrum of actors and subjects involved in remembrance outside the direction of the state quickly increased. The GDR’s historical-political master narrative of anti-fascism was questioned. Reconciliation activities by the churches set the Dresden remembrance in an international context, opening up links between activists that bypassed the state’s strict control of foreign contacts. Ecumenical peace services on the eve of the anniversary provided a space in which to address democracy deficits in public (see Neutzner 2005b: 160). The state party reacted to this threat with the immediate reintroduction of an extensive remembrance campaign aimed to re-occupy the symbolic ground. Public events with more than 100,000 participants were intended to regain the initiative. The official commemorative staging was re-focused on the dimension of peace alone, placing the ‘nuclear menace’ of NATO’s twin-track decision (to deploy nuclear missiles in Western Europe if arms limitation talks failed) at the centre of its propaganda. Dresden – again positioned as the ‘German Hiroshima’– served as a Menetekel,awarningsignfora‘Euroshima’ (Sächsische Zeitung, 2 February 1983: 1), which could be prevented solely through active commitment to the ‘socialist peace society’. The renewed arms race had caused dismay and worry by wide parts of the population in both the East and West, mobilising a strong peace movement in Western Europe. In Dresden, too, witnesses of war appealed for disarmament and détente against the background of their biographical experience – now no longer expressed only in state-organised remembrance, but primarily within the scope of rituals and debates offered by the Christian churches. The state’s commitment to peace, which had generated substantial social cohesion and noticeably stabilised the political system of the GDR, was no longer credible in the face of military education in schools and the East German involvement in the Warsaw Pact; the appeals had lost their potential for mobilisation. In the same way as the motif of anti-fascism before, peace as a focus of the official interpretation of the Symbol of Dresden had now become an empty shell, exhausted by ‘incessant didactical penetration’ (Schmidt 2010: 222). Thus GDR officials failed to re-establish an interpretive monopoly over the Dresden remembrance. During the second half of the 1980s, this dispute became a mirror – and at least locally also a catalyst – of the crisis of the socialist system in the GDR.

PHASE 5: FRAGMENTATION AND SEGREGATION OF THE SYMBOL AFTER 1990 The renegotiation of the historical foundation of a unified Germany necessarily led to a revival of the debate on the most terrible and far-reaching THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 109 historical events of the twentieth century: the Nazi dictatorship, the Holocaust, and the Second World War. In the anniversary year 1995, fifty years after the end of the war, political rituals and media interest reaffirmed Dresden as a national place of remembrance – embedded in a controversial debate about the legitimacy of the right to also remember German victims of war against the background of German Nazi crimes. Gradually, critical discussions within local civic groups, science, and the media began to address the distortion, suppressed memories, and new forms of instrumentalisation embodied in the historical Symbol of Dresden. This discussion was, however, widely ignored by local politics as the city’s political elites (now dominated by conservative parties) were uninterested in questioning the symbolic narrative of Dresden as merely an exceptional victim of war and felt no need to search for contemporary meanings. Instead, some of the quieter anniversary rituals that had been introduced either by the GDR authorities or by the 1980s civic movement were now declared ‘longstanding tradition’ and pursued past their original meanings. In 1992, the mayor of Dresden, Herbert Wagner, was in the front row of the group of German representatives protesting in London against the erection of a memorial to Air Marshal Harris,4 without expressing any moral considerations regarding Dresden’s involvement in German war efforts and Nazi crimes (Der Spiegel 40/1991: 152). At the same time, the city’s victim narrative might have influenced its most far-reaching remembrance project – the re-erection of the Frauenkirche. Rejecting the historico-political approaches connected to this project, other civic groups developed their own interpretations and expressions. While some organisations associated themselves closely to the traditions of the 1980s independent peace movement and linked the remembrance to present-day anti-war actions, activists engaged in Christian-Jewish understanding sparked a citizens’ movement pressing for the construction of a new synagogue in the city centre, which was finally completed in 2001. This was intended as a necessary complement or counterbalance to the re-erection of the Frauenkirche. As a result of such developments the local culture of remembrance became strongly differentiated during the first decade following the reunification of Germany. During the 1990s broad media interest in public remembrance focused on the witnesses of the bombing. Nevertheless, the current debates concerning the Symbol of Dresden are no longer determined by the generation that lived through the Second World War. The generational dynamic alone has ledtoashiftinremembrancepractices from communication-based recollections to cultural representations of the past. Debates about the past are taking place in more and more varied forms and are resulting in less social cohesion. 110 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

PHASE 6: NEW POLARISATION AND INTENSIFICATION OF CONFLICTING REFERENCES During the 1990s, the Dresden victim narrative was still predominant, obscuring German guilt and enabling revisionist groups and right-wing extremists to adopt the historical symbol to their own purposes. Under the slogan of ‘Your sacriﬁce – Our mission’ they claimed themselves as advocates of the Dresden victims and began to occupy the remembrance of the Bombenholocaust [bomb holocaust], as 5 they characterised the 1945 events. Whereas such expressions on the 13th of February had been marginal episodes in the early 1990s, marches of several hundred right-wing extremist sympathisers became an annual event on the anniversary by the end of the decade. Given its position as a central place of remembrance of German suﬀering, in combination with a widely accepted symbolic narrative devoid of any historical context, Dresden was destined to be perceived as a suitable venue for German historical revisionism in order to rehabilitate Nazi Germany and to free nationalist convictions from their historical stigma. Following the year 2000, the anniversary of the air raids has become a central pillar of right-wing extremist public relations work, trying to exploit the Dresden media stage with its enormous reach. Unlike German

4.5. 14 February 2009. ‘Funeral March’, organised by the extreme right-wing organisation ‘Junge Landsmannschaft Ostpreußen’. The poster uses the distinctive outline of the ruins of Frauenkirche to emphasise the statement ‘We commemorate the victims of Allied mass murder’. (By permission from Inge Haberland.) THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 111 neo-Nazi demonstration venues with longer-standing traditions, namely, those associated with symbolic figures of the Nazi regime or the German Wehrmacht, the commemoration of the 13th of February, as an established act of remembrance of German suffering, offers the neo-Nazi activists an incomparably greater potential for identification amongst the German population. Since the sixtieth anniversary of the air raids, the conflict around radically right-wing interpretations and activities has dominated the public debate around Dresden commemorations. The opposition against neo-Nazis in Dresden has widened the actor base of the remembrance, and every politically active social group – from mass organisations, such as parties, trade unions, or religious communities, to public institutions, business associations, cultural actors, and numerous civic groups – has been forced to make a statement. The variety of political and cultural backgrounds has subsequently led to deep conflicts around suitable defensive strategies ‘against the Right’. To be able to demonstrate their own positions more effectively, all supra-regionally organised groups have mobilised supporters nationwide and, in the case of the extreme right and the ‘anti-fascist’ milieu, even throughout Europe. Since 2005, public space has become the central venue for the disputes over interpretive predominance. With (partly violent) confrontations during several days of demonstrations and counter-demonstrations, in which a total of about thirty thousand people were directly involved (not including at least six thousand police), with preparatory or accompanying actions in dozens of other places in Germany, the mobilisation for the 2011 anniversary reached a new level. Despite all the attention that this triggers – especially in the international press – the neo-Nazi demonstrations still dominate the discourse on the 13th of February, but not equally the day itself. It should not be forgotten that parallel to this, several thousand people took part in about forty other events referencing directly the anniversary of the air raids – including commemorative ceremonies, religious services, scientific events, concerts, art exhibitions, readings, and discussions. Within the media, however, the interpretations and rituals offered by such groups remained practically invisible hidden by the confrontation on the streets. Meanwhile, as an annual experimental setup, the 13th of February in Dresden offers a public and far-reaching space for historico-political discourses. On the stage of the symbolic anniversary, the controversies around the historical foundation of a German and European identity become evident. As with other great events of our time, this day of commemoration can be experienced as a self-reassurance ritual of different social groups in different subcultural framings, characterised by the complexity and parallelism of actors, convictions, actions, and traditions. In addition, social networks are increasingly used for mobilisation and medial self-portraits extending the debate to de-temporalised, virtual spaces. Through critical discourse, including its conflict-laden intensification, the constituent narrative is slowly eroding 112 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

whilethemobilisationpotentialofthehistoricalsymbolisgrowing. However, it seems today that a new chapter of Dresden’s symbolic history has opened: the most recent dynamics no longer apply to the remembrance of the 1945 ﬁrestorm, but to the debate on remembrance itself. The ‘biography’ of the symbol of Dresden has become the new narration.

THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE In the second part of this chapter we analyse the symbolism and reception of the Frauenkirche as an iconic part of the lieux de mémoire. The history of the landmark Baroque building, of its collapsed remains, and of its re-creation is used as an empirical illustration of the institutionalisation of memory, of historical imaginations, and the diverse ways in which historical continuities and breaks are constructed within the context of the larger Symbol of Dresden discussed above. Starting in 1945, for more than five decades the changes to the collective memory of the bombing of Dresden are mirrored in debates around the re-erection of the destroyed Frauenkirche. The impressive ruin was a prominent feature of the post-war cityscape, with a dense symbolic meaning that changed several times from immediately after the destruction until the present when it became a national symbol in the new political constellation that emerged after the German reunification. The debates about what to do with the ruined church can be framed within a notion of a ‘geography of terror’ that involves both modernisation and concealment. This topography is shaped by relationships between spaces of destruction and spaces of memory, between forms of violence and rites of commemoration – with all of these shifting through time. These dynamics are expressed not only in the spatial changes of remembrance activities, but are also framed by how recourses to the past influence the city’s structure and architecture. Here history is ‘built’ in the literal sense of the word, a process that is necessarily connected with reinterpretation, with emphasising or hiding certain aspects of the past.

REBUILDING STRATEGIES: TABULA RASA FOR A ‘NEW CITY’ In order to understand the context in which the debates about the re-erection of the Frauenkirche took place, it is important to outline some general dynamics and lines of conflict connected with the rebuilding of the war torn city. Dresden defines itself above all through cultural values. At least since the beginning of the nineteenth century, this perception has outshone all other views of the city. When the February 1945 air raids practically erased the architectural testimony to a splendid past, and shortly afterwards the Dresden art collections fell to the Soviet Union as spoils of war, the self-image of beauty and art nevertheless THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 113 remained alive – now in the form of an idealised memory and utopian vision for the future. Dresden became an ‘imagined city’ (Rehberg 2005b). Over subsequent years, the reality of the city has become inseparably inter- laced with a mythical ‘Old Dresden’ (Löffler 1955) that no longer exists and that had become unchallengeable due to its obliteration. It was within this imagined city that the broken biographies of the wartime generation and their families were anchored. When, in 1956, the Soviet Union returned the Dresden art collections, this sped up the rebuilding of two of the most valuable of the destroyed architectural complexes in the city – the Rococo Zwinger Palace and the Old Masters Picture Gallery – which were needed to accommodate the collections. Now, it was once more possible to experience the ‘city of art’; the surrounding, still barren, reality was painted over with the recollected images of ‘Old Dresden’. In the tourist guides of the time, it was common to place photographs of the architectural beauty before the destruction alongside those of contemporary Dresden. Preserved in countless statements of artistic self- praise and in the stubbornly defended ruins of the symbolic buildings, ‘Old Dresden’ in this way evolved both as imaginary certain knowledge and as a backward-looking utopia. This ideal has thereafter been in conflict with post- war urban planning, which up to 1989 was part of a state-propagated, both literally and figuratively, new city in which not only social renewal via socialism but also Modernist architectural innovations were to be realised. Not only in the Soviet zone, but also in other parts of the defeated Germany, did the advocates of avant-garde modernism amongst the city planners see the tabula rasa created by the war destruction as a chance to realise long planned radical innovation. In the summer of 1946, an initial nationwide competition for ideas for the rebuilding of twelve square kilometres of the destroyed city in Dresden revealed a broad range of varying, even contradicting, approaches (see Durth et al. 1999: 203). Most of the proposals, however, saw the destruction as an opportunity to build a new city for ‘new people’–either for people in an open, pluralistic society or in a collectivistic, socialist state. As in the West, this architectonic modernity was intended to be functional and ‘plain’. The complex urban patchwork and palimpsest, developed since the medieval era, should be overcome by axial reorganisations and serial and equalising industrialised apartment blocks. These concepts were discussed throughout war-damaged Europe. Some of the 1946 designs for a ‘New Dresden’, for example, those by Hanns Hopp and Mart Stam, resembled modernist urban visions like that of Le Corbusier’s plans for a radical transformation of central Paris. In Dresden, these approaches were contrasted by proposals to preserve at least the structure of the historic city and to win back the most valuable buildings that had shaped the city’s identity. This was not only motivated by cultural considerations, as dramatic post-war economic constraints made it impossible to replace traditional structures by a completely new city layout. Before the reconstruction of 114 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

East Germany became more and more determined by state directives and interventions, the early urban planning debate in the first post-war years revolved around these contradicting orientations. In order to express its new social order in ‘new cities’, the GDR’s cultural politics over the years orientated towards different architectural traditions and policies. When, in the early 1950s, the state campaign to rebuild the devastated city centres began, traditional aesthetics and building technologies were used, as reflected in the Classicism of the Stalinallee in Berlin or the Baroque references of the Altmarkt (Old Market) in Dresden. Soon, due to increasing economic constraints (and influenced by political and cultural changes in the Soviet Union), the Socialist state was forced to re-orientate towards modern architectural approaches such as the Bauhaus tradition, which initially had been rejected soon after 1945 as expression of a decadent Western culture. During the following decades this developed into two emblematic architectural topoi. On the one hand there was the Notmoderne (a modernism limited by the lack of means) of mass housing in industrially produced, more and more simplified concrete blocks (Plattenbau) of large suburban structures (Neubaugebiete). On the other hand, the GDR achieved an acknowledged ‘flagship modernism’ of prestigious public buildings such as the Leipzig Gewandhaus concert hall, the Berlin ‘Palace of the Republic’, the Berlin TV Tower, and the ‘Palace of Culture’ in Dresden.

4.6. Dresden, Altmarkt (Old Market Square), view towards Wilsdruﬀer Straße and Neumarkt. The buildings are examples of three distinct phases of reconstruction extending over a period of more than ﬁfty years – the ‘Stalin Baroque’ of the 1950s (on the right), the more industrialised building concepts a decade later (in the centre), and the re-creation of historical architectural ensembles after 1990 (in the background). (M. Neutzner.) THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 115

Parallel to these dynamics, the loss of identity caused by the war destruction produced a constant public pressure for recovery of at least some of the lost iconic buildings. Wherever the GDR government fulfilled such demands (and in some cases thereby enabled impressive restoration achievements), the rebuilt symbols were made the subject of intense political propaganda. Their presentation as expressions of humanistic responsibility forcultureandasacommitmenttopeaceoffered the GDR’scitizens possibilities for identification far beyond the respective local context. Where destroyed cultural heritage stood in the way of planning for the ‘new cities’, however, even citizen protests were normally unable to prevent the abandoning of surviving ruins. In Dresden, the remains of the Frauenkirche – alargemoundofrubble dominated by the sculptural appearance of two remaining parts of the collapsed choir – survived the systematic and industrialised clearance during the 1950sthattransformedtheruinedlandscapeofthecitycentreintoawide open grass land. Until the end of the GDR, while political and architectural orientations changed over time and central Dresden developed into a fragmentary patchwork of different architectures, all lacking an overarching city vision, the question about the role of the ruined Frauenkirche remained hotly disputed.

HISTORY OF THE FRAUENKIRCHE The Church of Our Lady, built between 1726 and 1743, was a prominent building within ‘Old Dresden’, with its cupola a characteristic element of the iconic city skyline. The initiative for the construction came from the city council in order to replace a modest twelfth-century church that had become too small, was dilapidated, and hampered the transformation of the Neumarkt (New Market) area into a prestigious Baroque quarter. The church was planned in a time of confessional tensions after the Elector of Saxony in 1697 converted to Catholicism in order to become eligible for the Polish crown. With a representative religious building close to the royal castle the citizenry confirmed their Protestant belief. The construction was commissioned to local craftsmen directed by George Bähr, the City Master Carpenter, who also designed the building. In doing so, the project took a different approach from those of the court that, at the same time, employed several architects of European stature. Both city council and court, however, shared the intention to develop Dresden into a prestigious residence. So the plans were reviewed by state officials again and again, which caused the city’s builder to make substantial changes to the initially rather provincial design. The most prominent feature of the architecture, the ‘stone bell’ cupola, was probably inspired by famous Italian and especially Roman buildings. 116 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

George Bähr developed the building on the model of village churches he had built at several places in southern Saxony. Like these, the Frauenkirche is based on the typical layout of a Protestant preaching church orientated towards the liturgical centre of altar und pulpit. To achieve the magnificence of a grand church which could stand next to the royal buildings, Bähr considerably increased the scale of the smaller predecessors and tried to ‘raise the basic form to highest representative pretension’ (Paul 2011: 338). The somewhat ungainly result provoked much criticism from the king’s architects and officials. Even the much improved design that was finally built failed to impress the travelling professionals. Throughout the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries the building mainly had a bad press amongst European architects who criticised the rough form of the outside architecture and, even more, the rural colourful interior design. However, in parallel a more favourable view developed that focused on the fact that the entire church, even the cupola, was made from stone. This was acknowledged as a superb engineering achievement and praised for the ‘truthfulness’ of the design.

4.7. Mid-1930s: The dome of the Frauenkirche towers above the baroque residential buildings of Rampische Gasse near Neumarkt. (SLUB, Dresden Deutsche Fotothek, Walter Möbius, 0008804) THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 117

At the beginning of the twentieth century, however, the view had widely changed, and the Frauenkirche was regarded as a building of outstanding architectural value. This re-evaluation had its origin in a growing national interpretation of architectural traditions following the late establishment of a German national state. The Frauenkirche was now seen as the most convincing example of a unique Lutheran type of church architecture. Its heavy simplified, little elegant Baroque form was now interpreted as an expression of Protestant modesty and piety. In this context, the church’s architecture was charged with national meaning and claimed as a unique German achievement – contrary to the frivolous ‘Roman’ Baroque predominant in the tradition of other European (and mostly Catholic) powers. The growing national myth even included the church’s architect, George Bähr, now portrayed as a serious, God-fearing middle- class German Protestant able to prevail against the foreign Catholic advisers of royalty. The image of the Frauenkirche, connected with the claim of the ‘most important church of German Protestantism’, figured high in the intense Dresden tourist marketing prior to the First World War and between the wars. After their rise to power in 1933, the National Socialist party in Saxony tried to establish the church as the symbol of a new, state-controlled, national Protestantism. In 1934, connecting seamlessly to the by then established nationalist interpretation of the church’s architecture and history, the Frauenkirche was made the cathedral of the Landesbischof (regional bishop), Friedrich Coch, the ‘leader’ of the Deutsche Christen (German Christians), a party within the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Saxony. In the following years, the church became the venue of the sharpest disputes between the collaborating nationalist and anti-Semitic Deutsche Christen and a resisting Bekennende Kirche (Confessing Church) movement that was supported by a significant number of Saxon theologians. One of the latter’smostinfluential representatives, Superintendent Hugo Hahn, was based at the Frauenkirche and preached there regularly. While Coch and his followers celebrated ‘German Christian services’ and mass weddings with Nazi symbols, Hahn was dismissed twice and, in 1938, forced to leave Saxony (Lindemann 2011). Finally, the Frauenkirche had become the Deutscher Dom (German Cathedral). It was this outstanding political importance that ensured the allocation of vast resources necessary for an extensive reconstruction effort extending into the first years of the Second World War. In November 1942 the completely renewed church was re-consecrated (Paul 2011: 344–345). Little more than two years later, on the night of 13th February 1945, the firestorm destroyed the interior of the church completely while the outer structure remained standing at first. The extent to which the prominent cupola of the Frauenkirche dominated the cognitive map of Dresden is evident in testimonies of people who witnessed the air raids. Many of the survivors reported how relieved they were during their escape from the burning city, when they at least found the cupola of the church to be intact: ‘a sign of almost 118 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

defiant hope’ (Neutzner 2003: 83). However, gutted by fire, the building collapsed on the morning of the 15th of February. Goetz Bergander remembers how he had wandered sixteen kilometres across the desert of ruins that day. Only at the sight of the destroyed Frauenkirche did he begin to realise ‘the meaning of the bombing in its full scope’ (1994: 178). Few other damaged buildings had caused the same extent of phantom pain of the irreversibly destroyed as did this void in the former cityscape. Canonised since the vedutas of Canaletto (see Rehberg 2002), the Baroque church remained an imaginary reference point even in times when it played no role as a place of worship. In June 1945 Hanns Hopp proposed a plan to preserve the most important monuments, particularly the Frauenkirche, as ruins surrounded by green areas within the modern city he had designed. But already in January 1946 the official ‘Great Dresden Reconstruction Plan’ promised the rebuilding of the church. The regional church office ordered a reconstruction study, a lottery was launched, promotional posters printed, and small accessories – starting with a cardboard ‘donation angel’–were sold to generate revenues necessary to clear the rubble and to fund the preparations for reconstruction. All these initiatives failed to achieve a substantial result. The dramatic economic situation forced the Church administration to focus all possible efforts on other inner city churches that could be reconstructed more inexpensively, while, at the same time, the East German state followed completely different priorities and struggled to initiate representative buildings projects for the ‘New Dresden’. Until 1989, during the entire GDR period, there was no real prospect for the Protestant Church to gain enough economic and political support for a reconstruction of the Frauenkirche. During that time, however, such a project was discussed again and again. Regularly contributors to architectural competitions tried to embed a re-erected Frauenkirche (or, in some cases, its transformed ruin) into the changing urban and architectural guidelines. Scientific studies kept the idea alive, while books and postcards fostered the public conviction that even a ‘New Dresden’ had to be crowned by the cupola of the Frauenkirche. In order to prevent a clearing of the ruin, conservationists secured the site in 1963. Three years later, the city council finally decided to preserve the ruin as a memorial for the victims of the air war. When, at the beginning of the 1980s, the discussion around the rebuilding plans for the still empty Neumarkt area intensified, a re-erection of the Frauenkirche was an almost undisputed option. The results of an ‘International Planning Seminar’, held in 1981, found wide interest amongst the citizens of Dresden and provoked new hope for a rebuilding based on the historic city structures, with a re-erected Frauenkirche as the centre. Until then, although the church ruin was officially declared a memorial, neither the state nor religious communities used the site for remembrance activities. No visible sign informed passers-by about the dedicated meaning. When, at the beginning of the 1980s, the renewed atomic arms race sensitised THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 119 the public on both sites of the Iron Curtain to the growing danger of a military confrontation, the aura of symbolic places of wartime destruction such as the ruin of the Frauenkirche gained renewed attention. While, in 1980,an application for a public church service in front of the ruin was rejected by the state, two years later young peace activists did not ask for permission. They called for a silent gathering with candles on the eve of the anniversary to remember the 1945 destruction and to express their ‘desire for peace without official approval and organisation’, as they announced in their leaflet (SFD 2005: 107). This impulse became the starting point for independent remembrance activities that challenged the interpretative monopoly of the state. The state party responded immediately and, from the following year on, tried to reoccupy the site with an annual mass demonstration in the afternoon of the anniversary and a light and sound installation in the evening. Beyond this, attempts were made to keep the members of the dissident movement away. In 1989, for example, the ruin was cordoned off for ‘safety reasons’, and during the ecumenical peace service in the evening the public was urged to refrain from a procession to the Frauenkirche. This was ignored, however, and several

4.8. 13 February 1987. State-organised mass rally in front of the ruin of Frauenkirche. (Höhne- Pohl, SLUB, Dresden Deutsche Fotothek, Eric Höhne & Eric Pohl HPM 29358_3.) 120 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

thousand participants demonstratively placed their candles on the site. Thus, the absent church became the reference point for an appropriation of space – both for activists and for the struggling, and ﬁnally retreating, state authority.

PUBLIC CAMPAIGN AND THE DISPUTE ABOUT THE RE-ERECTION OF THE FRAUENKIRCHE While the anniversary of the destruction in February 1989, which saw the public procession of many hundred people to the ruin of the Frauenkirche, forecast the political upheaval that followed in the autumn, the fall of the Berlin Wall at the end of the same year enabled West German Chancellor Helmut Kohl to link the site to a new meaning: On 19 December 1989 he used the aura of the ruin as background for a carefully staged public speech. Here, for the first time, he campaigned for an early reunification and promised his East German compatriots ‘flourishing landscapes’. In this atmosphere of rapid changes and unforeseen opportunities a ‘Citizens Initiative for the Reconstruction of the Dresden Frauenkirche’ prepared a public campaign to gain support for this seemingly unrealisable project. On 13 February 1990 they publicly launched an ‘Appeal from Dresden’. From the beginning, the initiators followed the idea of re-erecting the building as close as possible to its pre-war appearance. The campaign, however, provoked a short-lived public discussion of three alternative approaches: the first was the suggestion to leave the ruin as a memorial site; the second was to include it into new construction, as was done, for example, with the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Memorial Church in Berlin (Gegner 2012); the third was to combine the old form with modern elements, as Michael Kaiser, a Dresden architect, suggested by inserting an emblematic glass wedge between the preserved parts of the ruin and the faithfully restored exterior of the church (Köckeritz 1992: 77ff.). The protagonists of the citizens’ initiative had, however, aimed their efforts at reclamation. In their appeal they described the Frauenkirche as ‘an architectural artwork of unique value’,as‘outstanding jewel’ in ‘one of central Europe’s most beautiful cityscapes’ that has to ‘return’, to become ‘regained’,tobe‘re-created’ (SFD 2005: 115). The vision was to reverse the destruction, and this precluded even the slightest alteration or addition to the original form. As a consequence, the loss of the site’s memorial appeal was accepted (Paul 1992;Schölzel1992: 75f.). At the beginning of the 1990s, this project provoked much scepticism. The owner of the ruin, the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Saxony, questioned whether a glamorous, expensive building project like this would be appropriate in times of deep crisis and difficult transition. They argued that preference should be given to financing the social roles of the Church, in particular since there did not exist any religious community that a re-erected Frauenkirche could serve: at the end of the ‘atheist state’, the percentage of church members THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 121 in the city’s population counted little more than one-third, and the downtown Protestant communities were well equipped with large parish churches. One more argument added to a widespread scepticism regarding the re-erection project: the central and powerful symbolic significance that the ruin of the Frauenkirche had acquired during the 1980s not only of the city’ssuffering, but also of the moral strength of peaceful protest that finally had overcome the dictatorship. For most of the younger Dresdeners the emblematic ruin contained many more identity references than a mere image of a long-gone Baroque church. Testimonies of these ambivalences can be found, for example, in entries in the visitor’s books of the exhibition ‘Lebenszeichen – Dresden im Luftkrieg 1944–45’ (Signs of Life – Dresden in Air War 1944–45), which was shown from 1992 to 2008 (Neutzner 1994). Statements are found such as ‘Re-building the Frauenkirche, ... turning 13/02 into a media spectacle, why isn’t it silent witness and memorial anymore?’, ‘If the Frauenkirche is re-built then everything will soon be forgotten’, or (referring to the millions to be spent on construction) ‘The money would be better used for social housing’. But there were also some people who expressed the expectation that the reconstructed church could become a ‘sign of hope for the overcoming of hatred and war’ (Archive IG 13 February 1945 e.V.). The majority of architecture critics and monument conservators, particular in West Germany, shared the appreciation of the symbolic quality of the ruin. Additionally, they feared that ‘the most expressive memorial site which was bequeathed by the most awful of all wars’ would be replaced by ‘frivolous repetition, by a construability, which would retransform the aesthetic torture of the post-war time into an aesthetic blessing for tomorrow’ (Sack 1992: 93) – in other words, politics of history under the motto ‘Out of sight, out of mind’.It 6 seemed as if Article 7 of the Venice Charter of 1964 was interpreted as if it forbade any kind of reconstruction. The same source, however, was used by the advocates of the project since the rule explicitly mentioned that exceptions could be made if “justified by national or international interest of paramount importance” (Jokilehto 1998 after Joel 2012: 205). These contradicting interpretations of the charter might have prevented the German National Association of Conservators to agree on a formal rejection of the reconstruction of the Frauenkirche in June 1991 (GFWFD 2007: 86). Whereas German conservationists were deeply divided on the topic of authenticity, the reconstruction project was strongly supported by Polish conservators, especially Andrzej Tomaszewski. He referred to experiences in emblematic Polish cities, such as Warsaw, where re-erection projects had already started in the 1950s despite international resistance. It is important to note that the reconstructed Old Town in Warsaw was included on the UNESCO World Heritage list in 1980,althoughitwas treated as an absolute exception due to its lack of authenticity. 122 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

In the case of Dresden, the desire to incorporate ‘the Baroque Ensemble of Dresden’ into the World Heritage list was not met, but instead the Elbe valley as 7 a ‘continuing cultural landscape’ was included in 2004. In September 2003 an ICOMOS expert group had linked this explicitly to the Frauenkirche:

[T]he historic city centre was bombed ... but the remaining buildings continue to have an important role in the panorama. ... The most damaged building of the monumental group was the Frauenkirche, around 40% of the original stones have been recovered. ...[W]hile recognizing the unfortunate losses in the historic city centre ... the Dresden Elbe valley ... has retained the overall historical authenticity and integrity in its distinctive character and components. (UNESCO World Heritage Centre 2010, after Joel 2012: 209)

Triggered by the process of the German unification, the national and international responses to the ‘Appeal from Dresden’ were, despite all objections and the improbability of financing, a great success, and from 1991 on even the Evangelical Lutheran Church no longer withheld its cooperation. Throughout the Federal Republic, as well as in Great Britain, the United States, France, and Switzerland, support groups were founded that launched a wide range of activities – from charity concerts, such as that of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra during the visit of England’s Queen Elizabeth II in November 2004, to the joint construction of a scale Lego model of the church. Large donations, for example, from Dresdener Bank and from Günter Blobel, a Nobel Prize winner for Medicine, popularised the initiative and supported the selling of founder certificates and other fundraising activities. As a result, almost two-thirds of the €180 million construction cost was raised through donations, leaving, however, a considerable amount to be financed by public funding. The success of the promotional campaign was carried by a flood of media coverage: The project’s main media partner, the national TV station ZDF, alone dedicated more than one thousand broadcasts to the reconstruction of the Frauenkirche (GFWFD 2007: 133). The resulting public image of a huge collective effort supporting an enterprise of truly national importance, together with the facticity of the spectacular construction works, eventually silenced the critics. For more than a decade the large construction site was one of the main attractions in the very centre of Dresden. During the early 1990s, the results of the ‘archaeological rubble clearance’ were kept in huge open air steel racks on site, containing thousands of ashlar and stone fragments that were catalogued in computer databases and 3D models in order to re-use as much of it as possible for the reconstruction. The clearance work generated a public atmosphere of curiosity and adventure that regularly was satisfied by spectacular findings – with highlights such as the unexpected discovery of the crashed-down cupola cross and the long, almost abandoned search for the urn with the remains of the THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 123 church’s builder, George Bähr. Already the cleared ruin provided an architectural space that immediately was used for religious ceremonies and concerts broadcast by national TV. With the start of the actual re-erection, public interest focused on the technical and constructive aspects of the unusual work, which media reports told in narratives of unique challenges and (mainly East German) craftsmanship and engineering skills. Contrary to this, conserva- tionist criticised occasionally the use of modern building technologies, the functional changes, and structural additions that a new twenty-first-century building required. Unimpressed by intellectual debates like this, media and public started to present the re-erection of the Frauenkirche as a ‘miracle’, founding a mythical narrative of resurrection that is dominating the present-day perception of the Frauenkirche. It is built around the marvellous images of metamorphosis – from the mound of rubble to a magnificent building – and carries the respect for both proven technical and commercial ability. The Frauenkirche, to quote Jürgen Paul (2011: 345), is no longer simply a church; first of all it is a reconstructed church. One more aspect added to the mythical aura of the project: The ‘Appeal from Dresden’, which was explicitly addressed to ‘the victorious powers and the many good-willed people in the US, the UK and all over the world’ (SFD 2005: 115), had overwhelming response. In the atmosphere of the deep emotions that the fall of the Berlin Wall triggered all over the world, Dresden and the Frauenkirche attracted many gestures of solidarity. Directed to an internationally known place of memory, those efforts were meant as a contribution to overcome both war and division. An emblematic example of initiatives like this was the financing and construction of the church’s copy of the cupola cross, which was organised by the British ‘Friends of Dresden’, supported by the royal family and manufactured by the son of a 1945 Bomber Command crew member. Such great gestures were labelled and perceived as acts of reconciliation. In this way, during the construction the project became more and more symbolically charged internationally as a fascinating sign of a new European unity. In Dresden, those symbolic appreciations were widely received as a matter of course backed by the conviction of both extraordinary cultural value and victimhood. Up to the present day, the symbolic aura of resurrection and reconciliation effectively hides the church’s historical entanglement with nationalism and National Socialist ideology. Today the cupola of the Frauenkirche once again dominates the view of Dresden, with the skyline made famous by Belotto through his eighteenth- century ‘Canaletto-view’ now recovered. The re-erection of the Frauenkirche can now be interpreted as an ‘architecture of forgetting’ driven primarily by West Germans and foreigners, despite the fact that the impetus for it came from citizens of Dresden themselves and that it finally found broad local approval. Obviously, however, the place of both the building and the institution 124 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

4.9. Dresden, December 2011: Neumarkt ensemble with Frauenkirche. (M. Neutzner.)

Frauenkirche in the memoryscape of Dresden has changed. Activists of the 1980s peace movement mostly feel deprived of their ‘authentic’ location of memorisation and try to connect their activities to other places of memory. Today, in the pluralistic, fragmented, and contested memory landscape, the Frauenkirche is no longer the focal point of commemoration, but one actor amongst many others. Unintended, the conservative parties in Saxony codiﬁed this loss of importance by issuing a controversial state law that bans all political demonstrations in the vicinity of ‘places of historical importance’ and included the church in this very selectively handled category.

THE FRAUENKIRCHE AND THE GERMAN RECONSTRUCTION CRAZE AFTER 1990 The re-created Frauenkirche impressively illustrated the value of the lost architecture and city structures. So, inevitably, it fostered passionate public debates about whether the entire surrounding Neumarkt area should be THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 125 recovered in the same way. The Dresden city council tried to mediate between the widely based wish to regain a glimpse of ‘Old Dresden’ and the contradicting position of supporters of modern development. It passed guidelines which defined several Leitbauten (model buildings) that should be re-created following the original architecture and, at the same time, set rules for restricted dimensions and design principles of contemporary architecture in the area that were based on the historical models. Still today, the dispute between modern construction and reconstructions as a principle of urban design remains (Rehberg 2009: esp. pp. 287–290). While the Frauenkirche was publicly celebrated as a ‘resurrection miracle’, the professional scene of architects and city builders widely rejected it as the architectural ‘fall of man’, since it became a kind of ideological motor for other re-erection projects in reunified Germany. In 2007, the annual meeting of the German Association of Architects blamed the Dresden church for having triggered a widespread value change and having become a model for re-evaluations, a kind of ‘historical revisionism’. Illustrative of these influences are, for example, the re-creation of an early eighteenth-century rotunda of the Herzog August Library in Wolfenbüttel, which was promoted under the title of a ‘Frauenkirche of books’. In the case of Frankfurt, where the Römerberg with the historical city hall was rebuilt seven years after the war, increasingly loud voices now call for a redesign with bourgeois half-timbered houses and late medieval imperial pomp. Other prominent (and highly controversially) re-creation initiatives include the Stadtschloss (city castle) in Berlin and the Garnisonskirche in Potsdam. Thus, a longing for the re-creation of the lost is evident. Some years ago, the German philosopher Hermann Lübbe stated that the current extent of interest in history and in the past cannot be found in any of earlier epochs of civilisation (Lübbe 1996: 9). For Lübbe it seems as if people have never before done so much to ‘keep the past present’. For him, mass pilgrimages to museums and their big exhibitions, as well as the ‘musealisation of the environment’, demonstrate this quality. Basing his thesis on the idea of a ‘contraction of the present’,heidentifies a quest for concrete materiality apart from the mass of images and events we encounter ‘second-hand’ (Gehlen 1980: 59–65 and 78–79). In the context of these developments the Venice Charter’s emphasis on authenticity becomes relativised. In the reconstruction of the Frauenkirche this emphasis on materiality was expressed through the integration of the remaining fire-damaged original stone, albeit in a random, computer-generated pattern. Nonetheless, it seems as if the ‘true’ materiality of the original stones guarantees the real historicity. The case study demonstrates how politically charged aesthetic discourses, whatever form of architectural reconstructions they justified, were connected to fundamental societal value changes driven by the reunification of the two German states. The reconstruction plans in the new Germany, manifold since 126 KARL-SIEGBERT REHBERG AND MATTHIAS NEUTZNER

1989, can be seen as a way of overcoming the expropriation of local and regional pasts which in diﬀerent forms had taken place in both parts of the divided Germany. Attempts to suggestively re-create the past always appear ambivalent, however, because motives of historical consciousness mix with a desire to escape from the present. In the German case these are also acts of collective redemption, simultaneously provoking the accusation of concealing the German war guilt and also the perpetration and complicity of Germans.

FINAL REFLECTIONS The Dresden Frauenkirche is important as an example of the tension between demands for historical continuity and the re-creation of traces of the past pretending to be ‘original’. This church (as with all important buildings) has several layers of meanings: legends are connected to it as well as historical events. On the one hand, it projects the glamour of Dresden in the eighteenth century, and, on the other hand, it is linked to the Second World War bombings as well as the city’s entanglement in war and National Socialist crimes. It is also associated both with reconciliation after the war and the processes of German and European unity. Simultaneously, the Frauenkirche as part of the Symbol of Dresden has over the years been appropriated by political movements including civil resistance and neo-Nazi groups. As a result this building, at once new and old, stands for ‘civil society’ in a double sense. Firstly, it was the ‘retreated bourgeoisie’ (Refugiumsbürgertum) in the former GDR (Rehberg 2008), who kept the vision of the ‘Old Dresden’ alive (Löffler 1955). Secondly, the civic society is seen in the civic initiative and stubborn enforcement of the project against a variety of hurdles. Today, this church can be seen as a key medium for the restoration of the city’s proud and collective cultural identity, but there are also plenty of ambiguities and tensions. The Dresden Frauenkirche has through time and from different points of views symbolised the eighteenth-century self- confidence of the Protestant community against the Catholic king, as well as the special German confessionalism that followed the Reformation. While it evokes the mythical Italianità of the so-called ‘Florence on the Elbe’, the building also symbolises northern European Baroque splendour and other influences. The indestructibility of the cupola was legendary, and its return to the city profile after the re-erection of the church had substantial symbolic significance. The church was also, however, a symbol of political instrumentalisation by the Nazi-oriented ‘German Christians’ and the relatively long resistance of the opposing ‘Confessing Church’. In the officially atheist GDR there were ideological tensions between the importance of a church as a key monument of the city’s identity and its reinterpretation as a memorial against imperialistic wars. In the late Socialist period it also became a focus for the THE DRESDEN FRAUENKIRCHE AS A CONTESTED SYMBOL 127

GDR’s peace movement, protected and supported by religious institutions, which during the last decades of the GDR offered a shelter for some activities critical of the state. There were political but also theological controversies about the role of the church, which could become a leading institution of lamentation or reconciliation, or even oblivion. In addition, the Frauenkirche is also a magnet for tourism and mass consumerism. It is no longer a parish church, but rather a sacred space opened to a wide, mostly secular, public. Whereas in the ‘Appeal from Dresden’ the re-erection project was legitimised by the self- commitment to establish a ‘European “house of peace”’ or ‘Christian world peace centre in the new Europe’, little of this rhetoric is heard today. Although it is now primarily seen as a symbol of national-historical ‘normalization’ after the German reunification, it is clear that the plurality of these significances and projections transform the Frauenkirche into a central historical symbol that draws its meaning both from the past and the present.

NOTES

1. Apart from research on aerial warfare and destruction, a broader scientific investigation of Dresden’s history in National Socialism is still lacking. 2. Although some early works on the history of aerial warfare against Dresden also addressed the aftermath of February 1945 (e.g., Bergander 1994), dedicated research was not undertaken until after 1990 and then first outside Germany. For recent developments in the discourse around Dresden as a place of memory see, for example, Fischer (2011). 3. Within less than forty-eight hours the city was attacked four times. 4. Air Chief Marshal Arthur Harris was commander-in-chief of the British bomber forces during the Second World War. 5. Both quotations were taken from banners used during a rally organised by the right-wing extremist ‘Junge Landsmannschaft Ostpreußen’ on 14 February 2009 in Dresden (CRIC photographic documentation). 6.In1964, the Second International Congress of Architects and Specialists of Historic Buildings agreed on basic principles guiding the preservation and restoration of historic monuments and sites. Down to the present, and in spite of debate and development concerning specific aspects, the 1964 Venice Charter defines valid professional standards in conservation. 7. The ‘Elbe valley’ was delisted in 2009 because of the building of the Waldschlösschen Bridge. CHAPTER FIVE

THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL (MADRID, SPAIN): A LIFE STORY

Alfredo Gonzalez-Ruibal and Carmen Ortiz1

INTRODUCTION Since 2007, a group of researchers (anthropologists, archaeologists, and historians) from the Spanish National Research Council has been investigating the manifold processes of appropriationanddisavowaloftheprisonof Carabanchel in Madrid. In this chapter we examine the biography of the prison: including not just its birth, life, and death, but also its afterlife. The prison of Carabanchel has been one of the most monumental and recognisable symbols of repression in Spain from its construction in 1940 until its destruction in 2008.Eventoday,itloomslargeintheimaginationofmanySpaniards as the quintessential space of punishment in the recent history of the country, although its meanings and functions have changed over time. The short but complex history (and post-history) of Carabanchel makes the prison a multifaceted and often contradictory site. It has been a place of political repression and resistance, of memory and oblivion, and of abjection and heroism. Through time, Carabanchel Prison, as a technology of punishment and a symbol of oppression, has changed. Despite its apparently inalterable construction, the materiality of the building has undergone important transformations as well. In this chapter we assess this entanglement of materialities, life histories, collective and individual memories, and regimes of punishment which have simultaneously shaped Carabanchel Prison and the neighbourhood in which it dwells.

128 THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 129

We examine the history of Carabanchel through six main phases:

1) Deployment of sovereign power (1939–1944): with the establishment of the Francoist regime after the Civil War, the greater part of the prison is constructed. This was the time of most severe political repression, characterised by mass executions and the overcrowding of makeshift detention centres. 2) Discipline and charity (1944–1953): the inauguration of the prison of Carabanchel, which replaces former detention centres, in June 1944, marks the beginning of this new phase. At the end of the Second World War, the political ideology of Francoism is reshaped to make it less fascist. This coincides with a change in the regime of punishment, which takes on religious connotations through the notion of charity and atonement. 3) Becoming modern (1953–1968): during the 1950s the number of common criminals increased, while the number of political prisoners decreased. The religious approach to imprisonment was gradually superseded by tech- nocratic solutions which prevailed in the 1960s. 4) A new state of exception (1968–1978): the conditions of imprisonment became more severe in the later years of Franco’s dictatorship and the early transition to democracy. There was growing and widespread political resistance. Overcrowding and inmate abuse led to widespread riots. 5) The prison as prison (1978–1998): during its only decade of life under democratic conditions and with no political prisoners, the situation of Carabanchel Prison was characterised by drugs, AIDS, and dereliction. 6) Between abjection and epic memory (1998–2008): the abandonment process was protracted. The prison was abandoned, looted, and vandalised for a decade before it was finally demolished. During this period, diverse actors emerged who used and misused, claimed and interacted with the place in different (often conflicting) ways.

If anything gives coherence to the site as a technology of power through these diverse phases, it is the capacity to deﬁne the category of Homo sacer in Spanish society, or, more precisely, to make the Homo sacer (Agamben 1995): the one who is deprived of the condition of citizen and reduced to bare life (zoe), the one who can be killed without the act constituting either a homicide or a sacriﬁce (Agamben 1995: 11–12). Homo sacer – and its particular mode of existence, sacred life (vita sacra) – exists where there is sovereign power (that is, vitae necisque potestas, ‘power over life and death’). The existence of the Homo sacer is marked by a relation of exception (relazione d’eccezione), through which he or she is included in the political only through his or her exclusion (Agamben 1995: 22). This relation needs an absolute space of exception, which 130 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

is the concentration camp (Agamben 1995: 24). In our case, Homines sacri were successively the ‘Reds’, homosexuals, political dissidents, petty criminals from the low classes, drug addicts, and illegal immigrants. Carabanchel Prison has been a space for redeﬁning the subjects of the state of exception, the physical and legal limits of that state, and the notion of sovereignty. From this point of view, it can be described more accurately as a technology of sovereignty, rather than simply power. As such, it has not stopped working under democratic conditions (cf. Agamben 1995; Mbembe 2003). Although Agamben argues that the space of the Homo sacer is the camp, not the prison, we suggest that the diﬀerence between camp and prison were blurred during the Francoist dictatorship (and for some time after), and Agamben’s concepts can therefore be applied to Carabanchel Prison as well.

TOWARD THE STATE OF EXCEPTION Carabanchel Prison cannot be understood without the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939). The war legitimised the new regime, justified the unleashing of extreme and widespread violence on the Spanish population, and produced a context that required mass incarceration. But why did Spain’s largest prison have to be built precisely in the neighbourhood of Carabanchel, on the outskirts of Madrid? There were at least two good reasons. The first has to do with the development of the war. The Nationalist army that seemed to be unbeatable – after covering the distance between Seville and the surroundings of Madrid in just three months – was finally stopped in the working-class districts south of Madrid, where the neighbourhood of Carabanchel is located. Carabanchel Alto was captured on November 6, 1936, the day before the Battle of Madrid started, but this was the farthest point the Nationalist army was able to reach as Carabanchel Bajo remained under Republican control. The neighbourhood became a frontline for the rest of the war and was largely destroyed, with 48 per cent of the buildings in ruins (Sánchez Molledo 1998: 140). This certainly proved an advantage for large development projects such as the prison, which needed a large, empty lot. But there is more to it: there was the desire for revenge on the working classes that had supported the Republic and prevented the entrance of the Nationalist Army into the capital, and there was the social reorganisation of urban space in Madrid, in which the southern belt was designated as a low-class area, with heavy industry and scant services. Regarding the first issue, it is not by chance that the streets around the prison were all named after fascist generals: Millán Astray, Saliquet, Fanjul (González- Ruibal 2009: 69). The impression of having been collectively punished is still very much present in the minds of many of the prison’s neighbours. The second reason concerns the nature of the neighbourhood before the outbreak of the Civil War. Between the late nineteenth and early twentieth THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 131 centuries, Carabanchel became a sort of heterotopic space, in which a series of institutions were established for those who were either excluded from society or in charge of excluding others. In a short time span, buildings were constructed for a lunatic asylum, a training workshop for the poor, a hospital for epileptics, a school for orphans, a reformatory, a house for convalescents dependent on the foundling hospital of Madrid, an institution for disabled workers, an old people’s home, a military hospital, and a military camp (Moreno Jiménez 1983: 63–85). Five cemeteries were also established throughout the nineteenth century (ibid.: 83–85). It seems as if the authorities had wanted to prove Foucault right, by converting this place in the outskirts of Madrid to a full ‘heterotopia of deviation’, to which, according to Foucault, belong ‘rest homes and psychiatric hospitals, and of course prisons, and one should perhaps add retirement homes’ (Foucault 1986: 25). The proliferation of institutions for deviants before the Civil War could be seen as an early experiment in biopolitics, since they all intended to intervene upon (classify, exclude, and improve) the biological body of the population (Agamben 1995;Foucault1990).

DEPLOYING THE SOVEREIGN POWER (1939–1944) The building of Carabanchel Prison was projected in 1939, just after the end of the Civil War, as a large radial building with eight galleries. The plan was designed by architects Vicente Agustín Elguero, José María de la Vega Samper, and Luis de la Peña Hickman; the last would later be in charge of the technical challenge of the immense cupola that covered the control centre with panoptical functions. Work beganinApril1940,andtheﬁrst phase was concluded in June 1944.One thousand Republican prisoners were mobilised for the construction of the ediﬁce, which was directed by another prisoner of war, the Basque architect Benito Areso Albizu (Bonet Correa 1978: 144). The space devoted to the prison (sixteen hectares) is four times the area occupied by the building it came to replace, the Cárcel Modelo de Madrid. The new prison was well connected with the city, but isolated, in what was then rural land. Due to shortages in steel supply provoked by the war, the main building material would be brick, with reinforced concrete for structural elements (Decreto sobre Restricciones 1941). The construction of the new model prison was symbolically associated with the destruction of the old one. In 1936 at least two thousand people had been taken by Republican militiamen from the old prison of Cárcel Modelo de Madrid and executed in Paracuellos, on the outskirts of the city (Cervera 1998). Some of those that were killed were liberal and centre-right Republican personalities – not necessarily supporters of the fascist rebellion. There were also people that had no political prominence whatsoever. Within the sympathisers or potential sympathisers of the coup, there was a group of very well-known reactionary intellectuals and writers (such as Ramiro de Maeztu, a fascist ideologue, and Muñoz Seca, a popular playwright). 132 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

Although the massacre was not sanctioned by the Republican authorities, the mass killings of Paracuellos became inextricably associated to the Cárcel Modelo and to the repressive regime of the Republic. The prison of Carabanchel, furnished with the latest advances in disciplinary science, was intended to be a symbol of the humanitarian character of the new regime as opposed to the one that had been toppled. The construction, both literally and metaphorically, of a new prison regime required the destruction of the old one. The Cárcel Modelo was demolished and a square was constructed in its place, for which a monument in the shape of a colossal cross was planned to commemorate those that were killed under the Republic. While the massive brick building was being constructed, prisoners had to be put in other places: makeshift concentration camps, detention centres, and overcrowded prisons. The enormous number of prisoners resulting from the war needed new and larger spaces of reclusion; hence prisons like the one planned for Carabanchel were intended to solve this problem. The number of prisoners is difficult to calculate due to the many irregularities that plagued the process of detention and incarceration (Gómez Bravo 2009: 25), but the official number of those that had been classified and registered in 1939 alone is 270,000, which gives a hint of the magnitude of the phenomenon. Conditions under this massive regime of incarceration were horrifying: around ninety thousand people died in jail between 1939 and 1944 (Gómez Bravo 2009: 37; Vinyes 2002: 32; Moreno 1999; Núñez Díaz-Balart y Rojas Friend 1997: 16–26; Súarez and Colectivo 1976). The main problem that faced the prison system was that it was devised to host between fifteen and twenty thousand inmates in all the existing prisons in the country (Gómez Bravo 2005): that was the official number of inmates in Madrid alone in 1943, although the authorities admitted the existence of as many as thirty thousand (Quintero 2010: 3). In Madrid’s main prison, General Díaz Porlier 58, five thousand prisoners were crammed in inhuman conditions, many awaiting the death penalty. There were twenty other prisons in the capital (Ortiz Mateos 2008: 9–16; Quintero 2010: 3–4), two of them in Carabanchel, where old disciplinary institutions (reformatories) were re-used. During the period in which Carabanchel Prison was under construction, a complex typology of repressive spaces was developed to detain, filter, and classify the vanquished in the war. These spaces included forced labour camps, police stations, delegations of the fascist party (Falange), penitentiary colonies, concentration camps, and prisons. They formed a particular operational sequence whose aim was to produce new subjects for the New Spain – and get rid of the social debris during the operation. The network of detention centres with which the dictatorship covered the country was particularly thick in Madrid. The majority of camps re-used old buildings, such as schools, factories, seminars, military barracks, and bullrings (Gómez Bravo 2009: 21). THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 133

5.1. Prisoners and Mats (1943). Drawing by José Manaut. This artist produced a series of drawings and paintings depicting his experience in Spanish prisons in 1943–1944.(Universitatde València.)

This extensive topography of terror – in which almost any place could become a place of repression – tells eloquently of the totalitarian character of the early Franco dictatorship and of its ability to achieve a regime of silence that permeated the urban fabric.2 In these improvised detention centres, inmates had to stand all day for lack of space; the buildings were extremely unhealthy with the same latrines shared by hundreds or even thousands of inmates, and food rations were limited to one per person per day. In this context, diseases were rife and mortality very high. It was the inmates’ families that usually managed to keep them alive by giving them food and clothing (Gómez Bravo 2009: 97–106). The ephemeral nature of the early places of imprisonment explains in part their disappearance from Madrilenian collective memory, although other, more durable locales, such as the cemeteries, where people were executed, have not been turned into places of memory either (Ortiz Mateos 2008: 1). In 1940 in the cemetery of La Almudena alone 953 people were executed (Núñez Díaz-Balart y Rojas Friend 1997: 108–109), and in 1944, the year in which the prison of Carabanchel opened, 359 prisoners were executed in the capital (Montoliú 2005: 305). Particularly remarkable is the oblivion of those tragedies that aﬀected important ﬁgures in Spanish culture and politics. Thus, while there is a plaque that marks that the poet Miguel Hernández wrote one of his most famous poems in a 134 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

particular building of Madrid, there is no reference to the conditions in which the poem was written: Hernández was dying of tuberculosis in prison and writing his last poems to his newborn child (Ortiz Mateos 2008: 14). One of the improvised detention centres, the reformatory of Santa Rita in Carabanchel, was transformed into the Central Workers Prison, which provided the labour for building the prison of Carabanchel (Quintero 2010: 6). The inauguration of the new prison marked the transition between the so-called scaffold phase of the repressive post-war policies and the new regime of punishment, which was depicted as magnanimous (despite political prisoners still being executed by the hundreds in the late 1940s). Given the dreadful conditions of imprisonment in the makeshift centres of the 1939–1944 period, it is not strange that political prisoners regarded Carabanchel as an improvement in their lives: ‘Imagine leaving [Porlier prison] and entering Carabanchel, where there is a large space where you can look at and your sight spreads as much as it can. ...You feel something like satisfaction and you forget then that you are not free’ (Parra Salmerón 1983: 42). In any case, the attenuation of the repressive system was not actually due to any desire to be merciful but rather to the practical problems caused by having the prisoners living in exceedingly overcrowded conditions: first, their propen- sity to rebellion (Vinyes 2002: 25–32; Rodríguez Teijeiro 2007), and, second, their inactivity, as they were not used in the reconstruction of the country and its beleaguered economy. To relieve the pressure on the prison system, the regime resorted to amnesties and probation. However, the most important solution was a system of reduction in sentences, through which large numbers of prisoners were mobilised for the construction of public works (railways, dams, roads, canals, and Franco’s own mausoleum) and also for some private undertakings (Torres 2000; Lafuente 2002; Acosta et al. 2004; Gómez Bravo 2007). The label under which reductions of sentence were given – redención (literally ‘atonement’) – reveals its religious inspiration in keeping with the Nationalist-Catholic ideology of the regime. The repressive system of the post-war period is an eloquent manifestation of the nature of the sovereign power after the Civil War. The ultimate expression of sovereignty resides in its capacity to dictate who may live and who must die (Foucault 1990: 135–159; Agamben 1995: 23–80;Mbembe 1953: 11). According to Foucault, sovereign power in recent times has been exercised less as a deduction (of things, time, bodies, and life itself) and more as a productive force, to ensure, maintain, or develop the life of the social body. In Spain during the 1940s we witness a transition between a traditional expression of sovereignty as pure deduction (the ‘scaffold phase’ that prevails between 1936 and 1943) and a more modern conception based on the control of life. The new biopolitical strategy demanded material mechanisms for its implementation. THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 135

DISCIPLINE AND CHARITY (1944–1953) The prison of Carabanchel was one of these material technologies at the service of the new regulatory power. As noted, the construction followed the classic radial model, which was out of fashion by that time. This was not a new architectural form: the old Cárcel Modelo, inaugurated in 1883, already had a radial layout, with the characteristic half-star design best known from Pentonville in England, built in 1842 (Bonet Correa 1978: 143). The plan for Carabanchel Prison, which was never totally completed, showed it as having a central room serving panoptical functions and eight galleries. It was one of the biggest prisons built in Europe following the system of John Havilland (Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia, 1821), upon which it was based (Johnston 1961: 319–320;Johnston1994). The project was presented in Francoist propaganda as a marvel of modernity, with excellent conditions of hygiene and habitability, including workshops, schools, a library and gymnasium, and housing for the prison officers (S. de M. 1940: 6), with all facilities fully equipped with cutting-edge technological advances. At the same time this purported modernity was mixed with traditional Catholic concepts, such as charity and redemption. This mixture of traditionalism and modernism was evident in the fabric of the building itself: whereas the main entrance still boasted a historicist facade, the rest of the building followed strict rationalist principles – in striking contrast with the prevailing neo-Renaissance style of other public buildings. The only concessions to nationalist architectural styles would be found in the material used. In particular, the panopticon dome would be covered with slate like the roofs of Philip II’s El Escorial monastery, and the facades, windows, and doorjambs of some structures would be made in granite, an ‘imperial’ stone widely used in El Escorial (Cárcel de Carabanchel. Elementos 2008; Cirici 1977; Urrutia 2002: 241; Viejo-Rose 2011b: 51–53). Moreover, the houses for the prison officers would manifest the totalitarian will of the regime and the intention of turning Carabanchel Prison into a total institution where everyone, masters and prisoners, would reside together (Goffman 1972: 13). The officers’ quarters would include eighty blocks, a church, gardens, and a school. The layout of the housing project is similar to other plans of urban and social engineering undertaken in the 1940s (Urrutia 1997: 357) The space of the prison proper was divided into three areas: exterior, intermediate, and interior. The first area held the administrative functions, general archive, offices, warehouses, garages, guardrooms, a residence for twenty-five nuns in charge of the inmates, and the residences of the director, deputy director, and prison administrator. The intermediate zone in turn was divided into three areas: public, semi-public, and private. The public area was for visits. Between this area and the next there was a security gate, which marked the entrance into the confinement area. There were actually a number 136 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

Public cemetery

Main entrance

Sentry box

Unfinished aisle

Women’s Prison

Hospital

0 50 100 m

5.2. Top, aerial photograph of the old Model Prison of Madrid, at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War (Martín Santos Yubero Photographic Collection 29974-75, Regional Archive of the Autonomous Government of Madrid). Bottom, map of Carabanchel Prison, including all later additions up to 1998. In grey: the intermediate zone (Map by Alpedo Gonzales-Ruibal). THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 137 of gates, whose number and functioning caused a great impact on the inmates entering the prison:

What I remember from Carabanchel was the number of gates I had to cross to enter the building, right? Incredible, right? Many gates, I thought they were ﬁve at least, ﬁve or six. Then, you crossed them and they were opening and closing, and closing. (Interview by M.M.Z. with L.P.V., former political prisoner, 21 May 2008)

The semi-public area housed the booths for face-to-face meetings between lawyers, judges, and inmates. In the private area the detainees were processed before entrance into the prison, with admission cells, an office for anthropo- metric identification, a laboratory, photographic archive, disinfection services, and baths. After the private area there was another security gate, regulating access to the galleries, which had four floors (three regular ones plus a basement with dining hall, workshops, showers, and cooperative store). Not all galleries were the same. Those of recidivists were perceived as harder than the rest:

The gallery of recidivists was the hardest ... a terrible kind of galleries, with several ﬂoors, which look like a whale’s belly, when you arrived there during the night, and there is almost no light, the light is dim. It is a feeling of being crushed, that it is impossible not to have when you enter there. (Interview by M.L.O.P. with E.P.M., 19 May 2008)

The idea was that each gallery worked in a self-contained manner, as a semi- autonomous unit: only the infirmary and the kitchen were shared. This created a sense of isolation amongst the different kinds of inmates (common criminals, homosexuals, and political prisoners), who rarely, if ever, coincided with other classes of prisoners. The inmates had a fragmented and restricted vision of the prison: for example, some prisoners say that, for them, the prison was their cell, their gallery, and the yard they used. A former inmate even said that he did not have a clear notion of the panoptical space (the control 3 centre): he only noticed its relevance once the prison was abandoned and in ruins (interview by M.M.Z. with D.A.G., former political prisoner in the 1960s, 19 June 2008). Beyond the panopticon and the main galleries, there was another module called the prisión-taller,or‘workshop prison’.Unliketherest of the prison, this space was for permanent, not transient, inmates. A twenty- five-metre exclusion strip and a six-metre-high double wall surrounded the entire complex. The control centre was the most important element of the prison from both architectural and symbolic points of view. It was to be covered by a colossal vault twenty-five metres high and thirty-two metres in diameter (by comparison, the dome of Saint Paul’s Cathedral in London has an internal diameter of thirty-one metres). At a time when the shortages of construction material, 138 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

5.3. Top, inauguration of the prison (22 April 1944). (Martín Santos Yubero Photographic Collection, 1417–1. Regional Archive of the Autonomous Government of Madrid) Bottom, bishop blessing the entrance to a gallery from the panopticon (23 May 1955). (Martín Santos Yubero Photographic Collection, 6958–11. Regional Archive of the Autonomous Government of Madrid.)

particularly concrete, were dramatic, the vault took 125 tons of concrete and 60 tons of steel to build (De la Peña 1956). It was one of the few vaults in reinforced concrete erected during the post-war period. That the most impressive building of the new regime was a prison and that the most extraordinary element within the prison was the room that fulﬁlled panoptical functions speaks volumes of the new regime’s ideology: a totalitarian system which cherished fantasies of absolute control. The panopticon ordered the world of the prison, with its regulatory function clearly experienced by the inmates: THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 139

5.4. The vision of the victor and the vision of the vanquished. Left, authorities in an oﬃcial visit to a brand-new gallery in Carabanchel Prison. (Photograph by Santos Yubero) Right, prisoners moving into Carabanchel with their bedding. (Drawing by José Manaut, 1944.)

Carabanchel causes you a great impression because it is a very big prison ... the room of the dome which is where they distributed you, where [they told you where] you had to go, not to go, you know? ... That was impressive, that was really impressive. (Interview by M.M.Z. with L.B., eighty-two-year-old former political prisoner, 16 October 2009) The plan was never completed as envisaged. When the prison was inaugurated in 1944, only one of the eight galleries had been entirely built, and construction work continued until 1956, when it was considered finished (even though one of the galleries was never completed). The housing and annexes for officers in Carabanchel were never built. The inauguration of the prison was an occasion for the regime to show to the world its humane side. In June 1944, when the inauguration took place, it was quite clear that the Second World War was taking a bad turn for the Axis powers, so it was the moment for Spain to distance itself from other fascist states: according to this rhetoric, there were no dungeons in the country, the age of the Inquisition was long gone, and political prisoners did not exist. Instead, there were state-of-the-art prisons, where common criminals could even work to earn a salary to maintain their families and reduce their sentences. Of course, this idealised image meant covering up certain practices, which suited the Middle Ages better than the twentieth century. Thus, in the same year of the inauguration, two prisoners were put on a diet of bread and water for fifteen days after complaining about the quality of the food (Gómez Bravo 2009: 44). The inauguration ceremony again mixed modernity and tradition: the building was blessed, a mass celebrated (Figure 5.3), a folkloric show performed, and the inmates paraded in military style. The building with its modernist look captured the attention of media reports and documentaries (Quintero 2010): the large prison grounds, the modern kitchens, the brand-new, clean, and empty cells – everything that could not 140 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

5.5. The prison panopticon from the outside. 2007. (Photo Tamara Ferrera.)

be depicted in the other Francoist prisons. Carabanchel Prison became a powerful media image, a showcase of the new regime and a false metonymy for the Spanish penitentiary system. Prisoners started arriving at Carabanchel early in 1944. It seems that the untenable situation in the prison at General Díaz Porlier Street forced an early transfer to Carabanchel. These inmates were later joined by those imprisoned in the Santa Rita reformatory (Gómez Bravo 2009: 150). As noted, arrival at Carabanchel Prison was experienced with a sense of relief by some prisoners (Parra Salmerón 1983: 42), but overcrowding soon became a reality again. There was room for twenty-three hundred inmates in the prison, but only one year after the inauguration there were already 4,922 political prisoners from the war (the so-called anteriores), 535 post-war political prisoners (called posteri- ores), and 1,552 common criminals (Anuario Estadístico de España 1946–1947; Quintero 2010), that is, three and a half times its maximum capacity. Conditions continued to be hard, with scant food, health problems, forced labour, military discipline, censorship, beatings and torture, and executions. This led to increased resistance, especially on the part of the Communist Party, which saw one of its members killed by torture inside the Carabanchel. The protests of the inmates, who tried to bring international attention to their desperate circumstances, were countered by Francoist propaganda, which insisted on the absence of political prisoners in Spain (a message that was reinforced by a THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 141 reprieve in 1945) and the insistence on the humanitarian and modern nature of the prison system. This propaganda was mostly aimed at foreigners. For Spaniards, the enormous prison of Carabanchel sent another message, a monumental warning about the futility of all revolt against the regime. The architectural logic of Carabanchel Prison responded to the needs of a totalitarian ideology: order, control, and surveillance, but it also intended to comply with the new image that the regime was creating for itself: disciplina con humanidad [discipline with humanity] and caridad justa [charity with justice] (Gómez Bravo 2009: 54). Agamben writes that ‘The camp is the space opened when the state of exception becomes the rule’ (1995: 188). The prison of Carabanchel represents this moment in which the exceptionality of war is normalised and the politics of exclusion and inclusion begin to organise the entire society.

BECOMING MODERN (1953–1968) The prison of Carabanchel was not materially transformed in any substantial way after the late 1940s. Some buildings, however, were added which reflect changing ideologies and notions of imprisonment. After 1950 the political situation in Spain stabilised, to the desperation of all the political prisoners who had pinned their hopes on foreign intervention. As a staunch anti-communist, Franco started to play an important role in the geopolitics of the Cold War. The total number of political prisoners, nonetheless, steadily decreased throughout the 1950s, with thirty thousand prisoners in 1952 and half that number in 1959 (Bueno Arús 1978: 125). Similarly, the number of political prisoners in Carabanchel fell. Those who remained were in preventive detention, either because they were being transferred to other prisons or because they were awaiting trial by one of the central courts in charge of judging political offences (first the Special Court for the Repression of Communism and Freemasonry and later the Court for Public Order). The abandonment of the plan for a large housing project for prison officers is significant of the prevailing ideological changes: there would be no all- embracing, total institution in which ‘master’ and ‘slave’ would live in close contact. The time of overt totalitarianism was over. On the contrary, several institutions were inaugurated reflecting the modernising tendencies of the new regime. A first step towards a more modern penal regime was the inauguration of a reformatory for young offenders in 1953, which included training workshops where young people could learn to be tailors, leather workers, carpenters, or electricians (Figures 5.6). Another institution that was inaugurated at this time was the psychiatric hospital, which had been already projected in 1944 (Barrios Flores 2000: 39). It hosted new kinds of subjects (new categories of Homo sacer), who, like political prisoners, were subjected to strict social control: the so-called vagos y maleantes 142 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

5.6. Youth reformatory in Carabanchel (24 September 1960). (Martín Santos Yubero Photographic Collection, 18063-9. Regional Archive of the Autonomous Government of Madrid). Note that the religious foundations of the disciplinary system are still obvious: the letters on the plinth of the statue read redencion [atonement].

[vagrants and crooks] and homosexuals. These new institutions imply a shift from the religiously oriented management of punishment and rehabilitation of the former period. This shift towards a more modern and professional perspective on the disciplinary process is more explicit, however, during the 1960s, when the modernising trends became dominant in the entire prison system in Spain. They were a reflection of wider social, economical, and political changes in the country at that time which have been described as desarrollismo [develop- mentalism]. In the case of Carabanchel, these transformations were epitomised in two new institutions: the School for Prison Studies (1961) and the 4 Psychological Laboratory (1965). Aggressive treatments that were seldom used outside the prison were carried out on inmates in the latter institution, including electroshock and lobotomy (Roldán Barbero 1988: 204). These services were superseded by a Prison Watch (1968) whose central offices were in Carabanchel. Some of the changes in the treatment of inmates, laws and regulations, and training of prison officers were also a reaction to the demands made by the political prisoners and their continuous struggle. As noted above, the 1940s witnessed a transition in the exercise of sovereign power: from a regime of deduction (of bodies, property, and life) to one of production. The biopolitics of Carabanchel from the mid-1950s onwards would be clearly oriented at ordering life, including the definition of what is a ‘life worthy of life’ (Agamben 1995: 151). For that end, the execution wall and the torture chamber were less useful than the psychiatric hospital and electroshock. This is THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 143

5.7. Prisoner undergoing a session of electroshock. Psychiatric hospital at Carabanchel, 9 March 1962. (Martín Santos Yubero Photographic Collection, 22353–8. Regional Archive of the Autonomous Government of Madrid.) not a tale of evolution, however. The regime ended as it began: returning to an estado de excepción [state of emergency] with killings and mass imprisonment of political dissidents. Political prisoners were conﬁned in what became the legendary ‘sixth gallery’. This was a special gallery, separated from the rest and with roomier cells. A former prisoner remembers the diﬀerence between the other galleries and the sixth, in which the materiality of the prison was very much involved (and incorporated into the memories of inmates):

[W]hen you came from the gallery where you had been in isolated conﬁnement [10 days before being assigned a place in the prison], it looked almost cosy, because you arrived there and the cells were opened all day long. It was a gallery without the smell, this characteristic smell that enters through your nose, a sour smell which is there permanently and with this noise, with these echoes that there are inside the big galleries ... this was a small gallery. (Interview by M.L.O.P. of E.P.M., 19 May 2008) Political prisoners were organised in ‘communes’, which were coordinated by a so-called ‘mother’ or leader in charge of economic and logistical matters. The commune furnished the inmates with material support and, most importantly, information about the organisation of the prison, advice on regulations, hints on the appropriate attitude to keep the morale high, and a structure of collective and individual behaviour that helped to mitigate the conditions of imprisonment (Suárez y Galante 2008: 96). Many inmates talk about the ‘Prison 144 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

University’, referring to lessons in literature, languages, maths, or physics given by fellow prisoners. Between the 1940s and the 1960s the neighbourhoods around the prison (Carabanchel and Aluche) witnessed important transformations (Moreno Jiménez 1986). As the prison became ‘modern’, so did the neighbourhoods. Interestingly, they were ﬁrst reconstructed after the war in a pseudo-rural style with small, one-storey houses, which were considered consistent with the humble people who had to inhabit them: poor people and families of peasant origins (Urrutia 1997: 358). During the modernising process, these houses were replaced by rows of modern buildings to house a growing number of workers, employed in the industrial belt south of Madrid. The architecture and materials of the new housing developments echoed those of the prison: masses of red bricks with no adornments, and rectangular windows and doors. The socio-economic problems caused by these neighbourhoods, deprived of social services and with a working-class population uprooted from the countryside, nurtured the prison with new inmates during the following decades – a new category of socially excluded subjects.

A NEW STATE OF EXCEPTION (1968–1978) After the early sixties, there were no substantial changes in the materiality of the prison. The institutional, social, and political environment, on the contrary, underwent important changes. The anachronistic prison of Carabanchel would be more and more an extraneous element in the urban landscape. This impression of ‘matter out of place’ would grow with the progressive decay of the premises, which would become obvious in the images of the 1977–1978 prison riots. Between the late 1960s and the end of the dictatorship in 1975, the number of political prisoners grew again, as a result of generalised opposition against the regime. Political repression affected now even the middle and upper classes that had supported the regime, as well-to-do students increasingly joined the ranks of the resistance. In 1973, a state of exception was officially declared, and many young people were arbitrarily detained and taken into prison. Many students followed the communist order to not pay the fine in order to spend time in jail as a sign of resistance. This allowed many young people to prove their anti-Francoist pedigree (Puicercús 2009: 74–75). The truth is that the regime became relentless in its attempts to control a society that was clearly deviating from the authoritarian lines designed by those in power. Strikes and demonstrations proliferated, along with mass detentions, torture, and, once again, killings. The last people executed during Francoism, three members of the FRAP (a revolutionary communist group) and two members of ETA (Basque separatists), were taken from Carabanchel and killed by firing squad on 27 September 1975. THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 145

The state of exception did not end with the death of Francisco Franco. Although Franco died in November 1975, political prisoners did not start to be released before the summer of 1976, after the Law of Political Amnesty was passed. Conﬂicts inside the prison grew as common criminals began to adopt the model of resistance that had been used by political prisoners. This led to another state of emergency, continuously challenged by those who suﬀered its implications. Common criminals started to use the self-denomination ‘social prisoners’ with which they hoped to manifest that there were social causes behind their exclusion. They considered themselves ‘prisoners of Franco’ and demanded to be recognised as victims of the dictatorship, arguing that the ultraconservative morals of the regime, the strong social inequalities that it had fostered, and the rigid class system on which it was based had all deprived them, the so-called social prisoners, of opportunities making them marginal and invisible (Lorenzo Rubio 2006: 88). During the 1970s, prisons became overcrowded again, this time with common criminals coming from the working-class neighbourhoods of Madrid, and living conditions worsened. Food was remembered as repulsive by the prisoners:

Food was nasty, right? But really, really nasty. You know, you picked up some beans and when you were going to eat them, they had solidified ... there were bugs, anyway. (Interview by M.M.Z. with L.P.V., former political prisoner, 21 May 2008) As had happened at the beginning of the prison’s existence, inmates had to rely on food provided by relatives and friends to be properly fed. Shortly after Franco’s death, the problem was tackled with a reduction of sentences that released five thousand inmates (Lorenzo Rubio 2006). Common prisoners, however, felt disillusioned and betrayed when the political amnesty of 1976 did not include them (Blanco Chivite 1977: 84–85). The limited pardon for common criminals (of which several had already been issued during Francoism) and the maintenance of the draconian laws issued during the Francoist regime (such as the Penal Code of 1944) encouraged the riots that broke out during the last years of Franco’s regime (Bueno Arús 1978: 126). On 31 July 1976 a riot broke out in Carabanchel, when prisoners from the fifth gallery refused to leave the yards and enter the workshops. Other inmates climbed on to the roofs with banners asking for ‘total amnesty’, ‘pardon for common criminals’,and‘reform of the penal code’.Other prisons joined the rebellion, and two associations emerged, the most important of which was COPEL (Coordinadora de Presos en Lucha [Coordinating Committee of Fighting Prisoners]), which was created in Barcelona in January 1977 (Lorenzo Rubio 2005, 2006; Galván 2009). Their demands were ambitious and included political-legal claims (such as the abolishment of the Trial Law), changes in the operation of prisons and their staff, and improvements in the prisoners’ living conditions. The influence of the political prisoners was 146 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

obvious in their communiqués, where they explained their fight as ‘the “Social Struggle” against the obvious Injustice [sic] of a brutal regime that has created the socio-economic bases of the inequalities against which we rebel and that has institutionalised repression as a form of Government over the Peoples and Men of Spain’ (Lorenzo Rubio 2006: 90). However, the idiosyncrasies of the common criminals and the extreme repression that was unleashed against COPEL leaders hampered coordination amongst the different prisons and doomed the revolt to failure. Strikes, walk- outs, hunger strikes, self-harm, arson, and riots multiplied and were met with transfers, disciplinary measures, and confinement cells. These actions reached their climax during the Battle of Carabanchel on 18 July 1977 in which several hundred inmates occupied the roofs of the prison in full view of journalists and neighbouring residents. The battle ended with riot police breaking into the prison and eventually distributing the rebel leaders to other institutions. The lack of solutions made the conflict more radical: measures were eventually taken to democratise the system, introduce reforms, and change the penal code (Lorenzo Rubio, 2006: 92–94). Violence, however, continued unabated: a young anarchist linked to COPEL was beaten to death by a group of prison guards on 14 March 1978, and a week later the General Director of Prisons, Jesús Haddad, was killed by the terrorist group GRAPO. Haddad was succeeded by a progressive university professor, Carlos García Valdés, who carried out the reform of the penitentiary system that succeeded in dissolving the revolt (Bueno Arús 1978: 128–131). The prisoners’ movement ended during the last months of 1978.

THE PRISON AS PRISON (1978–1998) A new prison law was passed in October 1979 that replaced the one from 1849. This law ameliorated the situation of common criminals, but also predestined the end of Carabanchel, as there was no place for a macro-prison with a large number of inmates but without a modular structure in the city centre. A map of five new centres was devised for the periphery of Madrid (García Valdés 1998: 9). The 1980s was a period of decline for Carabanchel Prison. Some politically charged episodes remained, however, such as the death in prison of the Basque terrorist Arregi in 1981, which lead to a riot by the other fifty-two imprisoned ETA members. Shortly before the closure of the prison some of the members of the terrorist group GAL (Grupos Antiterroristas de Liberación, [Counter- 5 terrorist Groups of Liberation]), who were leading a dirty war against ETA, spent some time in Carabanchel (Faucha y Fernández 2008: 79). Included amongst those imprisoned for politically related offences were the men who refused to do military or community service (insumisos), with their presence in Carabanchel indicated by graffiti on the walls of the prison (‘No hay prisión que THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 147 pare la insumisión’ [There is no prison that can stop the refusal to do military service]). The presence of Basque inmates was materially corroborated during our fieldwork by several Basque Nationalist newspapers and stickers, a placard in which prisoners asked for two ill comrades to be sent back to the Basque Country, and a poster with photographs and names of Basque prisoners. Nevertheless, the prevailing prisoner profile at Carabanchel during its last years was the young common criminal from the working-class neighbourhoods, drug-addicted and involved in drug-related offences – the so-called quinquis (Cuesta 2009). Furthermore, AIDS was rife in the prison. For want of a political subject, AIDS-infected addicts became the new Homo sacer during the transition period – a figure that had its own Muselmann: the inmate in the terminal stages of the disease who had abandoned all hope. Carabanchel in the 1980sand1990scan only be described as a place of abjection, a symbolic and spiritual ruin before the actual, physical ruin. Documentary films by Adolfo Garijo record the state of decadence and dirtiness of the prison and the desperation of its inhabitants.6 The prison yards are shown filled with rubbish, and the cells decrepit and messy. The traces of this last episode of the building’s life were what we, the researchers, documented when we visited the place in 2006. The abject materiality of the prison’s decadence had completely erased the aura of the place as a symbol of political resistance during Francoism, depriving it of that excess of meaning which it had had for more than thirty years. What remained during the last years of life of Carabanchel was the prison as pure prison. When we first entered Carabanchel in December 2006, the prison had already been thoroughly looted. We could, however, still see traces of the last inmates in the vacant cells: the decorations on the walls, the cork panels where they pinned up photographs, their graffiti. Albeit subtly, these actions also changed the materiality of the prison. We even discovered some personal belongings, such as playing cards, a hand-made weapon, paintings made by the prisoners in the workshops, medicines, notebooks, and books (including textbooks used by inmates enrolled in the UNED, the Spanish equivalent of the Open University). There were traces of the prison guards as well: we found newspapers and documents abandoned in their rooms – vacation requests, an invitation to a wedding, and several letters complaining about the suspension without pay of some officers in 1993. Most of the graffiti is from the 1990s and is painted on the walls or, more frequently, on cork panels. The graffiti reveals much about the social and ethnic extraction of the inmates and about their problems. Of the twelve recorded references to neighbourhoods in Madrid, eleven were to working-class neighbourhoods (Parla, Móstoles, Alcobendas, Barrio del Pilar, Moratalaz, Vallecas, Usera, Getafe) and only one to a middle-to-upper-class neighbourhood (Pozuelo de Alarcón). There was also graffiti that mentioned Poland and Romania. Another, very elaborate graffiti was written in Polish, and others were written 148 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

in Arabic, in all likelihood made by Moroccans or others from the Maghreb. One inscription, ironically, says in Spanish: ‘I was condemned without evidence. No problem! They look after [all?] of us well. Thank you. Ali’. Irony is also present elsewhere: ‘Thank you, Mr. Judge, for putting me in jail. You can’timaginehow grateful I am’,and‘Discipline!!! Now!!!’ Some graffiti make reference to the kind of crimes that led the inmates to prison: ‘Here was Juanito for stabbing a son of a bitch’. Others represent the prisoners’ desires: one of them is a drawing of a tree from whose branches come out a naked woman, a car, money, whiskey, a syringe, and a marijuana leaf. The decoration of the cells is similar: the pictures glued to the cork panels or walls are extremely repetitive and can be reduced to two categories: women and cars/motorcycles. Curiously, many of the photographs of women are not openly erotic: they seem to have been taken from gossip magazines and represent glamorous women. Interestingly, some of the graffiti bear warnings: ‘I hope you never make a blunder again, but if you make it, think it well. I hope this is useful!’ Some graffiti mention girlfriends and friends: ‘Sergio, the one from Comillas, loves Ana and loves her to the death, 16–8–95’. There are many reflections on drugs: ‘Freedom is not injected, it is conquered’, ‘Born to die young’, ‘Heroin, no, no!’, ‘Cheer for life and the dickheads who keep taking drugs, fuck off’, and ‘I have tears in my eyes not because of this shit but because I’m thinking of my family and the harm that I’m doing to them. Damn heroin! How many ruins you are causing’. Drugs and AIDS were very present in the ruins of the prison: the infirmary had been vandalised, and dozens of syringes, blood tests, pills, and medicines lay on the floor. Much of the post-abandonment graffiti referred to heroin consumption and its nefarious consequences, including memorials to former inmates who had died in prison as a result of drugs or drug-related diseases. In addition, in the officers’ rooms we found several documents mentioning the discovery of drugs and alcohol amongst the inmates’ belongings. The material evidence of a growing foreign population points to the emergence of yet a new Homo sacer: the petty criminals of the lower classes give way to immigrants. Again, life in the neighbourhoods and inside the prison is tightly interwoven: immigrants represented a growing percentage of the population in Carabanchel and Aluche.

BETWEEN ABJECTION AND EPIC MEMORY (1998–2008) The prison of Carabanchel was finally vacated in October 1998, and the last inmates, two thousand men and five hundred women (Faucha y Fernández 2008: 79), left for other prisons. Despite the fact that the move had been imminent since 1991, the prison was abandoned in an almost catastrophic fashion: everything was left behind. In April 2010 an exhibition in Madrid (Carabanchel, La memoria en THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 149 ruinas) showed a diversity of materials collected after the abandonment including documents relating to inmates, prison officers, and authorities: psychosocial reports, inmates’ petitions, ordinances, minutes, certificates of entrance and departure, personal letters, and medical prescriptions, amongst others. At the same time, as soon as the prison was closed acts of memorialisation began to be organised: in 1998 the General Direction of Prisons organised guided tours in which notable ex-prisoners took part, as well as a photo exhibition with images of the history of the prison. In 1999, Rosendo Mercado, a famous rock singer from Carabanchel, offered a memorable concert in one of the prison yards. There were also some early suggestions of turning the prison, or part of it, into a museum, such as the proposal made by a Socialist senator as early as December 1998 of preserving the panopticon. Shortly before the prison was vacated, a long process of negotiation began between the Ministry of the Interior (the owner of the building) and the city council, which had jurisdiction over urban regulations, to decide the future use of the terrain. The large estate and its privileged location allowed for speculative operations that could provide a significant amount of money to the Ministry that could be used to finance other prisons. In 1997, the city council and the autonomous government of Madrid, both in the hands of the right-wing Partido Popular, approved an urban plan that allowed for the construction of thirteen hundred residences to be placed on the open market. This triggered an immediate reaction from the neighbours of Aluche and Carabanchel, who conducted a popular plebiscite in 1999 about possible uses of the terrain: 32,371 votes were cast, with 99.38 per cent demanding the construction of a hospital on the prison grounds. In June 2005, following an agreement signed in 2002 between the Ministry of the Interior and the city council, the old prison hospital was transformed into an internment centre for foreigners (Centro de Internamiento de Extranjeros). This was also a material transformation since the old building was externally refurbished (or camouflaged) with bright, colourful paint. A nearby space was used as an office for the administration of residence permits and other police procedures for immigrants. The transformation of the Homo sacer wasthuscompleted:fromthelocallower-classaddicts(whobythattime had almost disappeared) to the foreigner. As Agamben has noted, ‘the capitalist-democratic project of eliminating the poor classes through development not only reproduces internally the people of the socially-excluded, but transforms in bare life all the populations of the third world’ (Agamben 1995: 201). This situation is as contradictory as it is surreal. We have a prison for ‘illegal immigrants’ who lack residence permits and a police office to provide these permits; furthermore, the ruins of the old prison are now occupied by other immigrants (some of them presumably illegal as well) living in the derelict building alongside local homeless people. 150 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

During its period of abandonment, Carabanchel Prison became a place to which a multitude of actors laid claim while others disowned it. Those who claimed the space were the above-mentioned immigrants and homeless people who were squatting in the premises. There were also the gypsies, Romanians, and others who were stripping the prison bare, taking away copper cables, pipes, steel rods, and iron bars to sell. And graffiti artists from all over Spain travelled to Carabanchel as though on a pilgrimage, leaving images that established a dialogue with the building and its history. This dialogue, however, only engaged with recent history – the prison as prison (Figure 5.8). This is probably due to the erasure of the political history of Carabanchel by the more recent history of abjection and to the likely identification of the graffiti artists with the social prisoners who, living on the margins of society, were persecuted by the establishment. The aura of the ruined prison also attracted photographers. Amateur and professional photographers participated in an exhibition organised by the neighbourhood association AVA (Asociación de Vecinos de Aluche), which has been the most active group involved in preserving the memory of the prison. The exhibition comprised eighty images, both historical and modern. Finally, former political prisoners, their relatives, friends, and socially aware neighbours also forcefully claimed the prison and its terrain in a political revival that glossed over the period during which Carabanchel held only common criminals. To do this, they had to fight against those who disowned the prison: the Ministry of the Interior, the city council, and neighbours who felt uncomfortable with the symbolism(s) of the building and wanted it to disappear. Several associations had been fighting since 1993 to prevent the prison terrain from being handed over to private housing development, demanding instead social services for an area that had traditionally been deprived of them. Key to their requests was the construction of a public hospital. Building new houses, instead of a hospital, would mean an increase in population that would make access to health care more difficult for residents. These demands roused little interest outside the neighbourhood until January 2007 when a right-wing candidate running for the presidency of the city council offered to build a hospital on the terrain – despite the fact that the city council had no right to the property, which belonged to the Ministry of the Interior (then controlled by the Socialist Party). Nevertheless the neighbours of Aluche and Carabanchel organised a festive parade into the abandoned prison and symbolically set the foundation stone for a new hospital as a way to put pressure on the Socialist government to act. Throughout 2008 the citizens’ movement gained momentum in light of the gradual destruction of the prison by looting – which was openly carried out often using trucks to take away larger materials and pieces of equipment. The Ministry of the Interior did nothing to prevent this. On the contrary, the destruction appears to have been tacitly encouraged by the authorities, so as THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 151

5.8. Top, post-abandonment graﬃti with prison theme, November 2007. (Photo Cristina Sánchez-Carretero.) Bottom, rally inside the prison, 27 September 2008. The preservation of part of the prison as a memorial occupied an important place in the demands presented by the neighbours at this meeting. (Photo Víctor M. Fernández, Carabanchel Prison Project.) to accelerate ruination and force the neighbours to accept any alternative. The ﬁlthy and ruined site became another stigma for the neighbourhood. However, since 2007 the prison itself, in its materiality, had begun to be acknowledged as an important actor. Having been regarded during the previous decade as a 152 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

hindrance at best, the impressive building was now seen with a new sensibility, for which the projection in 2007 of the documentary Carabanchel Prison. A Model of a Repressive Space, made under the guidance of our research team, acted as a partial catalyst. Previous proposals had been made by candidates of the Socialist Party to maintain part of the building as a memorial, but it was at the end of 2007 and during 2008 that the movement to conserve part of the building grew stronger. In February 2008 neighbours held several assemblies in which they endorsed an ambitious plan for the prison terrain that included preserving the panopticon:

Using the emblematic dome of Carabanchel and adapting its eight galleries, the neighbours propose a Cultural Centre devoted to Peace, human rights and historical memory. This proposal includes a centre for conferences and exhibitions, a library with a historical archive, a conserva- 7 tory, a school of languages, a centre for artists, and a Museum of Memory. With this initiative, Carabanchel Prison was abandoning the realm of abjection and re-entering social memory as a space of epic remembrance in the struggle for democracy. From that moment on, residents based their demands on the construction of a hospital and the preservation of the panopticon, rejecting any attempt at land speculation. Using the newly discovered language of heritage, they tried to have the prison of Carabanchel declared a ‘Bien de Interés Cultural’ [Property of Cultural Interest], a designation that would have prevented the destruction of the prison. The attempt was not successful. In June 2008 the Ministry of the Interior (Socialist) and the Mayor of Madrid (right- wing) approved a plan in which residents were not allowed to participate. The authorities considered that the new plan complied with the neighbours’ demands: it modified previous proposals and offered to assign 55 per cent of the terrain to public facilities, and only 650 new private residences would be built, rather than the thirteen hundred originally planned. The problem was that under the label of public facilities, they intended to build offices for the Ministry of the Interior, including those of the School of Prison Studies and other penitentiary institutions. Therefore, the link between Carabanchel and the prison system continued, thus maintaining the notion of the area as a heterotopic space of deviants, a notion that had emerged in the late nineteenth century with the proliferation in the neighbourhood of orphanages, poor- houses, military barracks, and mental hospitals. The prison was finally demolished in October 2008. The work started at night to avoid protests. It is worth mentioning that the removal of the last statue of Franco in Madrid was also carried out at night. The fact that the demolition was undertaken shortly after the neighbours started to claim not just the grounds, but also the building itself, speaks eloquently of the threat that the authorities saw in the new demands and in the process of heritage-making. THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 153

It is rather strange that the destruction of the prison took place at precisely the moment in which the Socialist government was working to comply with the demands made by the associations of historical memory through the practical implementation of the so-called Law of Historical Memory (issued on the 31st of October 2007). Within this legal framework, funding was and is provided to grassroots associations to recover and preserve the memory of the victims of the Civil War and Francoism. Part of this funding is employed in exhumations, but also in the study and conservation of cemeteries, prisons, and concentration camps. How is it possible that in this context the prison of Carabanchel was completely destroyed without leaving a trace? After all, keeping the panopticon alone would have not been such a waste of space and money in an area of sixteen hectares. One explanation might be that the memory of the prison could not overcome the abject associations of the last two decades prior to its demolition. But there are other possible reasons as well. The historian Ferrán Gallego (2008) has recently argued that the Socialist Party has an ambiguous relationship with the 1960s and 1970 because they did not play a leading role in the struggle for democracy at that time, unlike during the Civil War – the period privileged by the Law of Historical Memory. Rather, the Communist Party (PCE) and the unions were most active during that time. The majority of former inmates that have participated in the memorial acts surrounding Carabanchel belonged to the PCE or other communist parties and unions, on which account the strongest political supporter for the idea of turning Carabanchel Prison into a memorial has unsurprisingly been Izquierda Unida (IU) – the heirs to the PCE. It is worth comparing the fate of the two historic model prisons of Madrid (Cárcel Modelo and Carabanchel). Both were places of memory that ended up razed to the ground. In the case of Cárcel Modelo, a memorial landscape was created, but it was so ambiguous that it has been forgotten and few people today would be able to associate the place with the massacres of 1936. The architectural ensemble that replaced the Cárcel Modelo was more a monument to victory in the Civil War and the establishment of the dictatorship than to those who died in the prison. In the case of Carabanchel, no oﬃcial eﬀorts have been made to preserve either the building or the memory of the prison as an essential place in the struggle for democracy. How is it that two opposing political regimes have reacted in similar ways to the same kind of negative heritage? The abject connotations attached to prisons may help to understand why the authorities felt uncomfortable towards the ruins, but there are many examples of detention centres turned into museums, from Robben Island (South Africa) to Alcatraz (California) (Strange and Kempa 2003). Another reason might be economic speculation, as both prisons were in the centre of Madrid and yet not even symbolic fragments were preserved. It is possible that the ambiguous memories for which the prisons stood sealed their fate. For, if the Socialist Party 154 ALFREDO GONZALEZ-RUIBAL AND CARMEN ORTIZ

had an ambivalent relationship with the struggle for democracy during late Francoism, the Francoists too had a similar ambivalence towards those who were taken from the Cárcel Modelo in 1936 and shot.

CONCLUSION The imposing presence of the prison has disappeared from Carabanchel. Nothing is left but a wide gravel surface. The physical erasure, however, has not prevented neighbours from continuing to celebrate memorial acts around the space where the prison stood (Figure 5.9). In this sense, the prison continues to be alive, leading a phantasmal existence, and a distributed one – as things, documents, and photos survive in many homes in the neighbourhoods of Carabanchel, Aluche, and beyond. In this chapter we have tried to show how Carabanchel Prison has served to define different regimes of sovereign power and categories of ‘naked bare life’: ‘Reds’, homosexuals, the lower classes, drug-addicts, and illegal immigrants throughout its history. We have shown how these definitions have been supported by a diversity of material strategies, which have succeeded (and often erased) each other: first, the construction of the colossal totalitarian prison; later the establishment of workshops, laboratories, and other institutions related to a ‘progressive’ attitude towards prisoners, the derelict space of the prison as prison in the 1980s and 1990s, the ruins as the space of the poor and the marginalised, and the gaudy colours that camouflage the existence of yet another space for the Homo sacer under a democratic regime: the illegal immi- grant. We have seen furthermore how materiality has been fundamental in shaping memory: how the former inmates remembered the material textures and ‘thingly’ qualities of the prison – the difference between the political gallery and the others, the monumentality of the dome. We have also demonstrated

5.9. Commemoration of the second anniversary of the destruction of Carabanchel Prison: Carabanchel en la memoria (‘Carabanchel in memory’), 23 October 2010. (Photo Francisco Rubio.) THE PRISON OF CARABANCHEL 155 that the filthiness and dereliction of the building contributed to its displacement in the collective memory from a symbol of political resistance to a place of abjection, and that, as decay progressed, the ruins were finally re-valued as ruins and claimed as heritage. The prison of Carabanchel has always been a place of conflict, and the number of stakeholders and conflicts has not ceased to grow. New actors were added to the initial fight between ‘Reds’ and the dictatorship: homosexuals, young offenders, and a growing number of ‘social prisoners’. The latter became the main actors in the final phase of the prison, sharing their space with Basque terrorists and people who refused to do the military service (insumisos). Finally, the end of the prison has allowed for the emergence of multiple voices and practices that have taken hold of the repressive space – in one sense, liberating it. During the six decades through which the building of the prison presided over the neighbourhoods of Carabanchel and Aluche, the presence of the past permeated the practices of the present: the construction of the prison resounded with the echoes of the Civil War battlefield and the pre-war heterotopic spaces of deviation; the common criminals of the COPEL adopted the language of the political prisoners; the graffiti artists dialogued with the prison space and with its histories. With such historical density and with so many ramifications and connections, it will be difficult to annihilate the memory of Carabanchel forever. Even as a void, its powerful presence still haunts those who encounter it today.

NOTES

1. The participation in this chapter has been conducted as part of the following research projects: CRIC (Cultural Heritage and the Reconstruction of Identities in Conflict) funded by the European Union FP7 (ref. 217411) and the ‘Carabanchel Prison (1944–2008). A Historical, Archaeological and Ethnographic Study’ funded by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation (ref. HAR2009- 09913). 2. In a sense, the makeshift centres of detention that proliferated after the war can be considered an antecedent of their Latin American counterparts of the 1970s (Funari et al. 2009). 3. Although not exactly a panopticon, we will use this name throughout the text to refer to the control room, which fulfilled panoptical functions. 4. A similar process was taking place elsewhere in Europe, under democratic regimes. 5. The GAL was active between 1983 and 1987; its activities were sponsored by some top officials within the socialist government of Felipe González. The revelation of government participation in the GAL in 1995 was one of the reasons for the defeat of the Socialist Party in the general elections of the following year. 6. Carabanchel, la otra orilla, 1987, www.adolfogarijo.com (accessed 9 August 2010). 7. www.carabanchelalto.org/aavv/article.php3?id_article=360 (accessed 29 March 2011). CHAPTER SIX

‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ – THE CHANGING MEANINGS OF BELGRADE’S GENERALSˇ TAB

Ben Davenport

INTRODUCTION The bombing of Belgrade by NATO forces in 1999 marked the end of a politically and socially turbulent century for the city. The period following the Second World War has seen the rise and fall of communism, the upsurge in nationalist ideologies in its wake, the establishment of a democratic political system, and steps towards EU integration. This chapter focuses on the Generalštab, a complex of buildings in downtown Belgrade, to provide a material focus through which these changes can be considered. From its construction through to its current ruinous state, the Generalštab (buildings of the Ministry of Defence and General Army Staff Headquarters) has borne witness to the impact of both gradual and sudden change. Its partial destruction in 1999 did not mark the end of its story. This chapter explores how the Generalštab’s after life can be seen to reflect contemporary concerns about Belgrade’s recent past, as well as claims and values surrounding its history and heritage in the formation of new types of identities for the city’s inhabitants. It will also examine the relationship between the materiality of a building and its potential as an agent in the co-constitution of both citizen and site. Finally, it presents the development of a specific sense of urban identity within Belgrade, one that draws on the history of its destruction, reconstruction, and resistance.

156 ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 157

The chapter builds on approaches such as those developed by Victor Buchli in his study of the Narkomfin Communal House in Moscow (Buchli 1999) and Christine Lavrence’s exploration of Serbian national memory ‘in relation tothecityasasocialspaceand,attimes,acompetingcommunityofmemory’ 1 (Lavrence 2005: 31). Through the different phases of its lifespan the Generalštab became linked to a diverse array of individuals and places across the former Yugoslav Republics and beyond. Adopting a biographical approach to its study makes it possible to explore in depth the manner in which these links were made. The destruction of a building, monument, or heritage site does not necessarily imply that its agency and capacity to influence is extinguished (van der Hoorn 2003, 2009). Architecture, like all material culture, has the capacity to carry meaning but it is also the setting in which other forms of material cultural are engaged. This relatedness is susceptible to reinterpretation and the attribution of new meaning; capable of being detached from the contexts of their construction, new meanings become incorporated into different and occasionally opposing readings. Analysing the entangled relationships in which heritage sites are implicated makes it possible to explore the ‘gravity’ present at such sites, as a quality that draws in further meanings, associations, and memories. As the ‘mass’ of meaning at such sites increases, so too does their capacity to attract further narratives. A biographical study acknowledges the specificity of historic context: how the past is used in the reconstruction of specifically rooted identities and how it is mediated through heritage sites. The associations and connections made with a particular heritage site may be diverse, plural, and at times contradictory. This chapter presents the historical context in which the Generalštab was constructed, situating it within the events of the Second World War, the liberation of Belgrade in October 1944, the establishment of the Socialist state, and Yugoslavia’s subsequent break from the Cominform. It explores the narratives surrounding the complex’s construction and the symbolic and quasi-mythic qualities with which the complex was imbued. It considers the reinterpretation of the Generalštab, its history and meaning, under the authoritarian nationalist regime of Slobodan Miloševic´, as well as attitudes to the complex within Western media and its role during the Wars of Yugoslav 2 Secession. The chapter goes on to analyse the changing discourses following the destruction of the Generalštab during the NATO bombing of the city in 1999 and investigates the re-emergence of narratives of resistance relating to both it and Belgrade itself. Following this, the current situation in which the complex finds itself since the attribution of ‘cultural monument’ status in 2005 is assessed, and the principal arguments over the buildings’ future outlined. Finally, the presence of the ruined structure in the contemporary 158 BEN DAVENPORT Nemanjina St.

Kneza Miloša St.

6.1. Top, location map of the Generalštab. (Redrawn after Kulic 2010: 17, ﬁg. 7,originalby C. Feneck.) Bottom, the Generalštab under construction (c. 1960). (B. Vukic´evic´, Vijesti Online, 23 March 2013.)

city is considered, and it is argued that it is the ‘open-endedness’ of the Generalštab in ruins that allows for the negotiation and accommodation of multiple and contradictory readings of the site and the ongoing management of the sometimes traumatic memories it embodies. ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 159

HISTORIC BACKGROUND The travel writers’ cliché when introducing Belgrade is as a city destroyed and rebuilt more than forty times (Hall 1995: 84). The deep historical roots of the city are present in popular as well as historical and touristic discourses (Kostic´ 2003), and the strategic importance of the capital’s position on the confluence of the Rivers Danube and Sava is often emphasised. Amongst the vernacular architecture of the city, few buildings boast being older than the nineteenth 3 century, a situation that is a testament to the destruction and upheaval experienced by Belgraders throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and which Lavrence identifies as a key metaphor through which to think about ‘the interplayofmemoryandamnesiainthecity’ (Lavrence 2005: 36). This self-image of being ancient while at the same time acknowledging repeated episodes during which the city’s architectural fabric has been reconstructed suggests a number of strands through which identity is formed. One may be through an attachment to place, a sense of the city’s long-standing presence in the landscape, tracing its roots back to the third century bce Celtic fort of Singidunum and used by Pal Kolsto to illustrate his concept of ‘myths of antiquity’ (Kolsto 2005: 26). Another may relate to identity formation based in practice, specifically the reconstruction and reinvention of the city’s architectural signature following episodes of destruction, which in turn plays into other ‘myths’. Kolsto has, for instance, identified the ‘myths of martyrium’ as widespread through the Balkans (ibid.), supporting a theory of resistance to oppression as a performed identity. The notion of resistance as an element of a Belgrade self-identity has been noted by a number of anthropologists. Stef Jansen observed it during protests in the city in the 1990s (Jansen 2000 and 2001), and it arises as a theme in interviews conducted by Zala Volcic with young Belgrade intellectuals in 2002 (Volcic 2004 and 2005). Visual signs of resistance in Belgrade are also described in the work of Ana Miljacˇki, who sees different forms of resistance ‘played out on the battlefield of representation’ (Miljacˇki 2003: 96). These topoi will be further examined through the case study of the Generalštab. The historical conditions that predate the construction of the Generalštab must be borne in mind when trying to understand the pasts with which the buildings and its ruins engage. The history of the region and the reasons for the repeated reconstruction of Belgrade have been described in detail elsewhere (Glenny 1996, 2000;Judah1997), necessitating only a brief outline here. Miroslav Hadžic has argued that ‘Yugoslavia’s history cannot be understood without the history of its armies’ (2002: 2) and the city of Belgrade has certainly been shaped by conflicts, with each of these having left ‘a distinctive spatial impact on the old city’ (Hirt 2009: 293). These conflicts provide the context and background to the Generalštab’s history. As mentioned, present in the city’s self-image is not only a sense of its own antiquity but also its capacity to resist; and themes of resistance, 160 BEN DAVENPORT

resilience, and recognition have been used within ideologies of successive political regimes for the purpose of nation-building projects and the mobilisation of peoples in the region. In this light the First and Second Serbian Uprisings during the early nineteenth century against Ottoman occupation, the destruction of Belgrade during the First World War, the division and destruction of the city during its occupation by Nazi forces during the Second World War, and the bombing of the city by NATO in 1999 often merge into a single narrative of destruction and resistance. Volcic expresses this notion in an interview he recorded with a Belgrade radio journalist, whom he quotes as saying: ‘The city always resists domination, control, manipulation. ... Belgrade was against the Turks, against the Communists, it was against Milosevic. We were always against the oppressive regimes’ (2005: 649). A similar conflation of resistance is observed by Lavrence in narratives about Belgrade’s public squares being ‘against the Ottomans, the Germans and in the 1990s, the state’ (2005: 41). Following the liberation of Belgrade in 1944 by Partisan and Soviet troops, the reconstruction of the city and the nation began. This reconstruction was not merely structural but political and ideological as well, and at the heart of the rebuilding was the Yugoslav People’sArmyandtheincreasingly mythologised memory of the People’s Liberation Struggle. Vital to the legitimacy of the new regime was the role of Tito’s Partisans, the People’s Army, in the liberation of the country, and this was emphasised through what Hadžic has described as the ‘mythical and ideological triad’ (2002: 2)of Revolution, Party, and Army. In communist Yugoslavia the Army was at the foundation of the nation. Military successes against the occupying Nazi forces during the Second World War at battles such as Kozara (Chapter 8,this 4 volume) and Sutjeska became anchor points for Yugoslav post-war collective memories. The importance of the ‘National Battle for Liberation’ in both popular culture and party ideology cannot be underestimated. The legacy of battles like Sutjeska extended into manyareasofeverydaylifeunderTito, including the arts, and even permeated the discourses around the architecture Tito’s Socialism produced. In 1945 Tito was installed as the prime minister of the new Democratic Federal Yugoslavia. Tensions escalated between the former allies, Yugoslavia and the USSR, in the years following the war, and in 1948 Tito’s Yugoslavia became the first and only state to leave the Cominform (Judah 1997: 141). The importance of this break from Soviet hegemony cannot be underestimated; its political and economic consequences and its liberating effect on the arts, architecture, and identity in the new Yugoslavia was significant. Tito’s split with Stalin provided Yugoslavia with an ideological space within which it was possible to re-envisage Socialist political thought, Yugoslav national identity, and collective memory. An early target for this re-envisioning was the Second World War and Yugoslavia’s liberation. Art, film, and literature provided ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 161 important means for the expression of this new identity, as did architecture. In architect Vladimir Kulic’s opinion:

[T]here is no doubt ...that the expulsion from the Cominform and the subsequent rapprochement with the West ... exerted a profound eﬀect on architecture. Within a very short time, Yugoslav architecture radically changed its international frame of reference, switching from a politically imposed orientation towards the communist East to a gradual integration into Western modernism. (Kulic 2009: 131) Drawing on the memory of the Partisan struggle for liberation and a new form of resistance against Soviet hegemony, Nikola Dobrovic´’s design for the Generalštab came to encapsulate a speciﬁc strain of Yugoslav post-war architecture.

THE CONTEXT OF THE GENERALŠTAB The liberation of Belgrade by Partisan and Soviet troops was achieved on 20 October 1944. It had been preceded, however, by a three-day Allied bombing campaign in April 1944 falling over the Orthodox Easter and designed to break entrenched German positions in the city. This bombing resulted in significant damage to buildings and communications that was reportedly greater than the damage caused by German bombings earlier in the war (Lees 1990: 301). Following the city’s liberation the focus of reconstruction was largely on the rebuilding of habitable areas and the devastated infrastructure. Although repairs to the city began almost immediately, considerable time passed before any major architectural commissions were realised. It was not until April 1954 that the design for the Generalštab, as the complex to house the Ministry of Defence and the General Army Staff Headquarters, was chosen. The awarding of the commission for the buildings’ design was granted following a competition to which many of the top Yugoslav architects submitted entries. The winner was the Serbian architect Nikola Dobrovic´, whose design was chosen from amongst the anonymous entries as being the one that best encapsulated the vision of a new modern nation. The drawings he submitted to the competition no longer exist (Kovacˇevic´ 2001: 200), but the evaluation of the jury survives, as do a number of drawings in which he elaborated on his design following the success of the bid. ‘The recent shift in Yugoslav politics towards a pro-liberal image [of the country] endorsed by the West’ (Weiss 2000: 2) was clearly on display in the style chosen for the new Generalštab, as will become clear when we come to look at the buildings’ innovative design. A native of Serbia, Nikola Dobrovic´ had studied first in Budapest and later in Prague, where he first found work as an architect. He quickly built a reputation as an ‘incorruptible modernist’ (Krecˇicˇ 2003: 347)influenced by the avant-garde movements of Central Europe. Following a series of successful entries in 162 BEN DAVENPORT

architectural competitions across Yugoslavia (designs that were never realised), he settled in Dubrovnik. Here he constructed a series of modernist villas and the celebrated Hotel Grand between 1934 and 1936. In these buildings it is possible to observe similarities with elements of the Generalštab in Belgrade. During the Second World War Dobrovic´ had been a Partisan, spending most of his time fighting with the resistance in Italy (Kulic 2010: 12). Dobrovic´’s war record may have counted in his favour in a competition commissioned by the new Yugoslav Ministry of Defence; prior to the war he had struggled to win commissions and break into the upper echelons of political and artistic society in Belgrade. The new communist regime and the rupture in professional, political, and social hierarchies that the Second World War created finally appeared to grant him a seat at the ‘top table of Yugoslav architecture’ (Blagojevic 2003: 10). By 1946 he was directing the project to rebuild the city and had been made director of Belgrade’s newly established Institute of Urban Planning (Kulic 2010: 12), and in 1954 he was overseeing the construction of his first successful commission in Serbia. The Ministry of Defence owned site on which the Generalštab was to be built, which had previously housed the ‘Headquarters of the Army and Navy’,andthe‘General Army Staff Headquarters’ at the time was located several doors down on the same side of Nemanjina Street. Both buildings, built in late-nineteenth-century neoclassical style, had been heavily damaged during the Second World War. While the old General Army Staff Headquarters was repaired, the Army and Navy Building on the junction with Knez Milosa was selected for demolition and replaced with a larger structure capable of housing the growing number of offices and meeting rooms of the General Army Staff and the Ministry of Defence. The new Generalštab designed by Dobrovic´ was in stark contrast to the buildings that had previously stood on the site and to the surrounding architecture. The design also represented a departure from the Social Realist style of the Soviet Union and its satellite states appearing elsewhere in Socialist Eastern Europe. As Srdjan Jovanovic Weiss explains, ‘the construction of an architectural identity in Yugoslavia had to follow an ideological shift away from the centralist Eastern bloc’ (Weiss 2000: 1).

THE SOCIALIST HISTORY (1954–1986) The construction Construction of the Generalštab began in 1954 but was not completed until 1963. These nine years saw repeated clashes between the architect and the site’s military patrons, clashes that led to Dobrovic´’s withdrawing from the project before the second half of the complex had been completed (Kovacˇevic´ 2001: ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 163

6.2. Archival photograph of the Generalštab (c. 1970). (Photo Branibor Debeljkovic´, c. 1965; The National Library of Serbia, Belgrade.)

200). The end result remained faithful to Dobrovic´’s original design with the exception of two details. The first was a change to the height of the tower at the southwest end of the complex, which was increased to eighteen storeys – thus dwarfing its neoclassical neighbours. The second was the omission of the marble strips on the window lintels of the Federal Defence Ministry Building – both changes were insisted on by representatives of the investors (Kovacˇevic´ 2001: 200). In considering the architectural history of the Generalštab two publications are fundamental. Vladimir Kulic has written extensively on Belgrade’s socialist architecture, and his 2010 article Architecture and the Politics of Reading (Kulic 2010) forms the basis from which much of the present understanding of the structure is derived. Similarly, Bojan Kovačević’s book Архитектура Зграде Генералштабе [The Architecture of the Military Headquarters] represents the most detailed thesis on the buildings’ design and condition to date (Kovacˇevic´ 2001). As this chapter argues, however, the meanings attributed to the Generalštab are far from static, and must be read across multiple discourses that go beyond a purely architectural analysis of the site. Equally important as the claims made for its architectural value are other types of claims made through its being given the status of a ‘cultural monument’. The form given to the Generalštab was greatly influenced by the shape and location of the site. The plot of land itself was divided by Nemanjina Street, a 164 BEN DAVENPORT

major thoroughfare flanked by a number of government buildings, including judicial courts, Civil Service headquarters, and other buildings owned by the Ministry of Defence. The street runs downhill from the junction of Slavija Square towards the city’s railway station and crosses another major communication route in Kneza Miloša Street. Dobrovic´ made numerous designs for the Generalštab and submitted three versions for the competition – all based around the profile of the gap created by the line of the street, which he termed ‘the void’. The design that was chosen was the symmetrical stepped profile seen today. The north-eastern part of the complex is referred to as Building A (the Yugoslav Army General Staff Building) and the south-western end Building B (the Federal Ministry of Defence Building); the complex is commonly referred to in its totality as ‘Dobrovic´’s General Staff’ (Kovacˇevic´ 2001: 199). Each side has an entrance housed within small porticos, and Building B is connected to the adjacent old General Staff Building on Nemanjina Street via a passageway. The larger of the two nine-storey-high buildings (Building B) is crowned by a tower, while the smaller of the two buildings (Building A) measures a third of the size. It is the gap between the two parts of the site, faced in red stone and glass, and rising several storeys before receding back from the street in a cascade, that provides both the focus for the eye and also the many interpretations that surround the buildings. The construction materials consist of thousands of rough red blocks of stone (from the area of Kosjeric´ in Zlatibor, western Serbia), highlighted by horizontal bands of smooth white marble (from the island of Bracˇ off the coast of Croatia) into which the narrow windows were set. Kulic describes how

the materials have a consistent tectonic coding, red stone denoting the massive bearing structure, white marble the light supported membrane. Strip-windows, trademark of modernist technological sophistication, work together with coarse, almost archaic stone blocks to create a tense collage-like synthesis of dialectically opposed elements. (Kulic 2010: 24) Kulic identifies a deliberate symbolism in the choice of colours and materials, with the rough, rustic red stone ‘symbolising socialism, the liberation war, and the “defiant and bold nation”’ (Kulic 2010: 41). This superstructure ‘physically supports and provides background for the smooth white marble façade ... which stood for a new modern Yugoslavia striving to become sophisticated and “civilized”’ (ibid.). The source of the materials can also be seen as significant, uniting different regions of the country in the fabric of the building. This unifying concept was attributed to the Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA) itself, which for this reason was often described as the ‘school of brotherhood and unity’ (Bjelajac 1999 in Petrovic´ 2010: 62). ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 165

The Generalštab represents one of the most important examples of Yugoslav Modernism, but the iconic structure has proved difficult to classify. Bojan Kovacˇevic´ describes it as a ‘crossroads of architectural ideas’ (Kovacˇevic´ 2001: 202), recalling its position at an intersection in the city’s road network as well as its design, in which elements of Internationalist, Futurist, Expressionist, and Constructivist styles have all been read. A second debate which is more relevant here concerns the interpretations of the buildings’ design rather than their classification. The issue of how to ‘understand’ the Generalštab was very much a topic of debate from the point of its completion. Even during the protracted period of construction, readings of the complex’s form were divided into two camps. Questions over the architect’s intentions were further complicated by statements, reportedly made at different times by the architect himself, and which seemed to support differing interpretations.

THE BERGSON INTERPRETATION The most prominent interpretation amongst architectural critics in Serbia today is based on a vision of the site as encapsulating the ideas of French philosopher Henri Bergson. Bergson’s work was influential in Western Europe during the early twentieth century, but his influence had largely waned by the time the Generalštab was being built. Bergson’s early work criticised Kant and then- widespread views on the nature of causality and conceptions of time and space. Bergson was responsible for the development of three related concepts – Duration, Intuition, and ‘Élan vital’. It was the interaction of these three concepts, and one of Bergson’s most important works Creative Evolution (1911), which Dobrovic´ claimed influenced the design of the Generalštab. In Dobrovic´’s own treatise ‘Space in Motion – Bergson’s “Dynamic Schemes”–New Visual Environment’ (1960: 10–11 in Kulic 2010: 32), he explicitly cites Bergson’s work as the guiding principle behind the design for the site. Central to this ‘new visual environment’ were the novel and dynamic relationships between structural elements, particularly the voids and spaces between buildings. This can clearly be seen in the gap between the two parts of the Generalštab on either side of Nemanjina Street. Dobrovic´’s 1960 article also contained diagrams explaining his theory and applying Bergson’s concepts of ‘Duration’ and ‘Élan vital’ to the form of the structure. Lines of tension in these plans show how the architect envisaged the buildings evolving and growing out of the ground (Kulic 2010: 36). Much debate surrounded the origin of these ‘Bergson diagrams’, which Srdjan Weiss describes as having since achieved an almost ‘mythic’ status within Belgrade intellectual circles (Weiss 2000), reflecting both the technical achievement of the structures’ creation and the air of mystery and controversy that continues to surround them. 166 BEN DAVENPORT

6.3. Architectural sketches of the Generalštab expressing Dobrovic´’s notions of architectural techtonics. (Redrawn after Kulic 2010: 35, ﬁg. 20 and 21 based on a redrawing by C. Feneck after originals by N. Dobrovic´.)

THE SUTJESKA INTERPRETATION Likethebuildingforwhichheisremembered,Dobrovic´’streatiserepresents something of a contradiction in presenting evidence for competing readings of the Generalštab. As noted, Dobrovic´ had fought as a Partisan in Italy during the Second World War, and it is impossible to underplay the importance of the Partisan resistance and the War of Liberation as both a founding myth and continuing source of legitimisation for Tito’s communist state. The Battle of Sutjeska had not only been a turning point in the war in the Balkans, but represented a great personal loss for Tito. Although the ultimately successful outcome at Sutjeska elevated Tito’s status as military commander, the death of many of his closest friends and comrades ensured that the annual commemorations held at the site throughout his reign were always marked by a sombre air. Collective memories of the battle were replete with motifs of courage, defiance and resistance to oppression, values that Dobrovicévokesinthefinal sections of his essay. In a surprising shift he describes the building of the Generalštab as the

carrier of all important characteristics of a deﬁant and bold nation, from the uprising by organic growth from the ground to the ascension to cragged heights. Power, élan, and courage are embodied in sculptural masses that rear like an armoured tank. (Dobrovic´ 1960: 51 in Kulic 2010: 39) ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 167

Any ambiguity regarding Dobrovic´’s exact meaning in this passage is dispelled in a section the author called ‘Symbolism of the Content’. Here he states:

[T]he builder broke off a piece of the mountains in which the fiercest and the most decisive struggle for the fate of the peoples of Yugoslavia was led, and he moved them to the center of the capital. An urban symbol of the Sutjeska is formed on either side of Nemanjina Street in a new spatial tone of a ‘visual Eroica’. (Dobrovic´ 1960: 42 in Kulic 2010: 40) There is certainly a striking similarity in form between the steep and rugged profile of the Bosnian mountains and Dobrovic´’s cascading design. The building, like a ‘triumphal arch’ (Kulic 2010: 26), is, therefore, seen to commemorate Sutjeska and the values associated with it. The memorial monument erected close to the site of the Battle of Sutjeska in Tjentište, Bosnia-Herzegovina, a decade or more after the completion of the Generalštab, also contains this similar form which mimics the gorge, the setting of the battle (Figure 6.4). The reading of the Generalštab as a symbol of the Partisan resistance contains an appealing romanticism for some, but is strongly criticised by others. The Sutjeska interpretation has been described as a form of ‘Yugonostaligia’,or ‘Titonostalgia’ (Velikonja 2008), a feature of post-Socialist life often regarded with disdain and considered both backward-looking and decadent (Petrovic´ 2010: 76). It would be neither useful nor desirable to try to establish one interpretation as the ‘true’ reading of the Generalštab’s iconic form; but its connections with Sutjeska cannot simply be dismissed as journalistic imagination, as detractors of the Sutjeska reading often suggest. Reference to the two buildings of the Generalštab as Sutjeska A and Sutjeska B are still commonly found in the media, indicating that attempts to discredit the interpretation have not been entirely successful. Of greater importance to the study at hand, however, is the understanding of how these meanings change, and how this relates to the re-imagining or re-constitution of society and identities in this particular socio-historic context.

THE GENERALŠTAB DURING THE COLD WAR Yugoslavia held an ambiguous position during the period from the 1950sto 1970s, a liminal position between East and West that arguably perseveres even today for many of the present-day countries of the former Yugoslavia. This situation, Maria Todorova has argued, is encapsulated in the term ‘Balkanisation’ (Todorova 2009) and the notion of Eastern Europe ‘not as an eternal concept, but as the historical experience of the Cold War period’ (Todorova 2004: 15). The ‘historical experience’ of Yugoslav architecture and its architects during this period was, however, distinct from that of other communist countries. As noted above, the development of a distinctly 168 BEN DAVENPORT

6.4. Top left, Partisan Memorial, Tjentište. (Photo D. Zulumovic 2009.) Bottom, Generalštab in 2010. (Photo author.)

Yugoslav modernist style was already underway by the 1950s. This did not, however, prevent attempts at its subsequent appropriation into both the Western and Eastern artistic canons at different times, as both the Soviet Union and the United States sought to read evidence of the influence of their own styles of contemporary architecture in the Yugoslav brand of Modernism. As a former ally of Britain and the United States during the Second World War, Yugoslavia received significant military and economic support during the 1950s ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 169

(Judah 1997: 142). The apparent contradiction of funding a communist nation was addressed by commentators of the day through references to the ‘powerful visual signifiers’ of Yugoslav modernist art and architecture being developed in cities like Belgrade. The modernist style of buildings such as the Generalštab was given as evidence of the Western liberal values of the country despite its Socialist governance (Kulic 2009: 132). In the political tug-of-war between East and West over the emerging Yugoslav International style, the re-established post- war World Fairs and Expos became an important forum for display and debates about national artistic and architectural forms, and by extension political affiliations (Blagojevic 2003). The Generalštab made reference to disparate individuals, places, and events in several ways: through the stories told about it and the narratives into which it was woven. It also achieved this through its materiality which reflected in its form and substanceechoesofpastplacesandevents and which denied the easy categorisa- tion that the polarised political landscape of the Cold War period demanded. This frustration with interpretation, along with the establishment of a ‘political equidistance’ by Yugoslavia through the formation of the Non-Aligned movement in 1960 may explain the increasing disaffection and disinterest in Yugoslav architecture in the West through the 1960s. A trend that an America journalist writing about the Generalštab for the New York Times in 1965 reflected in his assessment of the complex as an ‘“architectural nightmare ...in concrete and pink stone” and a clear “sign of the Communist rule”’ (Binder 1965 in Kulic 2009: 137). The USSR can also be seen to have engaged in a ‘politically coloured’ reading of Yugoslav architecture. Vladimir Kulic points to the 1973 book by Russian architectural historian Vladimir Belousov, Современная арxumeкmypa Югocлавии [Contemporary Architecture of Yugoslavia] as evidence. Belousov attempted to ‘draw the country [Yugoslavia] into the Sovietorbitcloserthanitactuallywas’ with reference to its architecture and through his description of the Socialist concerns of the architectural projects in the Yugoslav Republics. Throughout this period the modernist architecture of the newly formed Yugoslavia denied the rigid typologies of the architectural style of Internationalism and Social Realism that influenced the politics of everyday life, placing it, as Ljiljana Blagojevic describes it, in the ‘Elusive Margins’ of twentieth-century Modernism (Blagojevic 2003).

ETHNICISED HISTORY (1986–1999) After Tito The death of Tito in 1980 brought about a dramatic and profound political rupture in Yugoslavia as already present nationalist feelings were given voice in the turbulent years following his death. Nationalist movements had been active 170 BEN DAVENPORT

in the Republics throughout the 1970s, and within many areas of society the seeds of ethnicisation and national identiﬁcation that became a feature of the late 1980s and early 1990s had already begun to take root (Glenny 1996: 13). The symbolic connections that the Generalštab had with the communist regime and the Partisan resistance of the Second World War did not sit comfortably in this climate of growing national sentiment within Serbia. According to Kulic:

Dobrovic’s Generalštab allowed for multiple readings that could simultaneously view it as an expression of the dominant ideology and of more autonomous architectural values. After the fall of communism this ambiguity became unacceptable: the building and its architect were too important to be dismissed, but associations to the previous system were no longer welcome. (Kulic 2010: 10) A reconfiguration of the position of both Dobrovic´ and the Generalštab took place within academic and popular discourses alike, in order to fit the site and its history into the contemporary political landscape of Belgrade and Serbia. This was done by downplaying connections between the buildings and the site of Sutjeska in Bosnia-Herzegovina. The dislocation of the Generalštab’s association with events and sites of the Second World War can be seen as part of a wider trend of rewriting the physical and symbolic geographies of Belgrade and other cities in Serbia and more widely within the former Yugoslavia, a practice that included the widespread renaming of streets and places, in what has been termed a ‘toponymical transition’ (D. Radovic 2005, S. Radovic 2008). It is notable furthermore that nearly all the books and essays published about Dobrovic´ and the Generalštab since the collapse of Yugoslavia in 1991 either dismiss or ignore connections between the buildings and the gorges of Sutjeska. The prevalent opinion within the academic community is that the story was created in the 1960s by journalists who were keen to gain favour with the regime, and who were unable to fully understand the architectural inspirations that motivated the Modernist architect. It is also possible, as Vladimir Kulic suggests, that the Sutjeska connection was encouraged by Dobrovic´ during the early stages of construction in order to gain support from both his military patrons and the public (Kulic 2010: 70). The connection has proved resilient in the public and popular imaginations, however, and it is not uncommon to hear the story repeated in the media or by Belgraders, both young and old, for the 5 benefit of foreigners (Mucˇibabic´ 2008; Sekulic 2010).

The rise of Miloševic´ The rise to power of Slobodan Miloševic´ in the mid- and late 1980s was in part achieved by appealing to the ideals of both the emerging nationalist element and the old communist support within the country. Miloševic´ himself had been a ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 171 high-ranking party member, holding the position of president of the Belgrade League of Communists City Committee (1984–1986) and president of the Serbian League of Communists (1986–1989) before becoming president of Serbia in 1989. Eric Gordy considers the Miloševic´ years to be marked by a ‘destruction of alternatives’ (Gordy 1999) which infiltrated all aspects of political and social life, rather than a wholesale break from the communist past. In terms of the specific example of the Generalštab, this aptly describes the denial of alternative interpretation or reading of the site beyond that of its architectural merit, and particularly those that made reference to connections with Sutejska and Tito. Within this context, the extrication of the complex from its unwelcome symbolic associations allowed Dobrovic´ to remain the progressive giant of a specifically Serbian Modernism, uncontaminated by his connections with the previous regime. Even before Miloševic´ came to power, faith in the unifying ability of the army, so prominent in the early years of the Socialist Period, appeared to deteriorate. This was seen both in the Army’s relationship with the people and in the increasingly fractious relationships between the Republics (Gow 1992: 78–88). Like the military institution it housed, the Generalštab was becoming less relevant as a symbol of the nation. Although less than twenty-five years old, the architecture of Tito’s Socialist period had begun to look aged as new architectural forms, such as the thirty-five-storey Genex Tower, dominated the Belgrade skyline. Despite further changes in the meaning and associations attached to the Generalštab and its aging aesthetic, during the Miloševic´ period the function of the complex remained the same, continuing to house the offices of the Ministry of Defence and the Army General Staff. During this period the Generalštab was predominantly envisaged as a tool of the state, part of an apparatus through which control of the country, its official military function, was emphasised, as was its role as a seat of power. As popular discontent with the regime increased through the first half of the 1990s expressions of anger were directed a certain buildings, namely, the television headquarters and government buildings, including those of the Ministry of Defence.

THE GENERALŠTAB AT WAR During the early 1990s, as conﬂict consumed Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina, the Generalštab moved into another phase of its biography – the Generalštab at war. Although it has been shown that Miloševic´ and the powers in Belgrade were at the centre of the coordination of atrocities being committed elsewhere in the former Yugoslavia (Glaurdic 2009: 93), the population of Belgrade was in many ways kept isolated from the violence in neighbouring republics, primarily through the control of information by the state-run media. In contrast, the portrayal of the Generalštab as being at the epicentre of this destruction became 172 BEN DAVENPORT

common in the Western media. It is almost certainly the case that many of the commands for some of the worst acts of this conflict were given from the offices and meeting rooms of the Federal Ministry of Defence (Glaurdic 2009: 98). Yet, despite the strength of this association in Western Europe and the United States, there were only occasional signs that such associations were made in Belgrade. Srjan Weiss hints at a process of ‘anthropomorphisizing’ the buildings in the Western media, such that the complex and the military institution that it represented were envisaged as the ‘brain’ behind the war (Becker 1999) and the ‘heart of the war machine’ (Weiss 2000: 5). The state television and radio buildings were the focus of popular protest in the episodes of civil unrest that occurred in 1996–1997 (the Winter Protests). These protests were also directed towards international media, amid anger in Belgrade at the way that the ongoing conflict in Kosovo was being represented (Jansen 2000). There were a few instances of protest outside the Generalštab – such as the gathering of parents of young Serbian soldiers due to undertake their national service in Kosovo in June 1998 (Seattle Times, 19 June 1998). The organised anti-war element within Belgrade society, however, chose the National Parliament Building, not the military headquarters, as the site for protest, again emphasising the difference in attitudes towards the Generalštab within and outside of Belgrade. Nonetheless what is clear in the protests and demonstrations that marked this period of social unrest in the city is the explicit politicisation of areas of the city and sites of cultural heritage in the claims and counterclaims being made – and in which the Generalštab strongly featured. A tension can be observed within the popular discourse concerning the military, located between positive memories of the JNA (Jugoslavenska narodna armija, the Yugoslav People’s Army) and negative memories emerging following the events and aftermath of the conflicts in Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina. Tanja Petrovic´ has noted that during the reign of Tito ‘theJNAisseenasoneof the most salient symbols of Yugoslav socialism’ (Petrovic´ 2010: 62). All men were required to carry out national service, and the JNA was often referred to as kovacˇnica jugoslovenstva, ‘the forge of Yugoslavism’ (ibid.). Individual memories of JNA service and the associated pride amongst Serbs in Belgrade remain clear evidence of the JNA’s status in the late 1980sasthefourthlargestarmyinEurope, and stand in sharp contrast to later memories of the destruction inflicted by the JNA during the 1990s, when beyond Belgrade it was ‘widely identified as an instrument of Serbian hegemony’ under the control of Miloševic´(Petrovic´ 2010: 69). As the headquarters of the General Army Staff and Federal Ministry of Defence, the Generalštab was directly implicated in this conflict of emotions and memories. As Petrovic´ explains ‘in the context of (post)Yugoslav post- socialism, characterised by the restoration and reinvention of national identities of the former Yugoslav nations, remembering the JNA becomes a problematic cultural practice’ (ibid.: 76). ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 173

The negotiation of this ‘problematic cultural practice’ may explain the cognitive separation by some individuals divorcing the Generalštab’s architectural merits from its military function. This connection was, however, reaﬃrmed, and the Generalštab itself subject to new layers of associations following the bombing of the complex during NATO air strikes in the spring of 1999.

DESTRUCTION AND AFTERLIFE (1999 TO PRESENT DAY) The NATO bombing of Belgrade It is perhaps surprising that it took as long as it did for the complex to be targeted by NATO bombs in 1999 – however, on 29 April 1999 the first strike was made on the Generalštab. The night represented the thirty-seventh night of bombing of the Serbian capital in NATO’s aerial campaign. The intervention was a response to the growing conflict in Kosovo; its intention was to force Miloševic´ to withdraw troops from the region and bring him back to the negotiating table. A second strike on 7 May further devastated the complex. The bombing campaign, called ‘Operation Allied Force’ by NATO, lasted from 23 March to 10 June 1999 and targeted not only sites in Belgrade but also military installations and convoys beyond the city, as well as other strategic targets in Novi Sad, Niš, and Pristina. During 1997 international monitors had reported on increasing clashes between Serbian and Kosovar Albanian forces resulting in the death and the displacement of many tens of thousands.6 Fear of the conflict spreading and sparking another war in the Balkans together with the lack of success of diplomatic channels prompted NATO countries to act. At first, a planned military action was cancelled following the apparent progress of a diplomatic solution, but when violence spiked again the following year and the Serbian Army deployed tanks into the region NATO began a seventy-seven-day bombing campaign. The motivations guiding NATO’s actions were widely advertised (Clark 1999), but despite the apparent transparency about strikes on individual targets, many of these were not fully understood and have since become subject of rumour and conspiracy theories. These theories arose particularly through internet sites, which formed a vital outlet for expressions of anger, fear, and resistance both during and after the bombings. From the start of the NATO campaign it was anticipated that the Generalštab would be a likely target and thus was emptied of personnel and equipment. Bombing targets were divided into two types –‘strategic’ and ‘tactical’–and were further categorised as serving military, military support, communication and infrastructure, or ‘command’ purposes. 174 BEN DAVENPORT

Bombs fell on the Generalštab in two salvos on the night of 29 April, the ﬁrst at 2:30 am, the second about ﬁfteen minutes later. The missiles ripped holes through the walls of the buildings, causing fragments of the stone facade to scatter up to one hundred metres away and damaging the nearby Serbian government headquarters and Yugoslav Federal Foreign Ministry. Windows of residential buildings in surrounding streets were also blown out, as was the 7 glass in the narrow modernist strip windows of the Generalštab itself. The second strikes at about 1:50 am on 7 May were overshadowed in reports by the news that NATO planes had mistakenly struck the Chinese Embassy on the same night, resulting in four dead and twenty-six injured. As noted, the bombing of the Generalštab did not occur until over a month into the campaign (Becker 1999). It is tempting to place this event, along with the bombing of Miloševic´’s personal residence in Dedinje six days earlier (Erlanger 1999a), into an additional category of targets representing ‘symbolic seats of power’. The idea that the Generalštab was bombed for symbolic reasonsisoneespousedbySrdjanWeiss(2000) and others. The irony for WeissisthatbythetimethatNATObombedtheGeneralštab, the buildings had lost any of the symbolic associations that they may have previously had for the residents of Belgrade, eroded by the nationalist rhetoric of the 1990s. A further irony of this act is that in a campaign aimed at ridding Europe of Miloševic´, NATO struck at a building that had previously been a celebratory symbol of the triumph of Yugoslav Partisans against fascism during the Second World War (Weiss 2000;Kulic2010).

The aftermath After the dust settled on Nemanjina Street on the following morning, the world’s newspapers reported that life resumed, if not as normal, then as close to it as possible in a city that was still in the midst of conflict. The dominant picture was the ruined shell of the former Generalštab, but photographers on the scene also caught images of the start of the clean-up effort, as workmen and soldiers swept broken glass and rubble into skips and bulldozers (Erlanger 1999a). The New York Times reported passers-by stopping in front of the ruin of the Generalštab to ‘pick up a bit of shrapnel and put it in their pocket’ (Erlanger 1999b), perhaps trying to retain a piece of a receding past or retrieving a souvenir of what was already recognised as part of history. The destruction of the Generalštab had not only added a new layer of meaning to the complex but had also resurrected older memories. As citizens reflected on the destruction, memories of previous conflicts and previous bombings were recalled. When interviewed by journalists during the days of the bombing, several individuals compared the NATO bombing to the episodes of bombing during the Second ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 175

6.5. Ruins of the Generalštab, 2010. (Photo Ben Davenport.)

World War (Niebuhr 1999). Belgrade had been bombed both by the Germans prior to the occupation of the city and by the Allied forces in preparation for its liberation (Dakovic´ 2004: 199; Perovic´ and Žegarac 2000: 396). The sense of perpetual victimhood that became a significant element within Serbian identity in the latter half of the twentieth century was thus re-imagined and re-articulated through a narrative that connected the destruction of Belgrade in 1941 and 1944 with that of 1999. Following the end of the NATO bombing campaign on 10 June, and an assessment of the state of the damage to the structure, parts of the Generalštab were slowly reoccupied. Some of the offices were undamaged by the bombing, but the majority of the two parts of the site on either side of Nemanjina Street were structurally unsound. Hoardings went up around the complex, dividing off the ruin from the course of daily life which continued around it. Mélanie van 176 BEN DAVENPORT

der Hoorn, writing on ‘Undesired Buildings’, notes how, when access to a site is restricted storytelling and myth-making become means of granting such buildings ‘a place in a society that repudiates them’ (2009: 8). As a military structure access to the Generalštab had always been restricted, but following the bombing stories about the buildings’ contents and their fate increased as people tried to gain a sense of ownership of the ruin: both as a symbol and a witness of their suffering during the bombing, and as a sign of their resistance against NATO. Within geopolitical configurations of friends and foes, borders are continually redrawn throughout history. Likewise, the oppression to which Serbia’s resistance is imagined to be in opposition can be seen to change with the passing of time and changing geopolitics in the region. Within such a mode of thought and identification the Generalštab becomes a central place, encapsulating aspects of these disparate historic events, despite not even being built when the bombings of the 1940s took place. The current state of the complex comes to reinforce this duality of victim and resistor. The ruins of the buildings act both as a monumental mnemonic of the city’s resistance to successive bombings and military incursions through the twentieth century and as a visual testimony to the damage, physical and psychological, that these events inflicted. Many comments that have been made regarding the structure’s current state emphasise its role as means of remembrance not just for Belgrade but for the world and the 8 perpetrators of acts of destruction. Many writers on the subject of Serbian identity have pointed to a sense of victimhood present in the national identity, which they see as apparent in both popular and political discourses. Key within this construction is the ‘memory’ of the Battle of Kosovo Polje – a quasi-mythic history which, by the start of the twenty-first century, had become ‘the’ founding myth for many Serbs. The battle, fought on 15 April 1389, St Vitus Day, was the foundation of the notion of the ‘Heavenly Kingdom’ of the Serbs and Serbia the last bastion of Christendom (Judah 1997; Colovic 2002). I do not wish to go into detail on the construction or content of this national myth – every country has them – but it is important, however, to recognise the importance of the Battle of Kosovo in relation to the values of resistance and martyrdom in relation to the conflicts of the twentieth century. The deeply felt emotional attachment to Kosovo and its role in post- communist identity formation within Serbia goes some way to explain its appearance in many areas of popular as well as the academic spheres. While this type of thinking is opposed by many Serbs, especially in Belgrade, the presence of graffiti referring to ‘1389’ and ‘Kosovo’ on the boarded-up ruins of the Generalštab in 2010 nonetheless indicate not only the complex’s connection with this part of the city’s collective memory, but also the still-contested nature of the memories attached to the Generalštab for differentgroupswithinthecity. ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 177

6.6. Graﬃti on the Generalštab, 2009. (Photo Ben Davenport.)

THE GENERALŠTAB TODAY The Generalštab as cultural heritage In 2005 the Generalštab was listed as part of the city’s cultural heritage and placed under the category of ‘Cultural Properties’ under the typological designation ‘cultural monument’ by the Cultural Heritage Preservation Institute of Belgrade. This new status ensured that any future use would have to retain the structure’s physical appearance. The official recognition as cultural heritage is significant, as it indicates the value attributed to the buildings in 2005 – few sites 9 dating to the period of communist rule have been awarded this designation. In this light the inclusion of the Generalštab on the list stands out, especially considering that it was only following its destruction in 1999 that the complex was listed – thus suggesting perhaps that the destruction is part of its particular value. The motivation behind the move to protect the Generalštab has been difficult to establish, but several factors were clearly influential. 178 BEN DAVENPORT

Some of those factors may be found in the effect of the listing itself. Following the NATO bombing and the fall of Milosevic´, the city sought to rebuildbothitsurbanfabricandcivilsociety. Nonetheless it was only after the five-year anniversary of the bombing (in 2004) that popular support for a resolution to the question of the fate of the city’s ruins intensified. With regard to the Generalštab different opinions were voiced: some groups proposed the removal of the buildings, while other groups championed reconstruction. For some this latter option meant continued use by the military, while for others the aim was to unite the two halves of the complex as a single piece of cultural heritage, primarily to prevent the reconstruction of one half of the complex and the destruction and sale of the other in order to finance the venture. In addition, there were also those who advocated the sale 10 of the complex and its use for entirely new purposes. Its listing in 2005, however, meant that future uses were being limited. Nonetheless, the debates have continued unabated. In arguments in support of the reconstruction and listing of the complex, the architectural value is primarily celebrated (Kojovic´ 2006;Kovacˇevic´ 2006), emphasising the contribution of Serbian architecture to architectural theory as well as the advancement of the Modernist project (PerovicándŽegarac 2000: 396). The listing does not, however, dictate the actual use of the buildings, and in recent years several attempts have been made to sell it for use as a hotel. The estimated price tag for the site is in the region of $30 million,11 making it one of the most desirable pieces of real estate in the old city, but the responsibility of restoring the complex to its pre-1999 likeness appears to have deterred potential investors (said to include the Hilton and Intercontinental hotel 12 groups). Detractors of this scheme have included stakeholders from a range of backgrounds, both civilian and military. The financial burden of reconstruction must also be considered a strong inhibitor in terms of adapting the buildings for future uses. For instance, Kovacˇevic´, assessing the damage to the complex, argues that the compromised concrete construction of Building A would have to be completely demolished and this section rebuilt. He also notes the disruption of the ‘micro-stability’ of the façade, which suggests that damage to the structure may be far greater than initially appears (Kovacˇevic´ 2001: 203).

The Generalštab as memorial Public feeling largely suggests a desire to maintain evidence of the bomb- 13 ings of 1999. This has also been the case elsewhere in the city, where parts of the damaged RTS building (Radio-televizija Srbije) remains in ruin, as does the Ministry of the Interior building farther down Kneza Milosa Street. ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 179

A reluctance to sell the Generalštab is seen in statements by members of the military who liken the complex to ‘a family treasure’ which they have no intention of selling (the spokesman adds ‘especially not now, when property prices are the lowest in the last ten years’)14 (Vukovic´ and Gedoševic´ 2010). This shows that decisions regarding reconstruction are affected by a complex web of emotive, economic, and politic motivations. The point at which the complex was granted cultural monument status deserves greater scrutiny, as it suggests a difference between a purely architectural evaluation and those values that arose because of what happened at the site. The bombing of the buildings ascribed a new form of meaning to the structure, and on one level it was this inscription that was being reflected in thedecisiontopreserveit.ThetargetingbyNATOofficially marked the buildings out as a target of tactical and strategic importance, and the complex nowprojectsthataspartofitsspecific value. Nominating the Generalštab as cultural heritage while in a state of ruin can therefore be interpreted as a means of reclaiming the site as a place of symbolic and cultural importance to Belgraders. In addition, in citing the Generalštab as a cultural monument, a political statement is being made through which past events become reinter- preted. Using the language of cultural heritage preservation, the Serbian government vilifies the actions of NATO in bombing Belgrade and other Serbian cities. In this light the decision to make the Generalštab a site of cultural heritage, although principally designed at preserving the remains of the complex, takes on a political element with moralising undertones that polarisestheeventasoneinwhichSerbiarecognisesandprotectssitesof cultural and architectural importance – whereas NATO countries destroyed them. In 2009 the site of the ruined buildings of the Generalštab became one of many places in Belgrade where people gathered to commemorate the bombing as air sirens and church bells rang throughout the city. Politicians laid wreaths at sites including the Generalštab. As with anniversary commemorations generally, the event aimed both to preserve the memories and to reaffirm identities. The speeches of the politicians emphasised the expansionist policies of the United States, the immorality and inhumanity of the bombing, and the resistance of the Serbian people. This rhetoric of resistance was given further significance by the prominence of images of the ruined Generalštab in the accompanying media coverage. In this manner the Generalštab once again became a platform for political statements and a symbol of suffering and resistance. While intended to remember the victims of the bombings, this and subsequent anniversary events can be seen to have assumed a life of their own in which other elements of the prevalent political discourse become incorporated and gain strength through their association with an important ‘memory event’ within the national consciousness. 180 BEN DAVENPORT

THE FUTURE OF THE GENERALŠTAB At the time of writing, the future of the Generalštab remains undecided, with only a small undamaged part still in use by the Ministry. It is clear that although the Generalštab is no longer fully functioning as a government building, it continues to inﬂuence and impinge on the residents of Belgrade through its multiple and persistent associations. In this manner, as a site in ruins it could be said to exhibit an ‘agency of absence’ (Bille et al. 2010: 11–13), giving the buildings more resonance and aﬀective potential in their incomplete and abject state than they had prior to their destruction. Nonetheless the incomplete nature of the ruined Generalštab allows an open-endedness in interpretations which makes it more, rather than less, accepting of new and re-imagined histories and connections. Dylan Trigg, considering the nature of industrial ruins, suggests that ‘[t]he marginalizing of urban ruins has not meant that their history has ceased. ... The untimeliness is evident in how past, present, and future conspire to converge in the ruin’ (Trigg 2006: 131). This ‘untimeliness’ allows for the co-existence of apparently contradictory readings that the site harbours today. And the agency that the buildings possess can be seen to reside in part in their ruined state.

CONCLUSIONS A biography of a building will vary depending on its author and historical context of its narration. Its meanings will often cut across discourses, whether architectural, political, legal, or popular. In order to capture the biographical changes this chapter has outlined a chronological account of the changing associations that developed around the Generalštab both as a site and as a political idea. These should not be seen as fixed or monolithic meanings but rather as continuously negotiated and disputed, as groups vie to challenge or preserve different associations and memories. The changing fortunes of these buildings happened amidst an evolving urban environment and against a backdrop of major political and ideological change, conflict, and civil unrest. The biographical structure in this account tries to take a more ‘symmetrical’ approach (Witmore 2007) to the Generalštab as a heritage site. This means that the different actors and components (the site as heritage, the people and institutions such as the military) as well as its past and present concerns are all active constituents in the meanings arising during the different phases of the life of the site. This study of the Generalštab’s life cycle has revealed several themes. The most important perhaps is the interconnection of self-identification and ‘Othering’ within notions of change and resistance. The topoi these construct can be seen to disappear and resurface in both formal and informal discourses ‘A HERITAGE OF RESISTANCE’ 181 through the course of the life and afterlife of the Generalštab, at times reflecting back on the material condition of the complex. The Generalštab has at various times been seen both as a testament to and a symbol of resistance, and at other times a symbol to be resisted. In biographical terms, the birth of the complex reflected, for many, the ideological conditions of the new Socialist regime, replete with symbols of the unity of a nation and its resistance to the fascism of the preceding war. Already at that time the buildings had the potential for ambiguous meanings, as in its style there were elements of opposition to the dogmatic architectural restraints of Soviet communismfromwhichTito’s Yugoslavia had so recently departed. The topoi of resistance therefore continued to be re-conceptualised as the political landscape changed, in particular during the Cold War. In this climate the individualism of Dobrovic´’s creation was emphasised in line with the country’s non-aligned status and particular political and cultural position between East and West. A major change in its meaning came about with the fall of communism, a change from a symbol of resistance to a symbol to be resisted. This change marked a time during which alternative readings of the buildings ceased to be accepted within an academic and political discourse driven by ideological aspirations of nation-building (Kulic 2010: 10). The role of the complex as a seat of power became the overriding association during the 1990s and strongly influenced the decision by NATO to eventually bomb it. It was only following the bombing that associations and connections to the past again began to be explicitly made. Once more, the people of Belgrade found in the persistence of the ruin a symbol of the resistant qualities which it once embodied, with the former allies of the First and Second World Wars now seen as the aggressors in the form of the perpetrators of the NATO bombing. This interpretation is still expressed in the political rhetoric at anniversary events and in the graffiti that covers the boards surrounding the ruined building. While the sense of who the ‘other’ is changes, the sense of the ‘self’ around which many Belgraders built their identity remains remarkably consistent. It is within such dynamics that we find the urban population of Belgrade – its journalists, architects, politicians, and protestors – returning repeatedly to the Generalštab as a medium for the articulation of what it means to be Beogradjani in a city that has been destroyed and rebuilt countless times. Within this construction of ‘self’ is also the contradiction between creating and resisting, the importance assigned to antiquity and a long tradition of reconstruction. At the Generalštab, as a site of cultural heritage and political meanings, those aspects of such contradictory topoi meet. The Generalštab therefore functions as a site for the ‘heritage of resistance’, with the form of this resistance varying through time, despite the continuity of the theme. 182 BEN DAVENPORT

NOTES

1. Lavrence examines the history of Republic Square in downtown Belgrade and how its meaning has changed in response to specific historical moments and through the agency of state and non-state actors. 2. I use the term ‘Wars of Yugoslav Secession’ here to describe the series of conflicts between the former Socialist Federal Republics of Yugoslavia from 1991 to 1995. 3. This fact has been related to me on several occasions by Belgrade residents and appears to be a popular anecdote which is reinforced by even a casual tour of the city’s vernacular architecture. 4. The Battle of Sutjeska was the fifth in a series of anti-Partisan offensives by Axis forces which took place in western Serbia and Bosnia between 1941 and 1944. 5. The story of the Generalštab’s history and symbolism was recounted to me by a friend on my first visit to Belgrade in 2007. 6. In August 1997 the UN refugee agency (UNHCR) placed the number of displaced individuals at 200,000 (Judah 2008: 85). 7. Glas Javnosti, Internet edition, 1 May 1999. 8. Comments describing the mnemonic function of the building in ruins were commonly observed by the author on forums and tabloid comments sections during discussions of the fate of the structure between 2009 and 2011. 9. A more detailed analysis of the timing and motivations of the designation would be a compelling study. 10. RTS online, 30 August 2010. 11. Stamenkovic, Politika 24 August 2006. 12. Ibid. 13. For a range of responses see comments on the articles by D. Mucˇibabic´(2009)inPolitika Online 29 March. 14. Author’s translation of ‘narocˇito ne sada kada su cene nekretnina najniže u poslednjih deset godina’. CHAPTER SEVEN

GRAND RUINS: LEDRA PALACE HOTEL AND THE RENDERING OF ‘CONFLICT’ AS HERITAGE IN CYPRUS

Olga Demetriou

INTRODUCTION The correlation of ‘conflict’ and ‘heritage’ in Cyprus normally brings to mind images of looted or destroyed mosques and churches. It may also bring to mind examples of reconstruction projects where teams of Greek-Cypriots and Turkish-Cypriots work together to restore historic buildings of cultural value (hamams, inns, mansions). Varied as these examples are, they converge on a notion of ‘cultural heritage’ that essentialises the difference between the two main ethnic communities on the island (Greek-Cypriot and Turkish- Cypriot) and a rather orientalising view of ‘culture’ (Greek-Cypriot ‘culture’ as Christian, Turkish-Cypriot as Muslim). Attempts to think about the relation of ‘cultural heritage’ and ‘the conflict’ beyond these stereotypes immediately bring into view alternative possibilities. One may be sites that have been marked by the conflict, but that have nevertheless been ‘neglected’ in the staple discourses about conflict and reconciliation. Ledra Palace Hotel (or simply ‘Ledra Palace’)issuchasite.Inthischapter,Ianalyseitas a possible heritage site in an attempt to identify the mechanisms that foreclose this possibility. These mechanisms involve the difficulties associated with conceptualising ‘the conflict’, memorialising aspects of it, and dealing with the ruination of violence-invested sites. The neglect, contestation, and complexity associated with such ‘difficult heritage’ are precisely the questions being tackled here. Ledra Palace Hotel is the quintessential building in the Cypriot UN-controlled Buffer Zone, signifying the division of the island. As a heritage site, it embodies

183 184 OLGA DEMETRIOU

nothing less than the totality of notions with which the conceptualisation of ‘the Cyprus conﬂict’ has come to be associated, including the following:

(i) the association of ‘the conflict’ with ethnicity (as a conflict between Greek-Cypriots and Turkish-Cypriots), (ii) its link to the island’s division (objectified in the institution of the Green Line as a Buffer Zone between two warring parties), (iii) the referencing of political divisions (right-left) in discourses tracing the development of the conflict and the prospects of its resolution, (iv) the affective structures (primarily relating to loss) that have become enmeshed in the conflict, and (v) the sedimentation of conflict and reconciliation imagery around a particular location (the Ledra Palace crossing point).

In short, the site of Ledra Palace Hotel has come to index all that which makes ‘the conflict’ part and parcel of Cypriot identity. Seen thus, concepts of ‘the conflict’ per se may be thought of as a kind of heritage which is notional and consequently Ledra Palace Hotel as a key site of such ‘notional heritage’. Yet although its status has been acknowledged through the official listing of the building as a ‘monument’ by local authorities in the 1990s, its location in the Buffer Zone has impeded restoration. In examining the processes through which it became a ‘ruined’ heritage site, the chapter investigates the congealing in one specific location of conflict and post-conflict reconstruction as notions and as practices. Delving into the biography of Ledra Palace Hotel, the connections between the material and conceptual aspects of heritage-making can be shown in terms of how they influence and affect a particular place. These connections appear through the changing history of the Hotel, which emerges through archival work, oral histories, ethnographic information, and repeated site visits between 2006 and 2012. These data are complemented by longer ethnographic research on the Nicosia border, a review of references to the Hotel in popular literature (novelistic and journalistic), official documents related to the UN mandate on the premises, in-depth interviewing of the only surviving member of the Hotel’s original management team, as well as more informal interviews with people who have worked in or used the Hotel’s facilities at different moments. These data together allow a clear view of the changing meanings of the building and the processes and mechanisms behind them, as well as the power structures that have informed them over the years. The chapter presents this in four parts, organised in historical sequence, with some overlaps. The first part explores the establishment in 1948 of Ledra Palace Hotel as an entrepreneurial innovation during colonial times (1878–1960), up to its sale in 1970 to the Cypriot Archbishopric. The second part analyses in GRAND RUINS 185 greater depth the Hotel’s implication in the Cyprus conflict and the attempts to solve it, from the beginning of the anti-colonial struggle in 1955 to the attack by Turkish troops in 1974. Part three examines the period from 1974 to 2004, tracing the process of ruination that has overcome the site after the closure of the Hotel. The last part focuses on the period between 2004 and 2010, when a debate arose regarding the restoration of the site. While structured in historical progression, thematic foci are also followed: eco- nomichistoryinthecaseofthefirst part, militarisation in the second, the structuring of loss in the third, and the internationalisation of conflict in the fourth. The concluding section returns to this structuring concept of ‘notional heritage’, which is used to tie the materiality of the processes taking place on the physical site of Ledra Palace to the processes that have marked the different stages through which ‘the conflict’ has become a major constituent of Cypriot identity.

GRAND BEGINNINGS (1948–1968) LedraPalaceHotelisthebest-knownbuildingwithintheUnitedNations’ Buffer Zone in Cyprus, a 180-kilometre strip of land that separates the largely Greek-Cypriot–run southern part of the island from the largely Turkish-Cypriot–run northern part. Once a building exuding the grandeur of Middle East colonial cosmopolitanism, having accommodated Brigitte Bardot,NanaMouskouri,LyndonJohnson,YuriGagarin,andmembersof the Greek and British royal families, Ledra Palace is now an ornately façaded block of barracks housing a contingent of United Nations Force in Cyprus (UNFICYP). Originally a two-storey luxury hotel of seventy-eight rooms built in 1948, its grandeur reached palatial proportions after the end of colonial rule in the 1960s with the addition of two wings, a swimming pool in 1964,anothertwofloors in 1968–1969, and additions shortly before its closure in 1974 that brought the room count to 240. Throughout these changes, the building’s main architectural features were maintained. One of these is the yellow sandstone, which has come to define ‘colonial architecture’ on the island, as it was used for all government buildings as well as most urban homes built in the first half of the twentieth century. Another are the pointed arches of the window frames. The architect, Benzion Guinsberg (or Ginsberg), a German Jew who settled in Israel after Second World War and commuted to Cyprus frequently to oversee the construction of a number of important buildings, meant for them to be reminiscent of the arches of the thirteenth-century Latin abbey of Bellapais in the Kyrenia mountains. Cypriots speaking of the Hotel often describe it as built in a ‘modern oriental’ style within a ‘colonial architecture’ frame because of the arches. Nicosians who frequented the Hotel at the time explained: ‘its “oriental air” attracted the Middle Eastern 186 OLGA DEMETRIOU

1 LPH main building 2 LPH grounds 3 LPH swimming pool 4 checkpoint north 5 checkpoint south 6 buildings in use prior to checkpoints opening 7 buildings renovated LPH area Nicosia after checkpoints opened 8 derelict buildings unused as of 2013 9 Chetinkaya football club building Buffer Zone

areas under UN jurisdiction N

0 20 km

1 7 9

Ledra Palace Hotel (LPH) in the Buffer Zone

7.1. Map showing the position of Ledra Palace within the Buﬀer Zone.

crème-de-la-crème, but also gave a flavour of exoticism to European visitors’ (the words of a Nicosian in his sixties on interview exemplifying similar comments by others belonging to the same age group). This co-existence of modernity and orientalism is in fact what defined the politics and ideology of British colonialism in Cyprus. The island was GRAND RUINS 187 considered by the British colonists as at once ‘European’ and ‘backward’ (Varnava 2009), and many of their policies revolved around the paradox of civilising what should already have been civilised (Erdal Ilican 2011). The architectural design of the Hotel seems to internalise this perspective as the self-presentation of the local proprietors who commissioned (or at least approved of) the design – whether this was a whole-hearted identification with the colonists’ outlook of the locals, or whether it was used as a ruse for marketing is difficult to know. But if a combination of the two is assumed, this ‘modern oriental’ styling was an instance of Bhabhaesque ‘colonial mimicry’ (Bhabha 1994: 85–92), that is, local attempts to mimic colonial attitudes filtered through the internalisation of what colonisers consider the colonised to be – practices that carry the ‘menac[ing] double vision which in disclosing the ambivalence of colonial discourse also disrupts its authority’ (Bhabha 1994: 88). An ambivalent aspect of such colonial identity is also evident in the Hotel’s business structure. Its parent company, the first public company in Cyprus, was formed, as a journalist put it, as a ‘vision of Cannes on the Pedieos [the river dividing Nicosia]’ (Sheridan 2006). The idea of establishing the Hotel was credited to George Skyrianides, a Greek-Cypriot and partner in the Hotel’s parent company, who also owned the then-grand ‘Forest Park’ in the erstwhile cosmopolitan mountain resort of Platres, which remains the proud bearer of four stars, although bearing marks of decline, and is still run by the Skyrianides family (Forest Park Hotel 2008: 21). Ledra Palace Hotel shared clients with the Forest Park but was altogether in a different investment league. It required large capital that was sought both externally and internally. Demetrios Zerbinis, an Alexandrian Greek cotton-producing millionaire, was the biggest shareholder; the others included Egyptian, Greek, and Cypriot businessmen. They all bought shares in Cyprus Hotels Ltd, one of the earliest Cypriot public compa- nies established with Ledra Palace as its goal. The colonial government also pledged £20,000 but reneged and the shortfall covered by Zerbinis. The third key partner was George Poulias, another Alexandrian Greek who migrated to Cyprus in 1922, and held amongst other posts the Nicosia vice-mayorship for twenty years between 1926 and 1958. Thus, Ledra Palace Hotel was founded, as an enterprise, on the coalescence of business interests around ethnicity (Greek ethnicity of the colonial Middle East) and the attraction of affluent colonial tourism to this imperial ‘Mediterranean outpost’. The significance of the physical and conceptual locations (topoi) that marked this foundation has much to say about Cypriot subjectivity. The Cypriot businessmen who founded this pioneering public company had close connections to London and the colonial government. The failure of their bid for colonial endorsement strengthened ethnic ties bringing the Hellenism of colonial Egypt closer to the Cypriot one in an enterprise that mimicked the capitalist structures of the colonial centre. The adoption of a European 188 OLGA DEMETRIOU

interpretation of ‘modern orientalism’ (and indeed the choice of a European- cum-Middle-Eastern architect to carry it out) follows the model on which the relationship between ‘Europe’ and the ‘Middle East’ was built. Finally, the underlying ease with which ethnic ties cemented the completion of the project points to the ‘obviousness’ of what sharing ‘common Greek roots’ meant. Thus, the Hotel’s establishment towards the end of colonial rule indicated a post- colonial Cypriot subjectivity already in formation, which looked to London as an imperial centre, to ‘Europe’ as the location of ‘the West’ and of ‘modern culture’, and to Hellenic centres variously defined (first Cairo, then Athens, from where much inspiration and clientele would be sought) as the location of 1 material support. The Hotel’s managing structure exemplified this orientation to the ‘West’, with the initial team, headed by an Italian, hired from abroad while local staff was being trained to take over. The directorship remained international throughout its operation, even if by its closure in 1974, with a Greek in the lead, Cypriot staff had risen all the way to the second-highest post. The deputy-director rose through the hierarchy by 1974 from the accountant’s position in 1950. Interviewed in 2009, he reminisced on how early in his career he was offered a training stint in Venice, a city which had a lasting impact on the Hotel.2 Apart from training, Venice also provided the Murano chandeliers and inspired the naming of ‘the Venetian room’, one of the biggest meeting rooms, which remained open for civilian meetings until 2009 (in an interesting change in connotation it became known as ‘the bi-communal room’, in post-war times). The ambivalent navigation of authority that characterised the Hotel’s colonial air included a valet who read all the guests’ telegrams he was tasked with relaying to the cable office. One former bellboy, who spent his summers at the Hotel, jokingly described how the valet acted precisely as the international correspondents expected him to do, illustrating how staff were occupying that space between legality and illegality that the ‘West’ preserves for the ‘native’ (Bhabha 1994: 100). The staff also included Stelios Sourmelis, the legendary inventor of the Brandy Sour. This was a cocktail particularly popular in the colonial period in Cyprus up until the 1980s, based on brandy and lemonade, and, as (oriental) legend has it, originally invented with the aim of camouflaging King Farouk’s alcoholic escapades at the Forest Park. In late- and post-colonial times, which coincided with Ledra Palace’s highpoint, the Brandy Sour became the culinary hallmark of Cypriot ‘modernity’–highlighted in guidebooks and word-of-mouth internationally and consumed avidly locally. To the colonial eye of Lawrence Durrell, the Information Officer posted on the island in 1953– 1956, Sourmelis’s Ledra Palace station was a ‘grim Tyrolean bar’, which in the 3 brewing period of the EOKA struggle was teaming with international press in a moribund fashion –‘circling over our [the British Administration’s] corpses like vultures’ (Durrell 1957: 163). GRAND RUINS 189

By the 1970s, and with the Brandy Sour firmly established as Cypriot ‘liquid heritage’, platformed and bell-trousered Nicosia youths sipped cocktails and flirted on the Hotel’s patio, ‘the Jasmine Garden’, on Saturday evening outings. As Argyrou describes, the Hotel was also a key feature in the subsequent life cycle of Nicosian Greek-Cypriot society, and it was the main space for ‘modern’ weddings in the 1960s and 1970s. These rituals marked the emergence of a post-colonial modernity that emulated ‘the West’ (Argyrou 1996). The clientele that both Argyrou and my informants were speaking about was decidedly Greek-Cypriot, and by this time (especially post-independence) the Hotel’s grandeur emanated from mainly Greek celebrity guests, indicating a shift in the colonial orientation of Greek-Cypriot society following independ- 4 ence. Aliki Vougiouklaki, in one of whose films the Hotel featured, and George Dalaras, who in his later career held concerts in aid of the Greek- Cypriot military, were both remembered as important guests at the Hotel in its heyday (1950s through 1970s). This orientation towards the ethnic centre (Athens) was obvious by the end of the 1960s. With the Egyptian shareholders pulling out in 1968 and agreeing to a hand-over to the British Forte group, the ethnic basis of the enterprise’s existence came under question.5 According to the former accountant, whom I will call Mr Georgiou, ‘The media made a fuss when they got wind of the deal with Forte, anti-British feelings flared, and reports claimed that control of the Hotel would be lost, possibly even turning to Turkish hands; the Church felt they had to step in and the contract with Forte was never signed’. After ensuring the annulment of the agreement with the Forte group, ownership of Ledra Palace passed over to the Greek-Cypriot Archbishopric by 1970, at that point headed by the President of the Republic Archbishop Makarios. Ledra Palace Hotel thus became a thoroughly Greek-Cypriot establishment. This was not only through ownership (the Orthodox Church being a majority shareholder), and location (in the divided capital’s Greek sector since 1958), but also by comparison to the two other grand hotels of the capital: the Hilton, which ‘represented American interests’, as Greek-Cypriot informants recalled, and the Saray Hotel, built in the Turkish sector ‘because the Turks wanted to have a hotel of their own as well’, as Mr Georgiou reasoned. ‘It wasn’t just the Hotel’, he added. ‘The shareholders were the people who led the business class and as a first example of a public company it set trends for the later development of the whole business sector’. The economic history of the hotel, therefore, attests to a process whereby a seemingly apolitical site of opulence became an ethnic marker, the grand hotel that ‘belonged’ in a taken-for-granted manner to the Greek-Cypriots so that when ownership came under question, capitalist concerns gave way to ‘public 6 interest’, which was understood as ‘ethno-national interest’. Whereas the ‘public’ company that built the Hotel was a collection of interested private 190 OLGA DEMETRIOU

individuals for whom personal gain prefigured communal benefit, the biography of what eventually became Ledra Palace Plc, following the Archbishopric’s purchase of the Hotel, profiles the emergence of a Greek-Cypriot business and political leadership class from colonial entrepreneurial networks and its development into an ethnic interest group. It attests to a process whereby an ethnically rooted cosmopolitanism (that looked to the global centres for inspiration and clientele) turned belligerent, exposing the underbelly of colonial cosmopolitanism (in the atmosphere that Ledra Palace’s corridors exuded) where ethnic aggression found expression in the field of business – and was ultimately subsumed by the religious establishment rather than the state (which Archbishop Makarios at the time also headed). The vision of ‘Cannes on the Pedieos’ that had guided the project was linked to an almost intuitive understanding that the cosmopolitanism of the French original could be cultivated in Nicosia by a mono-ethnic class of investors. When this intuitive understanding came under question its exclu- sionary bases became obvious (what if it ends up in Turkish hands via Forte?) in the climate of the violent ethnic antagonism that had by then developed. The buying of the ownership by the Church attested to the ethnic precepts that had guided the project from the beginning – only now the political context of inter-ethnic violence in which decisions were taken was openly acknowledged. This process of ethnicisation was accompanied by overt militarisation that defined the next period of the Hotel’shistory,which partly overlapped with the previous.

‘THE CONFLICT’ AS NOTIONAL HERITAGE AND LEDRA PALACE’S MILITARISATION (1955–1974) Since opening in 1949, the Hotel had accommodated the Nicosian upper class and dignitaries and celebrities visiting the island. It had also housed reporters and correspondents covering events that punctuated the history of the conflict, local leaders and diplomats holding negotiation meetings, civil society representatives and members of the public attending bi-communal functions, and UN military personnel. With time, these groups of visitors have drifted through its hallways, coming in waves that due to historical accidents, mundane and extraordinary, momentarily caught up with each other. Like its clientele, the building appeared at first to eschew the conflict until its fate came to be determined by turn of events. Initially a marker of opulence (albeit an ethnic one) the building became the chief site for political meetings in the search for peace. This process has increasingly made it evident that whereas Ledra Palace Hotel is a site associated with political negotiations for working out a common ground between Greek-Cypriots and Turkish- Cypriots, it has also in itself become a symbol of ‘the conflict’. GRAND RUINS 191

This section examines the moment at which these signifiers of ‘peace’ and ‘conflict’ became intertwined with the Hotel’s history, beginning a few years after its opening, with the start of the anti-colonial Greek-Cypriot struggle for union with Greece in 1955 andendingwithitsclosurefollowingthewar of 1974. Tracing this process shows that incidents and discourses of violence have to a large extent been ‘purged’ from the memorialisation of the Hotel. Yettracesofthisviolencestillremain,helping the analytic re-positioning of ‘conflict’ within ‘peace’ at this specific site, and, in a metaphorical way, beyond it as well. The former deputy-director’s account, in which inter-communal violence is not remembered as significant at all, is an indicative example. Looking at one of the photographs of men working to erect a wall to divide the two ethnic sectors of Nicosia in 1964, after the breakout of inter-ethnic violence and the arrival of the UN in the form of UNFICYP, Mr Georgiou was puzzled that he could not recollect the structure:

[T]his is indeed 1964,theHotelhasonlytwofloors, and look, these [men putting up the sandbags] are atakti [‘unruly’, paramilitaries], they are not in uniform – [in disapproval] in fact this one is wearing a shirt as if he is about to go to the office! But I do not remember this ... the checkpoint was marked by barrels but they were placed on the other side of the Hotel’s entrance, further down the road. [After a moment’s pause] – Perhaps they [the sandbags] were indeed put there for a time and then removed. In Mr Georgiou’s narrative, the Hotel functioned until the day Turkish troops landed on the island. There was information that Greek-Cypriot gunmen were stationed in the Hotel, and the UN received warning that the Hotel was to be attacked. They carried out a check followed by a visit of the Turkish ambassador to ensure the security threat was over, and they returned the next day to evacuate the guests. They have remained there ever since. In this narrative, decline has a definite starting point in 1974 and is an almost instantaneous occurrence. This narrative conforms to Greek-Cypriot official rhetoric on the conflict, which presents a view of life on the island as peaceful and serene up to the point of rupture in 1974, when Turkey invaded this serenity. Such views of peaceful co-existence tend to diminish the significance of inter-ethnic violence before 1974 under the definition i Tourkoandarsía (the Turkish mutiny) used to refer to the ‘unprovoked’ breakdown of the state mechanism that attended this violence. A number of researchers have critically analysed the formation of this discourse, arguing for the need to address the legacy of the silencing of this violence on the part of the state (Papadakis 1998;Philippou2009; Constantinou 2008;Hadjipavlou2007). The extent to which this discourse of serenity has been internalised by large parts of the Greek-Cypriot 7.2. Collage showing different phases of Ledra Palace. Clockwise from top left: 2010, 1963, 1974, 1970s. (Clockwise from top left, permissions have been granted by the author, the Politis Archive/Avdelopoulos, the Henry Dempster/Hulton Archive/Getty Images/Ideal Image, and CardCow.com.) GRAND RUINS 193 community is evident in this account.FormanypeopleofMrGeorgiou’s generation this internalisation is reflected in the more frequently used term fasaríes, which most appropriately translates into ‘troubles’, bearing a telling resemblance to the term used in Northern Ireland to belittle the significance of the violence (Aretxaga 1997). The discourse of serenity is widely resented by Turkish-Cypriots, who often draw attention to the hardship endured by their community between 1963 and 1974, when the majority of the population lived in enclaves. Popular Turkish-Cypriot narratives describe Ledra Palace Hotel as a battleground during this period. According to them, the Hotel provided the roof from which Greek-Cypriot paramilitaries exchanged fire with Turkish-Cypriot ones stationed on the opposite roof of the Turkish-Cypriot football club Chetinkaya in 1963–1964. The Hotel’s roof has accommodated a UN guard post since 1964, when UNFICYP top officials were also installed in three of the Hotel’s rooms as permanent guests on UNFICYP’s budget. It also hosted Greek-Cypriot gunmen who opened fire against Turkish forces in 1974. Turkish-Cypriot leader Rauf Denktash, who was arrested by Greek- Cypriot police in 1967 for gun smuggling, gave a macro-historical account of events leading to the violence of the 1960s in his testimony, making particular mention of the Hotel’stopfloor as the first location controlled by Greek-Cypriot forces on the night of 23 December 1963, when the gunning down of five Turkish-Cypriots by police marked the start of widespread violence (Tahsin 1999: 238). These conflicting recollections of the use of Ledra Palace thus reflect official discourses of ‘peaceful coexistence’ before 1974 (Greek-Cypriot) versus continuous Greek-Cypriot aggression necessitating Turkey’s ‘intervention’ (Turkish-Cypriot). Current research on the history of the area suggests that the road on which the Hotel is located was the site of at least two ethnically motivated murders, one disappearance, a rape, and a suspected suicide, all incidents effaced from the narrative of 7 serenity. During a tour of the Hotel with UN personnel in late 2009, the bullet holes left on the façade by such fighting were pointed out, yet their date was unknown. ‘The marks point to a east-west direction, which means they came from over there’, a Greek-Cypriot worker with the UN contingent explained, pointing to the general direction of the Turkish-Cypriot– controlled area. ‘The Turks always wanted to take control of this place and this is partly why it was left to the UN – to keep it from becoming a political stake in the negotiations’. His narrative, punctured by the experience of the Hotel as a military space, contrasts with the serenity of accounts of earlier epochs. This construction of serenity was by no means uncomplicated. Even the Hotel’s management used the site’simplicationintheconflict for 194 OLGA DEMETRIOU

branding purposes. A 1970 guest guide presented the Hotel’s political legacy as a unique cultural feature:

In 1956, when the Eoka campaign was in full swing, talks were initiated at the Ledra Palace between Ethnarch Makarios and the Governor. ... In December 1963 and in subsequent months, Ledra Palace was the Home of dozens of newspapers Corresponders, from all over the world who sent out reports on the infortunate intercommunal troubles between Greeks and Turks. In 1968, intercommunal talks ...were opened at the Ledra Palace. (Ledra Palace Hotel 1970 [errors in original]) A clearer tracing of this process of enmeshment in the conflict can be accessed through a series of reports in Time Magazine from 1955 to 1974. Authored by correspondents who lodged at the Hotel at different times and who reported on key events that marked the various stages of the political conflict, these reports provide valuable insights into the Hotel’slocationin the conflict. In these reports, Ledra Palace Hotel appears both as a physical site of conflict and negotiation and as a space within which ‘the conflict’ became an aspect of enculturation into Cypriot life for the transient communities of newsmen and women who found a temporary home there. A 1955 report reads:

Governor Harding telephoned Archbishop Myriarthefs [sic] Makarios, leader of the Greek Cypriot drive of enosis (union) with Greece, and arranged to meet him next day on the ‘neutral ground’ of Nicosia’s Ledra Palace hotel. ... [The Hotel] set aside its cardroom for the meeting. (Time Magazine 17 October 1955) In the wake of failure to reach a compromise at this meeting, violence left six British officers injured and one Greek-Cypriot policeman dead. So six years after its official opening, Ledra Palace was already well established as ‘neutral ground’ for manly attempts (noting the gendered aspect that the political quest 8 for settlement acquired) and failures to find political solutions for peace. This ‘neutrality’ was oxymoronic because in its very pronouncement it rendered the space of Ledra Palace as one of adversarial encounters. A slow process of militarisation, whereby the Hotel was becoming a luxury-clad battleground for negotiating bloodier battles on the ground, had begun. This militarisation was largely hidden, however, as the Hotel would continue to be considered a ‘space apart’ from the militarisation that gripped Cypriot society well into the 1960s:

At Nicosia’s Ledra Palace Hotel, a new swimming pool was dedicated with a cocktail party. Not far away, a new Hilton was abuilding. Yet everyone knew that each evening, when the sun fell behind the Troodos Mountains, the smuggling of men and arms into the island resumed, making peace an ugly deception. (Time Magazine 1964a) GRAND RUINS 195

This ‘deception’ soon encompassed Ledra Palace as UN barbed wire, sandbags, and barrel walls were erected on either side. Registered as a ‘checkpoint’ location in what was fast becoming a ‘war-zone’, and thriving on press clientele, its ‘neutrality’ took on a decidedly military overtone, the comfort of opulence beginning to seem disconcerting:

Zooming about the island in rented M.G.s and Sprites, correspondents covering the Cyprus fighting see something hidden from most war correspondents: both sides. Even the corps headquarters – the comfortable Ledra Palace Hotel – is located directly on the often violated Green Line dividing Greek and Turkish factions. (Time Magazine 1964b) I was told by current workers at the Hotel that in this period (1963–1974)the basement was used by the Greek-Cypriot national guard to stock ammunitions, a point that further underscores the deception of serenity in the opulence exuded by the above-ground structure. The coincidence of militarisation and ‘neutrality’ reached its apogee in July 1974, with the launch of a Turkish offensive to save Turkish-Cypriots from the hands of Greek-Cypriot enosists who, having executed a coup d’état earlier that month, took control of the government. On the morning when Turkish parachutists formed the first attack,

most of the hotel guests ... were awakened ... by a long burst of weapons fire and found themselves in the middle of the fighting as a squad or so of Greek Cypriots ...uncertain about their role ...moved frequently from the front of the huge hotel to the back amid much shouting of orders and replies. ... Early in the day, Greek Cypriot soldiers carried a .50-cal. machine gun up to the roof ... they soon drew counterfire. A heavy shell, possibly bazooka, hit the northeast corner of the building, killing one Greek Cypriot soldier and fatally wounding a second. ... Later, when the Greeks removed their guns from the hotel and withdrew into the patio, they were loudly cheered by the much relieved newsmen and guests. (Time Magazine 1974b) At this moment, when the tourists, soldiers, and reporters shuffled past each other, the meeting of three unlikely social groups epitomised Ledra Palace’s ‘extraordinariness’ and came to mark the afterlife of a hotel that has never resumed its hospitality function:

The Ledra Palace in Nicosia, acknowledged queen of Cypriot hotels, is a shell-pocked shambles. A construction program under which 35 additional hotels were to be built throughout the island has been suspended indeﬁnitely ... as a UN oﬃcial in Nicosia observed: ‘Cyprus will be economically marked for a generation, and psychologically scarred for two generations.’ (Time Magazine 1974a) Nearly four decades on, the bullet holes sustained that day still mark the building’sfrontwall.Inadditionthewalladdedinfrontoftheglasswindows 196 OLGA DEMETRIOU

of ‘the Venetian room’ (marking the formalisation of its name as ‘the negotiation room’) to protect the leaders from sniper fire was never torn down. With UNFICYP troops becoming the hotel’s permanent guests, Ledra Palace came to symbolise ‘the conflict’ that was inherited by future generations. ‘Ledra Palace’ became a synonym of the ‘Green Line’ and ‘division’, and future generations have come to know it less as a hotel and more as the meeting point of nationalist demonstrators and of post-nationalist peace activists. The examination of this location as a heritage site, therefore, has much to say about the notional heritage that Cypriots at large growing up within ‘the conflict’ have inherited as part of their very identification. The protracted nature of the conflict in Cyprus, which has entailed a series of failed negotiations for the last five decades, spurts of violence, and an uninterrupted prevalence of nationalist rhetoric, has resulted in ‘the conflict’ becoming an important constituent of Cypriot subjectivity. ‘The conflict’ per se thus needs to be seen as part and parcel of Cypriot ‘cultural heritage’. It is this legacy that renders the Hotel a site marking ‘the conflict’ as Cypriot notional heritage. Paradoxically, in the process of being militarised, Ledra Palace Hotel, as an emblematic site of the Cypriot Buffer Zone, was rendered ‘peaceful’. At the same time, the making of ‘peace’ became part and parcel of the development of the conflict. Thus, a structure was set up whereby militarisation and pacification sustained each other. As the central site for negotiating the conflict, Ledra Palace Hotel is thus a marker of the boundary between conflict and peace as negotiated in time, space, and conceptually. This is a site in which materiality serves to underscore the intangibility of ‘notional heritage’. Indeed, it may be asked whether protracted conflicts beyond Cyprus might similarly be thought of as markers of notional heritage. Work on the cultural dynamics of political subjectivity in Israel-Palestine (Jean-Klein 2000), Northern Ireland (Aretxaga 1997), and South Africa (Scheper-Hughes 2007), to name but a few, point in this direction. But examples of material structures that embody the ambivalence of such notional heritage (at once celebrated, revered, branded, and mourned, while also neglected) are yet to be fully analysed. This ambivalence of at once cultivated and neglected ruination inhering in Ledra Palace’s materiality is the subject of the next section.

CHANGING MEANINGS: CULTIVATING RUINATION (1974–2004) Until 2009, an overgrown agave plant graced a white plaster structure in the building’s entrance yard, which was originally a water fountain, added on the initiative of a manager from Monaco. With its dry flower stem towering at nearly three metres, its rare bloom having flowered a long time ago, the GRAND RUINS 197 stem served as a measure of the time elapsed since the water in the abandoned fountain dried up (agave plants in Cyprus can take up to a decade to blossom). Generally considered wild cacti in Cyprus, these ‘century plants’ (as they are commonly known in English) are normally associated with wilderness. The encroachment of nature on urban settings that they denote is associated with ruination, degradation, and dereliction: they grow in abandoned gardens, unvisited cemeteries, and unkempt roundabouts. Their presence is negative, marking only the absence of the more valuable and care-intensive alternatives that could bloom in their place. As an entrance marker, Ledra Palace’s century plant marked the absence of what once was. The contrast is seen in a John Hinde postcard of the hotel from the 1960s showing an ornate walkway between plush flowerbeds of green grass, roses, oleander, and young palm trees, already tall but now overshadowed by the even taller overgrown fence of cypresses. (Figure 7.2). The presence and absence of specific flora serves to calculate Ledra Palace’s ‘losses’. Roses and oleanders were ephemeral plants, Mr Georgiou said, when I enquired about the image presented on the postcard; they came and went without marking the Hotel’s character in any lasting sense. By contrast, what Mr Georgiou lamented most about the floral losses of the Hotel was the jasmine garden, where celebrity musicians used to perform –‘nothing left now, they’ve all dried up’. The patio, along with the back garden of the Hotel, is actually today one of the least-degraded areas. It is maintained as an open-air bar and

7.3. Collage of photos from Ledra Palace’s interior. (Photos author.) 198 OLGA DEMETRIOU

cafeteria, the tennis courts and swimming pool around it are still used, and the palm trees lining the walkway in front are well maintained. Mr Georgiou explained that the palm trees were brought over fully grown from a coastal village, by the Monegasque director, who arranged the innovative transplant following a practice from the Côte d’Azure. Asked about their current upkeep by the UN, he reasoned that ‘palm trees are easy, they’d survive anyway’. The Hotel’s current occupants, he seemed to suggest, were maintaining the flora in the least care-intensive way, allowing what would ‘survive anyway’ to do so, the rest condemned to ruination. A veiled argument of blame seemed to be proposed by implication, the force of which unfolded slowly, and extended to the politics of restoration examined in the following section. During a visit to the Hotel, a newly arrived military officer claimed that no gardening took place on the grounds. Asked specifically about the obvious pruning of the palm trees, he reasoned it must be maintenance offered by headquarters, which he was yet to witness himself. His comments appeared to subscribe to the same notion of ruination as the ‘natural’ condition prevailing around the building, a condition of neglect. Care, even where present, seemed in both accounts to have been completely effaced, and ruination was normalised. In this context of total ruination, Mr Georgiou’s comments point to an evaluation of loss, where flora indicates the tension between permanence and transience. The affective effort that goes into making jasmine, but not oleanders, permanent, marks the difference between loss that is lamented and loss that is discounted. Affective effort also made ‘the jasmine garden’ the Hotel’s jewel and underpins the evaluation of its loss as significant. In distinction to the oleanders that help frame one of the most well-known images of the Hotel in its glory days, the jasmine signifies a sense of community taking form in the ‘backyard’ rather than the public ‘front’ of the building. The names of famous Greek singers who sang in the jasmine garden were remembered with affection by Mr Georgiou, as members of a community of stardom that signified Ledra Palace’s grandeur. Signed photographs and press clippings now kept in an album testify to both the construction of that community and the lamentation of its loss. They also indicate that the frame in which this social history is reconstructed through memory and forgetting (Connerton 1989) is also one of affect. There is an exteriority to the subjective experience being communicated here that Navaro-Yashin (2012) argues needs to be anthropologically analysed beyond the subjectivity paradigm. I would argue for an interpretation of subjectivity that already includes more than the ‘psychic’ interior of the self, and I suggest this point is pertinent in drawing attention to the integration of the landscape (flora, artefacts, autographs) in explaining the workings of loss. I therefore propose that such objects are not simply ‘used’ to anchor memories, but are rather an integral part of the evaluation that gives subjective experience GRAND RUINS 199 its social meaning. The register of this evaluation is sentiment, in this case loss. Another instance of this is the interpretation of what the survival of palm trees at different points of the Hotel’s history means. Thus, the fragility of palm trees in the transplantation stage and their durability in the abandonment stage serves to value the ingenuity of getting them there as ‘care’ and de-value their upkeep as lack of it. There is ultimately an implied evaluation here, shared by the vast majority of pre-1974 visitors of that period’s flora as ‘cultivated’ which stands in stark opposition to the post-1974 ‘abandonment’. This also holds for visitors today, as flora is one of the least-noticed features of Ledra Palace. Yet, it seems to frame in an imperceptible way the evaluation scheme that relates Ledra Palace to ‘loss’. To many of the Cypriot users of its reconciliation-meeting facilities, Ledra Palace is an ‘ugly’ place. It is old, unkempt, tired, dirty, and boring. These features are attributed to its interior – curtains, walls, furniture. But they also inhere in the plant life, met before one even enters the building, but which none of the many participants to conflict-resolution events I have spoken to remembered noticing. This ‘forgetting’ is indicative of a certain way of historicising subjectivity. For as one bypasses plant life on entry to Ledra Palace Hotel, one also bypasses the paradoxical landscape of ruination – the plants that are still tended, the tennis courts still used, the agave that has been allowed to grow. It is not only that they are bypassed – in bypassing them, one forgets that they are even there (this was confirmed by many people questioned on the matter, who could not recall

7.4. Collage of photos from Ledra Palace’s exterior. (Photos author.) 200 OLGA DEMETRIOU

particular plants in the garden, but instead articulated a sense of abandonment, wilderness, lack of care). In constructing, much as in forgetting, such aspects of loss, we are reminded that ‘ruination’ is not simply a natural process – it is a cultural and political one and as such needs to be analysed beyond its overt indicators. Another aspect of the cultivation of loss is seen in the recollection of particular artefacts from the Hotel’s interior. Like the participants in bi-communal events who located ‘ruination’ in the interior of the building (e.g., curtains and furniture), Mr Georgiou also nurtured the sense of ‘loss’ through recalling the high-culture artefacts from inside the building. ‘The ball room had two panels designed by [Menis] Agelopoulos [a leading figure in the Alexandrian Greek art community] ... and a lowered wooden dance floor ... a lot of work went into that room’, he said, pointing to old photos of intricate designs on the pillars. The bar had cypress wood panelling around pillars sculpted by Paul Georgiou, a noted Greek-Cypriot artist. The pillars have since been painted black, Mr Georgiou noted with considerable bitterness (during my visit in early 2010, this treatment seemed to have been reversed, if indeed it took place). Exhibitions were frequently held in ‘the Rotary room’ by acclaimed Greek- Cypriot artists throughout the 1950sto1970s. Ledra Palace Hotel was the first to hold such functions, and the Hotel’s management considered them to be services to the community’sculturallife.‘Kashalos (a leading figure in modern Cypriot painting) would consult me as his catalogues were being printed about the pricing of the paintings’, my interlocutor reminisced with a smile. Now known as ‘the Officers’ Club’, the room maintains a sense of elitism although the high standard of cultural refinement that the hosted exhibitions provided seems lost. Even if other hotels now hold exhibitions, perhaps even of works by the same artists, the sheer fact that these ‘fathers of modern Cypriot art’ are no longer alive renders the earlier exhibitions, which Ledra Palace pioneered in Cyprus, and in which they were physically present, irrecoverably lost. In this process of evaluating loss, Ledra Palace Hotel becomes part of the refashioning of the present into the past as ‘heritage’. The acclaim that the painters hosted then have since received effected a shift from ‘culture’ to ‘heritage’, a shift further enabled by the readings of ‘loss’ to interpret what took place in the temporal gap between that past and the present of its recall. As the works surviving their creators become heritage to be exhibited in collections around the world, their first public home claims the spatial authenticity of that heritage, which is itself now lost. In becoming heritage, loss is cultivated, evaluated, and negotiated. The valuation–devaluation processes involved here oscillate between different ways of accepting loss – what Freud identified as mourning and melancholia (Freud 1917). Thus, even though the losses of GRAND RUINS 201 particular items are mourned within a frame of normality, other losses are not. They are instead subsumed under a collective sense of loss of the Hotel and the ‘abnormal’ conditions under which it occurred. They are consequently subjected to a different affective condition, akin to what Freud describes as melancholia. Inherent in this oscillation between mourning and melancholia is a specific set of power dynamics in response to the erasure of the Hotel’s identity by its non-civilian occupants. These are poignantly shown in the lamentation over the loss of artistic items uniquely related to the Hotel: its logo presentations. The griffin symbol, a part-lion part-eagle creature, in the Hotel’s coat of arms has been found in excavations and has since symbolised Nicosia’s archaeological heritage by evidencing the establishment of Ledra (Nicosia’s older name) as the area’s first city kingdom at the beginning of the first millennium bc. The logo was etched into the glass of the Hotel’s wooden-framed doors, shipped from Italy. It was also shaped into a floor mosaic that graced the entrance floor just outside these doors. The mosaic is still visible, but largely unnoticed, while the doors were taken out after the Hotel’s closure and transported to a building across the road owned by the same company, along with other movables, to be protected there until the conflict stabilised. Instead, the building was burnt down in the course of the violence, and the valuables were lost forever. Other items become the subject of a more personal kind of mourning for Mr Georgiou that hinges on the personal knowledge of the value of what was lost:

[O]ne thing I tried to recover was my old accounting machine; you know, when they first came out they were huge things, you put cards in them and then you punched. It would have made a good museum exhibit, but I never managed to find out what happened to it, it just wasn’t there when I looked for it. Having visited the Hotel on several occasions after its closure to check on the building’s upkeep, Mr Georgiou has also witnessed other losses since 1974. The lift, he said, was stolen at some point, explaining with regret that this could also have made a museum piece, as it had metal folding doors. Mr Georgiou considers himself fortunate to have played a part in the recovery of much of Ledra Palace’s equipment. In 1982 Ledra Hotel was set up in the south of the island as a revival of the business venture that had been lost by a business group consisting of some of the people who had held stocks in Ledra Palace Plc. In the preparation phase, a team was able to recover many of the items that the UN catalogued and stored away when they moved into Ledra Palace. Mr Georgiou had kept regular checks on this inventory in the first few years after 1974, on special visits to Ledra Palace facilitated by the UN. In 1982 cutlery, dishes, chairs, and mattresses were moved to Ledra Hotel in 202 OLGA DEMETRIOU

UNFICYP vehicles under special security measures. The chandeliers were taken down and dismantled, to be reassembled in the new hotel. Although this operation normalised mourning by providing a sense of closure, the possibility of further recovery still persists: ‘who knows what still lies forgotten in some basement?’ Mr Georgiou concluded in his account of the losses. ‘So many things were packed haphazardly, there was no time to take things down properly’. During my visit to Ledra Palace in early 2010, I was shown part of the ‘labyrinthine’, as my guides labelled it, basement of the Hotel. Using a camera flash in the pitch-blackness of one of the storage rooms, we discovered (without much surprise to my guides) a wall covered floor-to-ceiling with boxes containing garden lights. Recovery, I was reminded, is always incomplete and incomplete-able. Another trace of the commercial appropriation of local heritage is found in the form of a hollow groove above the fireplace of ‘the bi-communal room’. There, the shield-shaped outline of a comparatively unremarkable plaster moulding of the Hotel’s coat of arms traces the absence of the Hotel. Pointing to it a visitor once identified the groove as the space where the Republic’s emblem sat and noted that it was taken out when the room assumed its ‘negotiation’ function to neutralise the space. The assessment was only partly erroneous, since UNFICYP’s ‘neutrality’ mandate dictates the erasure of signs, flags, and emblems in spaces under its authority. In this sense, the absence in the yellow-stone chimney groove points to the convergence of multiple signifiers towards an ethnicised reading of ‘identity’. In the erroneous overlap between the Hotel’sidentitymarker and that of the (Greek-Cypriot-run) Republic, Ledra Palace’sGreek- Cypriot-ness is alluded to. Overall, the Hotel’s losses open up a space for mourning that bypasses memories of violence. Loss gains an aspect of temporality whereby what waslostatsomemomentsisevaluateddifferently to what was lost at others. This temporality of loss exemplifies Gonzalez-Ruibal’s(2008) point about ruination, where he argues that the violence that politicises battlefields in Ethiopia but not abandoned rural houses in the French countryside is where the politics of understanding the recent past inheres. In this case, the politics at stake in temporally specific evaluations of loss is nothing less than the politics of ‘the Cyprus conflict’. Thus, in readings that are politically situated in specificways,the‘conflict’ inheres in the disastrous losses of 1974 and the discounting of prior ones. In such selective readings, serenity is lost to the surrounding incidents of violence, Turkish-Cypriot presence to the erection of the border, and civilian sovereignty to the intrusion of paramilitaries. Loss works to separate positive from negative. The insertion of loss in the narrative is thus a political device that forecloses the story of how positive and negative became enmeshed in each other. GRAND RUINS 203

REFURBISHMENT AND RECONCILIATION (2004–2009) I have elsewhere argued that Greek-Cypriot political subjectivity has been framed by the process of normalising what has, since 1974, been considered a transient condition, of waiting for an ‘imminent’ political settlement (Demetriou 2007a and 2007b). I also proposed that the core of this subjectivity can be conceptualised as a Lacanian knot, in which the Real, the Imaginary, and the Symbolic sustain the enjoyment of the ‘transient’, ‘abnormal’ situation of division as sinthome (Demetriou 2007a)andthatthe reconfiguration of subjectivity necessary to allow a different ‘normality’ to be incorporated could have begun with the opening of the checkpoints in 2003 and the referendum of 2004 – two events that have instead shown the salience of division as inherent in Greek-Cypriot ‘normality’ (Demetriou 2007b). Revisiting the legacy of that period through the analytic lens used here, in which this normalisation of the conflict renders ‘the Cyprus problem’ an inherent part of Cypriot identity and thus a sort of political heritage, it is highly relevant to find that Ledra Palace Hotel, in the years following the failure of the referendum, became the ground on which this normalisation of ‘the conflict’ was argued and re-thought. This rendering of ‘the conflict’ as heritage is also relevant for understanding the international politics in which Ledra Palace Hotel is immersed. It is to these politics that this final section turns in an attempt to show how the politics of responsibility (for ruination), thus far considered obliquely, have in the last decade become overtly articulated at the top official level. This high-level political contestation over the refurbishment of Ledra Palace is essentially also a struggle over what ‘Ledra Palace’ means, and consequently, also about the meanings of ‘the Cyprus conflict’ as notional heritage. The beginnings of this struggle over refurbishment lie in the failure of the UN-proposed plan for a ‘comprehensive settlement’ of the Cyprus conflict, known as ‘the Annan Plan’, which was rejected in a referendum by the Greek- Cypriot public in 2004 (and thus remained non-implementable despite a Turkish-Cypriot endorsement in the same referendum). Under the United Cyprus Republic envisioned in the Annan Plan, the 1,228-strong UNFICYP was to be ‘liquidated’ and replaced by a 3,250-strong UN peacekeeping operation of ‘indefinite mandate’ and ‘a more substantive political role ... more intrusive than UNFICYP’ (UNSC 2004a:§22 and §24). UNFICYP’s ‘support structure ... the three sector headquarters’, which includes Ledra Palace Hotel, would be maintained (UNSC 2004a:§40). Following the referendum, a number of activities hitherto postponed ‘pending a solution to the problem’ were carried out in the realisation that ‘the solution’ might not be imminent. One of these activities was Ledra Palace’s refurbishment, or ‘maintenance’ as a worker on the site noted. The terminology is important for 204 OLGA DEMETRIOU

it points to the political contestations within which Ledra Palace is immersed: under UNFICYP’s mandate, the properties used for the facilitation of their operations in Cyprus may not be substantially altered, including refurbishment (interview with UNFICYP official, May 2008). The official’s careful selection of terms (correcting me when I called it ‘refurbishment’) references this situation but also calls attention to the fact that the works carried out were far from the ‘refurbishment’ that it actually required, and to the fact that even ‘refurbishment’ has become politicised and subject to battles over meaning. The rejection of the Annan Plan resulted in the renewal of UNFICYP’s mandate in May 2004, together with a proposal by the Secretary-General to the Security Council to review ‘UNFICYP’s mandate, force levels and concept of operations ...[and to] submit recommendations on ...adjustments or restructuring’ (UNSC 2004b:§18). The review was accompanied by intense political efforts to thwart what Greek-Cypriot politicians feared was a call for disbanding the force, resulting in a recommendation that the military staff of UNFICYP be cut by a third, while its political and civil affairs branches be strengthened (UNSC 2004c). During this period of strained relations between the UN and the Republic of Cyprus the occupation of Ledra Palace Hotel (by the British contingent of UNFICYP) came under increased scrutiny. Beginning in September 2004, the U.K. High Commission on the island entered into a long process of negotiation with the authorities of the Republic regarding work on the building, which, in the Foreign Office’s view ‘was falling down’ (FCO 2008:10). These exchanges took place within a difficult environment of strained relations between the Republic of Cyprus and several international actors who had supported the Annan Plan, including both the U.K. government and the UN. As a result it became clear to the U.K. High Commission that the Republic of Cyprus was unwilling to embark on refurbishment, and UNFICYP was asked ‘to take control of solving the problem’ (FCO 2008: 10). Two years later, the British Mission to the UN took the matter up in New York, urging the Secretary-General’s special representative on the island to include ‘some reference to health and safety in Ledra Palace’ (FCO 2008: 7) in the forthcoming UNSC resolution. The preamble of the resolution described the conditions as ‘unacceptable’ (UNSC 2007), and a delegation of the Commonwealth Parliamentary Assembly visiting the island made representations to the Republic’sgovern- ment, having found ‘slum-like conditions ... being endured by 600 UNFICYP peace-keeping forces ...[including]faultylavatoriesthatdepos- ited sewage in the soldiers’ quarters, inoperable lifts, broken air-conditioning systems, soldiers packed three to a room because of space shortages’ (Carter 2007). In what the British High Commissioner described as ‘the pressure [having] worked’, the Republic conceded to structural improvements (FCO 2008: 3). The improvements included replacement of the roof, installation of GRAND RUINS 205 heaters and boilers, new air-conditioning systems, asbestos removal from the basement, and refurbishment of various function rooms, including the dining room (which became the ‘gym’), and the bi-communal rooms. Most noticeable to Cypriot visitors was the panelling over the existing wooden panels lining ‘the bi-communal room’. It exemplified both the layered ‘maintenance’ that resulted from a rule of ‘least interference’ dictated by the temporary status of the Hotel’s military occupancy and the presumption that when the Cyprus problem is solved the building will revert to its original owners. ‘This means that refurbishing any room effectively means creating a new room inside the room’, an UNFICYP official explained when informally queried on the changes noticed. These constraints in the way ‘maintenance’ is carried out point to yet another set of power contestations that persist in the negotiation of Ledra Palace as a space. In effect, these negotiations rendered Ledra Palace, till then the foremost ‘space of negotiation’, a space itself under negotiation. In the aftermath of the referendum, it seemed that the negotiations hitherto housed at the Hotel had been sharing its slowly deteriorating condition, for which no party was willing to claim responsibility, and which required costly restoration that no one was willing to undertake. As ‘the conflict’ entered a new constellation of global power structures (Agathangelou 2008), the question of responsibility, so forcefully asked about past tragedies – that took place at specific points in time in a past that is no longer ‘recent’ (Papadakis 2005) – was now being asked about the slow, ongoing processes of ruination that normalised the maintenance of non- peace in the present. ‘Responsibility’ thus became another tool for eschewing past violence by brushing over concepts hitherto associated with Ledra Palace (reunification, reconciliation, rapprochement, and bi-communalism) and foregrounding instead the spectre of the ruins created by their lack. Many of the visitors to the site are oblivious to the refurbishment process underway, although it is generally accepted that the Hotel is in a state of collapse. The green panels installed in 2009 in the bi-communal room were hardly the focus of commentary by people who had used the room on repeated occasions apart from some who described them as an architectural faux pas, ‘indicative of military style, what can you expect?’ Thus, while many of the attendees to meetings have from time to time commented on Ledra Palace’s ‘crumbling state’, ruination seems to have been accepted as part of what the Hotel, in its post-1974, UN-occupied phase stands for: a surviving relic of older, better times, that awaits the resolution of the Cyprus problem to be properly restored. During the opening of a conference on reconciliation in 2008, the keynote speaker was repeatedly interrupted by screeches coming from the bi-communal room’s ceiling. Attendees, predominantly Cypriots who had attended events there before, looked at each other across the room, gestured, and burst into muffled laughter. It was clear that what we were hearing must 206 OLGA DEMETRIOU

have been mice, or pigeons trapped in crevices in the ceiling. This was hardly surprising – the screeches were rather a confirmation of what everyone already knew about the Hotel: that ruination had become its normal condition. In this sense, it might be suggested that the unwillingness to meaningfully engage in ‘restoration’ of the site might be reflective of a more general unwillingness to undo the ruination that ‘the Cyprus conflict’ has been mired by. And while in the case of Ledra Palace’s restoration responsibility may lie with the authorities of the Republic of Cyprus, the political repair work required to render the notional heritage of ‘the conflict’ a thing of the past burdens both sides, and possibly much of the Cypriot population at large too.

POSTSCRIPT If Ledra Palace in the 1980s and 1990s was the topos of the production of hope for a resolution to the Cyprus problem, it seems to have quickly become, especially in the aftermath of the opening of the checkpoints and the failure of the Annan Plan, the space in which the search for a solution stalled. In the displacement of a modernity symbolised by grandeur, the Hotel became the site of a post-modern morbidity as talks on rapprochement stalled and faltered. Contrasting with what the Hotel originally signified, its tedious decline is poignant: it points to the process of which it is also a material metaphor. The material aspects are as inescapable as the intangible aspects of this decline. In recent work on the relevance of abjection in Turkish-Cypriot subjectivity, Navaro-Yashin makes the point that ‘the abject is not an exteriority against which subjectivity and sociality are to be defined (challenging the order from without), but fundamentally an interiority: what is internally generative of a political system or what is intrinsic to the system in and of itself’ (2009: 6). Navaro-Yashin is considering the relation between people and objects in the north of the island, objects (whether loot from houses or the barren landscape) that in an expansive, rhizomatic way carry the melancholia of conflict and the constricted political existence of Turkish-Cypriots. The point is instructive in considering Cypriot subjectivity in general but also, in particular, the tension between transience and permanence of the ‘always imminent solution’ that generates it. Ledra Palace, hated but inescapable, is a locus of such abjection. One of the areas still accessible in 2012, albeit dysfunctional, was the Hotel’s communal toilets, which in the last few years had fallen into disuse and which prior to ‘maintenance’ had been replaced by mobile units on the former flowerbeds at the side of the entrance. The contrast with the Hotel’s original selling point of being the only hotel in Nicosia to feature a bathroom in every room is stark. In these toilets, which were occasionally still used in the late 2000s, the cubicle doors were broken and the toilets marked by cigarette burns and stains left over time that regular cleaning seemed unable to remove. Stuck GRAND RUINS 207 on the tired wall tiles were laminated, yellowing warnings against unprotected sex and the risks of AIDS, warnings that immediately confronted the visitor with the intimacy of military lives – and at the same time invited recollections of an epidemic ‘just’ passed, at least in ‘Europe’. Dry soap bars marked with dirt furrows sat on the washbasins, indeterminate clues as to when water last ran over them. It is as if in this space the unsuspecting guest entered a crime scene: clues were there but not to be touched, connections could be drawn but changes would not be made. Any attempt to defy this order, to proceed ‘as normal’ despite it, seemed a harsh reminder that every single discharge is a contributor to dilapidation, that one cannot be absolved of the production of waste here, and that everyone’s hands are dirty. In this sense, the politics of what Gonzalez-Ruibal calls ‘an archaeology of the recent past’ (2008) in Ledra Palace is the research politics of collective responsibility. If the biography of Ledra Palace Hotel has a lesson for heritage research, it is the need to seriously rethink the ways in which the materiality of heritage is bound up with the intangible aspects of political subjectivity. Material heritage, I have proposed, is always attended by notional heritage. The exploration of the relationship between the two, which is inevitably political, can open up new ways of understanding the enmeshment of peace in conflict, militarisation in serenity, or the reconstruction of remnants of the recent past.

NOTES

1. For relevant arguments about such colonial/post-colonial conceptualisations in Cyprus and Greece see Gourgouris (1996), Argyrou (1996), and Hamilakis (2007), and for arguments regarding Turkish locations in structuring Cypriot subjectivity, see Navaro-Yashin (2012). 2. For this and subsequent references, the former deputy director is being cited from an interview on 7 August 2009. 3. EOKA was a Greek-Cypriot nationalist organisation that, under the spiritual leadership of the Church, waged a guerrilla struggle against the British colonists in 1955–1959 demanding union with Greece (‘enosis’). At the end of this struggle, the Republic of Cyprus emerged as an independent state in 1960. This was a power-sharing arrangement with Turkish-Cypriots that broke down in 1963, when inter-ethnic violence flared. 4. It should be noted that inter-ethnic violence had flared in the 1963–1964 period and again in 1968 before culminating in the war of 1974. 5. The Forte group (1935–2001) was the umbrella under which many British and international hotels and restaurants operated in the latter half of the twentieth century, from Little Chef to Le Mèridien. 6. Note that a similar rhetoric surfaced in 2013 when Cyprus was affected by the global financial crisis and the Archbishop made statements against a feared takeover of Hellenic Bank by foreign investors ‘who may ransack it’–using a phrase reminiscent of the Ottoman takeover of Constantinople [na tin alósoun] (statement to media, 27 October 2013). 7. Interview with staff of the Association for Historical Dialogue and Research, Nicosia, June 2010. 8. The gender dynamics involved in the militarisation of Ledra Palace Hotel are indeed complex and have been explored elsewhere (Demetriou 2012). CHAPTER EIGHT

CHANGING MEANING OF SECOND WORLD WAR MONUMENTS IN POST-DAYTON BOSNIA HERZEGOVINA: A CASE STUDY OF THE KOZARA MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL COMPLEX

Dzenan Sahovic and Dino Zulumovic

INTRODUCTION The Balkan Peninsula is without doubt one of the hottest conflict zones in European history. Borders, regimes, identities, nations, and nationalities in the region have been defined and redefined through warfare whether these were due to clashes between the Ottoman and Hapsburg empires, the Balkan wars of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, the two world wars, or through wars in connection to the breakup of the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s. Material cultural heritage commemorating past wars and conflicts is therefore naturally linked to the very core of the identities of the peoples in the Balkans. The links between conflicts, identity, history, nationhood, and places of heritage are clearly visible throughout the region, and perhaps more than anywhere else in contemporary Bosnia Herzegovina, where the political situation can be characterised as a post-war fragile society, with an internationally assisted poorly functioning political system in which different 1 ethnic groups still pursue their war-time interests. In such a political context, where peace is still not fully consolidated and low-intensity inter-group conflict continues, cultural heritage is frequently used to support master narratives of national identity, serving the needs of grand political projects of different ethnic groups. As history is being written, new places of historical importance are being defined through public discourse, and new physical heritage sites are being constructed and given specific

208 A CASE STUDY OF THE KOZARA MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL COMPLEX 209 political meaning. At the same time, the current political climate has also made possible and desirable the re-writing of history according to the interests of different groups. Monuments, memorial sites, and historical places in general play a crucial role in the new public discourses as they bear witness to the understanding of major recent events or provide a platform for the reinterpretation of historic ones. As the meaning of historical events is being re-negotiated, the meaning of places of cultural heritage is changing to accommodate the new understanding of the past. This chapter studies this process of re-interpretation of older monuments and their representation of history by focusing on the changes wrought to the meanings of a particular category of war heritage with specificsignifi- cance in the Balkans: the monuments and memorial sites from the Second World War built by the Yugoslav Socialist regime to commemorate Partisans fighting against the German occupiers and local Quislings (the Croat Ustasha and Serb Chetnik movements). Such monuments and memorial sites exist all over former Yugoslavia, in all cities and most villages from Slovenia in the north to Macedonia in the south. Their fate following the breakup of former Yugoslavia differs from case to case. Sometimes they have been revitalised and used for tourism, attracting of course far fewer visitors than under the former system, but still surviving. Others have been simply neglected and left to their destiny of erosion and corrosion. A number of major monuments have been purposely destroyed and vandalised as newly independent states and new regimes tried to distance themselves from the former Yugoslavia and all that it stood for. Finally, there is a group of monuments and memorial sites that have remained physically intact, yet their meaning has changed in the new political circumstances. These monuments can provide an interesting insight into the links between the tangible and material, that is, the physical site itself, and the intangible, that is, the interpretation of meaning and socio-political significance of a place of historical importance. Changes of meaning of Second World War monuments in Bosnia Herzegovina through their history can illumi- nate how, and why, such re-interpretations occur. In order to identify how, when, and why such changes can occur, or in other words revealing the instrumentalisation of change of meaning, we shall use as an example a particular case study outlining the history and meaning of one of the main ex-Yugoslav war heritage sites in order to map changes of its role and meaning throughout history and in the current Bosnian political context. The 2 case study is that of the Mrakovica monument on the Kozara Mountain. The biography of the place of Kozara and its political meaning in the society can be followed from its beginning in 1942 to the present, when it is once again being renegotiated in a new political context. 210 DZENAN SAHOVIC AND DINO ZULUMOVIC

8.1. The Mrakovica monument. (Photo authors.)

THE BATTLE OF KOZARA Kozara is a forested mountain area in the northwest of Bosnia Herzegovina near the town of Prijedor and the Bosnian-Croatian border, which played a crucial role in the development of the Partisan resistance movement during the Second World War. Just a few months after the occupation of Yugoslavia in 1941 by German forces, Kozara was one of the places where Partisan groups started an organised uprising against the occupying forces. Yet, the historical importance of Kozara does not rest on the fact that the uprising in the region began here. The place is remembered for the consequent horrific events of midsummer of 1942, when the occupying forces launched an offensive which aimed to destroy the Partisan rebellion. German forces and their local allies surrounded the Partisans and the more than eighty thousand civilians who had sought refuge in the mountainous region. Although the battle ended with a breakout from the surrounded mountain, most of the Partisan fighters were killed and the civilian casualties were tremendous. In addition to the tens of thousands dead on Kozara itself, the majority of the survivors were deported to concentration camps, first 3 and foremost to Jasenovac in Croatia and Stara Gradiška in Bosnia Herzegovina (Redžic´ 2005: 215). No exact data are available on how many civilians from Kozara were killed in these concentration camps during the war, but the estimates found in former Yugoslav historical accounts usually mention a A CASE STUDY OF THE KOZARA MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL COMPLEX 211 number of sixty-eight thousand casualties resulting from the Kozara battle, twenty-four thousand of whom were children (Jokic´ 1978: 15). Importantly, in addition to being used for remembering the tremendous human suffering, the Kozara battle was also used for remembrance because it could be presented as an example of the peasantry’s and the Partisans’ joining forces, which gave the communist movement legitimacy and popular support. As discussed below, the battle was presented as the first time a massive civilian population was defended by the Partisan fighters, and it opened up for a wide recognition of the Partisan movement as ‘the people’s army’, a term that was later regularly used by Tito and the Communist Party (Šiljegovic´ 1980: 19–31), and a term that eventually became the official name of the Yugoslav Army. This perception of being protectors of the people was tremendously important for the future legitimacy of the Partisan movement, and Kozara mountain was soon, even before the end of the Second World War, becoming a symbol of freedom, described in phrases such as ‘Kozara is a never-ending story of resistance, a testimony to the courage of people who didn’t allowed themselves to be ruled and reigned by the occupier’ (Jokic´ 1978: 4). The place of Kozara became a symbol of larger values: an ‘indestructible bastion of revolution, never conquered, always free and defiant with its legends and its heroes’ (Baškot 1980: 487–495).

THE MRAKOVICA MONUMENT AND COMMEMORATIVE PRACTICES The Kozara battle has always played an important part in glorification of the 4 heroism of the Partisan forces. Yet, after the war the site of Kozara was initially defined only as a local Bosnian heritage site, rather than a federal Yugoslav heritage site. For the people from the northwest part of Bosnia Herzegovina Kozara became a symbolic place of perseverance, suffering, and freedom. It immediately became a place of remembrance and mourning. With time, as gatherings grew, the site inevitably became a politically important symbolic place with a much more general appeal. This growing significance of the Kozara event for the Yugoslav political elites is visible through many factors, and they clearly show a memorial site coming into being and how through the early years there was increased formalisation of its various components such as time, location, and meaning. In the beginning, the military and civilian survivors and relatives of the victims began to gather on Kozara on the anniversary of the day of the final breakout from the encircled mountain. These gatherings were spontaneous expressions of mourning for the loved lost ones. Later in the 1950s, the event was organised and controlled by local and federal communist leaders. As the importance of the annual event grew, the ceremonies were moved first to coincide with National Comrades Day (4th of July) and later the Day of Nation Rebellion in Bosnia Herzegovina (27th of July). Even the location of 212 DZENAN SAHOVIC AND DINO ZULUMOVIC

the ceremonies differed from occasion to occasion in the early years. For example, when Tito visited Kozara for the first time in 1951, he held a speech in front of one hundred thousand visitors in the nearby village of Knežice, and not on the site in Mrakovica where the Kozara monument was later built. At the time, within the Yugoslav historiography the whole mountain of Kozara was presented as one ‘geographical monument complex’ (geo-spomenik) where visitors should ‘walk through the forests of Kozara through a number of sites which all commemorate the events from World War Two’ (Finci 1957: 23). The growing popularity and importance of the site was honoured with the official naming of Kozara as a national park in 1967, with the main motivation being the preservation of the historically important places on the mountain (Jokic´ 1978: 24). The site of Mrakovica itself first became the central place for Kozara remembrance ceremonies in 1957. For a number of years, ceremonies and gatherings grew in both numbers of visitors and political importance, and late in 1960 the decision was made to erect a monument and build a museum to memorialise the battle. By this time, it was clear that Mrakovica was the preferred site for the placement of the monument. On the day of the thirtieth anniversary of the battle, in 1972, Yugoslav President Tito unveiled the thirty-four-metre-tall monument, designed by the academic sculptor Dušan Džamonja, who is widely considered to be the greatest sculptor of his time in the former Yugoslavia. According to the creator of the site, the memorial complex symbolised ‘monoliths, heroism, all the drama of epopee ... and at the same time, the victory of the comrades and inhabitants of the surrounding area. The huge concrete elements which enclose the monument presented continuous enemies’ armed pressure on Kozara’ (Jokic´ 1978: 26). A strongly symbolic place was created which went beyond the previous meanings of the site and consolidated a new understanding. This included making the monument the central point of a new Kozara-Mrakovica memorial complex, with several additional features each adding to the symbolic reading of the site. First, the thirty-four-metre-high concrete monument itself is placed on a plateau representing the ‘freedom-loving spirit of the people of Kozara’ with three-dimensional ‘rays’ made of concrete representing forces surrounding the Partisan fighters surround the central monument. The layout symbolises the rise of the people in face of an overpowering enemy. Alongside the main monuments there was a twenty-four-metre-long wall that carries the inscription of the 9,864 names of Partizan fighters killed on Kozara in the Second World War (Borba, 11 September 1972: 1). The architecture of the monument and other structures associated with the memorial complex is typical for the Yugoslav Socialist heritage sites. It is modern, even futuristic, and monumental in size; but untypically for the socialist regime it is abstract rather than social-realistic. The symbolic representation of a ring of enemies closing in A CASE STUDY OF THE KOZARA MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL COMPLEX 213

8.2. The Kozara museum building. (Photo authors.) on the centre and the opposing element of the ring as a rising giant flower emerging from the centre is meant to tell a story of triumph under immense suffering and pressure. After the opening of the memorial complex and the unveiling of the monument, Mrakovica was further consolidated as the central place of ceremonies dedicated to the Battle on Kozara and one of the most important memorial sites in Bosnia Herzegovina and, indeed, in Socialist Federal Yugoslavia. One year after the unveiling of the monument itself, a small memorial museum was added to the site as the completion of the project of creating this grandiose monument complex. The site could now be referred to as one of the ‘cornerstones upon which the communist revolution rests’ together with other similar memorial sites throughout former Yugoslavia (Oslobođenje, 9 July 1973: 5). It is important to note that unlike other monuments and memorial sites which had been financed by Yugoslav Federal and Republics’ institutions through their budgets, the resources for the construction of the Kozara monument and memorial complex came from voluntary donations of individuals, firms, and organisations, and added to the specific nature of this particular monument. It was often described as ‘a common deed, the manifestation of patriotism, review of brotherhood and unity and solidarity of nations and nationalities of our country’ (Oslobođenje, 11 September 1972: 2). More than 500,00 people as well as 1,350 different organisations and firms contributed to its 214 DZENAN SAHOVIC AND DINO ZULUMOVIC

ﬁnancing, and within the complex, ninety-eight stone tables listing the largest donors were erected in a ‘scroll of honour’ (Oslobođenje, 11 September 1972: 2).

THE USE AND MEANING OF THE KOZARA MEMORIAL COMPLEX BETWEEN 1972 AND 1992 Despite the growing importance of the place of Kozara and the importance it has had for the shaping of collective memory of the struggles during the Second World War, the annual commemorating ceremonies at the Mrakovica monument never reached the same status as the events linked to some of the other major Second World War events. Even though Josip Broz Tito repeatedly stressed the importance of Kozara in the war, stating, for example, that ‘Kozara is synchronously one of the hardest and most glorious epopee[s] in the history of our nations’ (Crvena Zvezda, 8 August 1951: 1), the site was always perceived as a place of major Bosnian historical importance, rather than as having Yugoslav historical importance. According to the Bosnian former Communist Party leader Raif Dizdarevic´,5 the reasons for this could be found in the fact that a large number of major Second World War events happened in the territory of Bosnia and Herzegovina, thus making it ‘counter-productive to insist on federal 6 ceremonies for an even larger number of events that happened here’. In addition, the Partisan leader Tito himself was not at Kozara during the battle, as was the case for the other great battles, notably those at Sutjeska and Neretva. This might be an important reason behind the fact that the Kozara battle always remained somewhat less important in the eyes of the Yugoslav Communist Party elites. The lack of official recognition of the political importance of Kozara did not, however, decrease the popularity of the site for youth group gatherings, school excursions, and other political and non-political meetings. For example, Kozara was the location for the largest Yugoslav annual literary meeting, where regime- friendly poets received awards from the hands of miners from a nearby iron 7 mine. This type of activities, in addition to the annual commemoration ceremonies, attracted tens of thousands of visitors every year. The site became a major tourist destination with more than nine million visits during the first ten years of its existence, from the opening in 1972 to 1982, the year that marked 8 the end of the golden era of the Kozara monument on Mrakovica. The fact that Kozara was perceived as a place of Bosnian rather than federal Yugoslav historical importance also influenced the way the site was used. For example, the victims were not referred to simply as Bosnians, as would be the case in Federal-level ceremonies. Rather, the ethnic affiliations of people (i.e., Muslim, Serb, and Croat) were regularly mentioned in official commemorating ceremonies. This became even more so after the constitutional recognition of 9 the Muslim population as one of the nations of Yugoslavia, when ethnic affiliations were frequently mentioned emphasising the need to further A CASE STUDY OF THE KOZARA MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL COMPLEX 215 strengthen the concepts of equality and brotherhood and unity between all the peoples of Bosnia Herzegovina. Even before the unveiling of the monument on Mrakovica in 1972, Kozara was defined as ‘blacksmith of brotherhood and unity’ and ‘the place where the rebellion organization belong to all ethnic groups’ (Oslobođenje, 28 July 1967: 3). Tito’s speech from 1972 further specified that Kozara, and continuing from it Bosnia and Herzegovina, was the base of brotherhood and unity in Yugoslavia, stressing that ‘A lot of time was needed to explain the indispensability of unity of all ethnical groups for making of a better future’ (Oslobođenje, 11 September 1972: 2). Other Yugoslav leaders also commented on the non-unity of the ethnic groups in the past, thus emphasising the importance of Bosnia and Herzegovina in the process of nation-wide accept- ance of the brotherhood and unity idea as ‘not only a theoretical but a practical example that has spread to all territories of Yugoslavia’ (Oslobođenje, 11 September 1972: 2). The question of inter-ethnic tolerance between the Yugoslav nations was a very important issue within the Communist Party, especially in the 1970s, the time of liberalisation demands from some of the Yugoslav Republics and general growing nationalistic tendencies. In the same speech, Tito therefore emphasised that brotherhood and unity were the most basic elements of Socialist Yugoslavia’s existence; and the Kozara monument was proclaimed to be ‘the safeguard of old generations’ achievements, not only in Bosnia but in the whole of Yugoslavia’ (Oslobođenje, 11 September 1972: 3). Yet another interesting aspect of the celebrations of the Kozara battle memorial complex was the narrative about killed comrades. Unlike many other sites of suffering, where it was possible to find exact data about the ethnic affiliation of the victims, the nationality of the victims at Kozara was not well studied.10 Although it is safe to assume that most of the killed were in fact Serbs, Tito stated in 1972 in a most general manner that ‘the names of over 9,000 killed comrades and the places where they came from are enough to recognize that they were purposely building brotherhood and unity’ (Borba, 11 September 1972: 1). Hamdija Pozderac, one of the main communist leaders of the socialist Bosnia Herzegovina, stated in a similar manner that ‘Kozara was the common grave for Serbs, Muslims, Croats; revolu- tionists and patriots’ (Oslobođenje, 9 July 1973: 3), providing an even more general and incomplete discourse about the ethnic affiliation of the victims. The lack of facts and the imprecise claims about brotherhood and unity made by the Socialist era leaders all contributed to different uses (and misuses) of the Kozara battle and Mrakovica monument in the years to come. The beginning of the 1980s saw the last massive ceremonies held at the site during the era of Socialist Yugoslavia. During the 1982 ceremony, the main speaker, the leader of the Communist Party Hamdija Pozderac, openly discussed the problems in Yugoslav society after Tito’s death in 1980 in his speech. The intensification of nationalist tendencies together with deep economic crises was defined as the main threats to the continuation of the revolution and the 216 DZENAN SAHOVIC AND DINO ZULUMOVIC

‘development of a happy and free community of nations and nationalities of Yugoslavia’ (Oslobođenje, 5 July 1982: 1). After 1982, the memorial complex in Mrakovica and the place of Kozara started losing their popularity as Yugoslavia moved away from the communist discourses of the past and away from the practice of remembering the Second World War as the very cornerstone of the common state. However, annual commemorative ceremonies at Kozara continued throughout the 1980sandeven after the fall of communism in Eastern Europe and the introduction of the multi- party political system in Yugoslavia in the late 1980s. In this short period after communism and before the war of 1992–1995, the monument was highly politicised, and its meaning started to change to better suit a new political reality. For example, Kozara and the memorial complex were used for the promotion of a new multi-ethnic political party in the new post-communist democratic Yugoslavia. This was the party of the last Yugoslav Federal Prime minister Ante Markovic,11 who attempted to promote Yugoslavianism and brotherhood and unity of all peoples of Yugoslavia yet in a market economy and capitalist economic system. Markovic found Bosnia in general, and the site of Kozara in particular, to be the most vivid symbol of brotherhood and unity and as such the most logical place for rallies promoting his new pan-Yugoslav reformists party. In this way, Kozara became a symbolic place for the anti-nationalist forces even in post-communist Bosnia. The prime minister’s campaign of 1991 failed miserably as nationalist parties won elections throughout the Yugoslavian federation, leading to the break-up of the country and a decade-long series of wars and conﬂicts from Slovenia in the north to Kosovo in the south.

KOZARA AFTER THE BREAKUP OF YUGOSLAVIA The 1992–1995 war in Bosnia and Herzegovina did not include any fighting in the Kozara mountain area. The region around the mountain, the municipality of Prijedor, was taken by the Serb forces at the very start of the war without any resistance. Most of the non-Serb population was ethnically cleansed, and several thousands were imprisoned in infamous sites, such as the concentration camps in Omarska, Karaterm, and Trnopolje in the valleys near Kozara, where they were 12 exposed to a range of mental and physical torture. Most other Second World War monuments throughout Bosnia were affected by the war, sometimes even totally destroyed, but the Mrakovica memorial complex survived the war with very little damage. The only major damage was the theft of the ninety-eight stone tables with the names of the institutions that gave the biggest donations. Otherwise, the monument was left in close to perfect shape. This is of course due to the fact that there was no fighting in the area. In addition, it has been argued that the Serb population in the area remained committed to the anti-fascist 13 commitment, as explained by the current director of the memorial complex. A CASE STUDY OF THE KOZARA MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL COMPLEX 217

8.3. Wooden cross at the entrance to the Mrakovica Memorial Complex. (Photo authors.)

Thus, in its physical characteristics the landscape of the Mrakovica memorial complex remained largely similar to its pre-war form. The site is still popular as a weekend picnic getaway. The restaurants and hotels catering to people visiting hiking trails are open for business, although of course they do not have the numbers of visitors they once had. The only visible sign of the new era of post- war ethnically divided Bosnia is the addition of a large wooden Orthodox cross at the entrance to the site. Physically, the place of the Mrakovica monument, museum, and memorial complex were largely unaﬀected and unchanged by the wars of the 1990s. The narratives and the interpretations of the meaning of the site did, however, change. Politically, Kozara does not stand anymore for the same, or even similar, values as it once did. Already during the Bosnian war, Kozara saw a loss of its former historical meaning and symbolism. As soon as the war started in 1992, the meaning of Kozara mountain, which is located in the area that what would later become Republika Srpska, the Serb-dominated entity of Bosnia Herzegovina, transformed to suit the new political situation. Personal memories, including the tragic stories of people who had lost their loved ones at Kozara during the Second World War, were almost immediately misused by 218 DZENAN SAHOVIC AND DINO ZULUMOVIC

the new political elites for propaganda purposes, in the same or even in worse fashion to how they had been used by the previous non-democratic Yugoslav regime. The story of Kozara was used as a tool for constructing a new Serb national identity, constructing narratives that were fuelling the ethnic conflict in the country. Some of the specific stages in this transformation of the meaning of Kozara can be clearly identified, whereas others were more gradual and insidious. Amongst the former is the claims on the ethnicity on the victims of Kozara, which began already during the war. In 1993, in the middle of the war, the Serb Orthodox church, for example, organised a ceremony for the fallen soldiers of Kozara claiming that over 90 per cent of the victims from the Second World War were in fact Serbs (Kozaracki Vjesnik, 16 April 1993: 6). This was a clear step away from the master narrative of brotherhood and unity. This change in the meaning of the memorial complex is a clear example of historical revisionism: only the Serbs are presented as victims, and only the Croatian Quislings (Ustashas) were the perpetrators. Crimes of other occupa- tional forces (German, Hungarian, or Italian) or victims of other nationalities, who were acknowledged and presented in communist historiography, are not even mentioned in the new narrative of the Kozara battle and the Mrakovica memorial complex. Furthering this line of thinking, Kozara became referred to as the ‘mountain of sacrifice of the Serbian Christian people’ (Kozaracˇki Vjesnik, 22 October 1993: 1) and its story was used as a tool for mobilisation against ‘eternal enemies’, that is, the Croats and the Muslims. The minimisation of the importance of other ethnic groups continued with the changing of the names of the commemorations and anniversaries. For example, ‘The Day of Anti-Fascist Rebellion’ now became the national holiday of the Serb population in Bosnia, purposely defined as diametrically opposite to ‘the previous historic falsifications of brotherhood and unity of the people in the region’ (Kozaracˇki Vjesnik, 17 July 1993: 1). The very first war-time commemorative ceremony in 1993 started with the Serbian national anthem and homage to killed fighters from ‘the battle of Kosovo till battles of present days’ (Kozaracˇki Vjesnik, 17 July 1993: 1) including, of course, even the Kozara battle. This modification of the symbolic meaning of the place of Kozara was probably inevitable; according to the current director of the National park of Kozara, Milenko Radic´, the change was due to the comparatively much larger number of civilian victims at the Kozara battle. Most of the victims were indeed Serbs from the local area, which meant that the personal histories and memories of the local population easily lend support to a Serb-focused interpretation of the suffering (Nezavisne Novine, 16 March 2008: 24). Another example of the changing political meaning of the site is found in the introduction of religion to the site. A large Orthodox cross was already placed at the entrance of the memorial complex in the early 1990s. On 22 A CASE STUDY OF THE KOZARA MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL COMPLEX 219

October 1993 the religious component on the site was confirmed by the visit of the Serb Orthodox religious head Patriarch Pavle, who, at a ceremony of consecrating the new cross at the entrance to the memorial complex, stated that the cross was ‘a new symbol which will witness the roots and history of Serbs in this region, but also their suffering ... instead of false symbols of brotherhood and unity built in the monument complex on Mrakovica’ (Kozaracˇki Vjesnik, 22 October 1993: 1). Since then, an Orthodox memorial service for victims of fascist terror against the Serbs has been a regular feature at all commemoration occasions. Afterthewarendedin1995, the tradition of mass gatherings and commemorations at Kozara continued on almost every 4th of July. The message was, however, significantly altered, as Mrakovica was presented as ‘asymbol of heroism and suffering of the Serbs’ (Kozarski Vjesnik, 11 July 1997: 1). As such, it also became a place for promotion of political message of the nationalist political establishment of Republic of Srpska. According to Mirko Raca from the ‘Josip Broz Tito’ association in Banja Luka, ‘Kozara is abused by the political structure of the Republic of Srpska, especially during election years, when the celebration is transformed and misused for ruling party or government propaganda’.14 The politicisation of the site is not surprising considering the fact that the government of Republika Srpska is the main organiser of the post-war commemorations at Mrakovica. The strong political sentiment is also recognisable in the state-owned Republika Srpska newspapers reporting in connection with the 4th of July ceremonies. The statements of major political figuresinthepost-warperiod,forexample, the prime minster of Republika Srpska, regularly included wording such as ‘Kozara is the foundation of the Republika Srpska’ (Nezavisne Novine, 6 July 2008: 2)and‘The message of unquestionable destiny of Republika Srpska’ (Oslobođenje, 6 July 2008: 5). The commemoration in 2009 was named ‘Kozara remembers and warns’, a phrase that represents the rhetoric of Serb victimhood, warning the Serb population to make sure ‘a new Kozara’ does not happen again. Finally, the most blatant example of historical revisionism and changing meaning of the place of Kozara in the post-war Bosnian political context can be found in the post-war exhibition in the Memorial Museum. The small museum is an integral part of the memorial complex that opened for visitors in 1973 with a permanent exhibition called ‘Kozara during the Anti-Fascist Struggles’. The exhibition included a number of photographs and artefacts from the Kozara battle, completed with messages of brotherhood and unity of the people of Bosnia presented in red letters against a backdrop of red cloth. The exhibition was designed to reinforce the messages of suffering of the people, the united force of Partisans and peasantry, and, of course, the brotherhood and unity of Serbs, Croats, and Muslims in Bosnia Herzegovina. 220 DZENAN SAHOVIC AND DINO ZULUMOVIC

8.4. Original Second World War exhibition covered by white cloth. (Photo authors.)

After the Bosnian war ended, a new exhibition called ‘Three Genocides against the Serbs’ replaced the original exhibition. The former exhibition of artefacts and photographs from the Second World War was covered with white cloth and new photographs and newspaper clippings were placed in front of them. The whole exhibition is divided into three different historical periods: the First World War, Second World War, and the conflict in the former Yugoslavia from the 1990s, and together they are supposed to represent the three genocides against the Serbs. A deeper look at the message is, however, that it does not vary from period to period. It is one single message connecting the three historical periods and presenting the three genocides as parts of one single anti-Serb project stretched over the entire twentieth century. For the most part, the new exhibition consists of images showing massacred people and graveyards full of Orthodox gravestones from different historical periods – the effect (and intension) is a materialisation of the three genocides, and through that a stress on documentation. The photographs are, however, not accompanied by any text or other kinds of data providing accounts or further details about the historical events; the interpretations are entirely based on empathy emerging from seeing the images. In addition to images of the dead and suffering, there are, for example, photographs of German Wehrmacht officers together with Muslim priests, implying a link between former and current enemies of the Serbs. Another picture shows an elderly man with a turban on his head, firing a A CASE STUDY OF THE KOZARA MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL COMPLEX 221

8.5. ‘Three Genocides against the Serbs’ exhibition. (Photo authors.) grenade while a young girl (presumably a daughter) is assisting. Such a caricature image supports a narrative about Muslims as enemies and not to be trusted, regardless of age or gender. Finally, the exhibition also includes messages and banners from the past wars about Serbia being the motherland of all Serbs, a message that directly supports the idea of Greater Serbia, by many considered the main cause of the Yugoslav breakup and consequent Balkan wars. The exhibit in the Kozara museum cannot be interpreted in any other way than as support of extreme nationalistic hatred and xenophobia. The museum clearly plays an important role in ethnic antagonistic and xenophobic indoctri- nation of the younger population. Kozara is after all still a popular place for school excursions. There are now also voices arguing that the original exhibition must be reinstalled, that is, uncovered, even within the Serb community in Banja Luka. According to the director, Milenko Radic, the ‘Three Genocides against the Serbs’ exhibition was created as late as 1999 as a temporary exhibition and with the intention of removing it after only one year. The only reason the exhibition is still part of the museum, according to Radic, is merely lack of funding for the revitalisation of the older and permanent Second World War museum exhibition. Only recently, after more than ten years, has the government of Republika Srpska secured funding (125,000 euros) for revitalisation of the original exhibition and removal of the post-war nationalist contents (www.biznis.ba). The plans for the future of the memorial complex is to return 222 DZENAN SAHOVIC AND DINO ZULUMOVIC

the focus to the Second World War once again and include organising joint ceremonies for the victims of fascist terror together with the monuments at Jasenovac and Stara Gradiska. Although returning attention back to commemoration of the Second World War must be perceived as a positive step, focusing on victimhood and suffering of the people is still far from the original message of anti-fascist resistance, freedom, and unification of the Partisan fighters and the peasantry that was once the reason for the creation of the Mrakovica memorial site.

BIOGRAPHY OF THE CHANGING MEANING OF KOZARA The story of Kozara is a story of a changing meaning of a place of conflict heritage. At the very beginning, the place of Kozara, where tens of thousands of (mostly Serb) civilians and soldiers perished in the summer 1942, was a place of private mourning, where survivors and family members gathered once a year to mourn their dead. Soon after the end of the Second World War it changed to become a place of collective remembrance of the events of the war. The meaning of the site was becoming much more political as the discourse about Kozara increasingly emphasised the role of the Partisans as protectors of civilians and the brotherhood and unity of the peoples of Yugoslavia. After the Mrakovica monument and memorial complex were constructed and opened for visitors in the early 1970s, the place of Kozara became one of the most popular places of remembrance, celebrations of brotherhood and unity, and political education of the youth of the country. With the death of Josip Broz Tito and the weakening of the Communist Party in Yugoslavia, the place of Kozara was slowly losing its mass appeal in the 1980s. So when Federal Yugoslavia disintegrated and the war in Bosnia began in the early 1990s, the meaning of the place changed dramatically, and its political message became the very opposite of its original message. The memorial site, monument, and museum had not physically changed during the armed conflict in the country, but the rise of ethno-nationalism and the division of the country into ethnically- dominated entities opened up for a ‘privatisation’ of the collective heritage by one ethnic group, the Serbs. In a political context where the conflict between the groups remains active even fifteen years after the war officially ended and where the state is extremely weak and surviving only due to substantial international involvement, the management of even the most important places of heritage is left to the ethnically dominated municipalities and regions. This leads to disrespect for historical facts and blatant reinvention and rewriting of history. The fact that it was mostly Serbs that suffered at Kozara in the Second World War has been used to ‘correct’ the original message in the most extreme possible way. The new interpretation of the symbolic meaning of the memorial 15 complex in Mrakovica is best summarised with the words of Mile Stojic´, who A CASE STUDY OF THE KOZARA MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL COMPLEX 223 considers Kozara to be the place that was ‘once used to be the blacksmith of brotherhood and unity, and today it symbolizes the hatred and disunity of the people of Bosnia Herzegovina’ (Stojic´ 2005: 3). On the other hand, the director of the memorial complex finds that Kozara stands for something completely different. It is not being misused for falsification of history, but for ‘re-discovering the truth about Kozara as the place of executions of the Serb 16 population’. The place of Kozara that was once one of the main bearers of state identity and state ideology has become a place for ethno-nationalist propaganda and continuation of conflict between the groups, only now in the form of conflicting and competing narratives about history, rather than open warfare. In this sense, the current conflicting and competing views of the new meaning of the place of Kozara are a reflection of the current political situation in the country. The Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks all seek to fulfil their national agendas, and a site such as the Mrakovica memorial complex on Kozara is attributed different meaning depending on how it fits into these agendas. For the Bosniak side, Kozara is today a part of historical narrative of co-existence of the ethnic groups on Bosnian territory. For the Croats, who are generally the group least nostalgic about Yugoslavia, Kozara is perceived as unimportant and it is therefore largely ignored, as it represents the Socialist Yugoslav heritage. And for the Republika Srpska Serbs, who are pursuing self-rule and autonomy from Bosnia Herzegovina, Kozara is becoming a place of promotion of narratives about historic events in accordance with the currently dominant nationalist ideology. The most recent initiative to reintroduce the permanent exhibition in the Mrakovica museum and to remove the ‘Three Genocide against the Serbs’ exhibition is perhaps a sign that the political situation is improving. There is, of course, still a need to remember and commemorate the major events from the Second World War in Bosnia Herzegovina, and fulfilling that purpose should be the role of historical places such as Kozara. It remains to be seen if the reintroduction of the permanent exhibition also implies a rearrangement of the meaning and political message of the place from the current nationalist message to a more factual and balanced representation of the past events. The biography of the place of Kozara and the Mrakovica monument and memorial complex shows how a place of heritage, almost without any visible physical changes, can change its meaning and its role in society in the most extreme ways. Interpretation of historical facts and construction of discourses and narratives about history are almost completely disconnected from the place itself. The place is mainly used as a rhetorical reference point and a focus for claims. The main decider of the design of the meaning of a place, at least in the case of major heritage sites of the former regime in the Balkans, is the wider context in which that meaning is shaped – or in other words, the current political situation. 224 DZENAN SAHOVIC AND DINO ZULUMOVIC

NOTES

1. The Dayton Agreement of 1995 has left the basic Bosnian conflict largely unresolved, as it created a state divided between two entities, the Republika Srpska and the Federation, de facto dividing the people of Bosnia into two ethnically defined regions while uniting them through common (and weak) state institutions of Bosnia Herzegovina. For more, see Sahovic (2007). 2. The other examples of reinterpretations are the Sutjeska monument commemorating the suffering of the Partisan fighters in the Sutjeska battle, the Drvar cave and museum commemorating Tito’s escape from a German elite force’soffensive and attempt on his life, the Neretva museum in Jablanica commemorating the battle of the Neretva River, and the Jajce AVNOJ museum commemorating the meeting of the anti-fascist council where the new Federal People’s Republic of Yugoslavia (FNRJ; later Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, SFRJ) was born. 3. The Jasenovac concentration camp was the largest extermination camp in the Independent State of Croatia (NDH) and occupied Yugoslavia during Second World War. The exact number of murdered convicts, as well as their religious and ethnical affiliations, is still unknown. There are estimates ranging from 100,000 to 1,200,000 murdered. Stara Gradiška was one of the five sub-camps of the Jasenovac concentration camp complex. 4. The film Kozara (1962) based on events that happened during summer 1942 on Kozara mountain was the first significant ‘Partisan movie’ of Socialist Yugoslavia cinematography and the first such movie of director Veljko Bulajic´, renowned for directing the epic ex-Yougoslav war movie Bitka na Neretvi (Battle of Neretva). The movie Kozara had a significant impact on the popularity of the commemoration events on Kozara growing in Socialist Yugoslavia. 5. Raif Dizdarevic´ is a well-known communist leader in post-Tito Yugoslavia. During 1988–1989 he was the chairman of the presidency of SFRJ. He is also the author of the book From the Death of Tito to the Death of Yugoslavia (2009). 6. R. Dizdarevic´, personal communication, 21 September 2009. 7. These meetings were organised by Skender Kulenovic´, a Bosnian poet most famous for his homage to the victims of Kozara in 1945, the poem ‘Stojanka majka Knežopoljka’. Furthermore, the symbolic meaning of minors being honorary guests was a well-used part of the Socialist narrative on class struggles and the role of the proletariat in the war, and in society in general. 8. M. Radic´, personal communication, 4 July 2009. 9. Constitutional amendments in 1971 defined Muslims as one of the Yugoslav constitutive nations (spelled with upper-case ‘M’) rather than, as before, muslims as an ethnic and religious group (spelled with lower-case ‘m’). 10. Emphasising the mixed ethnic affiliations of the killed Partisan soldiers was otherwise a mighty weapon of showcasing the concept of brotherhood and unity within Yugoslav Communist Party. This practice was used in most similar sites, such as Sutjeska in the east of the country. 11.AnteMarkovic´ was the last president of Yugoslav federal government (Savezno izvršno vijecé, SIV) and the founder of a new political party, ‘the Reformists Union’ (Savez reformskih snaga) in 1991. 12. The existence of the camps and their role in the ethnic cleansing of northwest Bosnia is well documented and a subject of a number of trials at the Hague War Crimes Tribunal, including in cases against Milosevic, Karadzic, and Mladic (ICTY 2001). 13. M. Radic´, personal communication, 4 July 2009. 14. M. Raca, personal communication, 4 July 2009. 15. Mile Stojic´(1955) prominent Bosnian journalist and poet, also a lecturer at the Slavic Institute at the University of Vienna. Interviews Radic´, M. Interviewed by D. Zulumovic, 4 July 2009. Dizdarevic´, R. Interviewed by D. Zulumovic, 21 September 2009. Raca, M. Interviewed by D. Zulumovic, 4 July 2009. 16. M. Radic´, personal communication, 4 July 2009. CHAPTER NINE

IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA: CONSTRUCTING AND RECONSTRUCTING THE SLANA BANJA MEMORIAL COMPLEX IN TUZLA

Ioannis Armakolas1

INTRODUCTION In November 1966 Josip Broz-Tito, the leader of Socialist Yugoslavia, visited an industrial city in northeast Bosnia. As part of the visit, local officials took the Yugoslav leader to see the newly constructed partisan memorial cemetery. One of these officials recalls Tito’ssayingthathehad‘not seen such a simple but so beautiful solution in a long time’ (Kunosic´ 2004: 56). The city was Tuzla, and the memorial that Tito visited became the city’smemorial complex in honour of the fallen partisan heroes of the People’sLiberation 2 Struggle. The city and its memorial complex will be the focus of this chapter, which examines ideological shifts and changing imaginings of Bosnian nationhood as they are reflected in the changing meaning and materiality of this commemorative site. The analysis will reveal trends that are relevant for wider socio-political processes in Bosnia. Recent heritage related studies on Bosnia tend to focus on the destructive 3 aspects of the 1992–1995 civil war. Studies have focused on documenting the deliberate destruction of tangible Bosnian heritage, and especially that of Bosniaks (Bosnian Muslims), whose culture was virtually erased from a large part of the country (e.g., Riedlmayer 2002), conservation and restoration efforts (e.g., Aga Khan Trust for Culture 2004;Bing2001), and the work of the Commission for the Preservation of National Monuments of Bosnia and Herzegovina (2005 and 2006) under Annex 8 of the Dayton Peace Agreement. More recent studies have focused on the transformation of meaning in Bosnian heritage sites as well as

225 226 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

on the role that newly created sites play in identity-building processes amongst Bosnians (e.g., Grodach 2002; Makaš 2005). This is coupled with civil society and media debates over the impact of the recent war memorials on group identities and prospects for reconciliation (Alic´ 2010; Irwin and Šaric´ 2010). This chapter contributes to those studies that focus on issues of meaning and identity in heritage sites in post-war Bosnia.

The Bosnian war and the importance of Tuzla The 1992–1995 war brought about the dramatic collapse of multi-ethnic Bosnian society. A tradition of peaceful co-existence was destroyed by ethnic cleansing perpetrated by Bosnian Serb forces and, to a lesser extent, all 4 militaries involved in the Bosnian war. But it was not only advancing armies that undermined inter-ethnic co-existence. In the Bosnian government– controlled areas a wartime political battle between moderates and radical nationalists was also waged. It was a battle for the character of the Bosniak nation, the emerging state, and the future of that state’s inter-ethnic and communal relations. Moderates and civic nationalists advocated inter-ethnic co-existence and unity, while radicals and ethnic nationalists promoted ethnic exclusivity, homogeneity, and ethnic division. At the highest political level, a delicate balance between these two ideas of Bosnia was maintained, despite the steadily growing inﬂuence of radicals. The objective of an increasingly powerful group of radicals within the Bosniak elite was the full controlofBosnianpoliticsandthepoliticalhomogenisationofBosniaksin anticipation of division of Bosnia along ethnic lines. Progressive Bosniaks and other Bosnians had to oppose not only the aggressive nationalism of Bosnian Serbs and Croats, but also the ‘soft’ destruction of the spirit of inter-ethnic 5 co-existence by Bosniak ethnic nationalists. 6 Tuzla, a large multi-ethnic city with a long tradition of Socialist and working- class activism and one of the oldest industrial centres in the country, was very important in the wider political battle in Bosnia. In the 1990 elections, the last before the war, Tuzla was one of only two Bosnian municipalities in which leftist non-nationalists won power.7 Tuzla’s non-nationalist government out- lived the war and remains in power to date. During the war the city’s leadership actively opposed the nationalist policies dominant elsewhere in the country. Tuzla was also important because during the war it faced strong opposition, subversion, and constant political attack by Bosniak radicals. Finally, despite the fact that in Tuzla, as elsewhere in Sarajevo government–controlled areas, there was social pressure on non-Muslims, the persecution of minorities was prevented and non-Muslims felt relatively secure. For these reasons, even during the war the city maintained an international reputation as a place of reason, civility, and moderation. IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 227

During the war, the political elites of Tuzla formulated a moderate political alternative that stressed the civic aspects of Bosnian identity over ethnic ones. They downplayed those features, including religion, that divide the Bosnian peoples, opposed plans for the division of Bosnia into ethnic statelets, and formulated a middle-way ideology between the values of the Socialist regime and those of Bosniak ethnic nationalism. This ideology became the nucleus of a more inclusive political discourse, which later also became popular amongst more ethnically inclined Bosniaks. Simultaneously, the Tuzla political elite reformulated a post-Yugoslav and pro-Bosnian local identity facilitating a version of Tuzla pride and patriotism connected to ideas of tolerance, inter-ethnic unity, and a legacy of antifascism.

Cultural heritage and the Slana Banja memorial complex These dilemmas were also reflected in attitudes towards Socialist-era heritage. The defence of independent Bosnia was led by Bosniak ethnic nationalist elites. These were at best ambivalent towards the Socialist regime and its heritage, and often entirely negative towards it. The Tuzla governing elites were formally successors of the Communist Party but still had to adjust their politics and ideological references to the new political reality of Bosnia. It was thus only after a slow and careful process that the Tuzla political elites were able to confidently formulate their own approach to cultural heritage in the city, with the aim of maintaining a positive outlook towards the Socialist era legacy and adjusting it to the needs of independent Bosnia. The Slana Banja memorial complex is a paradigm of these dynamics. The complex is situated in the central part of the urban layout. Together with green forest areas that surround individual memorials, Slana Banja constitutes a wider park area extending several hectares. Located on the slopes of Gradina hill, the complex is in the shape of an amphitheatre overlooking the city centre. The history of Slana Banja’slocationspansacentury.Slana Banja (meaning ‘salt spa’) got its name from the original spa built on site by Austrian rulers in 1913 (Zavod za zaštitu nasljeđa 1989: 15; JP Zavod za urbanizam Tuzla 1998: 6).8 It was only during the period of the Socialist regime that the SlanaBanjaparkbecameamemorialcomplex,first through the construction of a memorial cemetery to partisans fallen during the Second World War and later with the construction of other Socialist memorials. With the collapse of Yugoslavia, the independence of Bosnia, and the war, the role of the memorial complex was questioned, together with the entire legacy of the Socialist regime. During the war, the Socialist heritage of Slana Banja remained in limbo; only in its aftermath did a clearer vision emerge about how the Socialist heritage of Slana Banja could be linked to the discourses of 228 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

independent Bosnia. Today the memorial complex hosts numerous memorials marking the partisan struggle and the 1992–1995 war.

Political uses of the past: the case of Tuzla The approach adopted here follows a long sociological tradition that under- stands ‘the past’ and cultural heritage as being adaptable to contemporary socio- political realities and needs (Halbwachs 1992). The past is not, however, always as malleable as agents of identity building and ideological competition would desire; its use as a symbolic value is subject to cultural limits and conditions (Appadurai 1981). As this chapter will demonstrate, the selective revisiting of the past in Tuzla became a vehicle for identity building in tune with contemporary ideological coordinates and socio-political needs. But this revisiting was not without limitations. The legitimising processes are inextricably linked to political power. Political authority strives to delimit the range of possible interpretations of the past and control the process through which such interpretations become politically and socially viable and legitimate. Furthermore, the style in which any society remembers and the content of that social memory also strongly influence power relations and hierarchies of political power in society (Connerton 1989: 1–5). In Tuzla, the local authorities, controlled by former Communist political elites, have been competing over meanings and discourses that are instrumental in determining dominant narratives about the past. Their goal has been to formulate a vision of society in accordance with the needs of a newly independent Bosnia without wholly rejecting the legacy of the Socialist regime. Throughout the post-Yugoslav period Tuzla’s authorities engaged in a process that Cohen and Comaroff call ‘management of meaning’,defined as ‘the competitive process by which values are defined, images of transactions are contrived, and interpretations of a situation successfully imposed by one party on others’ (in Appadurai 1981: 202–203). The management of meaning created a new amalgam of imaginary that endeavoured to reconcile certain cherished values of the anti-fascist legacy with those depicted as intrinsic to an independent Bosnian society. These new associations of meaning aimed to define a revised political and national imagination (Anderson 1983) positing a Bosnian national community as having a civic and inclusive character, de-emphasising the cultural and historical traits that divide the country’s body politic. At the same time, this wider identity project also had a significant ‘inward’ objective. Tuzla was depicted as the exemplary tolerant and anti-fascist city that best illustrates the qualities of the Bosnian society: ‘Bosnia at its best’. This ‘localised’ imagination was an attempt to reformulate the post-Yugoslav identity of the local community in Tuzla in a pro-Bosnian but politically moderate way. The narratives of Tuzla’s political elites presented an idiosyncratic identity-building IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 229 project: a viable and legitimate local response to the radical reconstitution of the political in Bosnia. In many ways, the struggle to repel radical nationalist influence was a process that gave a new and exceptional meaning to the problem of community in post-Yugoslav Tuzla. It was through this ‘battle’ that group identification and a sense of belonging was developed and functioned as the glue, a particular ‘social construction of similarity’ (Cohen 1985), that kept the community together in turbulent times. For the local community of Tuzla collective memory and the management of its meanings became the vehicle for the post-Yugoslav reformulation of local identity. In these processes, heritage can play a crucial role as a point of reference, a visual representation, or an expression of identity. Identity-building and political and national imagination can have their reflection in the manner in which cultural heritage is constructed and reconstructed. Especially after wars, heritage reconstruction can be seen ‘as the attempt to re-present [the] imagined community’ (Viejo-Rose 2011b: 25). The Slana Banja memorial complex in particular relates to the notion that heritage experts refer to as ‘heritage-scape’: ‘the panorama that results from the selection and designation of specificsites’,whichcanbeused‘to give a sense of layered symbols, narratives and interpretations’ (Viejo-Rose 2011b: 25, 42,n.10) in and around heritage sites. Agents have repeatedly used the heritage-scape of Slana Banja as a primary site in the processes of political and national imagination. The political use of heritage in Slana Banja entailed practices of meaning-creation involving political authority and power, hegemonic and counter-hegemonic agency. The main objective of this chapteristoanalysetheimpactthatthe dynamics of the above-mentioned political battle and the general reconstitution of politics and society left on cultural heritage in Tuzla and how, in turn, cultural heritage reconstruction impacted on conceptions of identity and difference. In particular, the chapter will posit that heritage management was used for the reinvention and re-politicisation of the past for contemporary political purposes in post-Yugoslav Tuzla and that heritage reconstruc- tionandnewconstructionwaspartofaprocessofre-imaginingamore inclusive Bosnia that could move beyond ethnic nationalist divisions. The chapter will also examine how Socialist memorials, which elsewhere in Bosnia became unwanted and negative heritage, were in Tuzla renovated and highlighted to become a key component of identity-building processes. Issues of change and transformation of cultural heritage are central to these cases. The chapter will illustrate not only the shifts in meaning but also the effects that changes in materiality and spatial re-organisation have had on conceptions of identity. Similarly, the chapter will analyse the role of agency in the reconstruction of cultural heritage and the interplay of symbolism and political motivation. In conclusion, the chapter will suggest that the 230 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

characteristics of the Slana Banja memorial complex and the solutions for reconstruction that were adopted are qualitatively diﬀerent from dominant trends in post-war cultural heritage construction in Bosnia. The analysis will unfold as follows: First, the chapter will outline the original construction of the Slana Banja memorial complex and its role during the Socialist regime. Second, it will examine the ideological transformations that took place after Bosnia’s independence in 1992 and their reﬂection in cultural heritage. It will also track the re-discovery and adaptation of the Slana Banja memorial complex as a site of unique importance for Tuzla’s political imagination in the context of contemporary Bosnian politics. Finally, some conclusions will be drawn about the role of Slana Banja, and cultural heritage in general, in times of political and societal reconstitution in Bosnia.

SLANA BANJA DURING THE SOCIALIST REGIME Initial construction and development of the memorial complex A partisan memorial cemetery was constructed after a decision of the municipal assembly on 17 September 1958. The actual construction of the site started in March 1959 (Hasanovic´ 1963), and the official opening took place on 17 September 1959 to mark the fortieth anniversary of the League of Communists of Yugoslavia (Yugoslav Communist Party) and the fifteenth anniversary of the liberation of Tuzla by partisans during the Second World War (Zavod za zaštitu nasljeđa 1989). In a speech at the official opening the Yugoslav politician Pašaga Mandžic´ stressed that ‘Our gratitude to fallen comrades will be fully realised if we continue the work that they initiated for building and defending a better life. Let each visit to the cemetery remind us of that supreme duty towards our fallen male and female comrades’ (Front Slobode 21 September 1959). In 1960 the local authorities declared ‘the erection of this “Memorial Cemetery” [as] fulfilling our great debt to the fallen soldiers of the People’s Liberation War’ (Narodni odbor opštine Tuzla 1960: 11). Several other Socialist memorials were subsequently constructed in Slana Banja between 1959 and 1974: the Memorial to Fallen Fighters by artists Ismet Mujezinovic´ and Antun Augustincˇic´, the Ossuary of the Unknown Fallen Partisans, and 687 Memorial plaques with the names of Fallen Tuzla Partisans that dotted the park area. Later, the ‘Avenue of Freedom’, a pathway of about 250 metres long and five metres wide traversing the complex, was constructed to honour the twenty-fifth anniversary of the liberation of Tuzla by partisans during the Second World 9 War. Subsequently, two works by academician Ismet Mujezinovic´ – the Memorial to the Partisan Brigades that liberated Tuzla during the Second World War and the Memorial Wall to the Liberators of the City – were IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 231 constructed as well as a Memorial Tribute to the fiftieth anniversary of the League of Communists of Yugoslavia by artist Pero Jelisic´ and a Memorial Tribute to those fallen for freedom. The last major addition was made in 1974 with the construction of the Memorial to the Victims of the Fascist Terror, a 10 work of Tuzla artist Dragiša Trifkovic´.

Functions of the Slana Banja memorial complex during the Socialist period Some memorials were constructed with the intention to commemorate sacrifices made in the Second World War. Others, while still commemorating the war and its victims, invoked more the celebration of the partisan struggle and the continuing political battle for its legacy. Yet, it would be misleading to clearly distinguish between mourning and celebration of the glorious past as properties of individual memorials. Already from the inception of the complex the Socialist regime was geared towards the use of memorials for moulding identity and generating popular support. Not least, as the distance from the events of the Second World War widened and the regime-sponsored commemorations intensified, the memorial complex gradually became much more associated with the performative aspects of the regime’s ideology, and its values and interpretations of the past, rather than with mourning and individual 11 sorrow. The Socialist regime’s ideology was founded on interpretations of the past that valorised these sacrifices for the building of a strong and Socialist Yugoslavia. The legacy of the partisan struggle influenced policy-making in Socialist Yugoslavia but was also the foundational myth and continuing source of regime legitimacy. It was traditionally marked as a milestone historical event in Socialist Yugoslavia. Heritage sites were instrumental in strengthening the appeal of such an interpretation of the past and for the successful moulding of corresponding political identities. In that context, the memorial complex in the centre of Tuzla offered an opportunity for performing important societal functions of the Socialist regime, such as the regime-sponsored anniversary marking. Commemorative functions in Slana Banja were placed in the service of connecting the local community with the values of the Socialist regime and 12 its historical legacy. Local heritage experts saw a confluence of such functions around the cluster of memorials:

Monuments are places of ethical and aesthetic concentration, in which ideological, emotional, commemorative, historical-documentary, and representational elements interact. They are the expression of those values that are needed to overcome the temporality of today and, through past generations, maintain our connection with the future. (JP Zavod za urbanizam Tuzla 1998: 23) 232 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

Socialist-era experts believed that heritage sites in cities were equally important to residential and industrial spaces (Zavod za zaštitu nasljeđa 1989: 23, 3). The vision of the complex was to

present with reverence the ideological-political and aesthetic values of the partisan struggle and of the building of socialism, to contribute to the preservation of the memory of the heroic past of our nations and nationalities, through the continuing nurturing of the traditions of People’s Liberation Struggle and the Socialist Revolution. (ibid.: 1) Officially promoted commemorative functions were closely linked with educational purposes, the relationship between monument and space ostensibly connecting the aesthetic to the didactic (Zavod za zaštitu nasljeđa 1989: 22). In that context, the inter-generational transmitting of Socialist values, a top priority of the regimes, was a key function of the Slana Banja complex. It became one of the main locations in which the younger generation was educated about and acculturated in the legacy and values of the Socialist regime through participation in commemorations and special events such as public history lectures. Local experts conceived the memorial complex as a bridge between generations. The memorial was important ‘as a document, as a reminder, as an expression of deep respect and reverence and love towards the historical events and the people who hold these critical events’ (ibid.). At the same time, the city, heavily industrialised, burdened by pollution, and with its industrial and residential zones situated close to one another, sought more public space and access to recreation. As recognised by local experts, a large site like Slana Banja situated within the urban layout could not be disconnected from recreation (Zavod za zaštitu nasljeđa 1989: 23), and this aspect emerged as an important consideration in planning the site. The intention was reflected in the pre-war urban plan of the city, which included the memorial complex as one of the main recreational zones intended for urban 13 dwellers. Recreation and the values of the Socialist regime were closely linked in the complex with experts emphasising the need for ‘daily possibilities for pleasant stay and stroll’, while ‘evoking memories of the revolutionary past’ (ibid.: 8). Accordingly, sports courts surrounded the complex, and physical exercise was encouraged in and around Slana Banja. Commemoration of the partisan struggle, education about the ‘glorious revolution’, and physical activity were all combined in the same space because they constituted values associated with and promoted by the Socialist regime. After all, the vital myths of the Yugoslav Socialist regime were associated with the discourse of the ‘warrior- worker-sportsman’ as the three inter-connected and cherished dimensions of the ‘socialist man’ (Musabegovic´ 2009). The importance assigned to Slana Banja, and the ambition of attracting several thousand citizens, workers, and youngsters on a daily basis (Zavod za IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 233 zaštitu nasljeđa 1989: 1) did not match the physical realities and limitations of the site at the end of the Socialist period. A major pre-war assessment study by the ‘Institute for the Protection and Usage of Historical and Natural Heritage’ (Zavod za zaštitu i korištenje istorijskog i prirodnog nasljeđa) cast doubt on the ability of memorial complex to perform its intended functions: in its existing condition at the time, the memorial complex ‘[did] not meet the necessary require- ments for the ideological-political, aesthetic and educational activities of the visitor’ (ibid.: 8, my emphasis). The assessment study identified several weak- nesses in the complex, including a feeling of disunity as a result of progressive construction and earlier partial solutions to problems and weak ‘presentational capacity’ of monuments. In addition, the study identified enormous problems in the physical condition of the complex: virtually all stone, concrete, and metal objects were affected by corrosion, badly maintained and damaged, the air was polluted due to proximity to the industrial zone, land deformation resulted in subsidence, while earlier inadequate technical solutions, and lack of attentive- 14 ness and care in repairs, further aggravated the problems. In the final days of the Socialist regime, the Slana Banja memorial complex remained an area of significant potential, but also one of neglect, ruin, and lack of vision for the future.

SLANA BANJA IN INDEPENDENT BOSNIA Early ideological transformations as reﬂected in cultural heritage, 1992–2000 The end of the Socialist regime and the subsequent war brought about radical social and political changes in Bosnia. The cooperative spirit of the regime’s ideology of ‘Brotherhood and Unity’ collapsed, and ethnic nationalism, often in its most destructive version, became the order of the day. As a result, a radical reinterpretation of cultural heritage and its associated meaning became the rule rather than the exception in Bosnia. Partisan heritage was attacked throughout Bosnia. Under wartime Mayor Selim Bešlagic´(1990–2001), Tuzla’s authorities tried to remain adequately attuned to the main ideological trends coming from the Bosnian capital (Armakolas 2011, 2007). Initially a full revisiting of the Yugoslav and Socialist past, which was akin to that of nationalists, took place. It was epitomised in a speech by Mayor Bešlagic´on2 October 1992, when traditionally the liberation of Tuzla by partisans during the Second World War was marked. During that speech Bešlagic´ announced a re-evaluation of the past that resembled a radical revisiting and rejection of the Socialist era iconography and values:

[W]e are opening a new chapter in the cultural and political life of Tuzla and Bosnia and Herzegovina, a chapter of objective evaluation of all cultural-historical events, facts and personalities. ... A chapter is also 234 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

being opened on the new way the people of Bosnia and Herzegovina view themselves, their past and their statehood. They no longer see their political freedoms as given on those dates that were commemorated in the former Yugoslavia. (Bešlagic´ 1998a: 208) After a period of hesitation, in 1993, the Tuzla governing elites attempted a less radical re-interpretation of thepast.Thistookplaceonlyafterthe Bosnian presidency had officially rehabilitated part of the partisan history, especially the National Anti-fascist Council of the People’s Liberation of 15 Bosnia and Herzegovina (ZAVNOBIH) (Bougarel 1996). In Tuzla, a ‘diluted’ new version recognised the positive elements of the Yugoslav period without returning to the earlier practice of glorifying the Socialist regime. The elements of the moderate new version were again epitomised in a speech by Mayor Bešlagic´, on the occasion of the first wartime marking of ZAVNOBIH in November 1993. The speech, reminiscent of genuine appreciation for the partisan legacy, was entitled ‘Successors of the Anti- fascist Tradition’ (Bešlagic´ 1998b). It stressed the significance of ZAVNOBIH for the legal and political affirmation of Bosnian statehood and its protection from the hegemony of Serbia and Croatia; at the same time, it emphasised Tito’sroleinthisprocess(Armakolas2007). Until the end of the war, the Tuzla elites maintained a generally positive view of several aspects of the partisan and Socialist political legacy. The political project of confronting ethnic nationalism was consolidated, and a firm progressive and anti-nationalist platform dominated in the city even during the most difficult times of the war (Armakolas 2011). This platform imagined Bosnia as a country of ethnic diversity and inter-ethnic unity, as a body politic essentially undivided and undermined only by ethnic nationalists and aggressive neighbouring states. Accordingly, Tuzla was imagined as a city of unique ethnic diversity, unity, and solidarity; Tuzla was depicted as a place where the anti- fascist legacy and the Bosnian values were fully respected and ideally preserved as well as a free territory successfully defended militarily. But attitudes towards the heritage and symbols of the Socialist regime were more ambivalent and took longer to adjust to these ideological underpinnings. Throughout the war and in the early post-war period, Tuzla’s authorities under Mayor Bešlagic´ maintained an ambivalent attitude towards Socialist era cultural heritage and iconography. This could be seen in the inadequate maintenance of Socialist heritage, the low-key marking – if at all – of Socialist anniversaries, and the changes in place-names (Armakolas 2007). To demonstrate this ambivalent attitude towards the Socialist regime’s heritage, it is worth recounting here in some detail the views of Mijo Frankovic´, a prominent local heritage expert (Frankovic´ 1997). Writing in the early post-war period, Frankovic´ outlined the need to re-evaluate partisan and Socialist memorials as a prerequisite for IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 235 classifying heritage in independent Bosnia. According to Frankovic´, regulations inherited from the Socialist regime prioritised the valorisation of objects related to the partisan struggle to the detriment of objects with architectural and aesthetic value connected to other historical periods. Consequently, Frankovic´ noted, well over 50 per cent of all registered heritage objects and localities were related to the history of the partisans and the Socialist regime. Similarly, Frankovic´ stressed that in heritage preservation priority was previously given to qualities linked to the Socialist regime over other considerations, such as aesthetic value, environmental concerns, or functional imperatives. Mijo Frankovic´ called for a re-evaluation that would take into account the new political reality. He opined that personalities and events that had been marked and celebrated until then needed to be re-examined in the light of historical developments, arguing that many figures of the Socialist regime demonstrated ‘dishonesty and lack of principles [when the] aggression on Bosnia and Herzegovina occurred’ leaving Bosnia before or during the war (Frankovic´ 1997: 22). Frankovic´ believed that the political vision and identities of these officials, what he called their ‘historical truth’, were different from those of independent Bosnia. By implication, he noted that inscriptions in Socialist era memorials could not be associated with independent Bosnia. Frankovic´ consequently concluded that the cultural heritage status of many of the Socialist regime memorials would have to be re-evaluated and many removed from the registry of protected cultural heritage of Bosnia (ibid.). It is noteworthy that re-negotiating the heritage-scape is so closely linked to the political disputes of the post-Socialist era. While Frankovic´ criticises the politico-ideological character of the Socialist regime’s valuations and classifications, he calls for a re-assessment of the Socialist heritage that is no less politicised, only this time influenced by the politics of the 1992–1995 war. Furthermore, he links the fate of this heritage with the reprimanded political stance of certain Socialist regime officials during the 1992–1995 war. Such views are illustrative of the pressures exerted on Tuzla’s political elites by radical nationalists that resulted in disregard towards Socialist era symbols and heritage during the war and the early post-war period. Ethnic nationalists after all considered positive references to Yugoslavia highly suspicious. The Yugoslav People’s Army was by then considered an enemy force that had conspired with Bosnian Serb nationalists to destroy independent Bosnia, and any associations with Yugoslavia and Yugoslavism were typically portrayed as treacherous linkages to Serbia. The Tuzla elites, who had during the process of the collapse of the Yugoslav Federation associated themselves with the option of keeping the common state, became an easy target for radical nationalists after the declaration of Bosnian independence. As a result, Tuzla elites were highly concerned and eager to forestall damaging accusations during the war (Armakolas 2007). 236 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

In that context, one can observe two starkly different attitudes in Tuzla’s towards the political legacy of the partisans on the one hand and towards the associated partisan heritage on the other. The anti-fascist political legacy of the partisans was appropriated by Tuzla’s wartime narrative for the benefitof favouring the political cause of Bosnian statehood. The same legacy was also used by Tuzla elites for building a moderate political platform, for maintaining communal bonds, and for reformulating local identity in a civic fashion. These moves may have encountered opposition from radical nationalist forces but were still largely within the range of acceptable narratives of a sovereign and independent Bosnia. At the end of the day, such views essentially reinforced Bosnian statehood and gave it a civic and multi-ethnic content that could not be easily rejected by radical nationalists. But the symbols and heritage of the Socialist regime proved less tolerated. They could offer possibilities for the distortion of the new narrative and could provide ample ammunition to advancing radical nationalists in their struggle to undermine Tuzla’s moderate political option. Therefore, association with past symbols proved more difficult to sustain, and Socialist sites remained largely an ambivalent and unwanted heritage during the war.

The turning point for the transformation of Slana Banja and the first interventions The turning point for the re-discovery and gradual transformation of the Slana Banja memorial complex came on 25 May 1995, six months before the end of the war, when Tuzla experienced its saddest wartime tragedy. An artillery round from Serb positions killed seventy-one civilians, mostly young, in the city’s pedestrian centre, known as Kapija [Gate] (Alispahic´ 1996). It was one of the largest civilian tragedies of the Bosnian war. The Kapija massacre hit the core of the local community, and its members to this day single out this event as the biggest tragedy and the most traumatic event to befall Tuzla (Armakolas 2007). The local authorities, in their effort to keep the local community united in this difficult moment, decided to bury all victims, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, together in a common burial site within the wider Slana Banja area. In doing so they defied the official Islamic institutions and Mustafa efendija Céric´, the highest authority of the Islamic Community in Bosnia, who spoke against the ‘sinful’ joint burial of victims of different religions. They also opposed radical nationalist politicians and intellectuals who objected to this ‘unification’ of the victims and who, through verbal attacks, condemned the local authorities and the parents who accepted the joint burial site. Making a point against ethnic division and nationalism, at the worst moment in Tuzla’s wartime history, the local authorities pressed ahead with their plans to bury the victims of this attack together on Slana Banja. The common funeral took place at night for fear of IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 237

9.1. The memorial civilian cemetery. (Photo author.) new artillery attacks. Sead Avdic´, a prominent Tuzla politician, stressed in his address:

With sincere respect for the wishes of your parents, with the belief that it would have been your wish too: together, you will rest in peace. On the hill, which offers a view of your city, on Slana Banja, where many of you – strolling with your parents – made your first steps in life, will be your eternal home. For the youth of Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina, for the youth of the peaceful world, your eternal peace will be an eternal warning and witness, to us who remain behind – a testament and a pledge - that evil must be destroyed. (Oslobođenje, 30 May 1995) Public attacks by religious conservatives and radical nationalists continued after the war, but local authorities, the families of the deceased, and various civic groups remained adamant in their opposition to ethnic division and nationalism. Both during and after the war this new burial site became the locus of spontaneous popular commemorations and anti-nationalist 16 activism. After the war, the initial burial site of the Kapija massacre was transformed into a memorial cemetery. The graves remain to this day gathered in one place and bearing no religious symbols other than a small silver medal under the photo of each victim. Families were also given a choice to use non-religious engravings in these silver medals, and several parents chose symbols such as a flower or a book. 238 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

Conceiving the post-war transformation of Slana Banja After its wartime re-discovery, successive interventions revamped and expanded the Slana Banja memorial complex. For commemorating the 1992–1995 war, apart from the civilian cemetery, two more memorials were constructed: a Memorial to the Fallen Defenders of Tuzla and, later, a Memorial to Fallen Decorated Fighters. The memorial cemetery and the memorial to the fallen defenders were top post-war priorities and became the first two interventions in the area. Not long after the end of the war the Tuzla municipality commissioned the Tuzla Bureau for Urban Planning (TBUP) to prepare an expert study for conceptualising a new role for the memorial complex. The urbanistic- architectural plan, implemented with the expert advice of prominent Bosnian architect Zlatko Ugljen, re-conceptualised the Slana Banja memorial complex and provided a comprehensive plan for its reconstruction and adjustment to the post–1992–1995 war needs (JP Zavod za urbanizam Tuzla 1998). The study re-conceives the Slana Banja memorial complex as the new epicentre of Tuzla’s heritage-scape and memorialisation process. The focus shifts from marking the partisan struggle and celebrating the Socialist regime to commemorating the 1992–1995 war victims and celebrating the values of 17 independent Bosnia. The TBUP study noted that ‘keeping the memories of 18 the victims of aggression, Šehidi, fallen soldiers and civilian victims, is one of the most important obligations of citizens and authorities’ and that this obligation would be served by combining new and old memorials into a unique memorial complex (JP Zavod za urbanizam Tuzla 1998: 1). The shift in meaning also changed the topography of the complex. The construction of new memorials turned the authorities’ attention towards the previously under-used western part of the Gradina slopes. This area had not been significantly utilised during the Socialist regime, and virtually all Socialist memorials were in the eastern part of the complex (Zavod za zaštitu nasljeđa 1989). The older and newer parts are located in two different parts of the Slana Banja complex sharing only the entry point and the central space with its adjacent partisan memorials. The TBUP study identified three spatial- functional units: (a) the memorial cemetery of young people, (b) the memorial dedicated to the fallen soldiers, and (c) the pre-existing central plateau with the main entry point to the complex (e.g., JP Zavod za urbanizam Tuzla 1998: 2). These three units, together with the older partisan memorial complex, were intended to ‘represent a unique memorial complex, which stretches to the East- West axis’ (ibid.: 11). The conceptual planning and spatial organisation offered by the TBUP study prioritised the newer part of the memorial complex. Yet, TBUP’s urbanistic concept encompassed also the idea that the memorial complex is a legacy and a IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 239

9.2. Memorial to the Fallen Defenders of Tuzla from the 1992–1995 war. (Photo author.)

9.3. Memorial to the Fallen Decorated Soldiers of the 1992–1995 war. (Photo author.) 240 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

tradition connected to diﬀerent generations and diﬀerent struggles. In the words of the study:

[The memorial complex will relate] to different periods of our history, different events, and different objectives. We believe that this work should never be treated as final, that every plan and project should be conceptualised in such a way so that through its flexible settings will allow changes that ... each generation will contribute to the ... complex. (JP Zavod za urbanizam Tuzla 1998: 26–27) Local authorities continued to encourage the use of the memorial park for sports and recreation and maintained Slana Banja in the city plan as ‘a park-forest space for active and passive recreation’ (JP Zavod za urbanizam Tuzla 1998: 4). The urban plan considered this a guarantee that the complex would have many visitors on a daily basis, which is important ‘because this memorial complex needs to remind and warn that the crime is remembered and never repeated’ (ibid.: 4). Thus, the mixed usage was not only maintained but was also seen as reinforcing the commemorative and political uses of the complex.

Later ideological transformations: cultural heritage and a new imagining of Bosnia, 2001–2011 Elected in 2001 (and still Mayor of Tuzla at the time of writing) Jasmin Imamovic´ revisited and largely reversed what for years remained an ambivalent attitude towards the Socialist-era heritage. Imamovic´ was a member of Tuzla’s leftist political elite and a close wartime associate of former Mayor Selim Bešlagic´. But in contrast to Bešlagic´, Imamovic´’s policies have been much more attentive to the Socialist era iconography. Under his aegis the partisan legacy has found a reinforced place in Tuzla’s political discourse but, importantly, also the Tuzla heritage-scape. Imamovic´ has also conceptualised a comprehensive vision for the role that cultural heritage can play in redefining local identity by rebranding the image of Tuzla and contributing to local economic development. In recent years, his vision has become the driving force behind much of the reconstruction and economic development in the city. In his vision, Imamovic´ views the key elements of Tuzla’s cultural heritage as divided into three periods of Bosnian history:19 the Medieval Bosnian state, the partisan and anti-fascist struggle of 1941–1945, and the war for Bosnian independence of 1992–1995. Imamovic´ visions for the cultural heritage policy of Tuzla’sisto‘harmonize’ these three periods. Interestingly, the Medieval period has only recently been used to portray a shared past with possible elements of identification that do not follow the ethnic lines. This focus on the Medieval Bosnian kingdom is, in part, an attempt to do away with the special focus on the Ottoman period; the symbolic importance of the latter is IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 241 emphasised by many ethnic nationalist and religiously inclined Bosniaks, but is rejected by most Bosnian Serbs and Croats. The focus on the Medieval Bosnian state in theory enables greater identification with Bosnian history amongst local Serbs and Croats. But in practice, Bosnian Serbs and Croats have often interpreted the focus on Medieval Bosnia as a Bosniak attempt to create a national myth of age-old Bosnian statehood. For the period of the partisan struggle, Imamovic´ strongly criticises those who feel embarrassed about the partisan legacy in Bosnia and considers both ZAVNOBIH and AVNOJ, the Anti-Fascist Council of the People’s Liberation of Yugoslavia, as key milestones in Bosnian political history. In doing this Imamovic´ alludes not only to negative attitudes that Bosniak ethnic nationalists hold towards the partisan tradition but also to the apparent reluctance of many of his fellow Social Democrats to defend the positive legacy of the partisans. Imamovic´ emphasises the importance of Tito and his partisan movement for the affirmation of Bosnian statehood, as opposed to other historical periods:

This centuries’ old waiting [for Bosnian statehood] is not accidental. This opportunity [for Bosnian statehood] was not given during the Ottoman Empire. It did not suit the Austro-Hungarian monarchy either. In the period of the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes and the Kingdom of Yugoslavia it was not an option. The period of Tito gave Bosnia and Herzegovina the well-deserved status of winner over Hitler as well as ZAVNOBIH and AVNOJ, with which its centuries’ old continuity of statehood was affirmed. (Imamovic´ 2011) The anti-fascist credentials of Bosnia (as the ‘winner over Hitler’) stressed in Imamovic´’s narrative was possible because of the role of the Yugoslav leader. Moreover, his narrative sees Tuzla as a city exhibiting its anti-fascist credentials already in 1941, with many locals giving their lives for the anti-fascist 20 cause. With regard to the third period, the 1992–1995 war, Imamovic´ emphasises the full participation of Tuzla in all commemorations and celebrations of this period and points out that Tuzla was the first city to construct a monument to honour the decorated fallen heroes. This emphasis on the commemorative practice echoes the war-time narrative defending the stance of Tuzla’s politicians in the face of attacks by radical nationalists accusing them of lukewarm support for Bosnian independence. According to Imamovic´ these three periods were the only ones during which Bosnia was not oppressed and was either independent or fighting for its sovereignty. He rejects the tendencies in other areas, and especially Sarajevo, for favouring the periods when Bosnia was under the Ottoman or Austro- Hungarian empires. Imamovic´ stresses that, in contrast to Sarajevo, he ‘glorifies domestic [people and things]’. Again here the narrative is linked to the effort 242 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

of Tuzla elites to create their own Bosnian imaginary. The preference to the ‘domestic’ is a response at once to Serbs and Croats who maintain their strong links to Serbia and Croatia, respectively, and to ethnic nationalist and religiously inclined Bosniaks who tend to over-emphasise the Ottoman tradition of the country and the association to Islam. In the same context, Imamovic´ portrays the partisan movement, not as a foreign element alien to Bosnia but as a unique historical product of the socio-political struggles of the Bosnian people. Overall, the narrative of Mayor Imamovic´ epitomises a political project that imagines Bosnia as a country of civic and anti-fascist values and Tuzla as the location where these values are distinctively embodied. As we saw above, this political project was initiated and consolidated under the leadership of Mayor Selim Bešlagic´, but evolved, matured, and largely found its expression in terms of cultural heritage under Imamovic´. The dominant Tuzla narrative appropri- ates the glory of the anti-fascist struggle and adjusts it to the political reality of independent Bosnia.21 These ideas have all influenced the city’s heritage-scape, and the three periods identified by Imamovic´ are highlighted in the construction and reconstruction of Tuzla’s heritage. The fascination with Medieval Bosnia and its symbols is reflected in a series of interventions in several locations in the city. A statue of Medieval king Tvrtko I Kotromanic´, the first of its kind in Bosnia, was recently built, and the newly reconstructed central square of Tuzla is rife with Medieval Bosnian iconography. In Slana Banja, the memorial directly associated with Medieval symbols is the Memorial to the Fallen Decorated Fighters of the 1992–1995 war, which resembles the stecći, the famous Medieval Bosnian tombstones, while in the Memorial to the Fallen Defenders of Tuzla a central column was recently replaced by one bearing motifs of Medieval Bosnian symbols. With Imamovic´’s several interventions, such as the renovation of old partisan memorials and the construction of new ones, pointed to a re-appreciation of the Socialist heritage. There are numerous examples of renovations and reconstructions of Socialist heritage both in the Slana Banja and in the city at large. A key intervention was the construction of a new memorial space – called the ‘Avenue of Heroes’–lined with many busts of partisan and Socialist regime heroes brought to the spot from different warehouses where they had been stored for safe-keeping at the start of the war. New busts honouring recently deceased Socialist regime heroes were commissioned for the site, and a much-vandalised bust of a partisan hero of Serb background from a neighbouring municipality, a nationalist stronghold, was re-located on the Avenue. To construct a new partisan memorial in post-Socialist Bosnia is already a symbolically significant gesture, and this Avenue becoming a refuge for neglected and vandalised partisan heritage from elsewhere has added to its meaning. One reason why Tuzla’s elites have only recently exhibited a more confident association with partisan symbols is the distance from the 1990s conflict. They IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 243

9.4. Socialist era monument recently renovated. (Photo author.) no longer feel pressure from the radical nationalist forces that ﬂourished during the war and are in a better position to materialise their political and national vision. Tuzla’s elites are able to capitalise on the successful wartime policy- making, when they managed to prevent some of the worst consequences of war that befell other parts of the country (Armakolas 2011). In addition, the Social- Democratic Party (SDP), the Bosnian successor of the Communist Party in power in Tuzla, is anything but a marginal force in the country, and it can thus engage more conﬁdently in negotiating symbols; nevertheless, it has to be stressed outside Tuzla the SDP is not protecting the partisan legacy as actively.

HERITAGE, MEANING MAKING, AND IDENTITY BUILDING Tuzla narrative and its reflection in material form The post-war construction of new memorials reshuffled the spatial organisation and created new priorities in the complex. The space of the 1992–1995 memorials has received more attention for renovation and beautification. Several interventions have been made to the main pathway of the memorial 244 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

complex, the ‘Avenue of Freedom’, so that it connects the reconstructed partisan memorials and the main 1992–1995 memorials. The memorials of the two different eras (partisan struggle and Bosnian war of independence) form a visual continuum linked by the Avenue and several secondary paths. This continuum does not correspond to the historical chronology nor to the relative significance of the memorials nor the sequence in their construction. Rather it offers a symbolic linkage connecting the anti-fascist partisan struggle with the war for Bosnian independence and its civilian tragedies and military losses. The initial post-war plan for Slana Banja conceived two connected but still separate memorial areas, corresponding to the two wars being commemorated. However, this distinction soon proved untenable in practice, and today in both official discourse and popular understandings the whole area is considered a single memorial complex. The area’s additional function as a space for relaxation and recreation further contributed to the dissolution of these boundaries. For example, the parts of the complex that were more readily accessible for recreation became the more frequented regardless of which conflict they memorialised. As the initially separate complexes are effectively merged, new informal divisions have been created, for example, between the prioritised and fully renovated part and the neglected part of the complex. The latter not only remains neglected in official commemorations and unfrequented by visitors, but even access to it has become increasingly difficult as unattended greenery and trees grow wild. This new informal division has repercussions for the way that people experience their history and encounter their past in the complex. Beyond the informal ‘boundary’ lie significant individual memorials that once illustrated the tragedy and horror of the Second World War and were the locus of mourning and commemoration. Due to this apparent new division both collective pains and individual suffering appear to be gradually, if unconsciously, removed from the public eye, with dire consequences for its preservation in collective memory. With the construction of the new wing devoted to the 1992–1995 war, the central space containing the memorial to partisan brigades, together with the main entry point, acquired more importance. The space maintains its character as a partisan memorial, but efforts were made to tone down its Socialist era image and bring it closer to the new hegemonic narratives. The memorial to partisan brigades was refurbished in red and white, losing its original look of raw concrete, which is characteristic of Socialist era memorials. In addition, a second Socialist era memorial that used to be situated in that central space was vandalised, never reconstructed, and eventually lost its character as a memorial. Furthermore, interventions tried to ‘Bosnianize’ the floor of the central plateau through the construction of a floor pattern, designed following traditional Bosnian carpet patterns. Following this ‘traditionalization’ of the former IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 245

9.5. Busts of Socialist era heroes regrouped in the Avenue of Heroes. (Photo author.)

9.6. The central commemorative space with its ‘Bosnianized’ ﬂoor. (Photo author.) 246 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

concrete floor this area is now often called in official documents and media an ‘open stage Bosnian carpet’. Thus, the old part of the memorial complex, which in the new spatial organisation was included in the ‘priority’ area, underwent more extensive change in an attempt to dilute its former Socialist character. We see in these interventions characteristic examples of the Tuzla elites’ striving to associate with the positive values of the partisan struggle while making efforts to appropriate this struggle and incorporate it into the new Bosnia-centred narrative.

Intentionality and identity politics Meaning creation in the Slana Banja memorial complex reflected the particular re-interpretation of the past that became Tuzla’s dominant post-Yugoslav narrative. This entailed a new political and national imagination for Bosnia as well as a corresponding identity-building project for the local community in Tuzla. This Tuzla-specific imagination was inspired by Bosnian civic nationalist tropes (e.g., the Medieval Bosnian kingdom) with the addition of Tuzla exceptionality themes (e.g., salt production or other features from culture and literature). Key in this vision of Tuzla was the formulation of a linear narrative connecting the 1992–1995 war for Bosnian independence with the anti-fascist struggle of the partisans during the Second Wold War. The heritage-scape reconstructed in Slana Banja created a tangible visual representation of these Tuzla narratives. This picture of cultural heritage reconstruction can be contrasted to the dominant trends of war commemoration in Bosnia, which are ethnically and religiously exclusive. The Slana Banja heritage site promoted a more inclusive historical interpretation that is not ethnically determined. The non-ethnic meaning and civic aspects of nationalism are prioritised over divisive ethnic nationalisms, and historical periods with the potential to function as source of shared identity, especially the Second World War, are given significant space. Secular aspects of identity and heritage are also given precedence over references to religious identity, which are seen as more divisive. This can be seen, for example, in the symbols used in the civilian cemetery memorial, in the architectural concept of the other memorials, and in the official name of the Memorial to the fallen 1992–1995 defenders of Tuzla, which avoids the reference to Šehidi. This primacy of civic symbolism in Tuzla contrasts the trends in the rest of the country where overly religious symbolism is a standard feature in war commemoration sites. Commemorative practices in post-war Tuzla have also strengthened the civic aspects of identity. Whereas official protocol maintains that the various memorials be treated equally, the memorial civilian cemetery has informally become the centre point of commemorative practices emphasising the civic non-ethnic IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 247 and non-religious aspects over the military. This contrasts with practices in the rest of the country where war memorials are central to post-war commemoration practices. One of the key functions of the Tuzla narrative was to provide legitimacy to the successors of the Socialist regime in Tuzla. The successfully adapted narrative, coupled with effective policy-making during the war, enabled the local political elite to remain in control despite radical political changes and the abrupt de-legitimisation of the Socialist ideology. Thus, the narrative of Tuzla created a symbolic space for the survival, transformation, and re-invigoration of the political legacy and the symbols of the Socialist regime. In time, the Tuzla approach has contributed to the re-visioning of a post-war Bosnia. The SDP continued to have a vital stronghold in Tuzla, despite being a marginal force in Bosnian politics for years. The social-democratic option survived, eventually strengthened, and today, more than two decades after the fateful 1990 elections, SDP is the biggest party in the Bosniak areas. The Tuzla narrative and the meaning imbued in heritage sites proved a successful experiment amongst the local community. The popularity of Tuzla- promoted ideas enabled the local authorities to resist the radical nationalist pressure and to defend the values of multi-ethnicity during the war. Simultaneously, the surviving political elites of the former regime have dominated the political and electoral landscape of Tuzla since the first multi-party elections in 1990. This is the single local government in Bosnia that has never been captured by the ethnic nationalist parties that were formed at the end of the Socialist regime. The city’s self-image as a uniquely tolerant and anti-fascist city, an idea strongly promoted by the dominant Tuzla narrative, has also been successful and remains a point of reference for local self-identification. Elite members, civil society activists, and ordinary citizens largely subscribe to these ideas, and they frequently resort to them in public discourse and private conversations (Armakolas 2007).

Silences, exclusions, and limitation of the appeal The new meaning produced in the Slana Banja memorial complex is still based on signiﬁcant exclusions, silences, and selective remembering, what Garden (2009) has called ‘cultural (in)visibility’. In Tuzla, meanings associated with the partisan struggle in the Second World War were transformed to ﬁt the new hegemonic city narrative. But through that process other memories, ideas, and interpretations of the past are rendered ‘invisible’. The partisan struggle became singularly associated with anti-fascism and the Bosnian tradition of co-existence. As a result, other original associations of the partisan struggle, such as the inextricable link to Socialist ideology, the vision for the creation of a strong Yugoslavia, and the unity of the Yugoslav peoples, all disappeared from 248 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

dominant narratives. The new meanings favoured also over-emphasised the Second World War and largely silenced the subsequent period of Socialist Yugoslavia. In accordance to the dominant ideological references of independent Bosnia today, the successes and strengths are discursively linked to characteristics inherent to Bosnian society, while the positive influence of the Yugoslav period and the cross-border links created at the time are downplayed. There are, however, limits to the appeal of the new meanings. Albeit less ethnically oriented and more inclusive, Tuzla-promoted ideas fail nonetheless to bridge the divisions created during the 1992–1995 war. The Tuzla discourse and the Slana Banja memorial complex provide space for identification to secular, liberal, and anti-nationalist Bosniaks. But they remain largely alien to the more conservative, ethnic nationalist, and religion-inclined Bosniaks. Interestingly, the recently constructed memorial to decorated soldiers of the Bosnian Army may contribute to bridging the gap with that group of more conservative Bosniaks. There is thus potential for heritage to be used, once again, to reformulate identities with the aim of bridging political divides. But other war-created cleavages will likely persist. Pro-Bosnian Serbs and Croats can identify with the Tuzla narrative and the Slana Banja memorial complex. But the Tuzla-promoted narrative cannot as such incorporate the political identities of Serbs who opposed the independence of Bosnia and found themselves physically or emotionally on the side of the Bosnian Serb forces during the war. Similar is the case with those Croats who identified with Herceg- Bosna, the Bosnian Croat wartime statelet. These differences in identity are exceptionally difficult to reconcile. Even for the more inclusive Tuzla narrative, such cleavages and exclusions remain fundamental because they construct or exemplify essential differences, which give meaning to the self-identification of the local community in Tuzla. They illustrate the boundary beyond which lie identities against which the sense of similarity, the new identity of Tuzla, was constructed during the war. The controversies surrounding conflicting annual commemorations at the site of the Brcˇanska Malta battle in Tuzla are a case in point.22 Such essential divisions are not easy to bridge, at least within the scope of current ideological frameworks in Bosnia.

CONCLUSIONS In times when ethnic nationalism was the order of the day in Bosnia, Tuzla became the pioneer in developing and promoting a moderate political alternative, which genuinely advocated inter-ethnic unity and co-existence as well as a civic conception of state. Tuzla political elites’ imagining of a new political and national community in Bosnia was founded on a particular re-interpretation of the past. The re-interpretation entailed the revisiting, rejuvenation, and appropriation of parts of the partisan and Socialist legacy IMAGINING COMMUNITY IN BOSNIA 249 and their adjustment in a post-Yugoslav and Bosnia-centred orientation. The new narrative also had a strong Tuzla-oriented component, attempting at once to avert radical nationalist influence and to re-formulate local identity and politics towards a moderate and civic direction. These dynamics had their reflection on the question of cultural heritage in Tuzla in ways that challenge the dominant trends in post-war heritage management in Bosnia that are galvanised by ethnic exclusivity. Interestingly, there was no linear correspondence between the emergence and consolidation of the dominant Tuzla narrative and its reflection on heritage construction and reconstruction. Here the political dynamics added an extra layer of difficulties to the local authorities’ efforts to connect its politics to cultural heritage and memorialisation. The chapter has presented the gradual transformation of Slana Banja from a heritage site of secondary and local importance into a characteristic example of the search for post-Yugoslav and pro-Bosnian identity and meaning. Slana Banja can be seen as an exceptional site around which different memories, narratives, commemorative practices, and interpretations of the past unfolded since its original construction in the late 1950s. In Socialist times its meaning was inextricably and inflexibly linked to the dominant narrative of the regime. In independent Bosnia the memorial complex underwent a gradual process of change, expansion, and, above all, alteration of meaning. Its role grew to become a key site imbued with meaning by Tuzla’s political elites as well as a point of reference for the local community’s identification with the associated narrative and political vision. The meanings evoked in Slana Banja demonstrate the complexity of identity politics in contemporary Bosnia. They reveal the strength and appeal of the hegemonic Tuzla narrative. All the same, they illustrate the limitations of that appeal as well as the silences and exclusions encompassed in the process.

NOTES

1. The author would like to thank Dacia Viejo-Rose for useful comments on earlier drafts of this chapter, Dino Zulumovic´ for his research assistantship, and Erik Peinert and Maja Maksimovic´ for editorial comments. 2. ‘People’s Liberation Struggle’ or ‘People’s Liberation War’ are generic terms used in the countries of the former Yugoslavia when referring to the Communist Party of Yugoslavia’s resistance and military battles for liberation during the Second World War. For brevity the term ‘partisan struggle’ will be mainly used in this chapter. 3. In this chapter when generic terms ‘war’ and the ‘pre-/post-war’ are used we refer to the 1992–1995 Bosnian war. In contrast, the ‘partisan struggle/war’ will be used interchangeably with ‘Second World War’. 4. For the tradition of peaceful co-existence in Bosnia see Donia and Fine (1994), Bougarel (1996), Bringa (1995), and Sorabji (2008). 5. For more details on various aspects of these political dynamics see Armakolas (2011), Bougarel (1996), Hoare (2004), and Macˇek (2000). 250 IOANNIS ARMAKOLAS

6. According to the 1991 census Tuzla municipality had a population of 131,618 consisting of 47.61 per cent Muslims (Bosniaks), 15.50 per cent Croats, 15.40 per cent Serbs, 16.71 per cent Yugoslavs, and 4.78 per cent members of smaller minority groups. 7. For details on the politics of Tuzla see Armakolas (2011, 2007). 8. The brief Austrian rule (1878–1918) was for Bosnia (a former Ottoman province) a period of speedy modernisation and industrialisation (Sugar 1963), a process that continued during the post–Second World War Socialist period. The two periods saw the creation and expansion of Tuzla’s industrial base. 9. Details in Decision 01-13514 of 2 October 1967, Službeni Glasnik Opštine Tuzla, number 10, year IV, 25 October 1967. 10. For details on individual memorials see Zavod za zaštitu nasljeđa(1989). 11. See, for example, the local newspaper Front Slobode’s reporting of 29 April 1970, 7 October 1970, 4 October 1972, and 14 May 1975. 12. See relevant reporting in the local press: Front Slobode 14 September 1959, 21 September 1959, 12 September 1960, and 19 September1960. 13. For details on the spatial conditions in the city and its organisation in spatial zones of the city see Skupština opštine Tuzla (no date): esp. 94ff. 14. For all these problems see details in Zavod za zaštitu nasljeđa 1989: 2–3, 7–9; see also especially 9–10 and 24–28 for relevant proposals for remedying the deficiencies. 15. ZAVNOBIH was the clandestine highest governing body of the partisan and resistance struggle in Bosnia during the Second World War. It was an important development in Bosnian history since it officially affirmed Bosnian statehood and its country’s position as a separate republic in the context of Socialist Yugoslavia. Yet, ZAVNOBIH’s significance was not fully appreciated in newly independent Bosnia mainly because it was associated with the Yugoslav movement and the Socialist regime. 16. See details in Oslobođenje 30 May 1995, 28 May 1995; AIM-Press 11 June 1996; Ljiljan 5 June 1996. 17. See details in JP Zavod za urbanizam Tuzla (1998); JP Zavod za urbanizam Tuzla (2000). 18. During the 1992–1995 war it was common to designate fallen Bosnian Muslim soldiers as Šehidi (Shaheeds), or martyrs of faith (Bougarel 2007). The term ‘fallen soldier’ was typically reserved for non-Muslim members of the Bosnian Army or, less frequently, secular and less religiously inclined Bosniaks. In Tuzla the ‘cult of Šehidi’ (Bougarel 2007) is not as widespread. 19. Unless otherwise specified, all data for outlining Imamovic´’s concept of cultural heritage is based on an interview with him conducted in Tuzla on 21 September 2010. See also Imamovic´ (2011, 2003, 2000). 20. A significant part of the Tuzla population was actively involved in the partisan struggle and the German and Quisling authorities considered the city to be indeed a stronghold of partisan resistance (Horozic´ 2007). 21. This attention is not extended to the post–Second World War Socialist regime whose importance is not equally emphasised. 22. The disputes over the events of the battle of Brcˇanska Malta, its conflicting memories, and commemorative practices are beyond the scope of this chapter. POSTSCRIPT 1:THETIMEOFPLACE

David Uzzell

THE CASE STUDIES IN THIS VOLUME EMPHASISE FORCEFULLY THAT PLACES have meanings, and these meanings change over time. They change simply because of time – they leave the memory of those who witnessed the events, and who then told their stories to their families and communities. In this telling of stories memories change, the interplay between recollection and emotion shifts, and the function and purpose of stories change to serve particular arguments in particular contexts. These stories are passed down to subsequent generations and are further transformed, and eventually they seep into history. But these transformed meanings are subtle and multifaceted. In this volume references are made to the ‘biography of place’. Places tell stories, they speak to us through the landscape before our eyes and such place-related stories are especially powerful when the landscape is one of memorialisation. Place-based stories provide a direct link between individuals and the environment: ‘Within this understanding was interwoven an embodied sense of visiting the actual physical place, a place where the soil had been soaked in blood and tears’ (Sørensen and Adriansen this volume).

LOOKING BACK TO LOOK FORWARD Events and memorials, which are designed to be a vehicle for remembering and reconciliation, serve in many cases to keep alive the memories of conflict, grievance, injustice, and pain. They also demonstrate, however, that it takes two to create conflict, and both parties suffer and their pain is a shared experience. The legacies of war, both memories in the mind and material remains in the physical environment, are an important component of the reconciliation process. For example, former French President Nicolas Sarkozy (at the Arc de Triomphe on Armistice Day 2009 in the presence of German Chancellor Angela Merkel) made an emotional reference to the bonding between the two countries through their shared suffering, and reference to the fact that German children had cried for their dead fathers in exactly the same way as French children had. Sarkozy’s reference to that most painful of reflections, ‘lost children’, reminds us of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk’s powerful tribute sent to an official Australian, New Zealand, and British party visiting

251 252 DAVID UZZELL

Anzac Cove in 1934, a tribute which is reproduced on the memorial to the Anzacs killed at Gallipoli in 1915:

Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives. ...You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side now here in this country of ours, you, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this 1 land, they have become our sons as well. Atatürk’s speech, like that of Sarkozy seventy-five years later, has to be set within a wider political context. William ‘Billy’ Hughes, prime minister of Australia during the First World War, said: ‘Australia was born on the shores of Gallipoli.’ One might perhaps suggest that Turkey was too; Kemal Atatürk, who distin- guished himself at Gallipoli, played a key role in the Turkish War of Independence andwentontobecomethefirst president of the Republic of Turkey in 1923. Emotional penances, which seem to be looking back in sorrow, are often looking forward to a future. Sarkozy also used the occasion for remembrance to talk about a closer co-ordination of economic and energy polices and plans for the appointment of a Franco-German Minister. On 7 December 1970, Willy Brandt knelt down at the monument to the Warsaw Uprising (the Kniefall von Warschau), a penitential gesture which almost 50 per cent of the German population thought was ‘exaggerated’ (Der Spiegel 1970), but which was seen by Brandt as a symbolic sign central to his policy of Ostpolitick. And on 22 September 1984, German Chancellor Helmut Kohl held hands with French President François Mitterrand in front of the Ossuary at the Douaumont cemetery in Verdun. This gesture was not only meant to signal reconciliation between two men to events in the past, one whose father had fought at Verdun (Kohl) and the other who had fought over the same ground in the Second World War. It was a statement about the future, about the ‘European Project’ and France and Germany’s position at the centre of it. These examples do not seek to denigrate such acts as cynical posturing, but we should not become too misty-eyed and ignore the fact that the memorialisation of the past can be functional serving future economic interests, massag- ing the collective memory, and healing past psychological scars.

MEMORY IN CONTEXT These observations remind us how the meanings of memorial sites are simultaneously located in the individual, their identities and group allegiances, in those local communities which look out every day across a landscape that saw death and destruction, and in the larger social, political, economic, and historical contexts in which individuals, families, and communities live. POSTSCRIPT 1 253

The oral historian Allesandro Portelli (1991) recounts his experience of interviewing several elderly resistance fighters who opposed the Fascists in Genzano near Rome. The men arranged themselves for the interview by seniority in terms of political experience rather than age. The first speaker talked about life in the village under German occupation and Allied bombardment. The next speaker set his account of anti-Fascist resistance farther back in time and described how the villagers were dependent upon the underground organisation of the 1920sand1930s. The third speaker talked about how resistance was not possible without the pre–FirstWorldWarsocialisttradition and electoral victories. The final speaker traced his village’s revolutionary traditionbacktotheriotsinresponsetoPopePiusIX’s visit to the town in 1848. Our narratives of the past are shaped by memory and history, which in turnatleastpartiallyexplainwhoweareandhowwehavegottowherewe are. Even for these men seemingly shared and well-known events and places meant different things. For Portelli, time has both a quantitative and a qualitative dimension. He conceptualises these quantitative and a qualitative dimensions as two axes. Its quantitative dimension refers to the accumulation of experience. This presents time as linear, divided into events, periods, and epochs in a horizontal fashion – a temporal plane that stretches from our past into our future. Its qualitative dimension, however, is conceived vertically, reflecting the multidimensionality of our lives and the contexts in which our lives are lived, ranging from the personal (i.e., home and the private sphere with the everyday occurrences of family events through the life course), the collective (i.e., the life of the community, the neighbourhood, the workplace), and the institutional (i.e., the sphere of politics, governments, collective organisations, and set within national and international historical contexts). Within any one moment many things may take place simultaneously with different meanings and significances for those who experience them. Meaning and memories reside in the horizontal and vertical axes of time as well as space. We live through layers of events, which simultaneously occupy local places and global spaces, with individual lives part of a complex web of relationships that are both ‘here’ and ‘there’. For example, the bombing of Gernika was, in Portelli’s terms, not only a personal and collective experience but also an institutional event. This point is brought out by Dacia Viejo-Rose (this volume) who discusses how the reconstruction process after the bombing sought to affect the symbolic meaning of the town. Through her analysis of the rebuilding of the Plaza Mayor (Foru Plaza) and Ayuntamiento, Viejo-Rose demonstrates how the state lent ‘materiality to its authority’ and in so doing aesthetically and symbolically linked the past with the present. She also shows how, after the demise of Franco’s régime, Gernika was not only reclaimed for itself but was also used for wider readings of the meaning of urban spaces and places through various international voices. 254 DAVID UZZELL

AFTER CONFLICT COMES ...CONFLICT In the opening paragraph to his essay entitled ‘Give War a Chance’, Edward Luttwak, the inﬂuential American policy adviser to the U.S. Secretary of Defence, the National Security Council, and the U.S. military, argues:

An unpleasant truth often overlooked is that although war is a great evil, it does have a great virtue: it can resolve political conflicts and lead to peace. This can happen when all belligerents become exhausted or when one wins decisively. Either way the key is that the fighting must continue until a resolution is reached. (Luttwak 1999: 36) The argument advanced by Luttwak is that by prosecuting war to an indisput- able conclusion, peace is inevitable. Such a view has to be challenged. From a theoretical perspective, and following Portelli, the dimensions of time and space are infinite, and there can be no winner of wars. From a more immediate perspective the end of war is rarely and smoothly transformed into a condition of peace, as if conflictual states are binary. War mutates into a more managed state of conflict in which adversity has to be confronted, negotiated, and resolved. Political conflicts and internalised animosities rumble on across generations and across borders, if only amongst the descendants and diaspora. The forgotten detritus of war in terms of altered and scarred landscapes, restored trenches at battlefield sites, purposeful monuments and memories and annual ceremonies ensure that while they may seek to become symbols of peace and reconciliation, memories of war are an ever-constant shadow. In some cases, the presence of these physical and mental memorials only serves to ensure that peace does not follow war. In all the case studies in this volume, the conflicts discussed are usually bracketed within a specific time period. But of course the authors of these chapters are only too aware that the origins of these conflicts have histories extending beyond the beginning and concluding dates that normally bracket conflicts (e.g., Bosnia 1992–1995 and Cyprus 1974). The dates of conflicts are nominal and represent only the most recent ‘flaring’ of hostilities. Moreover, they often have no conclusion, because while there may no longer be open warfare, ongoing political instability and inter-ethnic tensions remain. This complex relationship between place, politics, and ethnicity is well illustrated by a Serb memorial in the village of Kravicá (about a fifteen-minute drive from Srebrenica) to those who had died in the Bosnian War. When the CRIC research team visited Kravicá a member of the Serb community, standing before the memorial, recounted his experience of the killings and destruction in his village. The memorial, built by the community, incorporates seating for participation in commemorative events and history lessons for children. On the opposite side of the road is an older memorial to the Partisans who fought against POSTSCRIPT 1 255 the fascists in the Second World War. Their spatial proximity and alignment immediately ties one story about one moment in the past to a completely different moment. Even though the historical context, causes, and ideologies are different and the fact that the Bosnian Muslims were neighbours not invaders, the two memorials along with the physical evidence in the local valley of the consequences of war in the form of burnt-out houses seem to support ongoing narratives which are used to justify past, present, and possible future actions. A few kilometres away at the Srebrenica-Potocˇari memorial site, the graves of more than seven thousand Bosnian Muslims stretch into the distance, forming an arc around the ‘Srebrenica- Potocˇari Memorial and Cemetery for the Victims of the 1995 Genocide’. On the same day as the visit to Kravicá, standing in this memorial, a Bosnian Muslim told his community’s story.

HERITAGE AS AN INSTRUMENT FOR RECONCILIATION? This volume raises an important research question: to what degree can heritage be used as an instrument for reconciliation? Cyprus may be seen by Europe’s tourists as a sunny and relaxed Mediterranean island with good food, wonderful beaches, and friendly hosts. Thoughts of war and inter-communal strife are the last things on many tourists’ minds as they flick through the holiday brochures, even if they are aware that there is ongoing conflict on the island. Cyprus is split in half by the UN-controlled Buffer Zone and guarded by armed troops from both Greek and Turkish communities. Sitting precisely in the middle of this Buffer Zone is the Ledra Palace Hotel, which, Olga Demetriou (this volume) asserts, embodies nothing less than the heritage of the Cyprus conflict. Following the failure of the Annan Plan (2004) and the continued existence of checkpoints, the Ledra Palace has become a symbol of failure. Sørensen and Adriansen argue that sites of conflict continue to have ‘owners’. The war lives on, for example, in Bosnia where each side carries on the conflict and animosity through its stories, through its memorials, through the burnt-out and abandoned houses of those who have been forced to leave either the area or even the country, and through the everyday reminders of the shelling such as the Sarajevo Roses (i.e., the mortar shell marks on the streets of the city which have been filled with red colour as an ever-present reminder of and memorial to those killed). The memorial rituals in Dresden are now the German-wide focus for clashes between the Far Right and the Left, with neo-Nazis marching on the anniversary of the 1945 Dresden air raid. Gernika’s bombing remains totemic of fascist assault and has been capitalised on by various factions in the Basque conflict. And, as noted above, Verdun continues to be an important part of the French and German psyche such that more than ninety years after the end of the First World War, two national leaders cannot meet there on the day of remembrance and reconciliation. 256 DAVID UZZELL

Most languages possess maxims that speak to the therapeutic effect of time: ‘Time heals’ (U.K.), ‘Time is anger’s medicine’ (Germany), ‘Nature, Time, and Patience are the three great physicians’ (Bulgaria). But these may be best considered as words of comfort rather than prophecy. History is not just what comes after politics, but can be the fuel of politics. How can people heal if they live in landscapes that are still wounded? People may try to ‘forgive and forget’, but time and place are always there to remind the descendants of both victors and vanquished of past injustices, brutalities, and pain. Memorials, heritage sites, museums, commemorative parades, and ‘recreational’ re-enactments all pick at the scabs of the past, and in so doing the wounds left by conflict take more time to heal and inevitably leave a scar. These sites and practices may seek to honour and respect the past, and be part of a reconciliation process, but meaning is dependent upon the vantage point. A peace memorial can so easily be seen as a blame memorial. Are we placing too much responsibility on the heritage to do our reconciliation work for us? The markers of war and conflict, such as memorials or battlefield sites, far from being part of a forgiveness and reconciliation process, in fact become sites where old conflicts are reconstructed, re-positioned, and re-presented. People and places cannot be separated, suggesting that the reconstruction of the heritage is as likely to lead to the reconstruction of long-felt grievances and injustices as it is to lead to understanding and resolution. Do we really imagine that a political peace process lasting just several years can eradicate not just the physical but also psychological grievances incubated in some cases over centuries? As I write this, the Ulster Protestant Orange Order has just completed its annual day of marches (12 July 2013) through the Catholic areas of Belfast and Londonderry to commemorate the victory of King William III over King James II in 1690; yet again the marches were the scene of inter-communal violence, although the rhetoric presented to the outside world is one of a peace secured (RTE 2013).

CONCLUDING COMMENTS The central idea that runs through this commentary is that the meanings of war and their associated places and spaces change over time. A question that has sat in the background throughout these reﬂections is how are these diﬀerent meanings remembered?

Collective memory: past, present, and future Susan Sontag argues that society cannot ‘remember’ because memory is embodied and cannot be transferred between people or inter-generationally: ‘All memory is individual, unreproducible – it dies with each person. What is POSTSCRIPT 1 257 called remembering is not remembering but a stipulating: that this is important, and this is the story about how it happened’ (Sontag 2003: 85–86). In contrast, Assman asserts that although autobiographical memories cannot be embodied by others, they can be shared with others. They are shared through our interaction with other individuals, and through our interaction with the material world. That is, they become embodied and embedded in speech, in memorials and places, and in commemorative events and thus become grounded in the ‘durable carriers of external symbols and representations’ (Assman 2008: 49). In this way cultural memories are transmitted across societies and generations. But this should not be thought of as a passive process. These carriers of external symbols and representations become functional; they are used to understand the world and construct ideologies: ‘Ideologies create substantiating archives of images, representative images, which encapsulate common ideas of significance and trigger predictable thoughts, feelings’ (Sontag 2003: 85–86). To thoughts and feelings, one can add practices. In all of the case studies, the conflicts are tied to place; the evidence of the conflict remains in the landscape. In some cases it may be invisible to the outsider, residing solely and deeply in the collective memory. In some cases the evidence is less easy to discern; the presence of a memorial may be all that there is to denote the significance of place, although this alone may be sufficient to keep the embers of conflict alight. In other cases, however, the evidence is all too present as the Cain-like marks of war in the form of bullet-pocked apartments in Sarajevo or burnt-out houses in Srebrenica testify. They testify not only to what has happened in the past. For those who were victims of such attacks and have been displaced, one suspects these marks are also seen as a forewarning of what might happen in the future should they try to return. They are a symbolic threat.

Memorial places: past, present, and future All the conflicts that comprise the case studies have a physical presence in the landscape. Today, this does not strike us as being significant; we expect to see the extant remains of conflicts in one form or another. But before and during the nineteenth century while the detritus of conflict might remain on battlefield sites for years, there were not only few memorials to battles, but the burial of the war dead was often not systematically memorialised. For the British, it was only towards the end of the First World War that the need for the bereaved to visit where their relatives had fallen, and perhaps if they were fortunate visit their grave, was recognised and made possible. The carnage of the First World War and the public’s reaction to the loss of millions led to the establishment of the Imperial War Graves Commission in 1917 (Summers and Harris 2007). Battlefield visits became popular and have remained so to the present day. 258 DAVID UZZELL

Not only do all the sites of conflict in this volume have a strong sense of place, but they also possess a pervading sense of the ‘Other’. The ‘Other’ is the adversary. When talking with the Bosnian Muslim guide at Srebrenica one could not fail to have a vivid sense of the Serbian ‘aggressor’. It was not difficult to imagine the men and boys being marched through woods and summarily executed, not least because we have seen the photographs – the ‘archive of images’ to which Sontag refers – of the executions above the grave pits. In Verdun, French and Germans soldiers died and are buried in the same place. In Nicosia, the Greek Cypriots look across barbed wire to the observation posts on the Turkish side of the Green Line and see who the enemy is (and vice versa, of course). In each of these cases there is an ‘Other’ which is known and part of a felt experience. But will this be so in the future? Zygmunt Bauman argues that one of the defining characteristics of modernity is the changing relationship between time and space:

Modernity starts when space and time are separated from living practice and from each other and so become ready to be theorized as distinct and mutually independent categories of strategy and action, when they cease to be ... the intertwined and barely indistinguishable aspects of living experience, locked in a stable and apparently invulnerable one-to-one correspondence. (Bauman 2000: 8–9) One of the implications of this separationforBaumanisthatpowerbecomes extra-territorial; it is no longer constrained by the friction of space. This is perhaps another aspect of Portelli’s assertion that we live through layers of events which simultaneously occupy local places and global spaces, and that our relationships are both ‘here’ and ‘there’. The instantaneousness of communication is partly responsible not only for the shrinking of space but also for its irrelevance. For Bauman, the changing nature of power relationships is particularly pertinent to the prosecution of war and conflict. In this age of ‘liquid modernity’ those with power conduct war in a completely different way to the manner in which it was fought in earlier times. An important characteristic of ‘liquid wars’ is that they are undertaken remotely, using the latest technology to both maximise infrastructural damage on the enemy and minimise personnel causalities. Smart bombs or guided weapons had their origin in the Second World War, but were only effectively employed on any scale for the first time in the First Gulf War (1991), and even then only for ‘difficult missions and special operations’ (Sample 2003). This kind of technology was subsequently used by NATO in the bombing of Serbia in 1999. By the time of the invasion of Iraq in 2003, 90 per cent of the bombs used in the early stages of the conflict were smart bombs, and the United States hadhalfasmanyairandgroundforcesatitsdisposalasithaddeployedinthe First Gulf War (Sample 2003). POSTSCRIPT 1 259

The essence of this ‘smart’ technology is that computerised and satellite- controlled, shocking, highly damaging, remote, and seemingly placeless weapon delivery systems operate at high speed and seek to ‘soften’ and terrorise the enemy so that forces on the ground will have a critical and lower risk advantage. The introduction of drones into the Afghanistan war took the technology one stage further. The objective of the NATO-led forces that bombed Bosnia and Serbia was not one of straightforwardly gaining territorial advantage. The coalition in fact sought precisely to avoid this as it could have led to an even more drawn-out, costly, and damaging PR war.ButasSample(2003)goesontosuggest,‘Preventing bombs from killing civilians and destroying infrastructure will pay dividends after the war has concluded, by fostering the public support among Iraqis that will be vital for a smooth transition to a new leadership.’ Or expressed more potently by Bauman:

[W]ar in the era ...of liquid modernity ...is about ...crushing the walls which stopped the flow of new fluid global powers ...and so opening up the so-far barricaded and walled off inaccessible space to the operations of the other non-military, arms of power. ... War today, one may say (paraphrasing Clauswitz’s famous formula), looks increasingly like a ‘promotion of global free trade by other means’. (Bauman 2000: 12). Maybe it has ever been thus. As I suggested above, there have been two previous phases in the memorialisation of war and conflict. The first in which there was little physical memorialisation in the landscape. Collective memories were refuelled either by the intergenerational recounting of familial stories or academic histories. In the second phase, which is well represented by the case studies, there are no shortage of ‘durable carriers of external symbols and representations’. Are we now entering a third phase? Will the advent of ‘liquid warfare’ with its reduced emphasis on territorial acquisition and ground forces break down what has popularly been termed the tyranny of time and space and have implications for remembrance and reconciliation? Yes, we will have the place where the bombs dropped. We will have the scene of the crime, but where is the ‘Other’? Where is the adversary that launched the attack? They are everywhere and nowhere. They are placeless and timeless. Atatürk would not now be able to say the moving words he did without there being an ‘Other’ who were recognised as ‘heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives ...that ...are now lying in the soil of a friendly country’. The Johnnies and the Mehmets would not be lying ‘side by side now here in this country of ours’ and ‘in our bosom and are in peace.’ A knowledge of, and even a closeness to, the ‘Other’ may be an important first step on the way to a more hopeful management of conflict and reconciliation. 260 DAVID UZZELL

Does the new era of ‘liquid wars’ make remembrance, reconciliation, and mourning more diﬃcult? Does it ensure that grievances and feelings of injustice are perpetuated? Will there be opportunities for former adversaries to come together in the ‘liquid wars’ of the future in order to understand and start to see the conditions under which the ‘other’ lived or was forced to act?

NOTE

1. http://www.anzacsite.gov.au/2visiting/walk_03anzaccove.html. POSTSCRIPT 2: WHEN MEMORY TAKES PLACE

Carsten Paludan-Mu¨ller

He inferred that persons desiring to train this faculty must select localities and form mental images of the facts they wish to remember and store those images in the localities, with the result that the arrangement of the localities will preserve the order of the facts, and the images of the facts will designate the facts themselves, and we shall employ the localities and images respectively as a wax writing tablet and the letters written on it. (cicero, de Oratore 2.86.354) the ‘places’ of memory and their changing reading

Cicero developed his memory techniques for speakers in recognition of how a well-defined space (i.e., place) is an excellent medium for recalling complex information in structured sequences. By associating different components of the information to the details of a particular place, Cicero shows us that place is a powerful and malleable storage medium for memory narratives. When we study places related to conflict, we are confronted with sites and landscapes appropriated as media for particular strong memories and narratives linked to dramatic and traumatic events that often ‘took place’ during relatively short and intensive periods. These events have – at least for some time and for some people –‘overwritten’ if not eradicated memories of events that took place earlier in the site’s history. Thecasestudiesinthisvolumeshow that neither place nor memory remains static; both are extremely plastic and mutually dependent. Memories and narratives about the same event and the same place vary amongstgroupsandindividualsasdohowtheyrelatetotheconflict inscribed in the landscape. In addition, such perceptions will vary with time for distance in time matters, as do new events that may add new perspectives on past events. The case studies show this; on top of the original conflict new and often difficult horizons of conflict may layer themselves through time including layers of mitigation and reconciliation. Varying amongst groups and actors, different memories, narratives, and symbolic values may be attached to the same site, leading to different ideas about how it should be interpreted and managed. Obviously there is a marked difference in how sites are

261 262 CARSTEN PALUDAN-MU¨ LLER

perceived, depending on whether the conflict is understood as concluded or not. In this volume three different types of conflict places are presented. In the first, we have concluded conflicts that are still being edited and re-edited: Dybbøl, Verdun, and Dresden are clearly perceived as concluded in the sense that the main actors on both sides have accepted the outcome of the war and are reconciled. The second type refers to places of frozen conflicts, where a new phase of open conflict cannot be excluded. There are four case studies of this type: the Kozara memorial landscape and the Slana Banja Memorial Complex in Tuzla, both in Bosnia, and the cases of the Generalštab in Belgrade and the Ledra Palace in Nicosia. In neither the Yugoslav nor the Cypriot conflict has there been a conclusion that has produced a commonly recognised understanding based on a new stable order. The third type of conflict relates to concluded conflicts over which disputes are still heard, exemplified here by two cases both pertaining to the Spanish Civil War and its aftermath.

the editing and re-editing of places of concluded conﬂicts

Attitudes and symbolic values determine how sites should be managed. This management includes both the physical editing and the memorial practices at the site, and in several of the case studies we see a plethora of memorial practices co-existing. We also see clear shifts through time in the way a given site has been managed. Dybbøl as a battleground has had a strong symbolic value both in Germany and in Denmark. In the German narrative the battle was the first of three decisive victories (Dybbøl, Königgrätz, and Sedan) that led to the emergence of the German Empire. In the Danish narrative, the defeat at Dybbøl became both the site of a heroic defeat (not unlike the 1389 battle of Kosovo Polje in Serbian history) and the turning point that transformed the country into a small, inward-looking mono-cultural nation-state. With the transfer of Dybbøl from the German to the Danish state after the First World War, a Danish narrative took over from the German one and gained control over what the battleground should express and how it should be managed. Dybbøl is a site where, due to major geopolitical shifts, two different narratives have been given privilege by alternating custodians. In recent years, again in response to major geopolitical shifts, a new phase can be discerned now of reconciliation emphasising a shared history of suffering. One of the most iconic places of conflict is Verdun, a site which for many people is synonymous with the First World War – a sort of pars pro toto. This may be due to the fact that it was the one battlefield to which the French attached the greatest importance for the outcome of the war. Its case study exposes how POSTSCRIPT 2 263 changing ideas about Verdun and the war have layered themselves in the landscape. An important part of this has been the idea of the natural healing of the landscape. It is remarkable to see how the overwhelming annihilation of the landscape conditioned the popular imagination, so that local communities could not imagine biological life returning in any form that would generate a sense of normality. It is therefore moving to see how even the grenade holes have lend themselves to the development of a particularly rich biotope for amphibians and plants. Nature has been able to absorb and transform mankind’s destructive actions into new forms of life. It is tempting to see an analogue between these signs of life and the transformation of the Verdun area from a landscape of desolation and national (French) sacrifice to a landscape where reconciliation and recognition of a shared history of suffering with the former enemy has become a significant theme. Since the famous handholding of President Mitterrand and Chancellor Kohl, Verdun has become a strong symbol of the rationale behind the European Union, the idea that political integration is the necessary alternative to war. Today the German flag is flying over the ruins of Fort Douaumont alongside the French flag and that of the European Union. We tend to project our present into the future in an attempt to divine what will come. After the First World War reconciliation seemed a remote perspective; today war between France and Germany seems a remote perspective. We can hope that Verdun as a symbol of the wars that have torn Europe apart in the past will remain an asset for peace, yet we should be aware that reinterpretations can and will be made in the future that will affect the message of Verdun for future generations. Dresden is another case rich in interpretive layers, where the physical transformation has been marked by differentideologiesfosteringeachtheir interpretative paradigms. Like Dybbøl and Verdun, Dresden is a place where these changing paradigms can be seen as products of major geopolitical shifts: the fall of the Third Reich, the period of the Soviet Union, and the subsequent unification of Germany. With unification, Germany entered – although not triumphantly – into a new phase of empowerment. This was accompanied by new associations of Dresden as a symbol of peace and reconciliation twinned with its British partner, Coventry. It is important though to observe that in addition to official and mainstream commemoration practices of the bombing of Dresden, both radical right and left-wing memorial practises today confront each other there. Dresden also presents us with an example of how a singular event, the ‘Bombennacht’ of 13th February 1945, has defined the place in a way that influences what would be remembered of Dresden’s past. As it is now, the medieval city and the city of ‘ordinary’ citizens have been forgotten and are ignored in the heavy investments in reconstructing the splendorous baroque 264 CARSTEN PALUDAN-MU¨ LLER

city. Dresden has been resurrected in an edited version imaged according to the paintings of Canaletto. The result has jokingly been referred to as a ‘Baroque Jurassic Park’ (Hollenstein 2002) with Dresden now presented as the splendid baroque city that tragically fell victim to the war. The main observation is that Dybbøl, Verdun, and Dresden are sites of conﬂicts that are understood as concluded. There is a general reconciliation, and no more issues remain to be settled between Germany and its former adversaries. Considering the role of Germany in European wars of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries such reconciliations may be a good sign that lessons can be learned from history and translated into practical politics that include the management of conﬂict-related heritage.

frozen conﬂicts

Frozen conflicts are ones where violence has ceased but which lack a settlement that has been generally accepted, however reluctantly. This implies that at least one of the parties feels that issues have been left unresolved including perceived injustices. In frozen conflicts, one or more parties often tend to cultivate narratives about the other as an enemy. These frozen conflicts tend to come about when a new order is imposed by actors who do not tolerate the continuation of the conflict. This may lead to the banning of the conflict from official narratives, as seen in post–Second World War Yugoslavia, with the result that themes from the nineteenth- and twentieth-century wars in the Balkans were left unprocessed. When such unprocessed historic episodes were later brought back by nationalisticleaders,theycouldeasilybetailored to fit an agenda of conquest and ethnic cleansing. Places that had been neglected for years gained new importance as ‘shrines’ of new conflict narratives. A particular example is the monument to the battle of Kosovo Polje 1389. It was originally built in 1953, but Serbian symbols were added at its 600th anniversary, an anniversary that coincided with the resurgence of Serbian nationalism. In other instances there is an interpretative re-appropriation of particular places, with new narratives attached to support new political agendas. This is clearly exemplified by the Second World War Kozara monument. It survived the Bosnian war physically, but its meaning was changed. The Slana Banja Memorial in Tuzla represents yet another kind of complexity due to its urban location, where more mundane demands for public space compete with its monumental function. Although in some ways similar to other types of urban heritage sites, the Slana Banja Memorial’s original meaning as a Second World War monument was affected by the violent disintegration of the Yugoslav state, whose heroic and united fight it was created to celebrate. The effect has not been restricted to a change in its symbolism. New elements have been added POSTSCRIPT 2 265 that symbolically connect the Second World War with the city’sefforts in the 1990s to defend a multi-ethnic Bosnia-Herzegovina against mono-ethnic nationalism. In spite of that, however, the monument seems out of line with the reality as it develops on the ground. Another frozen conflict case is Belgrade’s Generalštab. The damaged headquarters of the Serbian army, originally built for the Yugoslav army, forms part of a city marked by a history of conflict, destruction, and reconstruction, and the strong ideological and symbolic imprints of this on its urban fabric. The building, conceived with overt references to the heroic resistance war fought by Tito’s partisans, fell into symbolic disrepute with the citizenry after the nationalistic surge of the 1990s, but due to the destruction caused by NATO bombings it re-emerged as a symbol of resistance to a new enemy. As a prominent ruined building in an urban setting, the Generalštab is an interesting parallel to Dresden’s Frauenkirche that during the GDR period served as an official symbol directed against an enemy – although without a heroic history of resistance to celebrate or the concordance of the citizens. The shape and the meaning of the Frauenkirche changed only after the collapse of the order established during the Cold War, which transformed a largely frozen conflict into a concluded one. terminated but not concluded conflicts

In between the sites of ‘concluded’ and ‘frozen’ conflicts there are the case studies from Gernika (the Foru Plaza) and Madrid (the Carabanchel Prison), sites that relate to the Spanish Civil War and Francoist dictatorship. Whereas this is a terminated conflict, there has been no conclusive process of reconciliation, but a long-lasting period during which the victors imposed their narrative. The defeated were left without knowing what had happened to their loved ones who disappeared and died during and after the war. Even today the Civil War is a difficult issue to address in public and even more difficult to process in terms of a shared understanding of Spain’s history, since the political fault lines of the war are in many ways still present in the contemporary political landscape. In the case of Gernika’s reconstruction by the Franco regime, we see a conscious effort to embed a new historic and cultural identity onto the townscape. In the case of Madrid’s Carabanchel Prison, we see a sequence of different approaches by the regime. The first approach was an attempt to re- engineertheidentityofaplacebyimposingthewinners’ vision onto a cityscape. The second approach was to deny access to visible memories of the oppression that had taken place. This example illustrates how it is easier to talk about the wider geopolitical context of the Spanish Civil War than its 266 CARSTEN PALUDAN-MU¨ LLER

domestic dimensions because the war still sits uneasily in the historic consciousness of the nation.

the loss of ambiguity during conﬂict

The loss of diversity and hybridity is a frequent consequence of conflict. This is not just a random effect of war but often the result of deliberate policies in which people are forcefully moved to create homogenised units. This phenomenon of reduced diversity and hybridity is seen in many recent conflicts, such as during the break-up of the former multi-ethnic empires of the Russians, the Habsburgs, the Ottomans, and the Safavids. These empires had for a long time regulated the co-existence of people with different religions, languages, and material cultures; but in their break-up such diversity became one of the victims. What we saw during and after the Yugoslav wars was an attack on hybridity. It became difficult not to be either Serb, or Croat, or Bosniak. Due to the post- war intervention of the international community there has been a strong effort to rebuild destroyed cultural heritage, and part of the local physical diversity has been won back. But as far as people go the tendency for the three main ethnic groups to pull apart geographically into separate communities has only continued If modernity is understood to represent some sort of objective or rational cultural form that can be held against nationalistic and tribal excesses of ethnic cleansing or merely xenophobia, then the case of Nicosia’s Ledra Palace Hotel is indeed a very strong indicator of the shortcomings of the international community’s attempts to induce a rationale set of well-understood shared interests into the conflict. The Ledra Palace, with its architectural expression of modern cosmopolitanism and its history as the seat of futile peace negotiations, is today left to decay in the Green Zone separating the two Cypriot communities – who become more and more Turkish or Greek and less and less Cypriot. It can be seen as a sad monument to how conflict obliterates what does not fit into the binary pattern of belonging either to this or that side. Observed from a more philosophical perspective, it is striking that in most of the cases studied conflicts have created physical and symbolic distortions that have blurred or reduced the historic complexity of the place. In the prevailing narrative Dresden has ‘lost’ the memory of its pre-baroque past. Gernika has ‘lost’ the memory of its position as a centre of arms production before, during, and after the Civil War. Bosnia and Cyprus may have regained and retained some of the physical symbols of diversity and complexity, but the capacity to retrieve and reactivate positive memories of multi-ethnic coexistence seems lost. Conflicts tend to produce simplified narratives of the past, stories with a straightforward theme and plots undisturbed by nuance and POSTSCRIPT 2 267 complexity. They feed on marked difference – a clear distinction between ‘us and them’ that leaves little room for ambiguity and hybridity – and thus place for people or phenomena that do not fit into the binary logics of most conflicts. If this is the case, perhaps the effort to retrieve the complex, the diverse, and the ambiguous is the most important contribution that we can make within the sphere of cultural heritage.

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INDEX

1954 Hague Convention on the Protection of belonging, 4 Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Bermeo, Spain, 72 Conflict, 4 BešlagiC, Selim, 233–234, 240, 242 Bilbao, Spain, 72 abandonment, 13 biographical approach, 10 accounts of events, 3 biographies of places, 2–3, 10–11, 157 aerial bombardments, 9, 69 as an approach, 11 affective associations, 6 different kinds of time within, 13 aftermaths, 1, 6, 9 potential of approach, 11–14 in Gernika, 76–77 Bismarck, Otto von, 18 agency, 2, 7, 8, 10 Blagojevic,Ljiljana, 169 of materialities, 5 Blobel, Günter, 122 agents, 2, 10 Bloch, Marc, 59 Aguirre y Lecube, José Antonio, 75–76 bombings, 7 American Civil War, 26 borderlands, 11 Angoso, Angel, 78–79 Bosnia, 13, 225–226, See also Slana Banja memorial anthropocentric understanding, 10 complex anti-fascism, 105 1992–5 war and, 226–227 appropriation, 5 importance of Tuzla, 226–227 architectural conservation, 5 political uses of past and, 228–230 architectural conservation guidelines, 10 Slana Banja memorial complex, 227–228 architectural styles, 12, 70–71 Bosnia and Herzegovina, 1, 15, See also Kozara, battle architecture, 157 of; Kozara monument and memorial complex artefacts, 10 Mrakovica monument, 211–214 Ashmore, Wendy, 11 boundaries, 4 Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal, 251–252 Brandt, Friederich, 27 atmosphere, 8 Brandt, Willy, 252 atrocities, 8 bridges, 2 audiences, 70 Brown, Kate, 11 authenticity, 14 Buchli, Victor, 157 buildings, 15 Bähr, George, 115–117, 123 built environments, 6, 7 Barcellini, Serge, 62 Basque Nationalist Party (PNV), 76 Cádenas, Gonzalo de, 78 Basterrechea, Jesús, 85 Carabanchel, prison of, 16, 128, 265–266 battlefields, 15 arrival of first prisoners at, 140 battles, 7, 8 as media image, 139–140 Bauman, Zygmunt, 258, 259 as prison, during last years, 147–148 Belgrade, 9, 16 building of, 131 historic background of, 159–161 changes at, 1953–1968, 141 liberation of, 161 classic radial model as architectural form for, 135 NATO bombing of, 173–177 concessions to nationalist architectural styles reconstruction of, 161 and, 135 resistance as element of self-identity of, 159 confinement of political prisoners at, 143–144

285 286 INDEX

Carabanchel, prison of (cont.) loss of ambiguity during, 266–267 control centre of, 137–140 propaganda uses of, 16 decline of, during 1980s, 146–147 sites of, 6 discipline and charity at (1944–1961), 135–141 terminated but not concluded, 265–266 division of areas in, 135–138 transformation of landscapes and, 8–9 documentary films of, 147 Congress of Vienna (1814–1815), 4 dome of, 137–140 consequences, 8, 13 fate of Carcel Modelo vs., 153–154 construction, dynamic of, 8 galleries of, 137 contexts, memory and, 252–253 historical phases of, overview, 129–130 contradictory claims, 8 Homines sacri of, 129–130 Crimean War (1853–1856), 26 inauguration of, 139–142 cultural dimensions, importance of, 5 lessening of repressive system of, 134 cultural emergency relief, 8 number of gates of, 135–137 cultural heritage number of prisoners at, 132 as deliberate targets, 8 overcrowding and, 140–141 conflicts and, 1, 8–9 panopticon of, 138–139 evolvement of ways of looking at, 5–6 political prisoners’ views of, 134 functions of, 9 Prison Watch and, 142–143 growing awareness of national ownership of, 4 prisoner profile at, during last years of, impact of violence of, 9 147–148 intangible dimensions of, 5 Psychiatric Hospital of, 141–142 tangible, 5 Psychological Laboratory and, 142 cultural myths, 15 repressive spaces used during construction of, Cypriot conflict, 15 132–134 Cyprus, 1, 13, See also Ledra Palace Hotel resistance by inmates and, 140–141 School for Prison Studies and, 142 Danish-Prussian war, 15 shift towards modern disciplinary process in dark heritage, 6 1960s at, 142 De Gaulle, Charles, 59–60, 61 Spanish Civil War and, 130–131 decay, 7 state of exception (1968–1978) and, decorative details, 12 144–146 deliberate destruction, 2 transformations of neighborhoods around, 144 Denmark, 1, 18 vacating of, 148–154 destruction Carcel Model de Madrid, 131–132 dynamic of, 8 Carlist War, 73 long-term effects of, 14 Causa General (General Cause), 76–77 narrative of, 9 Chirac, Jacques, 58, 59, 60 destructive acts, 8 Cicero, 261 destructive effects, 8 civic society, role of, 14 difficult heritage, 6 Coch, Friedrich, 117 dismantling, 7 codification, process of, 4 dissonant heritage, 6 collective memory, 256–257 Dobrovi|, Nikola, 161, 165–167 communities Dresden, 9, 12, 16, 263–264, See also Frauenkirche re-making of themselves, 17 (Dresden) community identities, 10 ‘annihilated,’ as historical symbol, 100–101 community values, 10 architectural modernism and reconstruction of, complex events, 3 113–114 conflicts, 254–255 as iconic representations of complex events, 16 aftermath of, 9–10 as symbol of catastrophic destruction, 98–100 analysing aftermaths of through biography of, as historical symbol, 101–102 places, 2 challenging narrative of, 107–108 cultural heritage and, 1 changes in collective memory of, and re-erection editing and reediting of places of concluded, of Frauenkirche, 112 262–264 construction and placement of symbolic narrative frozen, 264–265 of, 102–103 impact of, on heritage, 9 demands for recovery of lost iconic interpretations of, 3 buildings, 115 INDEX 287

extremist groups and, 110–112 public campaign and dispute about re-erection of, fragmentation and segregation of symbol of, after 120–124 1990, 108–109 reconstruction of, 118 German Democratic Republic and use of symbols re-erection of, 109 of, 103–106 frozen conflicts, 264–265 internationalisation and universalisation of future generations, 71 destruction of, 106–107 mythical ‘Old Dresden’ and, 113 Gallego, Ferrán, 153 public space as protest venues, 111 Gallipoli, battle of, 251–252 Düppel-Denkmal (monument), 29–32 Gana, Luis Maria de, 78 Durango, Spain, 72 Geertz, Clifford, 13–14 Dybbøl fortification, 23 Generalštab, 9, 16, See also Belgrade Dybbøl, battlefield of, 12, 16, 18, 262 after death of Tito, 169–170 as burial ground, 24–26 as cultural heritage, 177–178 construction of victory and honourable defeat as frozen conflict case, 265 narratives (1864–1914), 28 as memorial, 178–179 construction of, as memorial site, 18–19 as symbol of Partisan resistance, 167 ‘Danification’ of landscape phase of (1920–1972), at war, 171–173 36–37 construction of, 162–165 Danish memorials and burial stones at, 37–39 context of, 161–162 Danish narratives of ‘ culture of defeat’ at, 33–36 design of, 161 distancing phase of (1973 to present), 39–41 destruction and afterlife (1999–present day), four phases of, overview, 24 173–177 location and historical background of, 20–22 during Cold War, 167–169 military sequence of, 22 future of, 180 photographic record of, 26 introduction, 156–158 Prussian victory at, as German symbol, 28–33 rise of Milosevi| and, 170–171 recording of, 26–28 Sutjeska interpretation of, 166–167 relevance of case study of, 19–20 generations, 1 themes of biographical analysis of, 41–44 geographical dimensions of place, 2 Germany, 1, 18 emotions, 7 Gernika, 8, 9, 12, 265–266 European Union, 1 aerial bombardment of, 76 events, 7 architectural characteristic of buildings in, 72 iconic representations of complex, 16 architectural styles in town hall square, 95 as iconic representations of complex events, 16 Fillon, François, 60 bombing of, 69 First Prussian War of 1864, 15 building materials used in, 72 First Schleswig War, 20–22 building of Town Hall of, 74, 81–82 First World War, 15 Carlist Wars and, 73–74 folkloric activities, Franco’s support of, 83 Casa de Juntas, 93 France, 1 celebration of 600th anniversary of, 89 Franco, Francisco, 12, 69, 70–71, 76, 77 construction of Courts, Post and Telegraph Office aesthetic symbolism of regime of, 89 building in Town Square, 84–85 reconstruction policies of, 71, 93–95 designation as town, 71–72 Frankovi|, Mijo, 234–235 destruction of town centre during civil war, 75–77 Frauenkirche (Dresden), 8, 9, 12, 16, 265, See also dispersal of symbolism of, 93–95 Dresden early reports of reconstruction of, 77 as remembrance site, 118–119 evolution of Foru Plaza in townscape and bombing of night of 13th February, 117–118 symbol-scape of, 89–94 changes in collective memory of bombing of expansion of, 74 Dresden and re-erection of, 112 Falange and national-social reconstruction plans debate over role off, 115 (1938–1939), 78–79 German reconstruction craze after 1990 and, first town hall of, 72 124–126 Foral Tree of, 93 history of, 115–119 Foru Plaza (Town Square) of, 69, 70, 72, 74, 78, 93 layers of meaning of, 126–127 Foru Plaza (Town Square) of, use of symbolic and National Socialist party in, 117 stylistic elements, 93–95 288 INDEX

Gernika (cont.) post-conflict reconstruction of, 5 historic prints and photograhs of, 72 Spanish, 70 inauguration of Town Hall square, 83 tangible and intangible, 7 Kulture Etxea (public library) in, 93 war and, 3–4 modification of Foru Plaza after Franco’s death, heritage management professionals, 11 90–92 heritage sites, 8 Monday Market of, 92 analysis of relationships of, 157 Museum of, 92 as anchors of symbolic meaning, 6 obelisk in centre of, 83 creation of narratives and, 8 ordering and sanitising dimension of destruction of, 157 reconstruction of, 80–81 importance of physical setting of, 6–7 origins of main square of, 71–75 new, 8 peace symbolism of, 92 new, in post-conflict societies, 9 Plaza de los Fueros of, 69, 83 prioritisation of, 8 political symbolism of, 92 heritage that hurts, 6 post-conflict rhetoric and rebuilding of, 70–71 heritage value, 3 post-war reconstruction and moulding Spanish Hilton of Cadboll, 11 heritage in, 70 historical contexts, 4 reconstruction of ‘centre,’ 115.30, 77–78 historical events, 3 reorientation of biographical focus on main square historical references, 71 of, 71 Hochhuth, Rolf, 106 representation of authority in, 78 Homo sacer, 129–130 rhetoric vs. reality of reconstructing, 86–88 AIDS-infected addicts at Carabanchel as, 147 role of authority and reconstruction of, 78 foreign populations at Carabanchel as, 148 symbolic centre of, 76 Hopp, Hanns, 113, 118 symbolic significance of, 69 task of descombro, 86–87, 92 iconic representations, 3 theatricality of town square, 82–83 iconoclasm, 4 Town Hall as centre for protests in, 93 identities, 2, 4 Tree of, as symbolic nucleus of, 72–73 ideological influences, 15 united with Lumo, 74 ideological vision, 12 urban landscape of, 72 ideologies, 17 Gernika Peace Museum, 92, 93 Imamovi|, Jasmin, 240–241 Gordy, Eric, 171 inaugurations, performances of, 70–71 Guernica. See Gernika Indian Rebellion of 1857, 26 Guernica (Picasso), 76, 90–92 Informe Herran, 77 intangible marks, 2 Hadzic, Miroslav, 159, 160 international media, 69 Hague Convention on the Protection of Cultural interpretations of conflict, 3 Property in the Event of Armed Conflict of invested places, 3 1954, 4, 9 Iriondo, Luis, 92 Hague Conventions on land warfare of 1899 and Irving, David, 106 1907, 4 Hahn, Hugh, 117 Jansen, Stef, 159 Hahn, Hugo, 117 Jones, Sian, 11 Hamilakis, Yannis, 11 heritage Kaiser, Michael, 120 and war, connection between, 3 Kapija massacre, 236, 237 as instrument for reconciliation, 255–256 Kelly, William, 92 dark, 6 Kohl, Helmut, 58, 252 deliberate destruction vs. collateral damage of, 4–5 Kolsto, Pal, 159 difficult, 6 Kopytoff, I., 10 dissonant, 6 Kosovo Poje, battle of, 176, 264 immovable, 4 Kovaχevi|, Bojan, 163, 165 intangible, 4 Kozara case studies, 13 interpreting, 70 Kozara monument and memorial complex, 264 legal codification of, 4 after Breakup of Yugoslavia, 216–222 national re-framing, 4 biography of changing meaning of, 222–223 INDEX 289

introduction, 208–210 monuments, rebuilding of, 9 use of meaning of, between 1972 and 1992, 214–216 moral values, 71 Kozara, battle of, 16, 160, 210–211 mourning and loss, 8, 9 Kulick, Vladimir, 161, 163, 164, 169–170 Mrakovica monument (Bosnia Herzegovina), 209 commemorative practices and, landscapes, 10 211–214 phenomenological approach to, 6–7 Mulisch, Harry, 106 rural and urban, 15 Mumford, Lewis, 70 Lavrence, Christine, 157, 159 museum collections, 6 layers of symbolism, 3 museum conservation guidelines, 10 Ledra Palace Hotel, Nicosia, Cyprus, 12–13, 16, myths of antiquity, concept of, 159 183–185, 255 beginnings of (1948–1968), 185–190 Nacionales, 76 cultivation of loss and, 196–202 Napoleonic wars, 4 refurbishment of, 203–206 narratives, 12 ‘the conflict, 190–196 post-war identity, 16 Lehendakari, 92 National Antii-fascist Council of the People’s Lieber Code of 1863, 4 Liberation of Bosnia and Herzegovina lieux de mémoire, 11 (ZAVNOBIH), 234 liquid warfare, 259–260 National Battle of Liberation, 160 long-term impacts, 8 national cultural property, 4 looting, 4 national spirit, 8 Lumo, Spain, 71, 74 NATO, 18 Luttwak, Edward, 254 NATO, bombing of Belgrado, 173–177 Navarre, Spain, 72–73 Madrid. See Carabanchel, prison of Non-Intervention Pact, 76 Markovic, Ante, 216 Nora, Pierre, 11 material damage, 8 materialities, 69 Ossuary at Douaumont, 47, See also Monument to agency of, 5, 6, 7 Victory (Monument de la Victoire); Verdun, traditions of, 14 battlefield of meaning origins and early history, 48–52 acquire or loss of, 3 changing, 10 palimpsests, 13 symbolism and, 5 Paracuellos, mass killings of, 131–132 meaning-making, 6 parks, 2, 15 mechanisms of, 15 Parthenon marbles, 11 memorial places, 7, 257–260 peace symbolism, Gernika and, 92 memorialisation, 3 Pétain, Henri-Phillipe, 59–60 memories of war, 2 Picasso, Pablo, 76, 90–92 memories, foci of, 7 places, 2, 10 memory agential character of, 11 collective, 256–257 as artefacts and agents, 10 contexts and, 252–253 as focus of study, 2–3 ‘places’ of, changing reading of, 261–262 importance of tangible qualities of, 7 memory events, 3 life-cyles of, 17 Mercado, Rosendo, 149 materiality and, 6–7 Merkel, Angela, 251–252 remaking of, 3 Mexican-American War (1846–1848), 26 stories of, 251 Milja∀ki, Ana, 159 tangible qualities of, 7 Miloševi|, Slobodan, 157, 170–171, 174, 178 Poland, 11 misuse, 4, 5 policymakers, 11 Mitterrand, François, 58, 252 political claims, 4 Monument to Victory (Monument de la Victoire), Popular Front (Spain), formation of, 75–76 47, 52–54, 60–61, See also Ossuary at Portelli, Allesandro, 253 Douaumont; Verdun, battlefield of post-conflict heritage, 2 monuments, 2, 6, 15 post-conflict heritage landscapes, 2 conservation and restoration of, 10 as approach of study, 2 290 INDEX

post-conflict heritage reconstruction, 5 reflections on new image of, 240–243 post-conflict phases, 1, 16 turning point for re-discovery and transformation post-conflict reconstruction, i of, 236–237 narratives and, 9 Smith Ibarra, José María, 78 post-conflict rhetoric, 70 Smith Ibarra, Manuel Maria, 81, 86 post-conflict societies, new heritage sites in, 9 social identities, 2 post-war identities, 71 social ordering, 71 power, legitimisation of, 4 social recovery, 5 Pozderac, Hamdija, 215 Sontag, Susan, 256–257 protection, measures of, 5 Spain, 1, 12, 70–71 Prussia, 18, 20–22 Basque regions of, 72–73 formation of Popular Front, 75–76 reconstruction activities, 2 Spanish Civil War (1936–1940), 15, 69, 134 reconstruction rhetoric, 9 Carabanchel prison and, 130–131 reconstruction, post-conflict, i, 3, 5, 7 Spanish heritage, 70 dynamic of, 8 spatial topography, 15 long-term effects of, 14 squares, 2, 15, 69, 70 physical, 69 Stam, Mart, 113 recovery, 2 stories, of places, 251 Regiones Devastadas y Reparaciones (Service for Sutjeska, battle of, 160, 166, 167 Devastated Regions and Reparations), 77–78, symbolic meanings, 6, 70 81, 82, 83, 84, 86, 87, 89 post-conflict rhetoric and, 70 reinterpretations, performing, 13 symbolic topography, 15 Republican frontlines, 69 symbolism resentment, 9 importance of, 10 ruination, 16 meaning and, 5 rural spaces, 6 symbols, 70 Russia, 11 tabula rasa, 12, 92, 112, 113 San Juan, church of (Gernika), 69, 95 tangible remains, 6 Santa María, church of (Gernika), 76, 84 targeting, deliberate, 4 Sarkozy, Nicolas, 60, 251–252 Tello, Don (Count of Biscay), 71, 89, 90 Schleswig-Holstein, 18, 20–22 temporal dimensions of place, 2 Second Carlist War, 73–74 temporal nature, 11 Second Schleswig War, 20–22 Texeira, Pedro, 73 Second World War, 15 thick description, concept of, 13–14 sedimentations, 13 Tito, Marshal (Josip Broz), 160–161, 166, 225 Sennett, Richard, 78 Todorova, Maria, 167 sense of belonging, 2 Torres, Moreno, 78 Serbia, 1, 15 Town Hall square, 12 Servia, 13 town halls, 69 shared imagery, 3 tradition, 8 Siegessäule (victory column), 29–32 traditional sites, 5 sites of conflict, 6 trauma, 1 Slana Banja case studies, 13 Tree of Gernika, as symbolic nucleus, 72–73 Slana Banja memorial complex, 227–228, Tuzla, Bosnia, 16 264–265, See also Bosnia importance of, 226–227 conceiving post-war transformation of, narrative of, in material forms, 243–246 238–240 political uses of past and, 228–230 cultural heritage and, 227–228 early ideological transformations as reflected in UNESCO ‘Declaration concerning the cultural heritage (1992–2000), 233–236 Intentional Destruction of Cultural exclusions, silences, and selective memory in, Heritage’ of 2003, 4 248 UNESCO Manifesto 2000, 92 functions and conditions of, during socialist urban and symbolic fabric, 71 period, 231–233 urban centres, 70 initial construction of, 230–231 urban landscapes, 71 meaning creation in, 246–247 urban ordering, 71 INDEX 291

urban spaces, 6 violence, impact of, on cultural heritage, Urdaibai estuary, Spain, 72, 73 9, See also conﬂicts Volcic, Zala, 159 vandalism, 4 Vonnegut, Kurt, 106 Venice Charter of 1964, 5, 10 Verdun, battleﬁeld of, 8, 16, 46, 262–263, See also war and heritage, connection Monument to Victory (Monument de la between, 3 Victoire); Ossuary at Douaumont war heritage, 6, 8 creation of monumental and memorial landscape war, rule of, 4 on, 47–48 Weiss, Srdjan, 174 material life of site of memory, 65–67 ‘wounded’ buildings, 16 modern memorialisation of, 62–65 reconciliations and, 58–62 Yugoslav wars of 1990s, 15 reconstructing ‘site of memory’ between city and, Yugoslavia, 13, 15 54–58 Victory Monument. See Monument to Victory Zaldumbide, Antonio, 74 (Monument de la Victoire) Zhukov, Georgy, 106