Asian Cities: Colonial to Global: Colonial to Global 9789048528240

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Asian Cities: Colonial to Global

Publications The International Institute for Asian Studies is a research and exchange platform based in Leiden, the Netherlands. Its objective is to encourage the interdisciplinary and comparative study of Asia and to promote (inter)national cooperation. IIAS focuses on the humanities and social sciences and on their interaction with other sciences. It stimulates scholarship on Asia and is instrumental in forging research networks among Asia Scholars. Its main research interest are reflected in the three book series published with Amsterdam University Press: Global Asia, Asian Heritages and Asian Cities. IIAS acts as an international mediator, bringing together various parties in Asia and other parts of the world. The Institute works as a clearinghouse of knowledge and information. This entails activities such as providing information services, the construction and support of international networks and cooperative projects, and the organisation of seminars and conferences. In this way, IIAS functions as a window on Europe for non-European scholars and contributes to the cultural rapprochement between Europe and Asia. IIAS Publications Officer: Paul van der Velde IIAS Assistant Publications Officer: Mary Lynn van Dijk

Asian Cities The Asian Cities Series explores urban cultures, societies and developments from the ancient to the contemporary city, from West Asia and the Near East to East Asia and the Pacific. The series focuses on three avenues of inquiry: evolving and competing ideas of the city across time and space; urban residents and their interactions in the production, shaping and contestation of the city; and urban challenges of the future as they relate to human well-being, the environment, heritage and public life. Series Editor: Paul Rabé, IIAS, The Netherlands Editorial Board: Henco Bekkering, Delft University of Technology, The Netherlands / Charles Goldblum, University of Paris 8, France / Stephen Lau, National University of Singapore / Rita Padawangi, National University of Singapore / Parthasarathy Rengarajan, Gujarat Institute of Development Research, Ahmedabad, India / Neha Sami, Indian Institute of Human Settlements, Bangalore, India / Hui Xiaoxi, Beijing University of Technology, China

Asian Cities: Colonial to Global

Edited by Gregory Bracken

Amsterdam University Press

Publications

Asian Cities 2

Cover illustration: Gregory Bracken Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Typesetting: Crius Group, Hulshout Amsterdam University Press English-language titles are distributed in the US and Canada by the University of Chicago Press. isbn 978 90 8964 931 7 e-isbn 978 90 4852 824 0 (pdf) nur 901 doi 10.5117/9789089649317 © Gregory Bracken / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2015 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owners and the authors of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.

Contents Acknowledgements 11 Introduction 13 Asian Cities: Colonial to Global Gregory Bracken

Part One  Post-colonialism 1 Gambling, City, Nation

31

2 The Death of the Pasar Malam

53

3 Artifice and Authenticity

69

4 Urban Art Images and the Concerns of Mainlandization in Hong Kong

95

Popular Illegality and Nation Building in Singapore, 1960s-1980s Kah-Wee Lee

The Counterpoint to Development in the Singapore Story Elmo Gonzaga

Postcolonial Urbanism in Macau Thomas Daniell

Minna Valjakka

Part Two  Networks 5 Honkon Nippō and Hong Kong-Japan Relations

125

6 Chain Reactions

143

Re-examining the Geopolitical Position of Colonial Hong Kong in East Asia before the End of World War II Wilson Wai Shing Lee

Japanese Colonialism and Global Cosmopolitanism in East Asia Faye Yuan Kleeman

7 Old Networks with New Users

159

8 Asian Cities in the Global Maritime Networksince the Late Nineteenth Century

173

9 Back to the Future

187

Mapping Global Mobility between Dongguan and Hong Kong Max Hirsh

César Ducruet

Feasible Cost-Sharing Co-operation in the Straits of Malacca Senia Febrica

Part Three  Cities and Buildings 10 Rallying Towards the Nation

217

11 Selectively Connected

241

12 The Vernacular and the Spectacular

261

13 Heritage in Times of Rapid Transformation

279

14 Small-scale, Bottom-up

301

Theatre of Nation Building in Post-colonial Dhaka Kishwar Habib and Bruno De Meulder

New Songdo and the Production of Global Space Bridget Martin

Urban Identity and Architectural Heritage in Southeast Asian Cities Rita Padawangi

A Tale of Two Cities – Yangon and Hanoi William Logan

Cosmopolitan Linkages Reglobalizing Shanghai’s City Centre Ying Zhou

Conclusion 327 Global Cities in Asia Gregory Bracken

Contributors 331

Bibliography 337 Index 367

Figures Figure 1.1 Figure 1.2 Figure 1.3 Figure 1.4 Figure 3.1 Figure 3.2 Figure 3.3 Figure 3.4 Figure 3.5 Figure 3.6 Figure 3.7 Figure 3.8 Figure 3.9 Figure 3.10 Figure 3.11 Figure 3.12 Figure 3.13 Figure 3.14 Figure 3.15 Figure 3.16 Figure 3.17 Figure 3.18 Figure 4.1 Figure 4.2 Figure 4.3 Figure 4.4

Factors influencing gambling frequency amongst industrial workers ‘The individual as target’ Exposing gambling fortifications ‘A gambling spot by any other name’ Plan de la Ville et du Port de Macao Peninsula de Macau e Ilha da Taipa Aerial photo of Z.A.P.E. Reclamation, 1941 Aomen shi quan tu (City Plan of Macau) Z.A.P.E. in the 1980s Álvaro Siza and P & T Group proposal for N.A.P.E. and Novos Aterros da Areia Preta N.A.P.E. planning regulations Eduardo Lima Soares, Nova Cidade de Cotai, plan Eduardo Lima Soares, Nova Cidade de Cotai, model Las Vegas Sands Corporation original proposal for the Cotai Strip, 2002 Novos Zonas Urbanas diagram Novos Zonas Urbanas rendering Novos Zonas Urbanas reclamation in progress Rocco Yim, StarWorld Macau, 2006 Dennis Lau, Grand Lisboa Hotel and Casino, 2007 View of the Cotai Strip Gary Goddard, Galaxy Macau, 2011 AEDES, Sands Cotai Central, 2012 Tsang Tsou-choi (King of Kowloon), untitled (pair of iron gates), ink on iron gates, 200 cm x 270 cm MAIS, ORSEK and JAMS, a spray-painted commemorative piece for Tsang in Fotan, 2007 Anonymous local artists, a sticker in MTR station, 2014 Anonymous local artists, a sticker in MTR train, 2014

37 42 44 48 81 82 83 84 85 85 86 86 87 87 88 89 89 90 91 92 92 93 102 103 111 112

Figure 4.5 Figure 4.6

Street artist Death, Mao with a Yellow Bowtie, stencil, 2012113 Street photographer Cpak Ming, ‘Modern VIIV spirit’, photograph, 2011 114 Figure 4.7 Chin Tangerine, Who’s Afraid of Ai Weiwei?, stencil, 2011 116 Figure 4.8 Artist Kacey Wong, ‘Attack of the Red Giant’, 2014 117 Figure 4.9 Street artists Start From Zero (SFZ), poster of Henry Tang, 2013 119 Figure 4.10 Graffiti artist RST2, spray-painted banners of local parties, 2013 120 Figure 4.11 Graffiti artist RST2, poster of Leung Kwok-hung, 2014 121 Figure 4.12 Graffiti artist Pibg Gantz, a spray-painted piece, Macau, 2012 122 Figure 5.1 Figure 5.2 Figure 5.3

Japanese submarine cables in East Asia, 1915 137 Planned cable routes in the East Asia Stability Sphere, 1940141 The cable and wireless network, 1934 142

Figure 6.1 Figure 6.2 Figure 6.3 Figure 6.4

Bank of Korea (present day) National Taiwan Museum 1949-present Remains of torii gate (present day) Taiwan’s Presidential Palace (present day)

Figure 7.1

Hong Kong-Macau Passenger Ferry Terminal, Humen Town, Dongguan, China 160 Apartment blocks near the upstream check-in terminal, Dongguan 162 Rendering of SkyPier, Hong Kong International Airport; Terminal 1 in the background 166 APM tunnel between SkyPier and Terminal 1, Hong Kong International Airport 167 Mainland ferry staff at SkyPier, Hong Kong International Airport 168 Luggage cranes at SkyPier, Hong Kong International Airport 169

Figure 7.2 Figure 7.3 Figure 7.4 Figure 7.5 Figure 7.6 Figure 8.1 Figure 8.2 Figure 8.3

150 151 152 154

The Lloyd’s Shipping Index in 1890 176 Global and local data source comparison based on the Chinese case, 1890-2008 177 Regional distribution of world vessel movements, 1890-2008 177

Figure 8.4 Figure 8.5 Figure 8.6

Regional distribution of vessel movements in Asia, 1890-2008 178 Traffic hierarchy of Asian port cities, 1890-2008 180-181 Port trajectories of selected Asian cities, 1890-2008 184

Figure 10.1 The timeline of Dhaka. The timeline shows the position of Ramna – a green oasis in-between indigenous and postcolonial extensions of the city 218 Figure 10.2 Inside-out Ramna. These aerial photographs show Ramna as a forest or park at the centre in sharp contrast to the dense urban morphology 219 Figure 10.3 Open spaces in the capital. Ramna (number 10) is a vast open public space located at the heart of the capital 219 Figure 10.4 Dhaka City Map, 1859 222 Figure 10.5 Map of the new Civil Station of Dhaka (1905) 224 Figure 10.6 Neoclassical Dhaka College (left) and Indo-Saracenic Curzon Hall (right) 225 Figure 10.7 The wave of new construction around Ramna 227 Figure 10.8 Constantine Doxiadis’s 1963 plan for the Teachers’ Students’ Centre (TSC), Ramna 229 Figure 10.9 Ramna in 1952 (left) and 1960 (right) 231 Figure 10.10 Pseudo-Islamic versus modern architecture in Ramna 233 Figure 10.11 The gradual transformation of Ramna racecourse from a maidan (open space) to a children’s park and the city’s recreational Park Suhrawardy Uddyan (left); figure-ground plan of Ramna (right) 234 Figure 10.12 The Design interventions of Liberation War Museum at the historical Ramna racecourse (present Suhrawardy Uddyan) 236 Figure 10.13 Ramna holds a delicate balance between institutions, representative buildings, and monuments at the centre of the city 239 Figure 11.1

New Songdo’s high-rise towers, including the First World Complex, with real estate advertisements lining the streets Figure 11.2 IFEZ advertisements (‘Developing the City at the Heart of South Korea’s Leading Service Industries’, right-hand poster translation) Figure 11.3 Compact Smart City Exhibit Building

246 248 252

Figure 11.4 Model of New Songdo Figure 11.5 Show-model apartment in New Songdo’s POSCO (The Sharp at Greenworks) Figure 11.6 New Songdo’s border area Figure 11.7 Ja-ap Village near New Songdo being demolished

254 255 257

Figure 12.1 Clarke Quay shophouses and the tourist boats Figure 12.2 Museum Fatahillah in Kota Tua (Old Town), Jakarta

269 275

Figure 13.1 Figure 13.2 Figure 13.3 Figure 13.4 Figure 13.5 Figure 13.6

253

The South Gate of the World Heritage-listed Thang Long-Hanoi citadel 284 The Shwedagon Pagoda in Yangon, a future World Heritage nomination? 285 The beaux-arts palace of the French Indochina Governor-General built in Hanoi in 1907 287 The neoclassical New Law Courts built in Yangon in 1927287 Demolition site in Hanoi’s French Quarter, 1990 297 Derelict warehouse, Yangon 2012 297

Figure 14.1 Café Volcan Figure 14.2 Yongkang Road Figure 14.3 Plan of Jing’an Villas, with ground-floor commercial insertions indicated Figure 14.4 Jing’an Villas ground floor commercial viewed from the front courtyard Figure 14.5 People reading the plaques of the heritage buildings on Wukang Road Figure 14.6 Photos of the interior of huiguan club houses on Wukang Road Figure 14.7 Map with the creative commercial activities highlighted and the three research areas around Yongkang Road, Jing’an Villas and Wukang Road

305 305 315 316 323 324 325

Tables Table 1.1 Table 1.2

Gambling-related offences, 1951-1973 Number of prosecutions, 1967-1968

32 33

Table 9.1

Contribution of each state to the IIP

205

Acknowledgements I would like to thank the International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS) in Leiden for their generous support in enabling me to organize the seminar on which this book is based, and also for generously supporting the book itself. I would especially like to thank Heleen van der Minne, Titia van der Mass, and Martina van den Haak for all their help in organizing the seminar in April 2013. Thank you also to the Architecture Theory section of the Faculty of Architecture and the Built Environment at Delft University of Technology who also enabled me to work on this project, as well as their generous support of it.

Introduction Asian Cities: Colonial to Global Gregory Bracken Some cities are more dynamic than others, some are more important, larger, or simply more urbane. And while there are any number of factors that determine a city’s importance, be it economic or infrastructural, it can also be something less tangible, such as culture or history, or even freedom of expression, or quality of life. It is a well-known fact that the world is now 50 percent urban, but the idea that we can simply divide the world’s population into urban and rural is too simple, too naïve. People who dwell in towns, even very large towns in rural India or China, lead a far less urbane existence than do farmers in Western Europe, say; and even the urban environment itself embraces a wide range of varying types: from the rural village to the glittering global metropolis. Urban fabric also contains a bewildering array of types, everything from the sleepy suburb to the twenty-four-hour dynamo that spins at a city’s centre. Cities are graded according to a wide variety of factors; one of the betterknown is the Globalization and World Cities (GaWC) Research Group’s ranking system.1 In this system the world’s major metropolises are divided into alpha, beta, or gamma, with London and New York as alpha cities, Hong Kong and Singapore as beta, and Kuala Lumpur and Jakarta as gamma. This global grading system takes into account a number of important factors and yet all it is doing is reflecting the sophisticated and highly ordered system of self-organization that operates between these cities. In many ways this is much the same as the way in which cities organize themselves internally, by a sort of autopoesis. One thing nearly every city has in common in the twenty-first century is that they will be interacting ever more closely in an increasingly globalized economy. What makes this interaction particularly vital is the fact that this global economic system has become more and more homogenized simply because it has no real alternatives: China’s embrace of capitalism in the 1970s followed by the collapse of Soviet-style economics in the 1990s means that the world can be said to operate one economic system, i.e. that of global capitalism. And yet globalization is not quite as new as some 1 http://www.lboro.ac.uk/departments/gy/research/gawc.html.

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may think. Saskia Sassen has estimated that the international financial markets of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were at least as massive as today’s – this is certainly true when volumes are measured against the national economies of the time. The world at the end of the nineteenth century was a surprisingly globalized one, the difference with today is that this globalization took place within different imperial systems: the British, French, Russian, Japanese, etc. The cities of these empires were also organized according to strict hierarchies, each with its metropolitan centre, such as London or Paris, serviced by colonial enclaves, like Hong Kong or Hanoi. Of course, then as now, some parts of the world fell outside the influence of the international markets, either because they were too inaccessible, or too poor, or because they chose to isolate themselves for political or religious reasons.

The global city Saskia Sassen sees global cities operating as a unified system rather than simply competing with one another, and what competition there is tempered by strategic collaboration, with a division of labour that enables these cities to fit into the global hierarchy. Mobility of capital has led to new forms in the mobility of labour with the result that there is a degree of centralization in some cities. This is hardly surprising, people go to where the jobs are; what is surprising, however, is that no one saw it coming. The new technologies that have enabled long-distance management and services seem to have actually increased the importance of certain cities. Why is this? If we are able to interact with colleagues anywhere in the world at the touch of a button then why have certain cities became even more important as nodes in the global network? Why not simply stay home and communicate at long distance? The answer is simple: people require face-to-face contact in order to do business; people need to meet one another in order to establish relations of trust. The rise of information and communications technology (ICT) is what Manuel Castells refers to in his trilogy The Information Age as ‘informationalism’. He sees the new economy as producing information, as opposed to the old economy, or ‘industrialism’, which preceded it (where the main sources of productivity were labour, capital, and natural resources) (Castells 2006: 8). Castells sees informationalism as inseparable from the new social structures that have given rise to what he calls the Network Society. Information technology has turned producer services into tradable goods, and cities that provide these new and increasingly mobile services have become

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not simply nodal points in the co-ordination of these global processes, they have become sites of production in their own right. In order to produce and disseminate information, complex physical infrastructure is required. Certain cities have a strategic advantage because this infrastructure is by its very nature immobile. The management of the complex interaction between massive concentrations of material resources that information technologies allow have reconfigured the interaction between capital fixity and hypermobility, with the result that cities that were already major global players find themselves with a new competitive advantage. These are the cities where the global players congregate, so this is where you will have to go if you want to do business with them. Or, as David Harvey puts it in The New Imperialism, fluid movement over space can only be achieved by fixing certain physical infrastructures in space (physical infrastructure can mean roads, railways, airports, and port facilities, cable networks and fibre-optic systems, as well as electricity grids and sewerage systems, etc.). These require a lot of capital to set up and maintain, and the recovery of these investments depends upon their use in situ (Harvey 2005: 99-100). David Harvey also sees an identifiable territorial logic of power arising from this infrastructural centralization, which he terms ‘regionality’ (Harvey 2005: 103). He see this as the necessary and unavoidable result of the molecular processes of capital accumulation in space and time, with the result that inter-regional competition and the specialization in and among regional economies becomes one of the fundamental features of capitalism. One of the side-effects of this is that the global city becomes increasingly isolated from its hinterland. K. Anthony Appiah puts this even more forcefully in his foreword to Saskia Sassen’s Globalization and Its Discontents: these global cities can become not only increasingly isolated from, but actually actively antagonistic to their regional cultures and economies (Appiah 1998: xii). David Harvey gives us some examples of this: the Pearl River Delta (PRD) in China as well as the Lower Yangtze region, which he sees as areas that encapsulate dynamic power centres that are economically (though not necessarily politically) dominating the rest of the country (Harvey 2005: 105).

Colonial to global Modern telecommunications have not created networks out of nothing. The nodal points in the global city network have formed themselves in places where networks already existed, cities such as Hong Kong, Singapore, and Shanghai. Shanghai is an interesting case in point, whereas Hong Kong

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and Singapore made the almost flawless segue from colonial entrepôt to global city, Shanghai was cut off from the rest of the world after 1949. The city found itself forced to operate as the engine for Chinese development under the Communists. Ironically, it was only after the Open Door economic reforms of 1978 that Shanghai began to have its position undermined, when it began to fall behind new national rivals like Shenzhen. The staggered series of economic reforms introduced to the city since 1984, culminating in the development of the Pudong Special Economic Zone in 1990, eventually allowed Shanghai to pick up the international threads – the city is once again being taken seriously as a global player, very much so. So what has enabled some of these key cities to become so important? Manuel Castells sees geopolitics as providing the grounds by which the politics of post-colonial survival became successful developmental policies, paving the way for some of the Tiger Economies that so startled the world at the end of the twentieth century. This can be taken as a sign that there is an important link between colonial networks and global cities. Ackbar Abbas has also investigated this phenomenon, taking the specific cultural spaces of Hong Kong as his point of departure. His work has highlighted the important link between Hong Kong, the colonial enclave, and Hong Kong, the Global City. In fact, he is convinced that colonial networks make useful foundations for global ones. One other important point, and one which ties back to Saskia Sassen’s analysis of global cities, is the fact that the construction or improvement of ICT networks cannot substitute for social networks. What facilitates these social networks in the case of a city like Hong Kong – the stability of the business environment, the investment in infrastructure, and the adherence to international standards of business law – is the fact that they were all founded by the British to service their colonial city and went on to act as the foundation for the territory’s global pre-eminence today. One important element in this continuity of development is identified by Manuel Castells as being Hong Kong’s civil service, the administrative class of elite scholars recruited by the colonial service in Britain, usually from the better colleges, such as in Oxford and Cambridge. These people had strong social and ideological cohesion, as well as shared professional interests and cultural values. They ran Hong Kong for most of its history, and their power was exercised primarily in the service of Hong Kong’s business community, a group which enjoyed far greater freedom in its operations than most others in the international capitalist system during the second half of the twentieth century, something which has helped Hong Kong become the global leader it is today.

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Ackbar Abbas has also pointed out that colonialism has pioneered the methods required to incorporate what were precapitalist, pre-industrial, non-European societies into the world economy; establishing ways of dealing with ethnically, racially, and culturally different societies. In Hong Kong: Culture and the Politics of Disappearance he states that colonial cities can be viewed as the forerunners of the contemporary global city, suggesting that it was colonialism that allowed imperialism make the leap into globalism (Abbas 1997: 3). This is true – think how much more cosmopolitan a place like Hong Kong or Shanghai was in the nineteenth century, compared to the likes of London or Paris at the same time. As global capitalism rose from the ashes of empire, some cities of these erstwhile empires found themselves perfectly placed to become global players.

Asian cities: colonial to global This book is the result of a seminar held under the auspecis of the International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS), Leiden and the Technical University of Delft’s Faculty of Architecture and the Built Environment, which took place in Leiden in April 2013. This was a multidisciplinary investigation into how networks laid down during the era of Western colonial domination of Asia have given certain cities in the region a global edge. The chapters in this book focus on a number of specific places in South, Southeast, and East Asia, some of them also deal with inter- and transregional themes, such as shipping. Most of them deal with the region’s urban environment, paying particular attention to certain specific cities, with Singapore the focus of three of the chapters, one of which makes a useful comparison with Jakarta. Shanghai is also examined, particularly its indigenous lilong or alleyway houses. Hanoi is seen as a comparison and possible model for Yangon (a place we do not hear very much about but are likely to in the future – making this chapter a particularly timely investigation). Dhaka also features, where the use of colonial (and precolonial spaces) are looked at to see their influence on the city’s post-colonial history. The history of Macau is also examined, this is a more recently post-colonial enclave, as is its near neighbour Hong Kong, where two chapters look at Japan’s influence on the city in the colonial and post-colonial eras, one of which also includes an analysis of Taiwan. Dongguan, a nearby but less-well-known neighbour in the Pearl River Delta, is a city where anomalous spatial articulations are the result of increasing regional and global integration. Keeping up to date with the new global hegemony, we also turn our attention to New Songdo City

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in Korea, a not entirely successful Free Economic Zone (FEZ). And, as has just been mentioned, some of the chapters examine more general themes, such as shipping (globally, historically, and more specifically, regionally, in Asia). Finally, there is a fascinating look at urban art images, and the role it plays as an urban expression of post-colonialism in Hong Kong. Note that ‘post-colonialism’ will often be hyphenated in the chapters that follow. This is done to differentiate it from the notion of ‘postcolonialism’, with its more theoretical implications (which is also used in a number of the chapters). The hyphenation is not intended to be an avoidance of the theoretical implications of postcolonialism, indeed, many of the chapters take a profoundly theoretical stance, rather, it is an attempt to sidestep issues which, while interesting and important, may distract the reader, and indeed the researcher, from the more practical considerations of the built environment of Asia as a thing in itself. These are real places that are being examined here, with real conditions, and real people, something I will return to in the Conclusion. Post-colonialism The fourteen chapters in this book have been divided into three parts: Post-colonialism, Networks, and Cities and Buildings. The Post-colonialism section begins with Kah-Wee Lee’s ‘Gambling, City, Nation: Popular Illegality and Nation Building in Singapore, 1960s-1980s’, which sees the intensification of the criminalization of gambling as part of a much more complex phenomenon, one where the very notions of morality and legality were bound up with the processes of nation building, particularly through urbanization and the building of modernist tower blocks and new towns. New housing estates made it difficult to exercise the sort of informal social control that had been practiced in the kampongs. Delinquency lurked in corridors, playgrounds, and other unsupervised areas of these new highdensity environments where idling could lead to mischief. This is fascinating because the Brave New World of post-World War II social housing is generally regarded to have failed in its social goals, particularly in the West where architects saw themselves as social activists rather than the middle-class professionals they actually were, and they tried to achieve social change by manipulating one aspect of social life: housing. By doing this without paying sufficient attention to other underlying causes of social problems (which were legion) they failed in their laudable aims. However, lamenting that if only the people who inhabited their vast new tower blocks would live up to their vision and everything would be alright showed a profession

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dangerously out of touch with reality. Sadly, the resultant perception of architects as being to blame for many (if not all) of society’s ills, simply because of these disastrous tower blocks (even as they did bring material improvement to many people’s lives), has done nothing to address these underlying problems (quite apart from being an argument from causality so naïve and simplistic that it need not detain us further here). Yet KahWee Lee’s chapter shows us that the location of dangerous practices in this new social vision made the modernist project more touch-and-go than has perhaps been realized. In the 1960s, Singapore’s public housing estates were both the crucible of Modernity as well as its vulnerable locus where failure was lurking. As a key site in the struggle to build a new nation, Lee shows how this new high-rise, high-density living environment came to be conceptualized in the idioms of order and disorder, where ‘cleanliness’ was not just the absence of danger or disorder – it was the very expression of the New Order. And while a clean urban environment may have been the measurable and visible result, it was not the real target. Lee’s analysis might be understood as one genealogy of nationalist modernity which draws out the relationships between modern techniques of control, the symbolic order of the nation and the ‘criminal genius of everyday life’. In a move that would have Michel Foucault shaking his head in dismay, the new rulers of Singapore, the People’s Action Party (PAP), made their real target the individual and aimed at transforming their habits. Gambling, even in its most trivial forms, became anathema to national survival. The result of this struggle was, as Lee tells us, an unstable truce, one that saw a slow but thorough transformation of the implicit, and explicit, rules in Singapore’s social contract between the state and its citizens. Staying in Singapore we come to Elmo Gonzaga’s ‘The Death of the Pasar Malam: The Counterpoint to Development in the Singapore Story’ which is closely related to the themes explored in Kah-Wee Lee’s chapter, where another traditional aspect of Singaporean life came to be considered dangerous to the newly independent government’s project of Modernity: in this case the pasar malam. What is interesting in these two chapters is how Lee’s old pattern of gambling made use of older, more established spaces in the city, whereas Gonzaga’s pasar malam was an old pattern reinvented and reused in the new spaces of the social housing blocks, helping them, initially, but then rapidly being seen as a hindrance to Modernity. Gonzaga argues that the pasar malam, far from being something that existed in a primitive ‘state of nature’ prior to the modernization of British Malaya, was an integral part of the process of modernization; a by-product of the extensive reconfiguration of the spatial and social landscape which

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marked Singapore’s development into a First World nation. They formed because of a lack of commercial facilities in the newly created residential areas, and served as the main source of basic provisions, which saved residents from having to make the long trek into town. Appropriating grass fields around the housing estates, they became improvised public spaces for commerce and consumption and were centres of social life in the early stages of Singapore’s national development. Gonzaga argues that from its inception, the pasar malam was seen as possessing an indeterminate quality (perhaps from the energy of its atmosphere or the allure of its merchandise) which impelled ordinary citizens to perform illicit activities (such as buying smuggled goods). Once the cleanup campaigns of the 1960s got underway (beginning with the Hawker’s Inquiry Commission concluding that food hawkers were a primary source of filth and disease, as well as dangers to order and lawfulness), the pasar malam found itself under attack. Characterized as primitive, brazen, and irrational, it was deemed an obstacle to the good workings of government, and a hindrance to the elements of civilization. The eradication that followed exhibits what Gonzaga calls the logic of ‘sanitary modernity’ which was fundamentally antagonistic because it relied on hierarchy and exclusion for its epistemological foundation. For this modernity to establish itself the government must identify, degrade, and exile all undesirable and recalcitrant elements it deems threats to identity and stability. The mere presence of the pasar malam in the city exposed the limits of an effective government and state authority. Gonzaga also interestingly draws our attention to a uniquely Singaporean phenomenon: the city-centre shopping mall, because parallel to this social cleansing was the development of something that is in remarkable contrast to what happened in the cities of North America and Western Europe. Singapore’s monumental shopping malls are situated right in the centre of the city and represent the beating heart of its social life. Clean and organized (according to the logic of sanitary modernity) any hint of the sort of boisterousness of the pasar malam would only serve to disorient and repulse potential customers – something that must be avoided at all costs. Now we move north to ‘Artifice and Authenticity: Postcolonial Urbanism in Macau’ by Thomas Daniell, which argues that the authenticity of this Special Administrative Region (SAR) of China seems to lie in its very artificiality. He gives us a succinct overview of the various waves of land reclamation which have been freighted with political exigencies, economic crises, demographic pressures, and cultural ambitions that resulted in an erratic series of well-intentioned projects that were all too often cancelled, compromised, or abandoned. The territory’s urban identity seems to possess

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a kind of cognitive dissonance that compels each new development to attempt to restore a degree of balance to the accumulating incongruities of its past. The result is an exhilarating and sometimes disturbing sense of disorientation, which has only increased since Portuguese control ended in 1999 and the gambling industry has become increasingly dominant. Rather than the new overwhelming the old, or enhancing it by contrast, Daniell sees surviving traditional districts as being on the verge of becoming just another part of the patchwork, no more or less authentic than any other: a case study of the implications and potentials for piecemeal tabula rasa planning where we find, not a palimpsest of historical layers within a contained territory, but a proliferation of adjacent alternatives, almost like an array of experimental results left permanently on display. The final chapter in this section is ‘Urban Art Images and the Concerns of Mainlandization in Hong Kong’ by Minna Valjakka, which asks how urban art images (such as street art and graffiti) survive the pressures of a dense urban environment, as well as the discourses of post-colonialism (with specific reference to a recolonization or ‘mainlandization’ by China), and the debates surrounding cultural heritage and indigenous identities. Even more importantly, the chapter asks what impact this context has on urban art images and how they can engage with such complex situations. In examining the creation of urban art images Valjakka argues that we need to consider the nationality of their creators as well as issues such as site-responsiveness, content, language, format, and style to provide different perspectives on the usage and understanding of urban public space, especially at a grassroots level. In making these investigations, Valjakka seeks to take an interdisciplinary approach, both methodologically and theoretically, therefore her piece is very appropriate for this book (which would be dominated by architects and urbanists otherwise) because it deals with the urban environment. The different perspective that this chapter brings is both refreshing and fascinating because one of its more interesting aspects is something that is of particular relevance for the urban environment: how the creators of urban art images have managed to create spaces for themselves in Hong Kong. The examples examined here reveal a concern, indeed even an anxiety, over Hong Kong’s growing recolonization by China. Networks The first chapter in section two looks at the geopolitical position of Hong Kong in the colonial era from the point of view of media in a wider East Asian

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context. ‘Honkon Nippō and Hong Kong-Japan Relations: Re-examining the Geopolitical Position of Colonial Hong Kong in East Asia before the End of World War II’, by Wilson Wai Shing Lee, argues that Hong Kong, at least until the end of the World War II, was considered less significant than other cities or territories in the region, such as Shanghai or Taiwan. Through a study of Honkon Nippō, a Japanese newspaper in Hong Kong which reflected the growing presence of Japan in the colony in the run up to the war, Lee contends that Hong Kong was an important consideration as the Japanese Empire was preparing to expand its influence southwards, and one that ultimately strengthened Hong Kong’s geopolitically significant position in the region. Staying with Japanese influence, Faye Yuan Kleeman’s ‘Chain Reactions: Japanese Colonialism and Global Cosmopolitanism in East Asia’ examines how modern ideas and goods circulated among cities like Dalian, Harbin, Tokyo, Seoul, Shanghai, Taipei, Hong Kong, and Saigon in the first half of the twentieth century and formed a network of urban centres fostering a uniquely East Asian cosmopolitanism. She argues that all of these cities were shaped by one or more colonial experiences, and that all were, at one time or another, ruled by the only Asian colonizer: Japan (even if in some cases this was a very brief wartime occupation). Her chapter examines the larger context of this chain of formerly colonial cities as well as what she calls their ‘graduated emergence’ as global cities, which occurred at different junctures in the post-colonial era. Particular attention is paid to Taipei (Taiwan was Japan’s oldest colonial outpost and, consequently, its main urban centre was most influenced by this encounter). Kleeman argues that the trajectory of cultural flows was not always unilateral; on various occasions, encounters with the local, native cultures came to cross-fertilize and, ultimately, transform both colonizer and colonized. This could help to explain how Taipei has begun to exploit its colonial past, revitalizing ties to Japan through nostalgic language use and strategic preservation, as well as the actual repurposing of colonial-era buildings where, interestingly, their continued utilization is less offensive to the locals than in other parts of Asia. Indeed, this repurposing seems to point to a pragmatism and a more nuanced interpretation of Taiwan’s colonial past. The commodification of this past, Kleeman argues, shows a relaxation of the taboos about Japanese coloniality. Taipei, reaching into its hidden past, is drawing on both a precolonial native and indigenous culture, as well as its now-exoticized colonial past, to construct a layered, multicultural urban space. Max Hirsh’s ‘Old Networks with New Users: Mapping Global Mobility between Dongguan and Hong Kong’ investigates the development of a

Introduc tion

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network of ferry terminals that allows passengers from Mainland China flying via Hong Kong International Airport (HKIA) to bypass Hong Kong’s customs and immigration procedures. Located deep inside Guangdong Province, these check-in terminals cater to passengers whose cross-border movement is limited by income or citizenship. This chapter argues that the Pearl River Delta’s upstream system originated in the late 1980s through a partnership between local officials and the Overseas Chinese. While these installations were initially to abet the transfer of capital and expertise from Hong Kong and Taiwan to Mainland China, they have now been appropriated by China’s incipiently mobile middle class (and others) to travel further afield, including to South Asia, the Middle East, and even Africa. SkyPier, as this ferry terminal is known, is accessible only by ferry and underground train, it cannot be entered at ground level. Its organizational logic reveals much about the aesthetics of transborder infrastructure in the twenty-first century, as well as highlighting the ‘frustrated mobility’ of a group of people who have the ‘right’ financial resources but the ‘wrong’ travel documents. This chapter uses the physical design as well as the passenger prof ile of the upstream check-in system as useful lenses for interrogating broader shifts in global mobility patterns that are taking place in the Pearl River Delta. Now we come to two chapters that deal with shipping, an important element in any analysis of global city networks. This book, in aiming at a multidisciplinary approach, welcomes these contributions as being particularly valuable. We begin with César Ducruet’s ‘Asian Cities in the Global Maritime Network since the Late Nineteenth Century’ which makes use of a hitherto untapped data resource, Lloyd’s List, and provides fascinating information about the global movements of merchant vessels among Asian port cities since 1890, where a snapshot, as it were, of maritime activity every forty years or so was chosen to reflect major evolutions in the port hierarchy and the functions of Asian cities (Asia in this case being defined as everything from Greece to Siberia but excluding Oceania). The main goal of this research was to provide a solid comparative overview which can also serve as a reference for more detailed future studies. This chapter contains such large-scale analysis that it cannot describe every port city in detail, but it serves as a useful benchmark for identifying changes, resilience, and path-dependency within one of the world’s busiest trade areas from the colonial era right up to the present. These trends are beautifully illustrated in Ducruet’s many maps which give hard evidence for what we already know about the region: e.g. West Asia’s prominence in the late nineteenth century due to the concentration of steamer vessels; East Asia’s increasing

24 

Gregory Bracken

productivity from 1925 onwards (backed by the rapid growth of Japan); and the remarkable growth of the Asian Tigers since the 1960s. Senia Febrica’s ‘Back to the Future: Feasible Cost-Sharing Co-operation in the Straits of Malacca’ explains the importance of Britain’s decision to abolish dues in the Straits of Malacca in the early nineteenth century. It argues that the opening of the Straits during British colonial rule was a vital factor in transforming the legal climate and ushering in a free-passage regime in all straits used for international navigation. In looking at costsharing problems rooted in the colonial era, this chapter surveys possible examples of cost-sharing co-operation from the past to the present. Cities and Buildings The third and f inal section of this book deals with specif ic cities and buildings and begins with ‘Rallying Towards the Nation: Theatre of Nation Building in Post-colonial Dhaka’ by Kishwar Habib and Bruno De Meulder. This chapter examines the Ramna area of Dhaka. Originally created by the Mughals as an area of pleasure gardens outside the city, the British restructured it into a campus-like environment with new types of recreational facilities (e.g. horse racing, polo, etc.) and various colonial institutions, all lying within a unifying and picturesque park. The end of British colonial rule in 1947 saw the Indian subcontinent partitioned into India and Pakistan, with East Bengal becoming part of the latter. Priority was given to religion over indigenous Bengali culture and caused tensions as Bengali cultural consciousness found itself in conflict with an exclusively Islamic ideology. Ramna became the nation’s pre-eminent representative landscape, where competing centres of power were juxtaposed. The area’s porous tissue and spatial setting catered to massive flows of people as well as acting as a strategic central gathering place where celebrations, manifestations, protests, and demonstrations frequently (and sometimes simultaneously) occurred. From a Mughal pleasure garden via a colonial recreation to the present contested postcolonial territory, Ramna’s processes of (re)production have been the result of spontaneous and organic gestures rather than the result of any superimposed plan for the city. Bridget Martin’s ‘Selectively Connected: New Songdo and the Production of Global Space’ serves as a warning to any would-be global-city-builder that a deeper understanding of what constitutes a city, let alone a global one, is needed if they are to have any chance of success. New Songdo, in Incheon, South Korea, is part of the Incheon Free Economic Zone and represents a new trajectory that seeks to be a liveable, globally connected urban space. By

Introduc tion

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looking at New Songdo’s constitutive elements, Martin provides a useful understanding of how a city-scale zonal space can function both as an enclave and a hub, with reference to earlier, colonial-era cantonment structures. However, selective spatial liberalization and connectivity work together here to amplify particular (and often imagined) constitutive elements, which are to the detriment of some others. The city planners envisaged New Songdo as having the boulevards of Paris, a New York-style Central Park, canals inspired by Venice, and a convention centre reminiscent of the Sydney Opera House; one enthusiastic architect even called New Songdo an ‘architect’s dream’. Sadly, when architects’ dreams are realized they all too often become a dystopian nightmare for those forced to inhabit them. This pick ‘n’ mix approach to urbanism, as exhibited by New Songdo’s planners, shows a profound misunderstanding of what constitutes the urban, with distressing consequences for the city’s inhabitants, as Martin so chillingly shows. The next chapter goes to the heart of this book’s investigations: ‘The Vernacular and the Spectacular: Urban Identity and Architectural Heritage in Southeast Asian Cities’, by Rita Padawangi, which questions the existence of the vernacular city in architectural heritage discourse in Southeast Asia’s cities. Padawangi sees architecture, and the urban environment, as being involved in the production, transformation, and construction of identity for the city, and its residents, where efforts to achieve global greatness tend to see the built environment being adjusted and retrofitted. What she wants to know is how does the shift from the colonial to the global, particularly in Southeast Asia, reflect the vernacular city? She argues that urban heritage has become less about the vernacular and more about the spectacular, with images intended to boost the urban economy. Rather than pointing solely to commodification, this chapter argues that the dominance of the spectacular over the vernacular in urban-heritage discourse is a process whereby power structures in the architectural profession find themselves related within a context of globalizing market forces. Padawangi highlights this by looking at a number of case studies in Singapore and Jakarta where she sees urban identity as leading to a possible vernacularization of the colonial; she also analyses how the heritage discourse can relate to a city’s engagement with the global economy. Urban heritage and urban identity are inseparable from the vernacular city, according to Padawangi, and far from seeing heritage projects as impeding a city’s economic growth, she thinks they could and should propel it. Myanmar is opening up to the world again after fifty years of military rule. William Logan’s chapter, ‘Heritage in Times of Rapid Transformation:

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Gregory Bracken

A Tale of Two Cities – Yangon and Hanoi’, sees indications that the changes currently taking place in the country are parallel to those which Vietnam faced 25 years ago, when it, too, emerged from a period of isolation and opened up to global investment, tourism, and intellectual influences. According to Logan, one of the similarities is also likely to be a growing awareness, and use of, cultural heritage as a political, economic, and social asset. He asks what Yangon might learn from the Vietnamese experience. His chapter focuses on tangible heritage, as represented in the built environment of Hanoi and Yangon (while also acknowledging that much of the signif icance attributed to urban buildings and sites relate to intangible characteristics, such as sacred and religious values or associations with historic events and people). The protection of heritage is not seen as just a technical matter, and this chapter, which follows on from Logan’s earlier work, sees heritage protection as primarily a cultural practice; a form of cultural politics dominated by particular regimes and social groups where decisions are made about the future of, and access to, scarce resources. There are differences, of course, between these two cities: Yangon was British and Hanoi French. Another major difference was how the colonial era ended: with the British withdrawing under a negotiated settlement in 1948, whereas Vietnam engaged in brutal wars, both international and civil. Ironically, it was Myanmar that then fell into isolation as the second half of the twentieth century progressed, while Hanoi, by the mid-1990s, had become a boom town. Yangon’s colonial-era urban heritage is still essentially intact, but it is in desperate need of repair (much as Hanoi’s was in the early 1990s) and Logan sees Yangon as starting on the same path as Hanoi in coming to see the usefulness of this heritage as it moves from isolation to becoming a global city. The final chapter in this book is ‘Small-scale, Bottom-up: Cosmopolitan Linkages Reglobalizing Shanghai’s City Centre’ by Ying Zhou which looks at Shanghai and asks a number of important questions: 1) What is the constellation of actors and agents who have activated the re-use of existing building typologies for the production and consumption of the new economy in China? 2) How do they relate Shanghai’s cosmopolitan history to its recent renaissance as a global city? and 3) What can be learned from these specific and localized transformation processes for future developments? Ying Zhou sees urban development as having come to represent China’s rapid economic growth and global integration following the country’s accelerated transition to a state-controlled market economy in recent decades. And it is in the central historic neighbourhoods located at the western end

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of the former French Concession and International Settlement that she sees socio-demographic, cultural, and economic changes producing new international trend quarters which echo places like Berlin’s Prenzlauerberg or New York’s Williamsburg. Her chapter seeks to examine how Shanghai’s transnational networks, cosmopolitan agents, and diasporic linkages have all helped in expediting the city’s reglobalization since the early 1990s, especially in the reconf iguration of the former concession areas, both physically and socio-economically. She makes particular reference to the Jing’an Villa lilong (alleyway house)2 enclave to examine the transformations of Shanghai’s existing and vibrant inner-city neighbourhoods, which is something she sees as a specific example of how these hitherto little-studied yet crucial ‘centralities’ can spatially manifest the recalibration of drivers, agents, networks, and urban forms as they respond to globalization’s effects on local frameworks in presenting what she calls a more nuanced or ‘thickened’ version of the cosmopolitan legacy of the reglobalization narrative.

Towards a conclusion As you can see, what we have here in this collection of essays is not so much a straightforward historical reading of what enabled certain cities in Asia to make the segue from nodes in imperial networks to being global cities in their own right (although we do have some impressive historical research), we have more a genealogy of these developments.3 Michel Foucault tells us that genealogy is ‘grey, meticulous, and patiently documentary’ (Foucault 1991: 76), that it ‘requires patience and a knowledge of details, and it depends on a vast accumulation of source material’ (Foucault 1991: 76-77), something that we see here is this book in abundance (it is also something that I shall be returning to in my Conclusion). In the meantime, I invite you, the reader, to visit the cities of Asia with these scholars as your guides and allow yourselves to be led along the series of genealogical tracings that they lay out for you, so you can see for yourselves what has made some of Asia’s cities move so spectacularly from the colonial to the global.

2 There are a number of different terms for the Shanghai alleyway house (see Bracken 2013: 11): lilong is the most commonly used Chinese term, while longtang is the term invariably used in Shanghai itself. 3 I am grateful to the peer reviewers of this book who suggested this term, which I am sure the reader will agree is apt.

Part One Post-colonialism

1

Gambling, City, Nation Popular Illegality and Nation Building in Singapore, 1960s-1980s Kah-Wee Lee

I am grateful to the University of California Pacific Rim Advanced Graduate Research Fellowship which funded my archival work between 2010 and 2011. The Ministry of Education Academic Research Fund Tier 1 Grant (Singapore) supported the purchase of image rights and writing of this article. I would also like to thank Jerome Whitington for his comments on the manuscript. Abstract Scholars of nationalism have linked projects such as urban renewal, public housing and architectural modernization to the production of a common national identity. Few have examined the forms of state violence targeted at popular illegalities enjoyed by different classes of citizens. The intensification of the criminalization of gambling from the 1960s to the 1980s in Singapore was part of this complex phenomenon where the very notions of morality and legality had become bound up in the processes of urbanization and nation-building. Rather than interpreting this as part of the growing political and ideological dominance of the ruling party, I analyse the discourses and programmes centred around crime, cleanliness and the built environment so as to construct the positive order against which gambling was posed as a danger. Then, I use media reports to parse the different spatial zones that described a specific relationship between vice and crime. These zones were neither discrete nor hierarchical; instead they were relational and unstable, such that a similar act could be tolerated at one place but criminalized at another. Writing the history of the control of vice opens a window into a process whereby the terrain of popular illegalities was slowly but thoroughly rearranged, and how this unstable process expressed both the limits of criminalization in the context of a strident nationalism, and the relationship between the spatial order of the city and the symbolic order of the nation.

Following self-government in 1959, the People’s Action Party (PAP) of Singapore released a string of amendments to existing legislation related to the criminalization of gambling – the procedures for obtaining warrants to

32 Kah-Wee Lee

conduct searches were simplified, the power to arrest people escaping from the scene in addition to those found in a space that was raided was granted, the use of legal presumptions to criminalize specific forms of lotteries was extended, and the length of jail terms and quantum of fines were increased.1 Between the 1950s and the 1970s, police records show a drastic increase in the number of people arrested and fined for gambling offences (see Table 1.1). The number of gambling offences reported in 1967-68 exceeded that of all other offences by a large margin (see Table 1.2). Table 1.1 Gambling-related offences, 1951-1973

1951 1952 1953 1954 1955 1956 1957 1958 1959 1960 1961 1962 1963 1964 1965 1966 1967 1968 1969 1970 1971 1972 1973

Number of persons arrested

Fines imposed

Number of clubs dissolved

1,192 1,147 1,437 920 888 1,216 – – 567 1227 1282 2273 – – 3454 3747 3744 3398 2499 3588 2998 1899 2822

57,722 72,342 145,680 233,725 198,449 – – – 149,825 307,365 238,943 330,023

– 9 8 6 6 2 – 12 50 5 1 0

378,588 340,590 487,150 334,975 342,792 407,342 551,770 547,720 974,046

0 0 – – – – 0 0 –

Source: Straits Settlements Department Annual Report, 1951-1959; Singapore Police Department Annual Report, 1960-1973. (‘-’ signifies no figures provided for that year)

1 Legislative changes include Criminal Justice (Temporary Provisions) (Amendment) Bill, v356 (11 June 1958), Criminal Law (Temporary Provisions) (Amendment No. 2) Bill (1959), Hotels (Amendment) Bill (1959), and Societies (Amendment) Bill (1960). The Common Gaming House Ordinance was revised four times in a span of ten years. See Common Gaming Houses (Amendment) Bills (1958, 1960, 1961, 1971).

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Gambling, Cit y, Nation

The intensif ication of the criminalization of vice should be posed as a paradox within the project of nation building: how can the state attack its own citizens and yet integrate everyone into an ‘imagined community’. 2 Placed against the socio-political climate of newly independent Singapore, this might seem self-explanatory. The criminalization of vice was a carry-over of the anti-yellow culture campaign of the 1950s, when various political parties, intellectuals and radical elements found a common platform in the promotion of ‘healthy culture’ as a weapon against colonialism.3 Through various channels of censorship and cultural production, the PAP actively promulgated its version of the desirable national subject as it asserted its political dominance: Table 1.2 Number of prosecutions, 1967-1968 Assault, causing hurt, grievous or otherwise, with or without weapons Robbery Extortion Theft / Housebreaking Cheating Criminal Breach of Trust and Misappropriation of Property Sexual Offences Vagrancy Drunkenness Gambling and connected offences Opium smoking and connected offences Smuggling and connected offences

1,110 373 143 1,877 126 147 86 83 1,275 12,147 2,146 292

Source: Singapore Parliamentary Debates, 1968, ‘Criminal Prosecutions: Subordinate Criminal Courts’, vol. 28

[T]he ideal citizen of Singapore would be ‘rugged’, a product of ‘systematic programme for the inculcation of self-discipline’, committed to resisting the excesses of consumption in a devotion to unremitting production. And this citizen, again, would realize his potential for discipline in a modern urban environment which stressed eff iciency, in which the crooked was made straight. (Holden 2004: 82; emphasis added)

This chapter explores how the spatial order of the city was intertwined with the symbolic order of the nation in a time when both were undergoing 2 3

Anderson 1991. Yao 2007; Kong 2006; Holden 2004.

34 Kah-Wee Lee

dramatic transformation. As a practice that cut across social, moral, and economic boundaries, gambling threatened the self-image of the nation during a time of purification. Just as the colonial government sought to control prostitution and street hawking through the regulation of space4, the attempt to tame this popular illegality was played out in and constitutive of the urban environment. The criminalization of gambling entailed a series of ‘dividing practices’5 in order to redefine the scales of criminality and morality against the ideals of nationalism. Gambling was monstrous crime when inflected through secret societies and criminal syndicates and punishable nuisance when located in cultural practices and everyday forms of recreation. Such divisions extended to a spatial re-ordering where new classes of subjects were mapped onto new categories of environments. These processes were also evident in how ‘black kampongs’ around the urban fringes of Singapore were cleared in the name of modernization in the 1960s6 and how night markets were slowly replaced by enclosed shopping malls, a phenomenon Gonzaga (this volume) calls ‘sanitary modernity’. Yet, these reclassifications were necessarily slippery, contested, and potentially counterproductive. Like other forms of popular illegalities, gambling was never simply eradicated – it became, in various degrees and combinations, dispersed and contained, re-represented and re-adapted. In his discussion of the genealogy of discipline and punishment in the Western context, Foucault notes that ‘illegality was so deeply rooted and so necessary for the life of each social stratum, that it had in a sense its own coherence and economy’ (1995: 82). Margins of illegality were tolerated in each strata, and there were different mechanisms to deal with illegalities differently. Rather than a rigid and uniform distinction between the legal and the illegal, he argues that each intervention generated around it a ‘field of illegal practices’ from which was extracted an ‘illicit profit’ through the very mechanisms of control (1995: 312). These profits were exploited by all strata of society – for the lower classes, it could be the very condition of survival, for the elites, privileges and exceptions guarded jealously, and for everyone else in between, different ways of enriching oneself outside the formal economy of legalities. Indeed, framing gambling as a form of popular illegality entails understanding the power dynamics between each social group and institution engaged in a struggle over the ‘illicit profits’ enjoyed by itself and in relation to each other.7 4 5 6 7

Warren 2003; Yeoh 1996. Foucault 1995. Loh 2007, 2009. Warren 2013; Chazkel 2011; Kavanagh 1993.

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35

Understanding these processes of control and transgression relationally is crucial to what Stallybrass and White call the ‘dialectic of antagonism’ (Stallybrass and White 1986: 16). My article extends this dialectic by spatializing these processes, showing how our notions of morality and legality are place-bound – a similar act of transgression could be tolerated at one place but criminalized at another. Thus, rather than placing this phenomenon of intensified criminalization against a narrative of creeping ideological and political dominance, I attempt to render the complex spectrum of dangers posed by gambling to the nascent nationalist imagination and propose spatial categories that capture the limits of criminalization in the context of nationalism. While I agree, along with various scholars, that moral and social norms often reflect the values of the ruling elites,8 paying attention to this dialectic alerts us to the possibilities of transgressions and inversions that may erupt even in the most hegemonic of conditions. Adopting this theoretical position, I find that sticking closely to police and legal discourses where gambling was the overt target of attack offers too narrow a perspective. These records seldom show the layers of social stigmatization that existed outside of positive definitions of crime or the gray zones of popular illegalities that operated alongside the structures of juridical reason. Rather, I begin by triangulating a series of discourses and programmes around crime, cleanliness and the built environment so as to construct the positive order against which gambling was posed as a danger. Learning from Rabinow,9 I adopt an ethnographic approach to the historical records, listening to how various ‘technicians of general ideas’ proposed an etiology of social disorder in a rapidly transforming society. A pattern of anxiety and rationality animated these discourses where the modernization of the urban environment was always haunted by the impossibility of purging or segregating undesirable elements from it. Against this positive order, I proceed to use newspaper reports to reconstruct the complex processes of spatial re-ordering as the state attempted to reform its citizens. Though the print media generally projected a statecentric perspective on social reality – and this was certainly the case in Singapore (see Rodan 2004:19-22) – a diachronic analysis across about 20 years reveals the logical inconsistencies and impracticalities of this project. Without following a strict chronological order, my task is to identify and conceptualize different zones that articulated shifting and contested relations between morality and legality, the individual and the 8 9

Hunt 1999; Bourdieu 1990; Elias 1969. Rabinow 1989.

36 Kah-Wee Lee

nation. Framed in terms of contamination, vulnerability, suspicion, and exception, these overlapping and fluid spatial categories provide a way to think through the ambivalent zones wherein acts of domination, resistance and accommodation come into play. Between the 1960s and the 1980s, I suggest that the terrain of popular illegalities was recast in ways that was dynamic, unpredictable, and ultimately illegible, expressing the limits of criminalization in the context of a strident nationalism.

Triangulating discourses: an etiology of social disorder Around the 1960s, in the police journals intended primarily for internal circulation, a meta-narrative was unsurprisingly stark. Criminality ceased to be a common denominator or residue in the native races. The usual suspects – secret societies, vices, and rising crime rates – were reconceptualized variously as ahistorical and deeply rooted evils, or as colonial legacies and foreign imports, or as the results of modernization and urbanization.10 In a 1970 conference on ‘Crime and Society’ organized by the Singapore Aftercare Association and the Probation and Aftercare Service, speakers from Singapore and overseas displayed this range of modern discourses from psychiatry to social work to criminology. G.G. Thomas, Deputy Secretary of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, summarized: ‘What we have been discussing is not a problem of penology, not a problem of criminology but a problem of social rehabilitation and social reconstruction’ (Thomas 1971: 181). Sociologist Mak Lau Fong’s work shows how this turn towards ‘social rehabilitation and social reconstruction’ entailed an understanding of gambling as a problem of the larger social environment. In a short study he set out to test the hypothesis that social alienation resulted in a higher frequency of gambling amongst industrial workers. Working with a sample of 270 cases from a public housing estate, a set of variables was tested and the findings presented in an integrated model (see Figure 1.1). In his study, gambling was not framed as inherently criminal. Rather, it was a social activity that compensated for what these industrial workers were deprived of in their familial and economic lives – decision-making, responsibility, and enduring social relationships. Mak’s study mapped gambling onto a much larger constellation of forces that impinged on the socio-economic lives of people in modernizing 10 I refer to the Singapore police journals and the Singapore police magazine.

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Figure 1.1  Factors influencing gambling frequency amongst industrial workers

Reproduced from Mak 1979: 12

Singapore. Excessive gambling was a symptom of negative social conditions rather than a result of individual weakness. This diagnosis triangulated with and reinforced police discourse around crime where social reconstruction and rehabilitation was aimed at the normalization of lives. In addition, Mak’s work provided a spatial locus – the living conditions of the industrial workers were the public housing estates that were being built by the state to house large segments of the population. In the 1960s, the public housing estate was both the crucible of modernity as well as its centre of vulnerability. As a key site in the struggle to build a new nation, this new high-rise, high-density living environment was similarly conceptualized in the idioms of order and disorder. An analysis of the official literature will show how this modern environment became a space of reform where the symbolic order of the nation connected with the private domain of the family and the inner morality of the individual. In the 1960s and the 1970s, a series of governmental and academic studies were undertaken to track the psychological, social and economic lives of citizens resettled into public housing as a result of comprehensive urban

38 Kah-Wee Lee

renewal.11 These studies were wary of high-rise, high-density living, being influenced by the general climate of urban sociology at that time: Pushed by stress, pulled by autonomy, people in high-density conditions tend to retreat into a private world where they believe that they are selfsufficient. They create a way of life, and an environment, which reflects this belief; and this way of life, and this environment, then propagate the same illusion … Unless the social and physical environment is structured in such a manner as to obviate this syndrome, urban development may produce serious and pathological mutations in human personality and perhaps in human nature. (Hassan 1977b: 233)

Thus, the research questions generally assumed the penalizing effects of such living conditions, and sought to test its applicability or variance in the Singaporean context: How are the new residents coping? Are there signs of social fragmentation, psychological damage, or political danger? Are the residents satisfied with the new living conditions? Do the neighbours interact with each other the same way as they used to in the kampongs? Questions of crime and delinquency were set against the disruptive nature of resettlement and the new socio-spatial conditions of the public housing estates. Echoing Mak’s analysis of industrial workers and gambling, the normalization of lives through resettlement in public housing was central to the objectives of national modernization. 12 Modern infrastructure, accessibility to work, community facilities and recreation and a sense of neighbourliness would transform the resettled workers into productive Singaporean citizens. But danger continued to lurk in the corridors, playgrounds and other unsupervised areas of these high-density environments. Sociologist Riaz Hassan foregrounds the relationship between environment and delinquency, and shows how the spectre of disorder continued to threaten the modern ideal of public housing. In his seminal study, Families in Flats (1977), he argues that poorer families in smaller flats were more vulnerable to juvenile delinquency. Working parents had no resources to supervise their children. The lack of space forced children to play outside where they became exposed to bad influences. Yet, the other option of preventing them from leaving the crowded interior of the flat hindered 11 For example: Yeh 1975; Yeh 1970; Weldon et al. 1973; Hassan 1972; Sociological Working Papers No. 47 1975; Tan et al. 1977. 12 Castells et al. 1990; Chua 1997.

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39

their studying and socialization skills. To compound the problem, mothers tended to be oblivious to such structural factors and perceived their children as ‘stupid’, who in turn internalized and perpetuated the stigma by becoming drop-outs and delinquents (Hassan 1977a: 145-198). This problem was also highlighted by the police, though they seemed to make a much more direct and sweeping link between delinquency and the ‘outside’ of the domestic zone: In this environment it is only natural for these youths to spend more time outside their homes thereby resulting in less parental control. For want of something better to do, they form into gangs in their respective areas and invariably turn to crime as a natural outlet for their pent-up frustrations. These then are the criminal gangs or secret societies of today. (Sandosham 1973: 49)

The theory of passive crime control through environmental design was heavily debated in the West at the same time.13 It transferred criminological attention from the individual to the opportunities afforded in the environment. This theory animated the exchanges between the police and academics of public housing in Singapore. Social disorder did not begin with the confrontation between the police and criminal. Rather it lurked outside modern flats – in the interstices of everyday life where the child might be exposed to bad elements, in the ill-design of estates which made it difficult to exercise the forms of informal social controls once practiced in the kampongs, in the public spaces where idling could lead to mischief, and in the very fact that residents became used to the presence of strangers in these high-density environments. The high-rise typology was seen to be criminogenic – policemen on patrol were oblivious of everything above the ground level and the ‘heights’ gave the criminals a sense of security (Chua 1974: 18). While the police was concerned primarily with the zones outside the flats, attention to interior domestic life was just as heavy. In official discourse, the design of the flat was often promulgated as a series of rational calculations concerned with space standards and resource allocations that matched the needs of a new social unit – the nuclear family (Wong and Yeh 1985: 56-112).14 But, Hassan’s critique of resettlement for poor families was the tip of another set of discourses designed to produce modern subjectivity 13 Boggs 1965. 14 See also Kwek 2004.

40 Kah-Wee Lee

through a disciplined and aestheticized private life. As Jacobs and Cairns (2008) show, the Housing and Development Board (HDB) actively projected a desirable palette of aesthetic and lifestyle choices through recommendations on ornamentation, colours, and furnishing. The emphasis on reducing clutter, reining in excess and using light colours was an exercise in shaping the private sumptuary practices of flat dwellers to be more in line with the general ethos of nation building. The interior domestic space was therefore a mediated zone between the family and the nation, where proper living could be constituted and nurtured behind four walls.15 In this sense, within the public housing estate, the HDB’s attempt to shape the good citizen in the private realm complemented the police’s attempt to rid the dangerous elements in public realm. Public housing is both a distinct case and metonymy of society at large. By drawing equivalence between the symbolic order of the nation, the private domain of the family, and the inner morality of the individual, a generalized positive order was put in place where opposing notions of danger, immorality, and delinquency were mapped on specific types of environments. Such a system of opposing concepts, once established, illuminated upon programmes of action wherein the shaping of the built environment was inseparable from the reform of the individual. A stark example of how this positive order acted upon and connected different scales of reform was the series of nationwide ‘Keep Singapore Clean’ campaigns. These campaigns urged the individual to practice an ethic of mutual inspection and self-responsibility to keep the public realm clean. In effect, it urged the citizens to extend the private sphere of domestic life into public life – ‘everybody can learn and acquire the habit of treating common user areas as one’s own home, to be kept clean and maintained’ (Lee 1969: 5). The range of activities held in the inaugural campaign in 1968 illustrates the blurring of the private and public within a common national imaginary. In this month of mass campaigning, spring cleaning was carried in offices, factories and homes. Government agencies, statutory boards and private organizations that took part opened their premises to public inspection. Sensitive areas, such as toilets, cinemas, bus stops, and ‘other places of public resort’ received attention from ‘candid camera and photographers’. Finally, a demonstration project was undertaken at Hong Lim Park, where the Chambers of Commerce, together with local merchants, undertook a spring cleaning of the area (Ministry of Health 1969: 20-23). 15 See also Chee 2013.

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‘Cleanliness’ is a powerful trope in many symbolic systems that distinguished the self from the other. By blurring the distinction between the private and public within a common national imaginary, these programmes subjected the realm of micro social interactions to political calculations – citizens regulated each other’s behaviours through mutual surveillance and evaluation. As Erwin Goffman (1959: 137) argues, this dramaturgical process of social interaction produces pressure to conform, as individuals contrive ‘the proper front for the demands of each audience’. Thus, while a clean environment was the measurable and visible result, it was not the real target. The real target, a Singaporean bureaucrat emphasizes, was the individual – to transform this ‘creature of habit’, to ‘revolutionize the outlook of the people’ (Chua 1972: 1). A diagram in a government report illustrates clearly what was at its heart a modernist project (see Figure 1.2). To place man at the centre of change was to act from the outside in. One must act directly on all the environments which would, through the process of interpellation, constitute the internal sensibilities of the modern subject. As the Commissioner of Public Health Dr Thevathasan (1969: 30) says, ‘the cleanliness of a city or neighbourhood or home is directly related to the attitude of mind of each of its individuals, both adult and child’. Culture, another report says, is merely the ‘sum total of the various elements constituting it and that the individual elements are constantly modified, rejected and replenished with new elements’ (Ministry of Culture 1964: 6). Conversely, for those who did not respond to these interventions, they deserved a status bordering on the criminal: It is a national campaign aimed to stimulate, exhort and educate our people to participate effectively in Keeping Singapore Clean. Moreover, this campaign is intended to be followed by effective enforcement of the law once the campaign is over. The small minority of people who could not care less and whose anti-social acts of indiscriminate throwing of rubbish and the creating of other health hazards will be met by the full force of the law and the contempt of their fellow citizens. (Chua 1969: 7; emphasis added)

Indeed, the diagram captures the modernist belief in the malleability of human beings and a deep intolerance towards those elements that resisted change. The malleability of human beings was put to work through interventions in the social environment – the totality of his life world where the private and the public was conflated within a common national imaginary.

42 Kah-Wee Lee Figure 1.2  ‘The individual as target’

Reproduced from F.L. Thim, ‘Health Education and Public Information for Solid Wastes Management’, in Towards a Clean and Healthy Environment, 60 (Ministry of the Environment, Singapore: Ministry of the Environment, 1972)

The resisting, inert, and inassimilable elements were also part of this world, but they were to be exposed and categorized as such. Deviance and disorder were understood within a broad social milieu where the conditions of normalization had to keep up with the rapid rate of urban transformation. While overt references to gambling were rarely made in these discourses and programmes, they constructed the internal structures of the imagined community within which the criminalization of gambling as a form of vice became necessary and justifiable.

Ambivalent zones The dramatic increase in the number of convicted gambling cases in the 1960s should be seen as a historical rearrangement of the terrain of popular

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illegalities. Past practices of gambling on the streets, at home, and private clubs, once tolerated, suddenly become criminal or stigmatized. Other recreational activities like pinball machines in saloons and game stalls in amusement parks became suspicious because they were swept into the orbit of ‘gambling’ as ‘games of chance’. The rest of this section attempts to reconstruct this process of spatial re-ordering by parsing the different zones that described a specific relationship between legality and morality, the individual and the nation. I have organized them as zones of contamination, suspicion, vulnerability, and exception. However, as should become obvious in the analysis, these zones were neither discrete nor hierarchical. Furthermore, the correlation between immorality and illegality was not isomorphic: what was more immoral was not always more criminal, and vice versa. Rather, notions of morality and legality were site-specific and expressed the relationship between the spatial order of the city and the symbolic order of the nation in a moment of transition. The same activity carried out near a school, for example, would provoke greater police retaliation than if it were carried out in a rural area. Zones of contamination In gambling dens, disputes over one dollar led to murder. Another man died from 19 stab wounds after a dispute at a back-lane gambling den. Secret societies were suspected of being involved (The Straits Times, 30 September 1969: 6; 6 February 1968: 9).16 At another raid, the police remarked that ‘this centre [at South Bridge Road] is the most extensively fortified one that we have come across’ (The Straits Times, 19 September 1988: 15). There were steel doors and closed circuit cameras, and the sign at the door read ‘Merlin Imitation Jewellery’ (see Figure 1.3). The dense urban conditions of Chinatown, Jalan Besar, and Geylang were the preferred haunts of organized syndicates who escorted their valued customers in Mercedes-Benzes, hid their operations behind trapdoors, and hired gunmen to exact revenge on the innocent (The Straits Times, 2 June 1975: 21). In this zone, a completely irrational escalation of crime happened, and small infractions could legitimately be returned with great force. Intense fortifications and elaborate techniques of evasion and counter-surveillance were developed to counter and evade the law.

16 China Street (中国街) in Chinatown was also known colloquially as Gambling Street (赌间口) (Xu 2002: 44).

44 Kah-Wee Lee Figure 1.3  Exposing gambling fortifications

Source: ‘Racing Centre Raid Hits about 90 Bookies’, The Straits Times, 19 September 1988: 15

Zones of contamination were anathema to the project of nationalist modernity. Here, gambling was not just about gambling – it escalated to murders, extortions, violence, and other more serious forms of social and political disorder. There were specific streets and communities – such as Geylang and Jalan Besar – but there were also concentrated pockets of illegal gambling dens hidden across the island. Organized syndicates and petty criminals concentrated in and permeated the entire ecosystem of these areas such that they were often tolerated, even protected by their customers and the residents who lived there. They were dangerous not simply because the innocent or gullible might encounter dangerous elements of society there – such encounters could happen anywhere. Rather, they were dangerous because, in these locations, fresh recruits and alibis were incorporated into the circuits of crime and vice. Zones of contamination were the thresholds where good citizens crossed to become bad. The intense attention paid to these sites echoed the vitriol directed at ‘black kampongs’ as obstacles to modernity. In that sense, urban renewal and police raids were part of the same project to demolish these zones of contamination.

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Zones of vulnerability In schools, a direct order from the Ministry of Education was given to all principals instructing teachers and pupils to stop gambling (The Straits Times, 24 September 1968: 9; 26 September 1968: 7).17 A ticking off and some lessons on the evils of gambling were sufficient to ward off the bad elements of society. But, given the vulnerable space of the school, the smallest hint of moral turpitude would attract a disproportionate level of retaliation. Thus, the selling of ‘tikam tikam’ cards18 to school children attracted the attention of the juvenile courts (The Straits Times, 8 March 1963: 16; 15 March 1963: 7). Raids were carried out around the schools to arrest ‘gambling stall racketeers’ who used ‘wheels of fortune’ to stimulate the sale of sweets and iced drinks.19 Youths were a constant source of anxiety. They were a mobile category of their own, radiating a zone of vulnerability wherever they collected. Around community centres and public housing estates, self-employed lottery agents and organizers operating in their apartments were threatened with eviction notices (The Straits Times, 12 December 1973: 11; 1 April 1976: 10). Shopkeepers were warned not to let their premises be used to promote betting on ‘fighting fish’.20 Coffee shops and void decks – the vacant space below every public housing block – were often places where older folks and working-class men gathered to gamble illegally on horse racing. A great amount of anxiety was directed at how to police the new high-rise typology of public housing effectively: In order to carry out the primary functions of law enforcement, the reorganization of police patrol, especially on foot, bicycle, or motor-scooter, was a most important issue. What became known as ‘vertical patrol’ was added to police jargon – referring to constables moving by elevator from 17 See also archival materials stored in National Archives of Singapore: Ministry of Education, ‘Encouragement of Gambling and Other Undesirable Activities’ (1960-1968) 2190/60. 18 ‘Tikam tikam’ cards refers to any of those game cards where the buyer stands to win a prize. 19 The article describes the moment of the raid, and the petty nature of these operations: ‘[…] 4 hawkers selling drinks, Kelly and sweet meats, on whose carts schoolboys were placing bets dashed off. On each cart was a wheel of chance – a wooden board with numbers and a wooden shaft with a wire needle attached. The wheel is spun and the prizes are iced drinks and food’ (‘Police Raid Gambling Stall Racketeers Near Schools’ 1952: 7). 20 ‘The police move was only against those indulging in fish-fight but also against aquarists and coffee shop proprietors who allowed their premises to be used for such purposes […] [M] any aquarists are known to promote fish-fight as a side line. Others carry their “fighters” in bottles to coffee shops where contests are held. Betting on these fights is heavy’. ‘Fish Fights and Gambling: A Warning to Shopkeepers’ 1961: 9.

46 Kah-Wee Lee

floor to floor of the highrise blocks. Police could now cover more territory and be exposed to greater numbers of residents than was possible in patrolling the haphazard layouts of the kampongs. (Austin 1987: 288)

Zones of vulnerability represented another site where the relationship between crime and vice became exaggerated by the nationalist project – gambling, even in the most trivial form, became threatening to national survival. If zones of contamination were the thresholds where good citizens crossed to become bad, zones of vulnerability were sites where the distinction between the good and the bad was most vexing and ambiguous. Criminals and habitual gamblers were clearly the targets in the first zone. In this zone, they were often precocious school children, entrepreneurial shopkeepers, occasional gamblers, or just youths being themselves. Sometimes, their vulnerability was accentuated by their proximity and susceptibility to dangerous elements of society. But, it was just as likely to be because of bad habits and practices carried into the new environments designed to protect and modernize them. Vulnerability was a function of ignorance and habit, as well as the social circumstances people found themselves in. In a moment of great urban transformation, zones of vulnerability often coalesced around the very spaces and groups seen to be most crucial to the new nation: youths, workers, and teachers; community centres, public housing, and schools. Zones of suspicion In hotels and private clubs, big-time gamblers had devised ways to evade police detection. These spaces were fortified not by heavy doors and locks, but by their aura of respectability, the self-interest of these legitimate businesses, and advanced technologies of evasion.21 Indeed, some of heaviest gamblers, especially foreigners and the wealthier classes, could be found here (The Straits Times, 2 November 1972: 6; 15 March 1975: 7; 2 August 1973: 4; 14 April 1974: 9). Spaces of popular entertainment and leisure also became suspicious. In bars, rules and regulations were set by the Ministry of Culture: female employees were not allowed to sit or dance with customers and all performances had to be vetted to make sure there were no ‘indecent 21 In the Derrick Club run by an American, for example, guards used walkie talkies to warn the players of police presence (‘Club Used Walkie Talkies to Foil Police on Gambling Raids’ 1973: 1). In another club, hidden watchmen and specialized electrical alarm system were used to thwart police raids (‘Club’s Special Alarm Foiled Police Raids’ 1973: 7).

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gestures or actions’ and mingling (‘Barring Vice’ 1980: 2-3). In fun fairs, arcade centres and amusement parks, games that approximated pinball machines and fruit machines became objects of great suspicion. Dancing and traditional games of chance found in fun fairs amplified each other’s moral dubiety when carried out in the same space (The Straits Times, 11 February 1989: 12; 24 January 1989: 17). Such activities were sometimes tolerated in the established amusement parks around the urban fringes or in bars and arcade centres, but when carried out in housing estates they crossed the line and became immoral or criminal (see Figure 1.4). Finally, in the rural outskirts of Singapore where many of the kampongs were located, the lack of police presence and good infrastructure and the general distrust between the farmers and police meant that make-shift gambling dens and huts fitted with tall antennae to broadcast horse racing results had taken root there. Like the private clubs and hotels, criminal elements had found a new environment to evade the police. Zones of suspicion designated spaces where the dangerous elements of society had re-emerged in a new guise, or where once tolerated objects and activities gradually took on heightened shades of criminality and immorality. Zones of suspicion fell under the police radar as sites to keep a close eye on and extend influence over, rather than sites to penetrate and break apart. They were often legitimate businesses or social clubs, which had knowingly or unknowingly become the new haunts of gambling activities. Sometimes, they were tolerated as long as private passions did not become public vice. Sometimes, class status and political influence protected them from police and public scrutiny. Surveillance and regulation were the preferred tools of passive control, rather than outright criminalization. In these spaces, vice was on the cusp of turning into crime, while ordinary citizens were on the threshold of turning into criminals. Thus, public exposure was often a way to censure such activities: those who were detected were often shamed. Like the carousing men and women in the fun fair, their faces were revealed. By exposing the act, these citizens were ‘saved’ from becoming criminals. Zones of exception In post-independence Singapore, legalized gambling could be found in the state-sponsored lottery, licensed private clubs, and the Singapore Turf Club. While the latter two were historical legacies, the state-sponsored lottery was created in 1968 in the name of channelling bad money to good causes. As such, the first project funded by the lottery was the National Stadium, thus

48 Kah-Wee Lee Figure 1.4  ‘A gambling spot by any other name’

Source: ‘All’s Not Fair at the Fair’, The Straits Times, 11 February 1989: 12

linking the figure of the modern athletic body to the idea of a strong nation.22 Reflecting the contradictions between a rugged nationalism set against the perceived hedonism of the West and an open economy built on tourism and foreign direct investment, zones of exception included spaces where foreign elements were tolerated or contained. Thus, Singapore Airlines introduced the first ‘flying casinos’ for flights connecting Singapore to San Francisco in the 1980s. The offshore islands, by their geographical isolation, were often conceived in the same way. Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew thought in 1965 that Pulau Sejahat could be used for casino development. It would cater to the sins of the West while maintaining the purity and ruggedness of the Singaporean citizen: 22 Singapore Pools, a private company, was set up in 1968 to run the first legalized national lottery. For a corporate history of this organization, see Sharp 1998.

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We’ve got an island set aside for all this. We don’t want all this. We don’t want to go greyhound racing or in the Casino – that’s no good. But the American tourists like it. And all Malaysians can go there. Singaporeans will serve them. But, for Singaporeans, we will go to sleep early. We will wake up early. Tomorrow we work hard. If you go for a massage and tomorrow your bones are weaker, we will never succeed. Let the other fellow have a good time. Never mind. We will give the full red-carpet treatment. But, for Singaporeans, I say: ‘First thing in the morning, physical jerks – P.T. Those who want a real massage, we can beat them up properly’. (The Straits Times, 25 October 1965: 1)

Zones of exception were distinguished by a specific relationship between morality and legality that inverted the established norms of society at large. Acting like a cordon sanitaire, the vices that could not be deleted could be contained here, thus removing its potentially subversive force from the public domain. As a formalized threshold, the suspension of norms allowed citizens or foreigners to safely cross into such spaces without endangering their moral/ legal status in the national imaginary. Containment and segregation were often the preconditions and the expression of exception. Yet, such thresholds were fraught with contradictions and the maintenance of such zones required continuous work involving the policing of the boundaries that separated them from the norm. In that sense, they were sites of extreme surveillance, as their state of exception depended on a meticulous accounting of the capital, people and images that flowed through these enclosed economies.

Conclusion In the 1960s, various experts attempted to formalize a set of parameters that would reconceptualize crime as a problem of social reconstruction and rehabilitation. Beneath the formalization of a new order where intensified state violence was deemed necessary and justified, complex layers of sociospatial practices rendered the imagined community illegible as a whole. As state agents and citizens engaged each other in their everyday lives, notions of morality and legality turned out to be site-specific, such that an activity could be exonerated if carried out in one place but punished if carried out in another. Furthermore, the relationship between morality, legality, and place was always in flux. Zones of exception like lottery stations and turf clubs were often places of concentrated crime where undercover bookkeepers and other criminal syndicates operated under the noses of the police, for

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example. Relationships between the police and criminal(ized) elements changed with the shifting terrains of popular illegalities. As Ganapathy and Lian have shown, the police and criminal groups enjoyed a symbiotic relationship, especially after 1970, over areas where the law could not afford full protection, such as prostitution, loan sharking, newspaper vending, and street hawking. The headmen of secret societies registered themselves with the police in return for ‘territorial monopolization and control of (both illegal and legal) economic activities within these territorial, extra-political entities’ (Ganapathy and Lian, 2002: 147). A history of the control of vice can furnish a penetrative insight into the relationship between nation building, spatial order, and subject formation. It reveals the shadowy double that transgresses and participates in the constitution of the normalized imaginary. By spatializing this dialectic of antagonism, I have tried to provide a more nuanced understanding of the city as a concrete manifestation of the irreconcilable tensions of modernity. To further this project, one can examine the institutional reforms, cultural meanings as well as the everyday tactics of citizens as they engaged in the reshaping of the terrain of popular illegalities. A considerable hurdle, however, has been the lack of archival materials, as my over-reliance on mainstream media suggests. More can be done to contextualize the politics of print media during the formative years of Singapore’s nation building, which as Lim (2014) suggests in the case of Thailand, could draw out another narrative about the relationship between policing and the representation of crime. To leaven this suppressed layer of history, oral histories and other cultural media like film and popular literature should provide valuable insights.23 On reflection, it is tempting to argue, in response to James Scott’s (2009) work on the uplands of Southeast Asia, that the ‘art of not being governed’ can also be found in the criminal genius of everyday life – the modernist project of nation building was always belittled by guerrilla acts of transgressions and petty forms of disobedience. Contrasting the order of opposites promulgated by politicans and experts with the actual messiness of social reality reveals how the dynamic rearrangement of internal boundaries as ‘a system at war with itself’, all the negative associations of gambling 23 I know of two films that might be useful to a study of the cultural representations of urban vice: Saint Jack (d. Peter Bogdanovich, 1979), based on the novel by Paul Theroux, and 墙薇处处 开 (1952), based on the novel by 姚紫 (Yao Zi), a Singaporean author. The fact that Saint Jack was banned in Singapore, and Yao Zi was stigmatized for producing unhealthy culture during the antiyellow culture campaign (though the movie adaptation was a success) makes for an interesting comparative analysis that could bring to surface the cultural politics of nation building.

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had become productive because they contrasted with a ‘positive structure which must not be negated’ (Douglas 1966: 159). The result was a slow but thorough transformation in which different socio-spatial practices reorganized around the margins of the idealized national space and subject. The dialectic of antagonism continues to emerge in the most mundane of situations, as criminologist David Bayley noted while acting as an advisor to the Singapore Police Force: Visiting homes for the most part calling at apartments in HDB blocks. NPP24 officers begin at the top floors and work their way down floor by floor, apartment by apartment … House visits are generally not made during the 15 days of Chinese New Year because alcohol will be offered, and it is considered rude to refuse. Furthermore, the Chinese gamble on such occasions. Whole families play games of chance as part of the tradition of holidays. Visiting NPP officers would be caught in the invidious position of having to decide whether the gambling was among friends, which is not illegal, or among strangers, which is. (Bayley 1989: 13)

24 Neighbourhood Police Post.

2

The Death of the Pasar Malam The Counterpoint to Development in the Singapore Story Elmo Gonzaga Abstract Amid Singapore’s celebration of its semi-centennial, little trace is left in its post-industrialized cityscape of the vibrant night markets that dominated social life during the initial period of its independence. More than simply providing basic necessities to transplanted residents of the new housing estates, these ebullient open-air bazaars were important public spaces where families gathered to unwind after work. By the end of the 1970s, the second decade into Singapore’s rapid economic growth, the itinerant hawkers that comprised them had vanished from the landscape of the island. Beginning around this same time, shopping malls, which epitomized Singapore’s burgeoning image of First World prosperity, would be erected one after another along the 2-kilometre stretch of Orchard Road. At first, the assumption might be that the pasar malam or night market, with its seemingly rudimentary configuration, had existed in a primitive state of nature and innocence prior to the modernization of British Malaya. On the contrary, I would like to argue that the pasar malam formed an integral part of the process of modernization. It was a by-product of the extensive transformation of Singapore’s spatial and social landscape, which marked the early stage of its national development. Furthermore, the chronological coincidence between the disappearance of night markets and the emergence of shopping malls could be seen as forming a genealogical relationship not simply in terms of commercial arrangement but also in terms of leisure practice. In this chapter, I examine the public culture of the 1960s to unearth how the pasar malam was perceived during its heyday. I suggest that this perception led to its elimination. Through the course of Singapore’s robust development from a colonial entrepôt into a cosmopolitan hub, the pasar malam was effaced from its domain and replaced by the mall. According to this perception, night markets represent disorderly and recalcitrant realities whose forms of creativity and contingency have no place in a leading global city, which must compete in the world market to attract capital investment and expatriate professionals. These unmanageable forms of creativity and contingency have been superseded by neo-liberal ideals of ‘innovation’ and ‘buzz’.

54 Elmo Gonzaga

The rise of the pasar malam In the early 1960s approximately half of Singapore’s population resided in makeshift houses and informal settlements (Laquian 1969: xv). Families were crammed into the poorly illuminated and ventilated cubicles of decrepit shophouses at the core of Chinatown. Many Singaporeans lived far from the city centre in kampongs or rural villages, which comprised shacks built from wooden boards and zinc roofs that were scattered along dirt roads. As part of its high modernist vision for Singapore, the People’s Action Party, led by Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew, relocated the population from these congested urban shophouses and haphazard rural villages to public housing estates with electricity, running water, and proper sanitation. Envisaged to form self-contained communities, clusters of monolithic residential blocks were erected in concentric circles on the outskirts of the city. Due to the lack of commercial facilities in these newly built residential areas, a type of night market known locally as the pasar malam served as the main source of basic provisions, which spared residents the inconvenience of having to travel long distances to retail stores in the city. Appropriating the grass fields that surrounded the housing estates they were improvised public spaces of commerce and consumption which arose without the prompting of the state. At the end of the workday, crowds of nearby residents would regularly gather at the night markets to spend their leisure time. Independent Chinese vendors dominated the stalls (Yeung 1990: 243), which carried a wide variety of items with negotiable prices including slippers, shorts, trousers, hats, jackets, fabrics, pots, silverware, chinaware, rattan ware, radios, and Japanese novelties. (Papineau 1965: 133; ‘Spores Barter Trade Bazaar’ 1966: 11). Cloth blankets spread out on the ground would display their wares by the light of fluorescent lamps. At the numerous makeshift food stalls, families dined on fried noodles and skewered meats. The energy and radiance generated by these night markets often suffused the dark, empty fields where they were being held. Forming a vital part of the everyday routine in the new residential areas, they became centres of public leisure and social life which recreated the community spirit that had supposedly been lost with the move to the more segmented housing blocks. Despite its seemingly rudimentary character, the pasar malam was an inevitable by-product of Singapore’s drive for modernization that represented a form of incipient or fledgling modernity. In contrast to the government’s comprehensive plan for modernization, it

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was a form of modernity that represented a divergent response to modern conditions with its own norms of commercial arrangement and practice. Known to have begun operating in the British military bases, night markets soon appeared at Changi Village, Jalan Kayu, Clementi Road, and Jalan Jurong Kechil.1 With this birth narrative of its inconclusive origins, official government documents apprehended the pasar malam as a uniquely new phenomenon. According to The Straits Times, the famous Woodlands Fair was said to have started with only two or three stalls in late 1958 (‘Saturday Shoppers’ Secret’ 1960: 9). Spreading rapidly throughout the island, the night markets reached a peak of sixty-six authorized sites by the middle of the 1960s. The state had managed to regulate their movement and behaviour such that they followed a prescribed weekly schedule. In areas with a large population, a pasar malam was allowed to set up in the vicinity twice or thrice a week. As a culmination, the largest and liveliest bazaar was held every Saturday at the Woodlands 14¾th Milestone, where 1,200 stalls from the various night markets convened (‘Saturday Shoppers’ Secret’ 1960: 9). The night markets drew large crowds because retail stores in the city closed on weekdays at five and on Saturdays at one in the afternoon (‘Saturday Shoppers’ Secret’ 1960: 9). Due to the immense popularity that pasar malams were believed to have, the owners and managers of these stores considered extending their operating hours into the evenings. In an effort to improve their decreased profits, they attempted to set up regular stalls at the night markets such as sales outlets for local shoe manufacturers (‘Pasar Malam … If You Can’t Beat Them, Join Them’ 1966: 10). The pasar malam filled a void in commercial activity that had been left not only by modernization, in the national development programmes of the government, but also by tradition, in the established operating practices of businesses. This paradoxical duality revealed its incipient modernity, which occupied and renegotiated the frontier between tradition and modernization. Aside from being appropriated for a commercial function, the wide, empty fields of pasar malam sites were frequently turned into venues for wayang (Chinese opera) performances and political rallies. Recognized in the public culture as spaces where crowds of people regularly gathered, the night markets became a pivot around which other important communal activities occurred. This centrality further entrenched the pasar malam in the social life of the nation. 1 Information about night markets and itinerant hawkers from 1968 to 1978 can be obtained from official documents of the Hawkers Department of the Ministry of Environment housed in the National Archives of Singapore.

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I would argue that, although the term had earlier been used to denote an open-air market, the pasar malam of 1960s Singapore was seen to be a departure from prior commercial spaces. Even if it resembled the Malay bazaar, the most widely circulated English-language newspapers in British Malaya did not apply the term ‘pasar malam’ to it at the outset. For example, a news article from The Straits Times of 7 April 1960 referred to the weekly evening bazaar in Woodlands with only the generic name ‘Woodlands Saturday market’ (‘Saturday Shoppers’ Secret’ 1960: 9). Newspapers started calling it the ‘Woodlands fair’ several months later (‘Johore Bahru Trade Hit as Shoppers Go to S’pore’ 1961). When they f irst emerged in the landscape of the island, the night markets seemed to represent a uniquely new phenomenon, which the public culture lacked the linguistic means to articulate. Confronted with an unfamiliar phenomenon, which could not be ignored because of its potency, the public culture eventually settled on the most suitable linguistic marker, ‘pasar malam’, to indicate its presence. The adoption of this name, which referred to a different type of commercial space that was comparable in form, aff ixed its emergent reality with meanings associated with that commercial space. Experienced as a new reality, the emergence of the pasar malam could be seen as simultaneous with the young Singaporean nation’s drive for modernization (in the previous chapter, Kah-Wee Lee examines another aspect of this drive for modernization, the Singapore government’s regulation of gambling). The pasar malam of 1960s Singapore complicated the dichotomy between traditional and modern commercial exchange. Despite its supposedly rudimentary form, it could be understood as modern because its emergence was an immediate response to conditions that ensued from this drive for modernization. Its emergence signified a reconf iguration of everyday life that corresponded with changes to the spatial landscape of the island. The existence of the pasar malam highlighted the complexities of large-scale national development, which created the opportunity for ordinary individuals to improvise based on their given circumstances and resources. Harnessing the creativity and contingency of modern forces, it introduced a uniquely new reality into the burgeoning cityscape. If modernity is taken to denote a concentration of flows, such as those of bodies, finances, or technologies, then the night markets could be interpreted as the inescapable surplus from Singapore’s rapid modernization. Instead of being an antecedent from a primordial stage of capitalism, the pasar malam was a vital by-product of capitalist development.

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The image of the bazaar The common notion of the pasar malam during this historical period was shaped by multiple images that circulated in the intellectual and literary culture of the time. Together, these images engendered the perception of a commercial space whose fundamental character was disorderly and irrational. In two pioneering monographs published during the 1960s from his fieldwork on open-air markets in Southeast Asia and North Africa, Clifford Geertz defined the bazaar as a network of social relations, which involves the production and consumption of goods and services (Geertz et al. 1979: 124). Referring to the pasar in small municipalities on Java and Bali, Geertz described the bazaar economy as a discontinuous commercial activity, which is fragmented into numerous, disparate interpersonal exchanges (Geertz 1963: 28). He contrasted it with the formal or incorporated system, in which economic activities are rationally and systematically coordinated on a grand scale towards accomplishing a definite goal (Geertz 1963: 28-29). Writing about the souk in a rural town in Morocco, Geertz concluded that, lacking a dominant presence from established trading partners and standardized commercial products, the bazaar has no formal mechanisms for efficiently collecting and circulating information about market conditions (Geertz, Geertz and Rosen 1979: 124). The foremost activity in the bazaar economy is the acquisition of signs, in the form of notions and opinions about the quality and cost of products. Without the steadying influence of formal mechanisms, traders are forced to rely not so much on the reputation of trusted merchants but on the proliferation of unverified ideas (Geertz, Geertz and Rosen 1979: 205). For Geertz, the exchange of goods in the bazaar is shaped by the communication of signs, which, being transient and uncertain, are bereft of the stability and regularity needed for large-scale economic processes. Due to the type and size of the basic items sold in the bazaar, Geertz described its interpersonal exchanges as being microscopic and variable: ‘Goods flow through the market channels at a dizzying rate, not as broad torrents but as hundreds of little trickles, funnelled through an enormous number of transactions’ (Geertz, Geertz and Rosen 1963: 31). Deploying the evocative force of metaphoric language pertaining to water, Geertz portrayed commercial activity in the bazaar economy as a precarious convergence of the autonomous trajectories of sellers and buyers. From Geertz’s standpoint, the bazaar is fundamentally disorderly and irrational. Geertz’s bazaar economy has no overarching regime or binding authority to

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coordinate its multitudinous exchanges. He implied that, because the bazaar economy is essentially incompatible with any formal system, large-scale development could succeed only if the discontinuity and unpredictability of the bazaar are overcome. Because the bazaar merchant earns his livelihood in an environment where stalls selling similar items are situated close to each other, his trade is characterized by contingency and chance. Instead of developing a healthy market for his goods, he must wait for a suitable opportunity where he is able to give his best effort at selling his goods (Geertz, Geertz and Rosen 1963: 35). Unlike a salesclerk in a retail store with fixed prices, the bazaar merchant often improvises when dealing with customers as the price of the product changes depending on the circumstances of the sale. Adjusting his sales techniques to match the customer, he must beguile the customer with enticements while the customer responds in turn with feigned lack of interest until both of them have settled on a provisional price. Geertz’s idea of the bazaar corresponded with the image in the public culture of Change Alley, a famous shopping area for residents and tourists. Adjacent to Raffles Place, Singapore’s hub of finance and business, Change Alley was a cramped yet bustling passageway formed from the narrow space between two commercial buildings. The pervading image of Change Alley derived its allure from its association with dominant notions about the exuberant atmosphere of the bazaar and the dynamic practice of bargaining. Found in dizzying profusion due to the tightness of space, the products sold within this passageway were suspended from pillars and ceilings and crammed onto tables and blankets. 2 Distinguished by its multiplicity of hawkers, products, and customers, Change Alley was christened the ‘Street of a Thousand Faces’ (March 1952: 7), a name that was supposed to reflect Singapore’s identity as a major international port with its concentration of global flows. Entrenched in the popular imagination, Change Alley exemplified how the bazaar connoted an abundance and variety of minute activity. If Singapore was an entrepôt economy, Change Alley was taken to be its microcosm. Change Alley garnered fame as a bazaar where any item from around the world could be obtained at an affordable price through personal negotiation. Because Singapore was an entrepôt that imposed no taxes, quotas, or duties, the prices of goods were known to be lower than in their country of manufacture (Tourist Treasure Log 1968: 73). Browsing in the 2 These descriptions are based on photographs found in the National Archives of Singapore online database.

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stalls at Change Alley became a habit for some Singaporeans such that they considered their day to be incomplete if they failed to visit the passageway at least once (‘Lunchtime in Change Alley’ 1950: 12). Forming a vital part of the everyday routine of local residents and the exceptional experience of foreign tourists, Change Alley dwelled in the heart of the idea of Singapore. Its embrace as an important public space implied that any perception of it as disorderly could engender the notion that the same negative quality existed at the heart of Singapore. Repurposed into a commercial arcade, its eventual fate corresponded with the changing attitude towards the pasar malam. Because of its profound signif icance to Singaporeans, the image of Change Alley resonated in the earliest perceptions of the pasar malam. In the April 1960 news article from The Straits Times, the Woodlands Saturday market was given the sobriquet, ‘little Change Alley’ (‘Saturday Shoppers’ Secret’ 1960: 9). Although the sobriquet could have been meant to associate the Woodlands Saturday market with the boisterous crowds, miscellaneous goods, and affordable prices for which Change Alley became recognized, it evoked the passageway’s impression of illegality when the article presumed that the goods sold there were smuggled. According to the article, many of the 3,000 shoppers who travelled from Johore Bahru resorted to dressing in their new clothes and shoes on their return across the Causeway in order to avoid paying the customs tax. Even from its inception, the pasar malam was seen as possessing an indeterminate quality, perhaps from the energy of its atmosphere or the allure of its merchandise, which impelled ordinary citizens to perform an illicit action. Likened at first to Change Alley without any other point of reference, the pasar malam differed from the compact passageway in that it was more sprawling and variable, and therefore more difficult to regulate. This common picture of the pasar malam coincided with the official idea of the hawkers that comprised them, as typified in the 1950 report of the Hawker’s Inquiry Commission. A precursor to the clean-up campaign the 1960s, the Hawker’s Inquiry Commission concluded that food hawkers were a primary source of filth and disease because they plied their trade under unhygienic conditions. Due to the lack of a fresh water supply in the vicinity of their commercial space, they tended to reuse wash water from the same bucket when preparing dishes and cleaning utensils (Hawker’s Inquiry Commission 1950: 43). Ice cream vendors were believed to be responsible for past epidemics because the milk in their ice cream supposedly enabled bacteria to proliferate, resulting in roundworm, hookworm, diarrhoea, gastroenteritis, dysentery, and cholera (Hawker’s Inquiry Commission 1950: 35). The accumulation of these names for unpleasant medical conditions

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surrounded the seemingly innocuous terms ‘hawker’ and ‘hawking’ with a cloud of negative meanings. Not merely unsuspecting carriers of filth and disease, hawkers were unyielding barriers to order and lawfulness: ‘[They are] the biggest retarding factor in the department’s unremitting efforts to clean up the congested areas of the town… They have absolutely no respect for law and order’ (Hawker’s Inquiry Commission 1950: 46). Characterized as being primitive, brazen, and irrational, they were deemed an obstacle to the workings of the government, which was supposedly hindered from bringing civilization to the cityscape. ‘[I]n the disorderly sprawl of hawkers, blocking up entire streets with a jumble of goods in defiance of all order and reason is to many citizens an offence against their civic pride. Singapore has a reputation among Eastern cities for cleanliness and order, and it is felt that this is being tarnished’ (Hawker’s Inquiry Commission 1950: 8). In the extract, their makeshift appropriation of public space is portrayed as a violent transgression of the established norms of rationality and propriety. Their disruptive commercial behaviour is said to sully the impeccable image of Singapore in the world market. The government’s attitude and policy towards hawkers and markets appears to be based on its notions about the chaotic and contagious character of local crowds. It assumed that the presence of hawkers and markets would inevitably generate crowds, which it was less effective in managing due to the incongruity between its dependence on reason and their constitution from emotion.3 Contingent on the size and behaviour of the population, the effectiveness of the colonial government was diminished when these properties were perceived as existing beyond the limits of its control. ‘Their numbers are too large, and the economic pressure driving them to hawk and the public to buy from them, is too great for police control to be effective … It is fundamental not merely to public health but to every other activity of modern civilized government’ (Hawker’s Inquiry Commission 1950: 7). Although hawkers were supposed to be a source of physical disease, the more profound menace to Singapore was the social disorder that they had the potential to foment. This notion was echoed in the language of the People’s Action Party in its ‘Keep Singapore Clean’ campaign of 1968-1969 when it described sources of filth and unruliness as ‘anti-social’ forces. The perceived connection between disease and disorder enabled mechanisms of sanitary modernity to be applied to bodies, spaces, and communities with legitimacy and force. 3

Le Bon 1986.

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‘Operation Hawker Control’ To realize its vision of national development, the newly independent Singapore government sought to implement an extensive ‘clean-up’ programme, which would improve the sanitary order of the island (The Straits Times, 2 May 1967: 4). The programme primarily entailed cleaning and beautifying the cityscape with orderly roads, sprawling trees, and tidy surroundings. One of its objectives was to cultivate practices of collective discipline and social responsibility among the populace (Lee 2012: 83). The rationale for the clean-up programme was based on the idea that effective management of the national economy would be reflected in a spatial and social landscape that had been rid of filth and disorder. This legible image of stability and control was crucial for enticing foreign capital to invest in Singapore (Lee 2012: 83). An integral phase of the clean-up programme was Operation Hawker Control, which aimed to address the problems posed by itinerant hawkers and night markets. Starting in 1965-1966, the state, through the Ministry of Health’s Hawkers Department, required every hawker to apply for an operating license. Only a limited number of license applications were approved. A license entitled a pasar malam hawker to use a pitch of 24 square feet for three months (‘Pasar Malam Fee Fixed’ 1966: 7). Hawker pitches were then assigned at designated pasar malam sites through a balloting system. The short validity of the license compelled hawkers to submit themselves periodically to the authority of the state for its permission to operate. Based on the possibility that hawkers would elicit sympathy from the populace for their plight, the government relied on legal norms to regulate public commercial activity. Issued in March 1966, a New Hawkers Code established the basic illegality of hawking. From then on, for hawking to qualify as a lawful activity, it first needed the sanction of the state, which was determined by a narrow set of criteria. With the intention of regulating all commercial movement and behaviour on the island, the New Hawkers Code attempted to circumscribe the spatial and temporary configurations of stalls and markets. According to this code, pasar malam hawkers could ply their trade only from five in the afternoon to eleven in the evening. They were prohibited from setting up their stalls within four yards of fire hydrants, within ten yards of road junctions, and within fifty yards of markets, hospitals, schools, police stations, and places of worship. They could not occupy opposite sides of the same street, as well as roadsides where the parking of vehicles had been disallowed. All forms of hawking were banned from sidewalks,

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drains, stairways, five-foot ways, and bus routes. Hawkers had to seek the authorization of the government if they wished to change the selection of their goods or the position of their stalls. They were forbidden from erecting permanent structures of any size or shape. To be able to retain their license, hawkers were required to pass stringent medical examinations. The Environmental Public Health Act of 1968 ordered hawkers to keep their bodies, clothes, implements, and spaces in a perpetual state of cleanliness. 4 Public Health Inspectors from the Hawkers Department’s Special Squad were tasked with enforcing the law by regularly examining the conditions of hawker stalls. Hawkers needed to ensure that the food they sold never came into contact with any surface or object that was dirty. Instead of disposing of their rubbish in nearby drains, they were expected to collect and discard them in bins, which they themselves had to furnish. Through the force of these new legal norms, the state strove to render hawkers’ assumptions and practices concerning health and hygiene congruent with its image of an orderly modern cityscape. In exchange for an operating license, hawkers were obliged to act like ‘responsible Singapore citizen[s]’. This prescribed identity meant that they were ‘not to endanger traffic’, ‘not to be a menace to public health’, and ‘not to break law and order’ (‘New Code for Pasar Malam’ 1966: 4). Under the New Hawkers Code, being ‘responsible’ as a ‘citizen’ was equated with abiding by the established norms of public conduct. In designating ‘indiscriminate hawking’ as a ‘menace’, the code suggested that unrestrained behaviour was harmful to society and illegal in character. By attributing negative meanings to their activity, the government sought to diminish their reputation, which was a source of popular sympathy. To be able to establish a public image of order and stability, it needed to shift its methods for enforcing its authority from violence to legality such that hawkers became perceived not only as health hazards but also as social nuisances. The clean-up programme exhibited the logic of what I would call sanitary modernity in its entanglement of the ideals of order, morality, health, beauty, and hygiene. Dependent on its historical and geographical milieu, the logic assumed by sanitary modernity in 1960s Singapore was shaped by Manichean ideals of nationalism and development, which entailed conquering the given necessities of the local environment. Dipesh Chakrabarty writes that modernist leaders and intellectuals have tended to perceive underdeveloped local realities as sources of filth, congestion, torpor, and disease (Chakrabarty 2002: 65-79). To be able to 4

See ‘Environmental Public Health Act’ 1970.

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identify local realities as needing development, they have had to occupy a standpoint of rational objectivity. This objective standpoint has enabled modernist leaders and intellectuals to detach themselves from the immediacy of their environment. Otherwise, they would be too immersed in their environment to recognize how it failed to meet the norms of human habitation and subsistence. This form of sanitary modernity is fundamentally antagonistic because it relies on hierarchy and exclusion for its epistemological foundation. Timothy Mitchell argues that, for modernity to function as a productive presence, it must define itself in stark opposition to its outside.5 According to Mitchell’s reading of Derrida, the boundaries of a domain enforce a hierarchy between an inside and an outside, which corresponds to the dichotomy between an ideal fullness and its fragmentary supplement. I would add that a rigid, dialectical schematic for apprehending and organizing reality is imposed on otherwise heterogeneous and contingent conditions. So that modernity could be established as the dominant reality within a particular domain, the governing authority must identify, degrade, and exile all the undesirable and recalcitrant elements that it deems a threat to the domain’s identity and stability. For Chakrabarty, the notion of the undesirable and recalcitrant outside has been epitomized by the experience of the bazaar. Geertz shares this notion when he cannot avoid characterizing the bazaar as rudimentary, chaotic, and inefficient – as being an ungovernable obstacle to modern economic development. The unreliability of its commercial exchanges and personal interactions was a pervasive source of apprehension about the bazaar. Because the bazaar did not conform to preset categories of administrative knowledge, it created the inescapable sense in the state that it could not be controlled. As long as the bazaar existed, it posed the likelihood of disorder. The Singapore government condemned the pasar malam for being the unsightly and troublesome root of filth, noise, garbage, congestion, and disarray in its modernizing cityscape. In official documents, an overriding fear springs from the notion that allowing hawkers to establish their commercial presence in a public space will cause illegal hawkers to converge, multiply, and spread. Illegality, and the dissent it is thought to generate, is portrayed like a disease that rapidly and uncontrollably permeates the landscape. The Singapore government’s ultimate plan was to expunge the presence of hawkers and markets from the streets and five-foot ways by transplanting them to indoor structures, which provided proper facilities for electricity, 5

Mitchell 1991.

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water, and sanitation. After first banning night markets from residential areas at the beginning of the new decade (‘No Pasar Malam Hawkers at HDB Estates’ 1970: 4), the state gradually reduced the number of approved licenses for hawking until the last pasar malam had been eliminated from the cityscape in 1978 (‘The Last Pasar Malam Stalls Bow Out’ 1978: 10). In confronting the recalcitrant local environment with its unwavering political will, the Singapore government espoused a vision of national development that it insisted be accepted without condition or deviation. Every reality that occupied its domain, regardless of the form of modernity it exemplified, needed to comply with the official standards of modernization under the threat of exile.

The rise of the shopping mall The economy of Singapore has vigorously prospered since independence due to the prescient and pragmatic capacity of its government to recognize and accommodate dominant trends and emergent changes in the world market. Driven by its unwavering programme of sanitary modernity, the People’s Action Party has resolved to shape the spatial and social landscape of Singapore in order to attain the goals of economic growth. Aside from exercising control over public space, the state has maintained influence over social life, including racial identity, family size, personal income, language use, educational attainment, and artistic expression.6 Based on its vision of Singapore as a First World nation, the government has frequently implemented widespread campaigns to refine the behaviour of its populace such that they conform to transnational norms.7 After being under the resolute leadership of Lee Kuan Yew for three decades, the city-state has thrived in the transition to its second and third generations of leaders. Midway through the term of Prime Minister Goh Chok Tong in the late 1990s, the entrepôt of Singapore was re-imagined as a global city, which would be able to compete in the world market with other industrialized nations. According to Saskia Sassen’s seminal theory, globally interconnected cities have developed into the key engines of the world market. Containing an array of international ports, corporate headquarters, consultancy firms, art museums, and research institutes, they function as influential hubs 6 Perry et al. 1997. 7 Ibid.

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where transnational flows of finance, culture, and innovation concentrate, interact, and flourish.8 In his 2001 National Day Rally speech, Goh Chok Tong espoused the idea of a New Singapore, an upgraded approach to the national economy based on changing global conditions. Despite its hard-earned status as a developed nation, he asserted the party line that Singapore must not lapse into complacency but must strive to improve on its success in order to guarantee its future. Recognizing the profound shift in the global economy towards an emphasis on knowledge and innovation, his speech stressed that local institutions and companies needed to foster a culture of creativity and risk-taking, which would stimulate individuals to develop the novel ideas and methods crucial for economic competitiveness. In the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development’s Oslo Manual, which borrows from Joseph Schumpeter’s original definition, innovation is described as the improvement of existing products, structures, processes, and markets for greater productivity, efficiency, convenience, and profitability (Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development 2005: 17). In order to foster innovation in its economy, the Singapore government encourages its citizens to adopt a mode of ‘non-conformist thinking’, but which should lie ‘within the limits of decency and decorum’.9 This preferred mode of non-conformist thinking is oriented towards the generation not of uniquely new realities but of forms of newness that build on the given limitations of existing infrastructure, bureaucracy, or technology. Creativity and contingency must be harnessed for their possibilities but in forms that are undisruptive and productive to the national economy. Since the late 1990s, the state has invested heavily in the tourism industry, which it considers to be an important source of revenue. To help the national economy stay globally competitive, it has aimed to turn Singapore into a ‘tourism capital’ of the twenty-first century. While contributing to the national economy, tourist arrivals are encouraged by the government because they are expected to have an indirect impact on Singapore’s prominence as a cosmopolitan hub for transnational flows. Applying an expanded idea of tourism, a 1996 government proposal, called the ‘Tourism 21’ report, defined a ‘tourism capital’ as a destination not only for tourists and but also for investors and professionals. In the report, vibrant tourism is equated with the influx of foreign capital and talent. Not conventionally associated with tourism, these external realities are favoured by the government because 8 9

Sassen 1984. See Goh 2001.

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their presence would contribute to Singapore’s strong economic growth. Foreign talent, namely highly educated and skilled professionals, would supposedly help foster a creative culture of innovation and risk-taking.10 Adapting manageable elements of creativity and change for a coherent functional purpose, innovation denotes the renovation and renewal of existing materials and processes in order to increase the efficiency of a bureaucracy or the profitability of a business (Schumpeter 2008: 81-86; Drucker 1985: 17-128). The transformation of Orchard Road into the ‘great street’ of a global city has been critical to this endeavour. Unlike in the capitals of North America and Western Europe, the monumental shopping malls in Southeast Asia’s megacities are situated in the city centre. Bustling with a multiplicity of bodies and activities, they constitute the heart of social life in the metropolis. Singapore’s Orchard Road diverges from the prominent commercial streets in the world’s global cities such as Fifth Avenue in New York, Oxford Street in London, and Nanjing Road in Shanghai by being lined not so much with alluring street-front boutiques but with stylish indoor malls. Through their pleasant, controlled environments, which are meant to overcome the heat and humidity of the tropics, shopping malls like ION Orchard, 313@Somerset, and Plaza Singapura strive to reproduce the dynamism of the metropolis but without its disorder and uncertainty, which would be detrimental for business. From the standpoint of the ‘Tourism 21’ report, a vibrant tourism capital must provide consumers with ‘delightful’ and ‘memorable’ experiences (Singapore Tourism Board 1996: 5). One of the report’s suggestions was to design attractions with a ‘unifying character’ (Singapore Tourism Board 1996: 33), which tourists could easily apprehend and consume. According to this logic of sanitary modernity, to present the wealth of experiences with the haphazardness of the bazaar would only disorient and repulse potential customers. Seeing culture and history as commodities that could be acquired and exchanged, the report suggested that their heterogeneity and complexity be domesticated and customized for public consumption. Instead of being completely expunged from the landscape, formerly undesirable realities would be recycled and refashioned for the purposes of increased profit. No longer defined by its workings of hierarchy and exclusion, the logic of sanitary modernity in the age of neo-liberal capitalism embraces heterogeneity as a source of innovation and renewal.

10 Florida 2002.

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Coherence in the legible traits of different tourist attractions would help constitute a city’s brand identity, which, according to public policy consultant Simon Arnholt, has a significant impact on its global reputation. The image that a geographic location projects in the world market shapes the general impression of the quality of its products and the aptitude of its residents. Arnholt argues that tourism is the principal means by which a city or a nation can enhance its brand (Arnholt 2007: 22), which would influence its monetary value in terms of market capitalization (Arnholt 2007: 5-7). In the period of neo-liberal capitalism, not just companies listed in the stock exchange but also nations competing in the world market rely on the public perception of their economic potential in order to attract investments. The government must build on Singapore’s image in the world market as a ‘shoppers’ paradise’ by enhancing the ‘buzz’ of the cityscape (Singapore Tourism Board 1996: 14). Abiding by cosmopolitan norms of leisure and entertainment, it must generate buzz without having to rely on the undesirable qualities of the bazaar atmosphere to attract bustling crowds. Exploring innovative methods to upgrade the buzz of public life in Orchard Road, a 2003 government document, ‘Street of Singapore’, proposed possible changes to the configuration of its streetscape.11 Throughout the document, the urgency of generating ‘buzz’ is reiterated. Orchard Road’s transformation into the great commercial street of a global city required that its streetscape be infused with buzz, which, according to Arnholt, is crucial to the branding of a geographic location (Arnholt 2007: 60-61). Infusing Orchard Road with buzz would mean turning it into a cosmopolitan site ‘Where it all happens’ (Singapore Tourism Board 1996: 31). This shift in the configuration and experience of leisure activity and social life can be glimpsed in an article from The Straits Times about the reactions to the proposed changes to Orchard Road. Quoted in the article, the owners and tenants of affected business establishments warn that an amalgamation of incongruous activities, such as those planned to enhance the buzz of street life, should follow an ‘international standard’, which ‘means no hawker carts, [and no] loud boisterous music [like at a] pasar malam’ (Tan 1995: 21). Based on its perception in the public culture, the pasar malam is generally understood to engender the vibrancy and excitement of teeming crowds, although it simultaneously generates undesirable realities such as noise and disorder. For it to become the great street of a global city, the image of Orchard Road must be made to comply with transnational norms of leisure and 11 See ‘Street of Singapore: Remaking Orchard Road’ 2003.

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entertainment, which means excluding the recalcitrance of the local environment represented by the pasar malam. Embodying ideals of cosmopolitan sophistication, it must manufacture buzz without having to rely on the sordidness of the boisterous bazaar atmosphere in order to draw crowds. Having emerged as an autonomous and improvised commercial space, which exemplified ingenuity and resourcefulness as part of its fledgling modernity, the Singaporean pasar malam has since come to be equated with the antithesis of prosperity and progress.

3

Artifice and Authenticity Postcolonial Urbanism in Macau Thomas Daniell

Abstract In the mid-nineteenth century, Hong Kong was ceded to the British and quickly became the dominant port in the region. This caused a sharp decline in the fortunes of Macau. In response, the Portuguese administration unilaterally declared sovereignty over the peninsula and began to annex nearby islands, while attempting to increase tax revenue by legalizing gambling and prostitution, diversifying the economy into opium processing and the ‘coolie’ slave trade, and initiating a series of harbour improvement and land reclamation projects. With the end of Portuguese control in 1999, the new Macau Special Administrative Region government ended the local gambling monopoly and allowed foreign casino corporations to move in. Land reclamation projects that had been intended primarily for residential developments were overwhelmed by new ‘integrated resort’ casino-hotels, perpetuating an economic and urban model that began as colonial expediency and is today the primary source of Macau’s economic strength and global identity. Given the cumulative impact of the artificial creation of the land, the artificial utopias of the casino complexes, and the artificial political status of the Special Administrative Region, one could argue that the authenticity of Macau lies precisely in its artificiality. This chapter examines the urban and architectural implications.

Disengaged from, if not actively inhibiting, everyday street life, Macau’s new casino complexes (or ‘integrated resorts’) are designed in exotic styles that emphatically avoid any relationship with local history or context. Arguably, this is a perfectly valid approach, in that there is no immediate context or history to speak of. All of these developments are located on reclaimed land (the only option for gaining sufficient buildable area in what is reputed to be the most densely populated region in the world) and manifest the freedom afforded by what is effectively a blank slate that allows the realization of the most extreme architectural fantasies without the usual civic constraints. Despite all their vulgar artifice, such insular, contrived, controlled places must be accepted as a legitimate,

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if not definitive, aspect of Macau’s present-day condition. In fact, given the cumulative impact of the artificial creation of the land, the artificial utopias of the integrated resorts, and the artificial political status of the Special Administrative Region (SAR), it seems that the authenticity of Macau now lies in its essential artificiality. Macau’s identity may have originated in a historical hybridization of different cultures, but its evolution has been enabled by the ongoing expansion and modif ication of territorial borders. The material results are easily visible in maps and aerial photographs, wherein each successive expansion presents a distinctive grain of street patterns and building morphology. If casinos presently occupy a significant proportion of the reclaimed land, they have never been the original intention or cause, always an expedient, remedial solution to a lack of immediate economic success. Land reclamation in Macau has a long and tortuous history, overdetermined by political exigencies, economic crises, demographic pressures, and cultural ambitions, resulting in an erratic series of well-intentioned projects that were all too often cancelled, compromised, or abandoned while still incomplete. Geographically and geologically, Macau originated as a small archipelago of granite outcroppings at the western corner of the Pearl River Delta, which centuries of silting gradually merged into a single mass, connected to the Chinese mainland by a long isthmus that was only visible at low tide (Calado et al. 1998: 36-37; 111-197). Sanctioned and leased by China to Portugal in 1557 as a base for international trade and religious proselytization then officially redefined as a colony in 1887, Macau eventually became the last vestige of the Portuguese colonial empire, and one that Portugal began trying to return to China in the 1970s. In 1987 the two nations finally agreed on a timetable for the transfer of sovereignty, but when this took place in 1999 the Chinese received back far more than they had given away. Generously described as a peninsula, Macau was a less than 3-square-kilometre protuberance from the southwest coast of the Pearl River Delta when the Portuguese arrived. By the early twentieth century it was 11 square kilometres; in the mid-1980s it was 16 square kilometres; at the moment of reverting to China it had reached 24 square kilometres. Macau today is almost 30 square kilometres, a 1000% increase from its original size. While much of this was achieved by expanding Macau’s borders to incorporate existing land, more than half of the current surface area comprises new land that has been reclaimed from the sea.1 1

Sit 2012.

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The earliest significant land reclamation projects were triggered by the sudden decline of Macau’s economy in the mid-nineteenth century, following centuries of easy prosperity. Soon after Hong Kong became a British colony, ceded in 1842 at the end of the Opium Wars, Macau lost its status as the region’s primary mercantile port. International trading companies, together with their employees and families, abandoned Macau in favour of the larger and deeper harbour of Hong Kong (constant silting in the waters around Macau had made it inaccessible to all but the smallest boats) and the presumably superior efficiency of British bureaucracy. To improve government revenue, the Portuguese administration diversified the economy into opium processing, regulated prostitution, and ‘coolie’ slave trading, as well as launching two policies that were to be decisive for the future of Macau: gambling was legalized, and feasibility studies for improving sea access and expanding the available land area were commissioned. In 1846 the new Governor, João Maria Ferreira do Amaral, unilaterally declared Macau to be an independent Portuguese colony. He then annexed two islands to the south of the peninsula, Coloane and Taipa (the latter actually comprising two immediately adjacent islands called Taipa Grande and Taipa Pequena, which were merged together by land reclamation in the 1950s), and consolidated the Portuguese presence on the two large islands to the west, Xiao Hengqin and Da Hengqin (known in Portuguese as Dom João and Montanha respectively, they were expanded and merged by China during the 1990s into what is now called simply Hengqin Island). These and other provocations led to violent protests by the Chinese residents of Macau, and the assassination and decapitation of the Governor in 1849; his head was sent as a trophy to the authorities in Beijing. The conflict was eventually resolved by the signing of the 1887 Tratado de Amizade e Comércio Sino-Português (Sino-Portuguese Treaty of Amity and Commerce), which gave the Portuguese sovereignty over the Macau peninsula, acknowledged their de facto control of Taipa and Coloane (a status that was only legally confirmed in the 1950s), and definitively expelled them from the Hengqins. Macau’s main seaport at the time was the Porto Interior (Inner Harbour), located on the west side of the peninsula, facing the Xi River. In order to better compete with Hong Kong’s Victoria Harbour, remedial work was begun along the entire west coast, using sea walls and landfill to smooth and straighten the ragged edges, incidentally creating Macau’s first neighbourhoods of regularly aligned streets and building lots. In 1883 the Portuguese engineer Adolfo Ferreira de Loureiro was dispatched to Macau in order to design and supervise a complete overhaul of the Porto Interior. After

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extensive hydrographic and geographic surveys, he produced a proposal for dredging the harbour, creating new maritime channels, and reconfiguring the coastlines of the peninsula and Taipa in order to prevent future silting. This was summarily rejected by the authorities as too expensive. Over the next three decades, Ferreira and various others proposed alternative schemes of greater and lesser ambition, but none were implemented. It was not until 1911 that the Porto Interior was finally dredged and made navigable, and plans were announced for a new east-west channel that would connect it directly to the Pearl River. Significant progress was made in the 1920s, with engineer Hugo Carvalho de Lacerda in charge of the Missão de Melhoramento do Porto de Macau (Office for the Improvement of Macau Harbour). As well as harbour improvements, he began to reclaim land for new residential areas on either side of the northern isthmus, eventually extending them as far as Ilha Verde, a small island in the Porto Interior that was originally located about a kilometre offshore. This led to confrontations with the Chinese over the location of the territorial border, which hadn’t been clearly defined by the 1887 Treaty. To avoid further trouble, and simultaneously make a concerted attempt to catch up with Hong Kong’s accelerating economy, Lacerda abandoned the Porto Interior and initiated a hugely ambitious project to create a Porto Exterior (Outer Harbour) at the northeast side of the peninsula, facing onto the Pearl River Delta. Work began in 1923, undertaken by the Netherlands Harbour Works Company, and the new seaport was provisionally opened a few years later.2 The Porto Exterior never became a significant international trading hub. It initially served only Chinese fishing boats and the occasional steamship from Lisbon, and is now used mainly by ferries to and from Hong Kong. Indeed, the most substantial legacy of Lacerda’s work was a side effect: the dredging for the Porto Exterior produced five million cubic metres of sludge, which was transformed into 125 hectares of reclaimed land.3 Most of this was used to straighten and widen the eastern seaboard of Macau, creating a 1.5-kilometre stretch of new ground known as ZAPE (Zona Aterros do Porto Exterior), which was largely completed by the 1930s. Only a tiny fraction of this area was needed for the new port facilities, and up until the 1970s the rest stayed largely undeveloped, appropriated by mainland Chinese immigrants for growing vegetables, and settled by refugees from the Japanese occupation of Hong Kong and Shanghai during the Second 2 3

Lacerda 1922. Teixeira and Boxer 1988.

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World War (Haberzettl and Ptak 1991: 297-316). Japan had accepted that Portuguese neutrality also applied to Macau, but in 1943 they installed a de facto Japanese administration. Though supposedly an alternative to military occupation, the Japanese army built barracks and an airstrip in ZAPE, which resulted in the area being bombed by the American Air Force in January 1945. A master plan for the development of the ZAPE area had been produced by Lacerda as early as the 1920s, comprising street grids that def ined large plots, but the area remained almost completely undeveloped until after 1963, when Portuguese architects Leopoldo de Almeida and Manuel Vicente (Almeida 1964: 131-137) proposed a street layout with zoning for residential blocks and green areas. However, only a small part of this was ever implemented. 4 In 1966, Macau’s gambling monopoly was granted to a consortium led by entrepreneur Stanley Ho and his newly formed company STDM (Sociedade de Turismo e Diversões de Macau), in part due to his promise to dredge the harbour and build more casinos and hotels. STDM completed construction of the famed Lisboa Hotel and Casino at the southern tip of ZAPE in 1970, the f irst of Macau’s casinos to be located on reclaimed land. Minor, haphazard development continued to occur elsewhere in ZAPE, which was finally brought under control after 1979, when Jon Prescott (a British-born, Hong Kong-based architect) and Eduardo Lima Soares (Prescott’s Macau off ice director) created a new master plan for the area. It comprised a street layout and lot divisions, areas designated for public facilities and a park, along with guidelines for building functions and morphology – primarily commercial podiums supporting residential slabs.5 In 1981, before any of this was built, a planning department was established within the government DSSOPT (Direcção dos Serviços de Solos, Obras Públicas e Transporte), led by newly arrived Portuguese architect Carlos Macedo e Couto. At his request, the ZAPE plan was revised by Prescott’s employees Eduardo José Vicente Flores (who had replaced Lima Soares as Prescott’s Macau office director) and Peter Sydell. Flores added a network of pedestrian alleyways and arcaded sidewalks along the streets, along with a detailed landscaping design (Neves 1992: 3035). In order to maintain the total floor area required by the government, the maximum allowable height was raised from 60 metres to 90 metres in one area of ZAPE. At the same time, concerns about heritage preservation led to the imposition of lower height limits in other areas so as to preserve 4 5

Costa 1997. Prescott 1993.

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sightlines to the seventeenth-century fortress on Guia Hill. Despite further requests for changes on the part of the Macau government, which resulted in most of Flores’s picturesquely angled streets being straightened, the ZAPE master plan was never officially endorsed, so building permits were frequently issued for designs that didn’t comply with the guidelines (Taylor 1994: 59-76). The cumulative result was a cluster of casino-hotels near the Lisboa, and visual and formal incoherence elsewhere. By this time, the vegetable gardens had mostly vanished and some residential buildings had appeared, but many ZAPE sites would remain empty or partly built until the 1990s. During his eight-year tenure at the DSSOPT, Couto assembled a small team of architects to oversee new planning projects in Macau. Rather than try to impose an overall master plan on the incoherent city he had inherited, independent designs for various areas were commissioned to outside architects, while Couto and his colleagues worked on enhancing the connections between them. The largest initiative was a new reclamation project called NAPE (Novos Aterros do Porto Exterior), which was intended to project out into the sea immediately adjacent to ZAPE. The initial studies were completed in 1984 by Hong Kong’s Palmer and Turner Group leading an international team (Euroconsult, Deloitte Haskins and Sells, Maunsell Consultants Asia, Collier Petty Chartered Surveyors, Gabinete de Estudos Técnicos), with the Portuguese architects Álvaro Siza Viera and Fernando Tavorá as design consultants.6 Whereas ZAPE was an irregular, distorted strip contiguous with the existing coastline, NAPE was intended to be figuratively and literally a clean break: a semiautonomous district separated from the ZAPE waterfront by a canal, and laid out with geometric rigidity and clarity, in deliberate contrast to the ad hoc organicism and contingency of urban planning elsewhere in Macau. Siza’s initial proposal was influenced by the nineteenth-century Cerdà plan for Barcelona and took its module from the planning grid typically used in Spanish colonies: a 144 metre by 144 metre grid of streets around relatively low blocks containing central courtyards.7 Siza used exactly these dimensions for a residential development he designed in Novos Aterros da Areia Preta, a newly reclaimed area to the northeast of the Macau peninsula, but at NAPE the basic module was split in half to create a rectangular street grid, bisected by a linear park that formed an extension of the ZAPE park. The NAPE master plan was legally enforced, with detailed regulations laid 6 Davies 2008. 7 Siza 1998.

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out in a 175-page document published by the government as an appendix to their official bulletin.8 A special body was established by the DSSOPT to administer its execution, enforcing precise floor area ratios, lot coverages, building heights, and a repetitive block morphology of a commercial podium supporting mid-rise residential slabs around the perimeter, thus def ining a central courtyard space. Nonetheless, commercial pressure led the government to increase the maximum building heights from 22 metres to 80 metres, ultimately causing Siza to quit in protest (Testa and Brinckhert 1989: 4-14). Reclamation began in 1988 and the first buildings were completed in the mid-1990s, but some plots remain vacant even today, two decades later. Though Couto and the DSSOPT did finally produce an overall master plan for Macau in 1987, the relatively autonomous planning of individual districts over the preceding few years – not to mention the past centuries of haphazard, permissive growth – has profoundly affected contemporary urban conditions. Macau’s urban identity manifests a kind of cognitive dissonance that leads each new development to attempt to restore a degree of balance to the accumulating incongruities of the past. The result is an exhilarating and sometimes disturbing sense of disorientation, which has only increased since Portuguese control ended and the gambling industry has become increasingly dominant over each successive expansion of the territory. In the period leading up to the handover, the Beijing government had decided that the new Macau SAR could keep on building casinos but no Chinese money could be invested in them. In response, the local government declined to renew the monopoly of STDM (now operating the casinos through a subsidiary called SJM), which expired in 2002. The licensing process for gambling concessions was liberalized, and international casino corporations immediately descended on the large open plots remaining in the NAPE area.9 In 2004 the Las Vegas Sands Corporation opened the f irst foreign-owned casino, the Sands Macau, which – astoundingly – earned back its construction costs in less than a year. Located at the east edge of NAPE, it blocks most of a site that had been reserved for a vast waterfront park. Other violations of the master plan followed, with the government selectively repealing aspects of the official regulations. Though already implemented, the street grid at the west edge of NAPE was reorganized to create two massive lots for the construction of Wynn and MGM casinos. Completed in 2006 and 2007 8 9

See Governo de Macau 1991. Lima 2009.

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respectively, each was given a footprint, height, form, and image that completely contravened the master plan (Chung and Tieben 2009: 18-129). At the north edge, where NAPE abuts ZAPE (the dividing canal suffered from constant silting, so it was ref illed and turned into a public park called Jardim das Artes), the StarWorld casino was also completed in 2006. Designed by Hong Kong architect Rocco Yim, it is a 39-storey collection of offset glass-clad boxes that cantilever out over Avenida da Amizade, the former ZAPE waterfront road, diverting the traffic flow in order to create a private drop-off zone for casino buses and taxis. Far above the allowable height limit for NAPE, the StarWorld was at the time the tallest building in Macau. A neighbouring resident immediately sued the government for illegally issuing the building permit. In response, the government publicly described the NAPE master plan as outdated and impractical, then in 2007 repealed it entirely. Nonetheless, it was such flagrant violations of the law, and the requisite bribery, that in 2008 contributed to putting Ao Man Long (the Macau SAR’s first Secretary for Transport and Public Works) in prison for 29 years. The Macau region was once known as shi zi men (‘The Cross-shaped Gate’), due to the figure created by the intersection of the Xi River with the channels that ran between Taipa and Coloane and between Xiao Hengqin and Da Hengqin. For the Chinese, the cross represented the number ten, whereas the Portuguese settlers were struck by the Christian symbolism, but in any case it is now gone, erased by land reclamation. The west arm of the cross has become the site of a new business district on the Hengqin side, and the east arm is now the area known as Cotai – a portmanteau name coined to describe the 6 square kilometres of new territory connecting Coloane to Taipa, which turned the two islands into a single 20-square-kilometre landmass. It is in Cotai that the use of reclaimed land as a blank slate for enabling casino developments of unprecedented scale and splendour reaches its apotheosis. The idea of completely filling the areas of open sea around Macau dates back at least to the early twentieth century (in 1918, a group of Canadian engineers made a proposal to reclaim the area between the islands, and in 1927 the Macau government published a future reclamation proposal for transforming the peninsula and islands into a single piece of land), but Coloane and Taipa were first physically connected in 1969, by a 2-kilometre-long causeway called the Estrada do Istmo (Isthmus Road). Having decided to reclaim the surrounding area, the Portuguese administration held a design competition in 1992 for what was to become officially known as the Nova Cidade de Cotai, a new town intended for 150,000 residents

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and 80,000 non-resident workers.10 The winning architect, Eduardo Lima Soares (assisted by Jon Prescott and Mário Neves), produced an urban plan comprising predominantly housing and ancillary social facilities – health, education, recreation – with generous allotments of greenery and water reservoirs. Smaller areas were allocated for tourism activities, mostly on the west side, facing towards Hengqin Island and physically connected to it by the new Lotus Bridge.11 Reclamation around the Estrada do Istmo began in the late 1990s. António José Castanheira Lourenço, head of GADA (Gabinete para o Apoio ao Desenvolvimento dos Aterros Taipa-Coloane, the government department in charge of developing Cotai), stated in 1998: the new city is designed to help with the enclave’s future economic and population growth and provide a good quality of life by equipping it with social installations for sports, culture, education, health and leisure activities.… In order to achieve these goals, high standards were set to keep the population density low on the urbanization scale. (Lopes 1998: 717)

Fine ambitions to be sure, but realizing them entailed finding private corporations willing to build housing developments on the individual sites. Uncertainty over Macau’s future under Chinese rule combined with the 1997 Asian financial crisis made potential investors wary. GADA eventually (and somewhat desperately) started to sell Cotai to casino developers at prices that have never been made public but are generally assumed to have been absurdly low (Wan and Pinheiro 2011: 19-35). It was not necessary to make radical changes to Lima Soares’s urban design: GADA simply erased some of the planned secondary roads in order to create larger lots. The main investor was the Las Vegas Sands Corporation. In an epiphany similar to that of Bugsy Siegel envisaging a gambling mecca in the empty Nevada desert, CEO Sheldon Adelson visited the swampy surroundings of the former Estrada do Istmo in 2002, and reconceived it (in homage to the Las Vegas Strip) as the Cotai Strip – a magnificent avenue lined with luxury hotels, casinos, and so on, many owned by other corporations but all within a master plan defined by the Las Vegas Sands Corporation. The SARS (Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome) outbreak from 2002 to 2003 slowed all development in Macau and Hong Kong, temporarily causing a huge fall in property prices that the international casino corporations were quick to exploit. Having assembled the necessary investors, 10 See Governo de Macau 1999. 11 Fong 1999.

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the ground-breaking ceremony for the Cotai Strip was held on 1 March 2007. Development began immediately, but was again brought to a virtual standstill in 2008 by the combined impact of the global financial crisis and a governmental decision to suspend the issue of new gambling concessions and ban casinos on any future land reclamations. The Las Vegas Sands Corporation came close to bankruptcy. In Cotai, three integrated resorts (Galaxy Macau, City of Dreams, and The Venetian Macau) had already received approval, and were largely complete within a few years. In 2012 the remaining development applications were approved, and all six of the casino corporations active in Macau (SJM, Las Vegas Sands, MGM, Wynn Resorts, Galaxy Entertainment Group, and Melco Crown) now have Cotai sites (Graça 2012: 64-66), mostly alongside the Cotai Strip. So far, there are no housing developments in Cotai proper, merely a few luxury apartment complexes around the periphery. The intended residents of Cotai have presumably settled in the Macau peninsula, Taipa, or Coloane. As property prices continue to be pushed up by the lack of space and the availability of huge amounts of money generated by gambling, some Macau citizens have chosen to live across the Chinese border in the Zhuhai Special Economic Zone, commuting to work each day. Clearly, the profit motive has compromised most attempts to relieve congestion in Macau’s old residential neighbourhoods and keep pace with immigration-fuelled population growth (in addition to the highest population density in the world, Macau has the highest automobile density and, somewhat surprisingly, the highest life expectancy). If Macau SAR was conceived by the Beijing authorities as a social pressure valve for China – a quarantined zone intended to entice and exhaust vice while preventing the wider contamination of respectable Chinese society – it is precisely this containment that forces its constant physical expansion. Legally, the SAR has no territorial waters; the surrounding sea is under Chinese jurisdiction, so all new land reclamations must be approved by Beijing. In 2006, Macau initiated plans to add another 7 square kilometres around the east and south of the peninsula and the north of Taipa, to be collectively known as the Novas Zonas Urbanas (New Urban Zones). Beijing finally gave permission in 2009, but for only half that surface area, with the stipulation that the new land should contain varying proportions of residential, commercial, industrial, recreational, institutional, and infrastructural facilities, but no casinos or gambling venues of any kind. Two alternative schemes – the differences are relatively minor variations of density and programme – were produced by CAUPD (China Academy of Urban Planning and Design), and huge, beguiling models and renderings

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were placed on public display at the Macau Science Centre from late 2011 to early 2012.12 The 3.5-square-kilometre total area of the Novas Zonas Urbanas is divided into five districts: two are localized extensions into the sea, and three are small offshore islands that will preserve the profile of the existing coastline and create semi-sheltered bays. The majority of Macau’s existing planning regulations have been provisionally suspended in these areas, on the assumption that a new planning code will emerge in parallel with the development of the design – an audacious decision that risks being exploited, but is optimistically aimed at the generation of productive new urban paradigms appropriate to local cultural and climatic conditions. While this seems to entail a provisional halt to the growth of the gambling industry – indeed, 2013 is the first year since 2004 that no new casinos opened in Macau – other outlets are being found for the investment and development energy that has been repressed. On Hengqin Island, now under the jurisdiction of China’s Zhuhai Special Economic Zone (SEZ), the Macau SAR government has leased 1 square kilometre of reclaimed land to be used as the site for the University of Macau’s new campus (designed by architect He Jingtang, best known for the China pavilion at the 2010 Shanghai Expo). The lease will expire in forty years, at the same moment as Macau’s SAR status, but in the meantime the campus will be under Macau jurisdiction: a West Berlin-like moated enclave accessed from Cotai by an underwater tunnel without going through immigration or customs, and possessing the same legal freedoms (such as lack of Internet censorship) as Macau (a phenomenon that is paralleled in Max Hirsh’s investigations of Dongguan’s SkyPier in chapter 7 of this book, ‘Old Networks with New Users: Mapping Global Mobility between Dongguan and Hong Kong’). While a university campus may be innocent enough, since 2005 the Las Vegas Sands Corporation has been negotiating with the Zhuhai SEZ government to build a leisure and convention resort more than 5 square kilometres in area, incorporating hotels, convention facilities, golf courses, marinas, and so on. Gambling would remain illegal, but for Sheldon Adelson, these facilities would be a complementary annex to Cotai; in the original 2005 press release, he asserted that ‘the strategic combination of non-casino tourism amenities located on Hengqin Island with the entertainment attractions of the Cotai Strip could create a tourism and convention destination unrivalled anywhere in the world’.13 The Las Vegas Sands Corporation has 12 See DSSOPT 2011. 13 See Las Vegas Sands Corporation 2005.

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also proposed that this development receives the same legal status as the University of Macau campus, potentially expanding the area available for Macau-style integrated resorts across the rest of Hengqin Island’s 96 square kilometres. As Macau continues to expand into the surrounding sea, encroach upon China, and merge into a single, physically continuous territory, it is becoming an accumulation of distinct urban environments with contrasting degrees of density, permeability, interiority, illumination, colour, atmosphere, and so forth: a collage city, a mosaic of Macaus that are contiguous yet discrete, reflecting changes in circumstance and ideology over five centuries. The juxtaposition of radically incommensurable city fragments may be clear enough from above, but experientially one always seems to be immersed in a more-or-less consistent condition, whether the Baroque colonial city, the labyrinthine Chinese neighbourhoods, the predominantly Filipino quarters, the tourist-oriented villages, the master-planned grids of commercial and residential blocks, the semi-autonomous luxury housing developments, or the casino precincts. Rather than the new overwhelming the old, or enhancing it by contrast, the surviving traditional districts are on the verge of becoming just another part of the patchwork, no more and no less authentic or primordial than any other. Macau today provides a case study of the implications and potentials for piecemeal tabula rasa planning: not a palimpsest of historical layers within a contained territory, but a proliferation of adjacent alternatives, an array of experimental results left permanently on display.

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Figure 3.1  Plan de la Ville et du Port de Macao

From J.N. Bellin, Le Petit Atlas Maritime, Tome III, No. 57 (Paris, 1764)

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82 Thomas Daniell Figure 3.2  Peninsula de Macau e Ilha da Taipa

From Hugo de Carvalho de Lacerda, Obras dos Portos de Macau – Memórias e Principais Documentos desde 1924 (Macau, 1925)

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Figure 3.3  Aerial photo of Z.A.P.E. Reclamation, 1941

Courtesy Arquivo Histórico de Macau

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84 Thomas Daniell Figure 3.4  Aomen shi quan tu (City Plan of Macau)

From Governo de Macau, Commercial and Industrial Yearbook 1952-53 (Macau, 1953)

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Figure 3.5  Z.A.P.E. in the 1980s

Courtesy Arquivo Histórico de Macau

Figure 3.6 Álvaro Siza and P & T Group proposal for N.A.P.E. and Novos Aterros da Areia Preta

Courtesy Palmer and Turner Group

86 Thomas Daniell Figure 3.7  N.A.P.E. planning regulations

From Governo de Macau, Boletim Oficial de Macau, 2.° Suplemento, no. 15 (18 April, 1991)

Figure 3.8  Eduardo Lima Soares, Nova Cidade de Cotai, plan

Courtesy estate of Eduardo Lima Soares

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Figure 3.9  Eduardo Lima Soares, Nova Cidade de Cotai, model

Courtesy estate of Eduardo Lima Soares

Figure 3.10  Las Vegas Sands Corporation original proposal for the Cotai Strip, 2002

Courtesy Las Vegas Sands Corporation

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88 Thomas Daniell Figure 3.11  Novos Zonas Urbanas diagram

From Anteprojecto do Plano Director das Novas Zonas Urbanas: Documento de Consulta Relative (Macau: DSSOPT, 2011)

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Figure 3.12  Novos Zonas Urbanas rendering

From Anteprojecto do Plano Director das Novas Zonas Urbanas: Documento de Consulta Relative (Macau: DSSOPT, 2011)

Figure 3.13  Novos Zonas Urbanas reclamation in progress

Photo: Luís Almoster

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90 Thomas Daniell Figure 3.14  Rocco Yim, StarWorld Macau, 2006

Courtesy Rocco Design

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Figure 3.15  Dennis Lau, Grand Lisboa Hotel and Casino, 2007

Courtesy Dennis Lau and Ng Chun Man Architects and Engineers

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92 Thomas Daniell Figure 3.16  View of the Cotai Strip

Photo: Luís Almoster

Figure 3.17  Gary Goddard, Galaxy Macau, 2011

Courtesy Galaxy Entertainment Group

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Figure 3.18  AEDES, Sands Cotai Central, 2012

Courtesy Las Vegas Sands Corporation

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4

Urban Art Images and the Concerns of Mainlandization in Hong Kong Minna Valjakka

Abstract Shaped in the shadow of colonialism and post-colonialism, visual arts in Hong Kong have wrestled with issues of identity, locality, and international recognition. The lengthy process of the transfer of sovereignty, initiated in 1984 by the signing of the Joint Declaration, inspired contemporary artists in Hong Kong to assert their locality. In the 1990s in particular, since the trauma of the Tian’anmen Incident in 1989, ‘[a] psychic decolonization occurred which marked out a distance from both of these larger contexts [Western and Chinese art] without simply denying either’ (Clarke 2001: 8; also pp. 38-69). The ideological struggles were visible in architecture and official public art too, which celebrated the reunion both during and after the Handover in 1997. It can also be argued that official public art in Hong Kong to a certain extent marks an ongoing cultural mainlandization of the urban space by the People’s Republic of China (PRC). But how do urban art images, such as street art and contemporary graffiti, survive the discourses of post-colonialism in its specific forms of de/recolonization and mainlandization, and debates of cultural heritage and indigenous identities? How do they engage with the complex situation? I seek to explore these questions by modifying Henri Lefebvre’s (1991) definition of space as a continuous process in which the physical, mental, and social aspects of the space are intertwined.1 In this process of creating the space of urban art images, we need to consider the agency of the creators of urban art images as constructors of the space and its norms, the nationality/ethnicity of the creators, as well as the contextualized formal analysis of the images and the site-responsiveness. 2 Based on intensive periods of fieldwork research in Hong Kong since 2012, extensive 1 This approach was initially introduced in my conference paper in the Joint Conference of AAS and ICAS ‘70 Years of Asian Studies’, Honolulu (Valjakka 2011b). 2 In order to emphasize the actual interaction between the site, the work(s) and the creator(s), and the continuous impact of this interaction on the meaning of works through a visual dialogue (where one work is created as a response to an already existing one), I prefer using the concept of ‘site-responsive’ instead of site-specific (cf. Kwon 2004/2002 and Bengtsen 2013, Bengtsen 2014: 134-135). For more see Valjakka 2015c.

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photographic documentation, and frequent meetings and in-depth interviews with more than sixty local and non-local creators of urban art images, my aim is to provide a different perspective to the usage and understanding of urban public space at the grassroots level. As I have come to understand, while following the creators throughout the alleys, streets, canals, rooftops, and abandoned buildings, the urban public space appears very different in the eyes of the creators of urban art images.

Creating space for urban art images There is no consensus on what graffiti or street art is, and the two concepts are continuously contested. The understanding of the phenomenon is further obscured by the unfocused use of the English concept of ‘graffiti’ to denote anything and everything scribbled, written, drawn, smudged, or incised on any surface.3 To regard all the markings as part of the same phenomenon is likely to create confusion rather than clarity, because this approach often ignores the obvious differences in style, format, materials, language, content, and intentions as well as the varied understandings of the phenomenon, which depend on the socio-political and cultural contexts. Further elaborations, such as ‘ancient’, ‘traditional’, ‘gang’, ‘contemporary’, and ‘subway’ graffiti can serve as useful tools to start opening up the phenomenon. 4 In Hong Kong, disagreement on the formats and contents of ‘graffiti’ and ‘street art’ is seen, for instance, in the new, emerging self-identities that can be categorized into five broad groups: first, ‘graffiti writers’, who are closest to the old-school definitions; second, ‘graffiti artists’, who primarily but not solely use spray paint and writing and wish to emphasize the artistic process, placing more value on the pictures and the message; third, ‘street artists’, who primarily use formats other than spray paints; fourth, those who are fine with any of these three identities; and last, those who do not consider themselves part of the first three groups but would prefer other 3 For a further discussion on the conceptual challenges of ‘graffiti’ in the Chinese cultural context, see Valjakka 2011a; Valjakka 2012; and Valjakka 2015a. A detailed discussion on the variety of ‘traditional graff iti’ is provided in Stewart 1989: 15-147. See also Reisner 1971. For ‘graffiti’ as writing in premodern times, see e.g. Plesch 2002 and Gordon 2002. 4 For a discussion of the ‘ancient graff iti’ of the Greek and Roman worlds, see Baird and Taylor 2011. The main differentiation of ‘traditional’ and ‘subway graffiti’ was suggested by Stewart (1989), but he also employs further categories, such as ‘gang’, ‘agnomina’, ‘political graff iti’, and so on.

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concepts, such as ‘spray painter’, ‘mural artist’, ‘mural painter’, ‘artist’, ‘street photographer’, or just a ‘player’ –or no definition at all. In reality, some creators change their primary media during their period of activity or use a variety of formats and/or mixed techniques throughout their oeuvre. They find it even more challenging to identify with the two major concepts of ‘graffiti’ or ‘street art’. It may therefore be more beneficial to examine the complex contemporary scene in Hong Kong through the broader concepts of ‘urban art images’ and ‘creators of urban art images’, rather than simply through ‘graffiti’ or ‘street art’. ‘Urban art images’ and ‘creators of urban art images’ allow us to explore more open-mindedly what is happening today – without limitations of the format, content, style, or language employed in the works.5 Inspired by James Elkins’s (1999: 82-89) suggestion of a trichotomy of an image as writing, notation, and picture, I define urban art images as creative action that leaves a visible imprint, even a short-lived one, on urban public space. They can include numbers and writing (in any language), pictures, and three-dimensional objects and materials, or any combination of these three (Elkins 1999: 82-89). Urban art images can be legal or illegal, commissioned or voluntarily made, resulting from private or collective actions. Focusing only on illegal actions would limit the understanding of the scene, as the notion of ‘illegal’ is complicated in Hong Kong: some sites and formats are semi-il/legal or even legal.6 A clear majority of the creators are willing also to accept legal commissions, as far as the emphasis in their oeuvre remains in illegal works. Also, urban art images are not necessarily anti-institutional but they are nevertheless primarily non-institutional, having been created without support from an institution or organization. Through this broader approach, the aim is to allow the possibility of varying notions to exist and new formats to emerge within these two ‘umbrella’ concepts. When writing on the individual creators, I will use the concepts preferred by the creators themselves. Although the importance of styles and aesthetics has been occasionally brought up also in academic research,7 a focus on sociological or criminological aspects has been especially evident in the earlier studies on the

5 For a more detailed discussion on the history of urban art images in Hong Kong, see Valjakka 2015b. See also Chang and Kao 2012. 6 Valjakka 2014. On legal graffiti in New York since the 1990s, see Kramer 2010. 7 See, e.g. Stewart 1989; Austin 2001.

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Euro-American scene.8 While many more scholarly publications in recent years have discussed on graffiti art or street art, the usage of visual analysis has been incorporated only by some.9 For any deeper appreciation of the scenes of urban art images, it is vital to employ a formal analysis of the visual features of the works, including the contents, styles, compositions, colours, materials, and languages. It is equally crucial to pay attention to the nationality of the creators and the site-responsiveness of the images so as to contextualize the images within a broader set of historical, sociocultural, and political circumstances of the city/country in question. One also needs to take into account the developments and trends of the urban art images in these cities/countries as well as globally. Only through this multidimensional approach are we able better to explore the complex layers and features of this phenomenon, which carries references to and borrows from current social and political issues and other forms of popular culture, such as cartoons, films, music, and design. As Iris Rogoff maintains, the multilayered meanings of the images are constructed in the intertextual sphere where images interact with sounds and spatial delineation (Rogoff 2002: 24). Rogoff’s insight resonates with Henri Lefebvre’s perception that space is produced in ongoing interaction with social relations and in representations of this interaction. Lefebvre’s space has three aspects: spatial practices, representations of space, and representational spaces. Spatial practices denote the production of physical space, the built architectural sites and how the society is perceived through them. Representations of space refer to the conceptualized ideas of the spaces and their status conceived by the educated elite in the society. Representational spaces are lived and used by people in relation to symbols and associated images. According to Lefebvre, such representational spaces are connected with the underground of social life and art. They can act to negotiate or even challenge the representations of space by the powerful elite (Lefebvre 1991: 11-12, 15, 26-27, 32-34). Based on this theoretical framework, the creators of urban art images can be regarded as representatives of a representational space, the scene(s) of urban art images. They act in the built urban environment, violating and negotiating the norms set by the spatial practices and representations of the space. However, urban art images today do not necessarily attack the established spatial practices, but they can also be an accepted part of the

8 9

See, e.g. Lachmann 1988; Ferrel 1996; Macdonald 2001; Rahn 2002. See, e.g. Gottlieb 2008; Wacławek 2011; Bengtsen 2014.

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social place or can even be created in co-operation with the owners of the space, youth associations, or with the city authorities. It is even more interesting to adapt Lefebvre’s theoretical framework to the scene of urban art images itself, as ‘new social relationships call for a new space, and vice versa’ (Lefebvre 1991: 59). In other words, the creators of urban art images need, and have created, a space for themselves in the urban environment. The reclaimed spaces vary greatly from one city to another in terms of location, accessibility, physical structures, historical and monetary values of the buildings. As we know, the subway trains and tunnels became a primary site for graffiti in New York in the 1970s. The graffiti writers transformed the subway cars into a subway graffiti space, producing this specific space through spatial practices. The graffiti writers themselves formulated the representations of the space by showing how they conceived this new space of subway graffiti. Not only were they contradicting the authorities’ representations of the space, but they were also creating new representations of this new space – both for themselves and gradually also for a larger audience. The space of subway graffiti was directly lived by the writers themselves through their own symbols and associated images, and it was lived by the citizens of New York in their daily lives when they became passive ‘users’ of the space of subway graffiti. The same process of producing and negotiating the space of urban art images has been going on in Hong Kong since the earliest known examples in the early 1980s, although the characteristics of the scene, including transculturality and transnationality, make it quite different from, for example, of the early stages of subway graffiti in New York.10

The King: from anticolonial to decolonial Tsang Tsou-choi (1921-2007), ‘the King of Kowloon’, is a key figure in the history of urban art images in Hong Kong. For decades, well before the new form of graffiti emerged in the United States (Clarke 2001: 177), Tsang would write with brush and a mixture of black ink and paint on any surface all around Hong Kong. His materials make him a calligrapher rather than a graffiti writer, but as art historian Frank Vigneron elucidates, no definition

10 Valjakka 2015b.

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really captures Tsang and his works (Vigneron 2014: 315).11 What he does represent is the indigenous form of writing in public space. Tsang’s texts typically argued that the land which had originally belonged to his family in Kowloon had been taken by the British government wrongly and without compensation. His anticolonial works occasionally included defamation of the Queen, and he would also select surfaces close to government offices (Clarke 2001: 175-181). Occasionally, Tsang also modified the content of the text to echo the physical site and the office next to it.12 After the Handover in 1997, the ideological context of Tsang and his works shifted remarkably, and small changes emerged also in his oeuvre. He started to target surfaces close to Chinese power symbols, such as the Bank of China (Clarke 2001: 180-181). Gradually, he also introduced new themes of social criticism and ambiguous references to ‘the rulers’, which could pertain to the Chinese leadership: Deng Xiaoping’s name appeared in Tsang’s writings at least once.13 The more evident change was, however, in the medium and status of the works. In the wake of his deteriorating health and move into elderly care, Tsang would write on paper and objects instead of public surfaces. Tsang’s oeuvre was site-responsive at three levels. First, in a phenomenological sense: occasionally the content and the meaning derived from and resonated with the actual physical location in the public space. Second, the original message was indivisible from the colonial context of Hong Kong: the written text could only have been created in Hong Kong. And third, Tsang also considered the national context after the Handover, which transformed Hong Kong into a Special Administrative Region (SAR) of the People’s Republic of China.14 The ideological change had a remarkable impact on the status and evaluation of Tsang and his works. The prolonged Handover period between 1984 and 1997 stirred debates also on Hong Kong’s cultural identity. Artists affirmed a Hong Kong identity through a variety of linguistic and visual connotations in their art works. Hong Kong art ‘often used the strategy of disaffirming notions of Chinese national identity in order to open up an alternative space of Hong Kongness’ (Clarke 2000: 91). The distancing itself 11 A growing amount of literature has been published on Tsang. See, e.g., Lau 1997; Chung 2010; Clarke 2001, 175-183; Vigneron 2014; Ho 2014; and Spalding 2014. 12 The relation between the content and the site was made clear to me by creators who have studied Tsang’s works. 13 Robin Peckham, founder of Saamlung gallery, interview, 19 June 2012. 14 For a discussion on site-specificity in street art and its dependence on the format of the work and the institutional/ideological site, see Bengtsen 2014: 134-135; Bengtsen 2013.

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from both Chinese and Western art discourses can be seen as a decolonization of arts (Clarke 2001: 8). In relation to this project, Tsang was transformed ‘into a signifier of a local’ already during the pre-Handover (Clarke 2001: 183). From an old, despised man with a mental health condition, Tsang was elevated to the realms of fashion and ‘contemporary art’ through repeated exhibitions since 1997, inclusion of his works in the 2003 Venice Biennale, and sales through Sotheby’s. Tsang’s value as a nostalgic signifier of a Hong Kong identity for middle-aged people and non-locals is also evident in the production of souvenirs by Goods of Desire (G.O.D.) since 1997 and in the interior design of Starbucks in Mong Kok in 2012.15 According to Oscar Ho, Tsang and his work were betrayed in the end and because the works were detached from the public space, they gradually lost their meaning (Ho 2014). Besides the artification and productization, appeals are getting louder to regard the few surviving works by Tsang in urban public space as cultural heritage to be protected by the city of Hong Kong.16 A remaining piece, written on a pair of doors at Silver Theatre in Kwun Tong (see Figure 4.1) was collected by the new museum for visual culture M+ (Chow 2012). Tsang and his works are indeed a telling example of how the understanding of cultural heritage in a postcolonial urban public space (which, as was pointed out by Gregory Bracken in his introduction to this book, has more theoretical implications than the merely ‘post-colonial’, a term I will be using below) is not necessarily limited to architectural buildings, landmarks, and memorials but extends to other forms of visual culture with a signif icant legacy. Tsang’s case also reminds us to question who has the right to define what constitutes cultural heritage, what values underlie the understanding of heritage, and how it should be further investigated. Tsang has become an appreciated figure among creators of urban art images in Hong Kong as well. At the Shin Kong Mitsukoshi Culture Hall in Taiwan, Hong Kong graffiti writer XEME and graffiti art maker SINIC, originally from mainland China, organized the Kowloon exhibition in August 2011 to show their respect for Tsang’s work.17 Tsang’s legacy is also kept alive in the urban public space. Shortly after Tsang’s death in 2007, 15 David Young, the founder of G.O.D, regards Tsang as a great and much-undervalued calligrapher. At Starbucks’ request, David Young, the founder of G.O.D., made a concept proposal for the interior design. Stanley Wong (a.k.a. anothermountainman) drew on this proposal to create the texts in a slightly modified version of Tsang’s originals. David Young, e-mail correspondence, 18 April 2013; Stanley Wong, interview, 17 April 2013. 16 Ngo and Chow 2012; Wong 2012; Chow 2013a; Chow 2013b. 17 XEME, interview, 31 May 2013.

102 Minna Valjakk a Figure 4.1 Tsang Tsou-choi (King of Kowloon), untitled (pair of iron gates), ink on iron gates, 200 cm x 270 cm

Copyright by M+ Hong Kong, gift of Urban Renewal Authority

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Figure 4.2 MAIS, ORSEK and JAMS, a spray-painted commemorative piece for Tsang in Fotan, 2007

Copyright by MAIS

European graffiti writers MAIS and ORSEK created a commemorative piece together with the local graffiti writer JAMS close to Fotan MTR station, with two facial portraits of Tsang (see Figure 4.2).18 One of the most active artists to keep Tsang’s memory alive in the urban public space is Joel Chung. In 2010, Chung wrote a Tsang-style text – originally created by Tsang himself – on the windows of the abandoned ATV studio building in Sai Kung, turning it upside down. Chung did this for an exhibition which featured a photograph of the text reflected from water.19 A more controversial project followed in 2011, when Chung decided to cover Tsang’s deteriorating works with white paint. In Kennedy Town, Chung went one step further, using masking tape to create the cityscape and the words ‘Art is not everything but we need it’ on a wall where Tsang’s original work had already been almost completely painted over (Chung 2010: 18 MAIS, e-mail correspondence, 23 August 2013; JAMS, e-mail correspondence, 24 August 24, 2013; ORSEK, e-mail correspondence, 16 September 2013; Sun et al. 2007. 19 Joel Chung, interview, 1 May 2013.

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207-241). With this project, Chung sought to make the people realize what the city would look like if all of Tsang’s works were painted over. The third project is spray painting stencils of Tsang’s portrait twice a year around the city.20 Chung’s intentions can, however, be questioned. Painting over some remaining works in public space makes the collectable private works more exclusive and therefore his actions can be regarded to include monetary considerations.21 The elevating of Tsang and his oeuvre as fine art and cultural legacy can be seen as a continuum of the cultural decolonization process initiated by the contemporary artists. But as the growing number of both scholarly and popular publications shows, identity formation in post-colonial Hong Kong is a highly complex and debated issue. Ackbar Abbas argues that the unusual history of Hong Kong implies a more complex kind of colonial space produced by the unclean breaks and unclear connections between imperialism and globalism, which is how colonialism in Hong Kong must now be considered. This in turn has important consequences for the study of Hong Kong culture: culture in Hong Kong cannot just be related to ‘colonialism’, it must be related to this changed and changing space, this colonial space of disappearance, which in many respects does not resemble the old colonialisms at all. (Abbas 1997: 3)

For Abbas, disappearance is ‘more of a question of misrecognition’ rather than non-appearance. It problematizes both representation and self-representation and is visible through a host of techniques used in cultural works.22 This new subjectivity ‘is coaxed into being by the disappearance of old cultural bearings and orientations,... it is a subjectivity that develops precisely out of a space of disappearance’ (Abbas 1997: 11). Almost two decades have passed since Abbas’s perceptions, and although the circumstances in Hong Kong are changed to some extent, his observations lay the basis of exploring cultural discourses in particular.23 20 Ibid. 21 Ho, e-mail correspondence, 19 and 22 July 2014. 22 This is only a short summary of the main points. For a detailed explanation of disappearance, see Abbas 1997: 7-11. To emphasize the peculiarities of Hong Kong cultural development after Handover, Abbas further suggests the concept of postculture instead, e.g. post-colonial (Abbas 1997: 145-146). 23 Carolyn Cartier (2012) has recently criticized interpretations of Hong Kong culture based on Abbas’ notion of disappearance as untenable. She has instead advocated the idea of precariousness as a cultural strategy, and inspired by Ranciére’s (2009) often sited insights, maintains that

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The management and creation of the urban public space through legislation, architecture, and official public art contributes to the complex discourse of ‘Hongkongness’.24 What Tsang did was to negotiate this official rhetoric. He was active mainly during the colonial period, but also came to play a role in the decolonization processes – especially because he was part of the disappearing cultural bearings. In terms of urban art images today, Tsang provides a crucial historical basis on which creators of urban art images can mirror themselves. His oeuvre already shows how important it is to take into account the ethnicity/nationality of the creator as well as the language, content, format, and site-responsiveness of the works in order to fully comprehend how they reclaim the usage of urban public space and participate in the current discourses.

Emerging urban art images and the question of the local Because urban art images are essentially ephemeral, it is impossible to reconstruct any comprehensive description of the development of the scene, and especially of its initial stages. But one of the keys to the Hong Kong scene is the transnationality and transculturality which occasionally hinders clear def initions of the ‘local’: crews have members from different nationalities and across borders, people have ethnically mixed backgrounds, and/or they were born elsewhere but have lived most of their lives in Hong Kong.25 The first known examples of contemporary graffiti, inspired by the new, international graffiti which started to develop in the United States in 1960s, appeared in Hong Kong during the 1980s. In 1982, ZEPHYR, Dondi, and Futura from The Death Squad (TDS), a crew from New York, were commissioned to paint in the I Club (Witten and White, 2001: 160-161). In 1983, THREE, a British citizen living in Hong Kong, started to write his SØS tag. In the following the problem of Hong Kong identity is interrelated with the politics of aesthetics, that which can be said or made visible. As ‘two simultaneous but unconnected events’ (Cartier 2012: 6), Cartier has analysed the exhibition on Tsang Tsou-choi and street art by Chin Tangerine. Unfortunately, Cartier fails to provide any information of the most important and interrelated context, the scene of urban art images, which these examples are part of, although she emphasizes the importance of understanding integrated relationships that exist between art and daily life in an urban sphere. 24 For a discussion on how the local government’s cultural strategy that has aimed to absorb the colonial into the local and then extend it into the global, thus reflecting and contributing to a lack of critical colonial consciousness, see Ku 2002. 25 For more on historical developments see Valjakka 2015b.

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years, a few other foreign youngsters made some tags too, but they remained scarce.26 Some local contemporary graffiti apparently emerged in the late 1980s,27 but no visual evidence nor detailed information has so far surfaced. The contemporary graffiti scene gradually started to arise in the mid-1990s. International creators kept passing through or were invited to specific events by shops targeting younger customers. Local creators and crews known today also appeared. The first known piece by a local graffiti writer in Hong Kong, SYAN... (who prefers his tag name to be written to include the ellipsis at the end, and is known as MC Yan or MC仁 as a musician), dates from 1994. With 3DOM, REALM, and SPOON, SYAN... established the Chinese Evolution Aerosol (CEA) crew in 1997. They remained active all around the city for a few years. SYAN... still makes the occasional work both legally and illegally.28 Apparently, the only active known crew during the Handover in 1997 was CEA. They admit tagging, bombing, and creating commissioned paintings but their actions were not related to contemporary political events.29 By the turn of the century, other creators and crews had emerged. For instance, in 1998, a skateboarding team of several members started to bomb under the name of freeS. In 1999, three members from this team, KDG, GRIV, and GHOST 2 (KOSTWO) formed a crew, Fuck Da Cops (FDC) and were active around the city.30 Although evidence remains scare, it is not unthinkable that actions against the official symbols of the People’s Republic of China power were made during or after the Handover. One of the examples that caught media attention is the tagging of the flagpole next to Forever Flowering Bauhinia31 in 2000 but the person responsible was never caught.32 In order to interpret the level of this action in terms of political subversiveness, we would need to 26 THREE, street artist, interview, 3 June 2012. 27 Friendly, one of the three founding members of Invasian Magazine, interview, 21 May 2012. Since August 2011, Friendly has been in sole charge of Invasian, which focuses on Asian graffiti and urban culture. 28 Syan..., interview, 13 March 2013. 29 SPOON, e-mail correspondence, 18 August 2013. 30 KDG, graffiti writer, interview, 25 March 2013. 31 Bauhinia is the symbol of Hong Kong. The golden statue was a gift from the Central Government to celebrate the handover of Hong Kong. 32 Mentioned in Clarke 2001: 175. Eleven local newspapers reported the event and two returned to it in 2001. Three newspapers claimed the action was politically motivated, while four denied it. The content was described as being English words or signatures and numbers written in black marker pens. One tag apparently contained swear words. See, for example, Apple Daily 2000: A04; Ming Pao Daily News 2000: A05. Thanks to for Ma Iris Choi Tung Chan for media survey and translations of Cantonese.

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know the exact content of the tag and the ethnicity/nationality of the person who wrote it. Targeting this central political site is, indeed, subversive action in itself, but marking one’s initials or tag is not as politically pronounced as a text with an anti-PRC message. Also, whether the tag was made by, for instance, by a British or Hongkongese person could slightly alter the tone of the subversiveness. The mere site is not enough for an accurate interpretation of this action although it is a necessary starting point. The ethnicity/nationality of the creator is relevant also in questions of redefining and reconstructing the local identity, even if it is continuously complicated by features of transculturality and transnationality. While local creators have been known to use visual and linguistic connotations in urban art images to convey a Hong Kong identity, this is not usually a major aim of their work. Because urban art images are self-expressions reflecting the thoughts, everyday lives, experiences, feelings, and styles of the creators, it is only natural that the created images echo the cultural and socio-political context they are part of. It is also important to bear in mind that developing a personal, unique style is an essential aim to urban art creators around the globe and in Hong Kong alike. Expressing a local identity and/or developing a local style in urban art images is not related to the decolonization process in the same way as it has been in other forms of visual arts. This is mainly because the urban art scene in Hong Kong only started to take off around the mid-1990s, and the first known tags and works were unrelated to the political events. The scene also developed earlier in Hong Kong than in mainland China, so there was no similar need to distance the Hong Kong conventions from those in mainland China. But a need emerged locally to define what kind of urban art images and norms were – and are – acceptable. In keeping with the Euro-American traditions of the ‘old-school graffiti’, the illegal bombing and tagging by putting up one’s name (in alphabets) has remained the most appreciated format among some of the creators, while others have aimed to develop new methods, such as including the use of Cantonese in their works or even as their tag names. Also, a growing number of creators are more inspired by the Euro-American street art trends, exploring a variety of formats from wheat-pasting to three-dimensional sculptures and urban knitting.

Mainlandization and urban art images Fears of the growing impact of the People’s Republic of China on Hong Kong are commonly expressed and can be regarded as a reflection of the

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ever-changing culture of disappearance and of the problems of representation and self-representation articulated by Ackbar Abbas. Anxieties of recolonization and mainlandization are voiced by scholars, media, and citizens alike with varying denotations and usually without much specific differentiation.33 Sonny Lo, a researcher of Hong Kong politics, has suggested that ‘recolonization’ is understood as policies either by the local government of Hong Kong or the Central Government in Beijing aimed at strengthening the ‘mainlandization’ of Hong Kong SAR (Lo 2007: 179 (footnote)). Mainlandization entails growing political dependence on or similarity to Beijing, economic and legal reliance, and socially more patriotic notions towards the People’s Republic of China (Lo 2008: 42-43; Lo 2007: 179 (footnote)). Recolonization and mainlandization are now commonly understood in broader terms. Recolonization is used to denote the transfer of colonial power from the British to the Chinese (Carroll 2007: 215; Law 2009: 175), while mainlandization usually implies the strengthening impact of the PRC on any social and cultural sphere. It can result in self-censorship or in the weakening of Hong Kong’s uniqueness (Lo 2008: 42-44). Research on the impact of mainland China on Hong Kong cinema, for example, discusses mainlandization as ‘the tailoring of cultural content to what SARFT [the State Administration of Radio, Film and Television] perceives as acceptable or not in mainland China’ (Szeto and Chen 2012: 120). The understanding of mainlandization as a process of tailoring the cultural content by Hong Kong creators to be accepted by any supervising office in mainland China does not apply to urban art images. Neither are there any notions of adjusting the content or style to please mainland Chinese peers or apprehensions of the growing impact of mainland Chinese creators on Hong Kong. Collaboration and visits across the border are common among both the Hong Kong and mainland Chinese creators, and some crews have active members in both. Competition and criticism on developing new styles and creating the best pieces is part of the phenomenon – especially among graffiti writers and artists – but, at least so far, they have not been influenced by anxieties of mainlandization. Mainlandization appears to employ other forms and methods when it comes to urban art images. The effectiveness of these images has also caught the attention of Hong Kong’s city authorities. An illuminating example of an official commission was the results of the Handover graffiti competition organized by the Wan Chai District Youth Programme Committee 33 For media usage of the concepts see, for example, Chugani 2012; Lai 2013; and Staff Reporters 2013.

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(WCDYPC) of Wan Chai District Office in 2012. ‘The Competition aimed at commemorating the 15th Anniversary of the Establishment of Hong Kong SAR and providing a platform for youngsters of the district to showcase their creativity and design talent.’ The representatives of the office claim that the project was positively received by the local people.34 The project had a mixed public reception, and critical comments were published in the media, because the homeless who used to live in the subway were asked to leave and make room for the painting of the panels.35 Also creators of urban art images have expressed criticism about the content and quality. Although commissioned works with deliberate commercial or official messages are not unknown in Hong Kong, the ‘glorification’ of the reunion was regarded as an unacceptable crossover. The event itself was nevertheless an indisputable example of the growing mainlandization of the urban public space in conveying the policies of the PRC to the citizens of Hong Kong and to the youth in particular. This is all more evident if we consider how the construction of the urban public space through official public art, buildings, and monuments clearly reflects the ideological change in the governance of Hong Kong. Both during and after the Handover period, official public art and architecture celebrated the reunion and strengthened the Chinese national sentiments.36 As Jacob Dreyer claims, ‘[i]n contemporary China, the most forceful language that the government can speak is the language of controlling the urban space itself’ (Dreyer 2012: 50). The premeditated control of visuality in the urban public space can therefore be regarded as an indicator of the level of cultural mainlandization of Hong Kong by the PRC’s policies. Official and commissioned works have their place, but what else is allowed to appear in urban art images – and what is not – is important to follow. As the case of Tsang illustrates, expressing subversiveness through urban art images is not unknown in Hong Kong.37 Indeed, political expressions in urban art images in Hong Kong are usually far more tolerated than in mainland China. Roughly speaking, there is apolitical contemporary graffiti but not much street art in mainland China, because posters and 34 Wan Chai District Office, e-mail correspondence, 8, 11, and 18 March 2013. 35 Lam 2013. 36 For an insightful discussion of public art and architecture in Hong Kong, see Clarke 2001: 100-150. See also Oscar Ho’s recent observations on the quality of official public art (Ho 2013). 37 Globally, political expressions are quite common although clearly not the majority of urban art images. For an illustrative study of how both the state and the collectives have effectively employed a variety of street art forms in the Hispanic world for political communication, see Caffee 1993.

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wheat-pastes get cleaned up quickly. For instance, when Hong Kong street artist Dom, the founder of Start From Zero (SFZ), visited Shanghai, he posted some of his apolitical works with a local friend. They were soon stopped by the civilian police, who took them to the police station for questioning. The main concern was whether there was any political message hidden in the works. When the police were convinced there was not, Dom and his friend were allowed to leave. However, all the works were cleaned away during that night.38 If a similar attitude towards urban art images spreads to Hong Kong, mainland Chinese policies will clearly have had their day. Changes in the level of tolerance towards the contents of the urban art images can reveal intriguing details of the mainlandization of the urban public space in future.

Visualizing concerns: resisting mainlandization While political themes currently represent a clear minority in both commissioned and unauthorized urban art images in Hong Kong, some of the works qualify as markers of resisting mainlandization. This notion was already implied by Tsang’s later works close to mainland Chinese premises and by the unknown person tagging of the flagpole in the vicinity of Forever Flowering Bauhinia. To emphasize how the actual interpretation is dependent not only on political content, the following discussion also includes one example where the primary intention is not related to mainlandization issues. The rest reflect varying levels of concern of and/or opposition to mainlandization. The main trend is to target: 1) the leaders and policies of the People’s Republic of China in the mainland or in Hong Kong SAR 2) the policies and leaders of the Hong Kong SAR sympathetic to the People’s Republic of China. Occasionally, these two targets can be combined. In the context of the 1 July protest, organized since 1997 on the Hong Kong SAR establishment day, the concerns about the strengthening impact of the PRC are often expressed visually, too. Most recently, in 2014, two locals who prefer to be unnamed, created seven to eight designs to express their anxieties. The images were printed out as stickers, and more than a hundred were put up during the day at several MTR stations and on some trains. Most of the images implied forbidden signs, carrying a red circle with a diagonal line. The one exception was a sign exhorting people to keep Hong Kong tidy: it told them to bin the ‘white paper’ (白皮書) (see Figure 4.3). This refers 38 Dom, interview, 2 June 2013.

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Figure 4.3  Anonymous local artists, a sticker in MTR station, 2014

Copyright by anonymous artist

to the white paper issued by the Information Office of the State Council on 10 June 2014 concerning the ‘One Country, Two Systems’ policy in Hong Kong SAR.39 The paper caused anger in Hong Kong and caught global media attention by re-affirming the total control of the PRC. 40 The rest of the designs bear different, multilevelled meanings based on the interaction of the picture and Cantonese language but they all shared anxiety of Hong Kong’s future in the face of increasing PRC impact. For instance, one design decried the five stars used in the national flag and emblem of the PRC (see Figure 4.4). 41 In English the text claimed not to need the Communist Party but in Cantonese the message created a double meaning. The message (嚴禁亮星) literally translates to ‘strictly prohibit bright star’, referring to the Communist Party, but the last two characters refer also to Ng Leung-sing (吳亮星, b. 1949), Chairman of the Legislative 39 Anonymous graffiti artist, e-mail correspondence, 22 July 2014. The full paper is published in English on the website of the State Council Information Office of the People’s Republic of China. Available: http://www.scio.gov.cn/zxbd/wz/Document/1372867/1372867.htm. Last accessed: 20 July 2014. 40 BBC 2014. 41 The largest star represents the Communist Party of China, while the smaller four stars refer to the four social classes living in harmony under guidance from the Party.

112 Minna Valjakk a Figure 4.4  Anonymous local artists, a sticker in MTR train, 2014

Copyright by anonymous artist

Council’s Finance Committee, who has been criticized for incompetence. 42 On the one hand, changing the colour of the stars from yellow to black is a powerful statement in the Chinese reading, where black is the worst colour, symbolizing the bad and the vicious. On the other hand, the design’s black and red imitates the existing warning notices and integrates more easily into its surroundings. It is a safer choice for the creators putting them up. Even more straightforward resentment of the PRC leadership emerged in April 2013, when a local man in his forties aimed at the current leader of the People’s Republic with words ‘Xi Jinping, go to hell’ and got arrested. He was later released on bail43 but netizens expressed concerns about the harshening policies of limiting the freedom of speech in Hong Kong and compared the case with Tsang Tsou-choi’s anti-governmental writings. 44 Another example relating to the leaders of the PRC, but expressed in a very different way, is a wish by local graffiti writer SYAN...: for him contemporary graffiti is, like music, a form of freedom of expression which people can and

42 Anonymous graffiti artist, e-mail correspondence, 22 July 2014. 43 Apple Daily 2013. 44 Lam 2013.

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Figure 4.5  Street artist Death, Mao with a Yellow Bowtie, stencil, 2012

Copyright by Minna Valjakka

should employ. The site he would prefer to write on is the physical face of the living Chairman of the People’s Republic of China today. 45 While such examples indicate notions of the locals’ resisting mainlandization, not all the urban art images targeting the PRC leaders have the same intentions. Stencils of Mao with a yellow bowtie, created by street artist Death from New York, stayed uncovered at least for a year (see Figure 4.5). 46 As such, they indicate the level of tolerance compared to Taiwan, where a similar portrait of Mao in the vicinity of the Chiang Kai-shek memorial hall got cleaned up the very next day.47 It is not likely that a sarcastic image of the previous, or current, leader would remain uncovered in mainland China, either. Although a satiric portrait of Mao could hastily be interpreted as an anti-PRC image in Hong Kong, the intentions deriving partially from the nationality of the creator prove different: as an American tourist, Death’s primary motivations did not pertain to the relationship between Hong Kong and the PRC. Instead, Death used Mao’s portrait because of Mao’s history, the relation with the United States, and because Mao’s portrait had also been used by Andy Warhol. 48 Apart from the PRC leaders, the policies of PRC in Hong Kong have been targeted, too. The Anti-High Speed Rail Movement demonstrations were supported by local creators through various means, such as Start From Zero, put up posters on the streets. 49 Even a more ephemeral medium, 45 Syan..., interview, 31 March 2013. 46 Personally documented in June 2012 and June 2013. 47 Death, e-mail correspondence, 12 February 2013. 48 Ibid. 49 Dom, interview, 2 June 2013.

114 Minna Valjakk a Figure 4.6  Street photographer Cpak Ming, ‘Modern VIIV spirit’, photograph, 2011

Copyright by Cpak Ming

a photograph, was chosen by street photographer Cpak Ming to express same the apprehensions (see Figure 4.6). On 2 June 2011, Cpak reflected the world-famous photograph, the man trying to stop the tanks approaching Tian’anmen Square in 1989, on a stone wall in central Hong Kong. In the background glimmers the Elements shopping mall, which will be the terminal station of the high-speed railway in Hong Kong. Cpak titled his work as Modern VIIV Spirit because he wanted ‘to use the tank man’s spirit to face the problems of Hong Kong’.50 In Cpak’s work, only the man is visible, standing determined, legs apart, and facing the Kowloon side – behind which lie the New Territories and the border to mainland China. The structure of the cross and the flat rocks add a grim notion to the image. Cpak’s work is also related to another case that keeps inspiring creators of urban art images. The memory of the Tian’anmen Incident has been kept alive in Hong Kong especially by the annual commemoration of the Victoria Park candle vigil on 4 June. Images on the Incident and a replica (or two) of the Goddess of Democracy are displayed both at and outside the vigil. Urban art images use pictorial connotations and linguistic references

50 Cpak Ming, e-mail correspondence, 3 September 2013.

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alike to remind people of the Tian’anmen Incident, such as the demand not to forget the 4th of June. Commemorations of the Tian’anmen Incident relate to the need to defend freedom of speech and expression in Hong Kong. Concerns of the possible limitations and growing censorship in mainland China gained more strength in the aftermath of the detention in April 2011 of Ai Weiwei (b. 1957), contemporary Chinese artist and social activist. Many artists, political activists, and average citizens of Hong Kong joined forces in producing urban art images to express their anxiety about Ai Weiwei’s well-being. The first one to win media attention was Chin Tangerine, who spray-painted stencils asking ‘Who’s Afraid of Ai Weiwei?’ and including a facial portrait of Ai (see Figure 4.7). The image and the reporting went viral, which probably also invoked police attention to investigate criminal damage charges. Although harsh punishment of a maximum of ten years in prison was plugged in media (Cartier 2012: 14-16; Lim 2011), Chin Tangerine was not caught. She also suspects that even if she would have been, the punishment might have been limited to fines. For Chin Tangerine, the event was a turning point in her personal life because she got to know people working in local social movements and learnt, for instance, not to place hope in mainstream media. She also had a chance to rethink ‘what constitutes an action, how all kinds of “awareness” raised can be seamlessly absorbed in the status quo as a cute tailor-made anecdote’ and how easily people place hope anywhere else but in themselves, which ‘helps us to delay working on ourselves and the neighbourhood we live in, which is the only place genuine changes can be brought about’.51 The stencil inspired other people to follow suit. For instance, two members of Hong Kong’s pro-democracy party, the League of Social Democrats (LSD) were detained for spraying pro-Ai Weiwei slogans. The party Vice-President Avery Ng denounced the arrests, claiming that ‘[t]he graffiti are a form of freedom of expression’.52 Cpak Ming also experimented with flashing the image on different buildings and premises, but apparently he did not know the image was Chin Tangerine’s stencil when he first used it. For Cpak, the main purpose was not the projection but shooting a photograph of a giant image on the wall in public space. In addition, he did not consider his works ‘street art’ until the media started to report them as such.53 Although a projection of an image does not damage the building and therefore cannot be regarded as vandalism – at least in the traditional sense of physical 51 Chin Tangerine, e-mail correspondence, 29 July 2014. 52 BBC 2011. 53 Cpak Ming, e-mail correspondence, 30 August 2013.

116 Minna Valjakk a Figure 4.7  Chin Tangerine, Who’s Afraid of Ai Weiwei?, stencil, 2011

Copyright by Chin Tangerine

damage – flashing Ai Weiwei’s huge portrait on the Chinese People’s Liberation Army barracks caused the Army to view the act as ‘a breach of law’.54 The Ai Weiwei incident exemplif ies how Hongkongese who are not actively involved in creating images in the urban public space, can still be inspired to do so when an event makes them feel the need to participate in a debate and other means are not powerful enough. Such creators who act on the spur of the moment are not necessarily familiar with the norms of the scene of urban art images. This can cause criticism from the active creators, as happened with Tangerine, too. Allegedly, she broke the norms of the urban art scene by targeting established buildings and sites which were usually left untouched by the creators so that they would not raise a public outcry.55 In informal discussions, some creators have also criticized her for wanting to be famous in a quick and easy way.

54 Lim 2011. 55 The physical site of the creation has a great impact on the understanding of the levels of il/ legality of the work. See Valjakka 2014.

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Figure 4.8  Artist Kacey Wong, ‘Attack of the Red Giant’, 2014

Copyright by Kacey Wong

Occupying the streets through arts is also occasionally done by contemporary and visual artists, such as Kacey Wong (b. 1970), who has actively used art as a means of participating in the protests. For the protest on 1 July 2013, Wong created a large red robot from cardboard boxes, joining the protest with his creation and a push cart. Decorated with symbols referring to the PRC and holding two small dolls in his hand, he made the meaning of the art action entitled ‘Attack of the Red Giant’ (進擊的共人) amply clear (see Figure 4.8).

Targeting local leaders and policies The other major trend in political urban art images relates to local politicians and their pro-PRC mentalities. Both the former Chief Executive Henry Tang and the current one, Leung Chun-ying, have been targeted several times. For his part, Leung Chun-ying has often been labelled as a wolf. This connotation was made visible both in stencils and in graffiti pieces. One better-known example is a poster on Henry Tang created by Start From Zero around 2010. A visual pun refers to Shepard Fairey’s famous poster Hope, which supported Barack Obama’s presidency campaign in 2008. Opposing the

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original message, SFZ’s poster depicts Henry Tang as a devil with a character signifying ‘to kill / a killer’ printed on his forehead. A four-character slogan of ‘killer of political reform’ is written on the right-hand corner (see Figure 4.9). Although visually targeting the local leader, the poster was originally made to support the resistance of the high speed train.56 The poster was further printed on T-shirts, which found favour among the younger generation. Instead of creating new visual images to criticize politics or politicians, local graffiti artist, RST2 has decided to borrow the banners advertising the party representatives, paint them over and put them up on the streets as remodified versions. In this specific set of three, created in March 2013, the graffiti artist used banners of the Democratic Party (not pro-China) and the Democratic Alliance for the Betterment and Progress of Hong Kong (pro-China) (see Figure 4.10). Although the Democratic Party is not seen as a pro-China party, RST2 has been displeased with their activities. He clearly finds them turning towards mainland China. Because the graffiti artist wanted to emphasize his dissatisfaction and anger with the current politics in Hong Kong, he decided to use the Angry Bird theme to give his visual message more emphasis.57 What is surprising in this creation process employing political banners is that his actions caught very little attention from passers-by. Obviously, few people seem to be really looking at political banners anymore. Urban art images can also be used to convey support for local policy makers. In June 2014, political activist and member of the Legislative Council of Hong Kong Leung Kwok-hung (梁國雄, b. 1956), also known as ‘Long Hair’ (長毛), was convicted because of his actions in a public forum in 2011 and his hair was cut.58 To voice his concern about the fate of Leung, RST2 took the liberty of creating posters of Leung in the style of Che Guevara’s (1928-1967) famous image (see Figure 4.11). The text below the facial portrait proclaimed that ‘Long Hair is not completely cut, righteousness will grow again’ (長毛剪不盡，公義吹又生). In the middle of the text, a single character standing for ‘boisterous’ (閧) appeared in larger size. Of the 500 printed posters, about half were put up and intriguingly, many of them appeared inside off icial announcement boards.59

56 57 58 59

Katol, e-mail correspondence, 7 August, 2014. RST2, interview, 10 March 2013. Chu 2014. RST2, e-mail correspondence, 24 July 2014; see also On.cc 2014.

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Figure 4.9  Street artists Start From Zero (SFZ), poster of Henry Tang, 2013

Copyright by Minna Valjakka

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120 Minna Valjakk a Figure 4.10  Graffiti artist RST2, spray-painted banners of local parties, 2013

Copyright by Minna Valjakka

Conclusions The examples discussed in this chapter have been chosen to indicate the variety of urban art images related to issues of mainlandization in terms of content, format, and the intentions and self-identities of the creators. While the urban art images created to support the Handover were institutionally initiated, others were non-institutional and many even anti-institutional: not only were they unauthorized, but they also targeted the policies and premises representing the establishments of both the People’s Republic of China and Hong Kong SAR. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to include all relevant cases in a detailed discussion, but what these images already show is that the urban public space in Hong Kong is not controlled as strictly as in mainland China. Instead, a continuous negotiating process between officials, political parties, companies, institutions, media, advertising, citizens, political activists, and the creators of urban art images – including active, long-term creators as well as one-time participants working independently or on commissions – constantly shapes the norms of how urban public space is being used and how it is employed for visual self-expression. As was elucidated by Tsang and his works, despised visual pollution can even be transformed into cultural heritage. Despite internal disagreements, the scene of urban art images usually has standards deviating somewhat from the common social rules. For instance, gaining fame quickly with media help and not through long-term

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Figure 4.11  Graffiti artist RST2, poster of Leung Kwok-hung, 2014

Copyright by RST2

engagement on the streets may be disapproved. Also, graffiti writers in particular promote an appreciation of illegal action and unimportance of any message. While graffiti artists, street artists, and other creators of urban art images usually share their admiration for unauthorized creation, they occasionally aim to express their notions through more socio-politically related contents. Although the motivations for creating urban art images are often a complex combination of personal life experiences and feelings as well as a coming together of current issues and trends in a given socio-political and cultural context, the examined cases reveal that a part of the urban art images articulate concerns and anxieties of Hong Kong’s mainlandization. The subject matter and the imagery employed are often related to the People’s Republic of China itself. Local topics and leaders have been examined less. As Professor Chin Wan-kan pointed out, local creators often rely on existing imagery and even on resistance movements which derive from the mainland itself, as is the case in support for Ai Weiwei and in remembering the Tian’anmen Incident. The local creators could and should search for more local themes and visuality to truly develop a meaningful discussion.60 60 Chin Wan-kan, e-mail correspondence, 14 July 2014.

122 Minna Valjakk a Figure 4.12  Graffiti artist Pibg Gantz, a spray-painted piece, Macau, 2012

Copyright by Pibg Gantz

Are these examples enough to show that the phenomenon has a relevance to the scene of urban art images or to the development of civic society in Hong Kong? The numbers may be limited, but we also have to bear in mind the ephemerality and disparagement of urban art images, which makes it impossible to provide a full account from the past decades. But even one short-lived example can reveal that there is, at the very least, an urge to employ urban art images to participate in discussions of mainlandization. This urge must be acknowledged and followed, as is shown by this last example from Macau. The image is the first political one by a local graffiti crew, Gantz 5 (see Figure 4.12). They did it on a temporary wall, choosing the red colour and the chicken to represent mainland China. The next day the city officials called one of the crew members, Pibg, to ask him to cover up the sentence ‘Don’t wash our B’. When Pibg refused, the image was removed from the urban public space by the authorities.61 The mere existence of this example shows that the notion of mainlandization is also felt in Macau. Even more importantly, the reaction from the city authorities proves that the concern is relevant.

61 Pibg, graffiti artist, interview, 22 March 2013.

Part Two Networks

5

Honkon Nippō and Hong Kong-Japan Relations Re-examining the Geopolitical Position of Colonial Hong Kong in East Asia before the End of World War II Wilson Wai Shing Lee

Abstract This chapter examines the role of media in Hong Kong’s geopolitical position in the run up to World War II. Hong Kong has generally been considered less significant than other cities or areas in East Asia, such as Shanghai or Taiwan, in this era, however, this notion overlooks the geographical and strategic advantages Hong Kong enjoyed at the time, and, more importantly, fails to take into account the role Hong Kong played as one of the region’s most important information exchanges. Through a careful study of Honkon Nippō, a Japanese-published newspaper in Hong Kong, as well as the growth of the Japanese presence in the colony, I will argue against dismissing Hong Kong as unimportant in the pre-war era; I will even contend that Hong Kong was in fact a far more important consideration in Japan’s planned expansion in South Asia, particularly for places such as the islands of the Western and Southern Pacific. The origination of Honkon Nippō also illustrated the tie between Hong Kong, the Japanese Empire, and its southward advance, with information connections strengthening the central position of Hong Kong. By paying attention to this hitherto neglected dimension in the Hong Kong-Japanese relationship, this research demonstrates that pre-war Hong Kong should be reviewed, especially its position in the network of East and Southeast Asian countries.

Introduction Hong Kong has long been considered as being on the periphery of the Chinese mainland, both politically and geographically, and with no significant influence under two Empires: China and Britain (Carroll 2005: 3). Despite this, Hong Kong has not only functioned as an economic and commercial centre, but also an information hub in East Asia in the first half of the

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twentieth century. As Hamashita Takeshi argues, Hong Kong has played an important function as a medium to connect neighbouring areas in capital flow and money remittance among Overseas Chinese, and one should bear in mind this concept when examining the role of Hong Kong (Hamashita 1996: 9). Shedding new light on the importance of Hong Kong, this view considers a larger perspective (including Southeast Asia) than that of limiting itself to the Chinese mainland. In this chapter I deploy the concept of geopolitics, which studies how political actors respond to international politics in terms of geographical and spatial concepts, to further explain the geographical significance of Hong Kong (Kuus 2011: 523). When discussing the location of Hong Kong, it is widely recognized that the territory was seen as the Great East Emporium and an important entrepôt in the East Asian region since British colonial rule was established in 1842, but most scholarship does not examine Hong Kong’s unique position, except from the economic perspective. For instance, John Carroll argues that Chinese merchants in Hong Kong, most of whom were originally the compradors of business hongs, utilized the unique situation of colonial Hong Kong to establish their business networks, which transformed Hong Kong into a prosperous node on the edge of the empires of China and Britain (Carroll 2005: 5-6). On the other hand, Austin Coates examines Hong Kong as a significant locale in the global network through discussions of Hong Kong’s technological development rather than economic issues.1 More recently, Kwong Chi Man and Tsoi Yiu Lun also highlight the militarily strategic position of Hong Kong to Britain in consideration of its benefits to the Empire in Asia.2 Despite the recognition of Hong Kong’s crucial position by Coates and, later, other scholars, most work tends to neglect the linkage of Hong Kong and Japan (as well as the social implications derived from this linkage) to the whole network centred at Hong Kong.3 Honkon Nippō (Hong Kong news) was the only Japanese-related daily newspaper in Hong Kong to have been issued in three languages (Japanese, Chinese, and English). Published from 1909 onwards, it was also an example of a neglected linkage, as revealed from a Japanese perspective. 4 This chapter thus focuses on the newspaper to demonstrate the development of a Japanese presence in Hong Kong from the media aspect, and, more importantly, the strategic meaning of Hong Kong to Japanese expansionism because, as I will contend, this 1 2 3 4

Coates 1990. Kwong and Tsoi 2014. Other scholars discussing Hong Kong’s position include Meyer 2000; Chiu and Lui 2009. For a brief introduction to Honkon Nippō, see Lee 2012: 43-49.

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connection to Japan could only help to strengthen the geopolitical position of Hong Kong in East Asia.

Background of external communications in Hong Kong International communication (with the exception of postal deliveries) from or to Hong Kong was not an easy task before 1871, the date Hong Kong was finally connected to Shanghai and Singapore via submarine cables. After the foundation of the Crown Colony of Hong Kong in 1842, communication between the British government and the colony took at least forty days by sea. The time required was reduced to five days in 1871, when messages from Hong Kong could be sent to Singapore by sea and thence by telegraph from Singapore to London. On the other hand, Japan, recently opened for trade by the United States, was highly interested in the new technology of telegraphy which had never been seen there before, and they quickly established telegraphic links to Shanghai and Vladivostok in 1871, which were constructed by a Danish company, the Great Northern Telegraph Company (GNTC), under a mutual agreement between the Japanese government and the GNTC. Up to 1871, no efficient external communication with Hong Kong was established, let alone a specific connection between Hong Kong and Japan. Hong Kong, therefore, could not be described as the information-exchange centre of East Asia unless it were to set up more connections with the outside world. The need to connect Hong Kong to worldwide networks was not ignored by merchants, but the intention was eventually turned down due to concerns about the colony’s commercial prospects. In 1865, an American proposed the laying of a submarine cable between Hong Kong and Shanghai (a flourishing international treaty port at the time). However, the Colonial Office in London rejected the suggestion, concerned about who would retain jurisdiction over the cables under the South China Sea. Later, in 1869, when the cable’s eastward extension from Galle was under discussion, Hong Kong was not considered the final destination – Shanghai was. Shanghai at that time was the focus of international business attention, while Hong Kong merely one of the stations along the commercial route from Europe to China and the rest of the Far East (Coates 1990: 13). Conversely, Hong Kong served as a place where commercial information was exchanged among trading firms since it was a British colony. David Meyer states that Hong Kong, as a British colony along the China coast, provided several benefits for trading companies, and he describes the place as ‘a pivot of

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the information network’ from the aspect of trade (Meyer 2000: 58-59). To facilitate commercial needs, particularly the sharing of shipping information (something which we see illustrated by César Ducruet in chapter 8), several new newspapers in Hong Kong were initially attached to existing ones, such as the Canton Register or the China Mail (founded in 1843 and 1845 respectively). The analysis above reveals a contradiction: Hong Kong was not considered geographically important yet its commercial dealings benefitted from its convenient location, and this contradiction involves two underlying reasons related to the geopolitical significance of Hong Kong’s position. Discussions of Hong Kong’s global position were mostly related to business networks rather than political or other types of network during the early stages of the colony. Meyer directly points out, and Stephen Chiu and Tai-Lok Lui also acknowledge, that traders and financiers played a functional role in connecting Hong Kong to different levels of the external economy, which is crucial in understanding why Hong Kong went on to become the pre-eminent global metropolis in Asia (Meyer 2000: 2; Chiu and Lui 2009: 3). It was not unexpected, therefore, that Hong Kong came to be perceived as a globally important place in terms of commerce because even the colonial government thought the same way. In a governmental report investigating the influence of the Great Depression on business in Hong Kong in the 1930s, the economic relations between Hong Kong and the rest of the British Empire were described as ‘geographically minute’, and Hong Kong’s unique position was based on imports and exports, as well as other things related to commerce, such as shipping and technical services in the colony (‘Report of the Commission…’ 1935: 82-83). Due to British colonial status that removed the Qing regime’s influence from Hong Kong, and the fact that Britain wanted to make the colony a free port, Hong Kong was one of the best places in Asia for trading, where merchants could enjoy fewer restraints than other places (especially those that did fall under the Qing government). This convenience stimulated trade between Britain and Qing China, as well as the rest of the monsoon trade in Southeast Asia, northern China, and the East Pacific coast. Yet Hong Kong was still not regarded as being as important as other cities in the global communication network at this time. Shanghai, because of the establishment of the International Settlement and the French Concession, had become one of the most internationalized places on the Chinese mainland, certainly in the run up to World War II, and this reduced the regional importance of Hong Kong in almost every respect. From the primary plan of the China Submarine Telegraphy Company

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(CSTC), founded by John Pender in 1869, the cable network in East Asia was constructed ‘from Singapore to Shanghai, and intended extensions to Peking and Yedo [now Tokyo]’ (Coates 1990: 18).5 As the ultimate destination of the submarine cable that was being laid from Europe to Asia was assumed to be Japan (via Shanghai) it unavoidably depreciated the significance of Hong Kong in this network. Indeed, the totally different statuses of Hong Kong and Shanghai at this time determined their relative positions within the construction of the network in East Asia. Shanghai, where most Western powers had been developing their spheres of influence in the concessions since the mid-nineteenth century, attracted worldwide investment as well as the political attention of China and East Asia due to its geographical location near Beijing, while Hong Kong, an outpost of the British Empire, had a function that was mainly to boost trade between East and West. Since Shanghai was more strategically important, Hong Kong tended to be economically crucial but not at the core of the East Asian or global network. Although Hong Kong was not typically regarded as an essential location along the international communication route from Europe to East Asia, a communication infrastructure gradually developed here. In 1871, after a long negotiation over who was to be granted the franchise for the operation of submarine cables between Hong Kong and Shanghai, both the Great Northern Telegraph Company and the China Submarine Telegraphy Company consented to share the revenue generated by the cable, enabling Hong Kong to be fully connected with the rest of the world (via Shanghai). Fifty years later, the Hongkong Post Off ice took over the wireless telegraphic services, and Hong Kong could connect with China as well as Japan, Southeast Asia, Europe, and America through wireless telegraph, which was f irst introduced to Hong Kong in 1901 (Layton 2007: 30). In addition to wired and wireless telegraphic communication, telephone services had been slowly growing in Hong Kong since their introduction in 1877. Governor Geoffrey Northcote made the first international telephone call in 1939, but soon, due to the outbreak of World War II, outward telephone calls were suspended (Layton 2007: 34). In general, even though Hong Kong constructed the basic infrastructure for external communication as far back as the late nineteenth century, this technology did not make the place a global focus because of a number of socio-political factors.

5 Note: Yedo meant Edo, which later became Tokyo and the capital of Japan after the Meiji Restoration.

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As Roland Wenzlhuemer clarifies, it is not simply a question of how technology has shaped our society, but how humans utilize it to create our living place (Wenzlhuemer 2013: 15). A place, even where external telecommunications are highly available, will not progress if the people there cannot effectively grasp the opportunities for technological advancement they provide, and this can be even more striking when compared to other places that are so able. Positing that Hong Kong became the centre of East Asia after the foundation of its technological infrastructure, therefore, would not be accurate, certainly not before the establishment of more comprehensive Hong Kong-Japan relations. More precisely, the continuous growth of the Japanese presence in Hong Kong, as more efficient communication methods became available by which Japan could connect itself with Hong Kong and beyond (to Southeast Asia, for example), consolidated the geopolitical position of Hong Kong.

The Japanese presence in Hong Kong: the development of Honkon Nippō The starting point of the relationship between Hong Kong and Japan can be traced back to the 1870s. The Japanese Consulate was established in Hong Kong in 1873 (with Hayashi Tadasu as the first Consul). This established an official connection between the two places and signalled the beginning of the Japanese presence in the colony. In the late nineteenth century, Hong Kong-Japan relations revolved around the field of business, while in the twentieth, the political aspect increasingly became substantial due to the changing politics in mainland China (from monarchy to republic) through which Japan could maintain or even expand its influence over the East Asian region. Because of this, and also thanks to the special colonial status of Hong Kong, and the fact that the Qing government could not exert its sovereignty there, the colony was perceived by the Japanese government as a platform for information-gathering and for the promotion of Japan, leading to closer ties between Hong Kong and Northeast Asia, particularly the Japanese Empire. At the beginning of official communications between Japan and Hong Kong, only a few Japanese people lived in Hong Kong, and they were there for business reasons. There were only fifteen Japanese people living in Hong Kong in 1875, six of whom were Consular officials (Okuda 1937: 20). By 1888 the number of Japanese residents in Hong Kong climbed to 243, most of them participating in economic activities, such as the operation of grocery

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stores, Japanese-style inns, and Japanese restaurants, which were relatively small in size and not as influential as the trade between Hong Kong and some European countries (Okuda 1937: 270; Ng 2005: 119). In consequence, the ties between Hong Kong and Japan were not strong and tended to be economic-oriented by the end of the nineteenth century. This echoes the narrative of Hong Kong as being an economic centre and a free port; a place only maritime merchants considered important. After entering the new century, and particularly after the outbreak of World War I in 1914, Hong Kong began to seem more important in the geopolitics of Japanese expansionism in southern China, and even further, in Southeast Asia. Hong Kong, as Jung-fong Tsai points out, has often interacted between local and external forces in modern Chinese history, and all major events happening here had depended on the political and socio-economic conditions of China’s foreign relations (Tsai 1993: 8). This was probably because of the colonial situation of Hong Kong, which generated a space for modern intellectuals and merchants to be able to press for reform and modernization in China. Among a number of requests and actions, the Tatsumaru Incident in 1908 was the turning point in Hong Kong-Japan relations, after which Japan significantly changed its focus to Hong Kong and southern China. Generally speaking, the Incident, which was a conflict between the Qing and Meiji governments over the jurisdiction of the South China Sea, resulted in a boycott of Japanese products organized by Chinese merchants on the mainland and in Hong Kong due to anti-Japanese sentiment following a series of infiltrations by Japan, both economically and territorially.6 During the event, Funatsu Tatsuichirō, the then Japanese Consul in Hong Kong, presciently noticed that Japan required a newspaper as a propaganda tool in southern China, and this led to the establishment of Honkon Nippō. In his congratulatory passage in the first edition of Honkon Nippō, Funatsu conveyed, even complained, that most Japanese people one-sidedly concentrated on northern China and neglected what was happening in southern China, and through this new publication he would like to influence that narrow approach (Funatsu 1909: 1). Although Funatsu’s statement was not the first one expressing interest to the south (which generally included southern China, Southeast Asia, and the islands of the West Pacific), this expression, as well as the publication of Honkon Nippō, represented an altered direction for Japanese foreign policy. The development of Honkon Nippō symbolized the expansion of Japanese influence in Hong Kong and further south. Although from the beginning 6 For more information on the Tatsumaru Incident, see Tsai 1993: 213-214.

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Funatsu and succeeding Consuls would have liked to attach the Nippō to Japanese foreign expansion by obtaining an official subsidy from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Gaimushō), this intention was not acknowledged and was in fact rejected several times throughout the 1910s, indicating the low priority that was given to Funatsu’s suggestions by the Japanese government. However, during the first half of the 1920s, Honkon Nippō received a monthly grant of HKD$70 from the Gaimushō (from April 1920) (Intelligence Division of the Foreign Ministry 1929: 69). This sudden support represented a change of consideration because, in 1917, the Minister of Gaimushō had rejected such a subsidy. The subsidy ended in March 1925, but the office of Honkon Nippō published a book in 1924. Titled Honkon Annai (A guide to Hong Kong), it included a lot of scenic photographs of Hong Kong as well as other useful information, such as the climate and available business opportunities. Although this was not the first Japanese publication to have this sort of content, it was the first published by a newspaper.7 More importantly, this publication also introduced Hong Kong’s history, as well as various vital statistics and detailed landscape descriptions, making it resemble, to a great extent, an intelligence report rather than a travel guide for the ordinary visitor. Based on the change in development, and the work the Nippō prepared, Hong Kong, represented by Honkon Nippō, was therefore asserted to be one of the components in the network which the Japanese government was steadily constructing in developing its dominance over East Asia. Notwithstanding the fact that Honkon Nippō had an official relationship with the Gaimushō via its subsidy, the situation changed still further from the second half of the 1920s (up to 1938). During this period, Honkon Nippō continued to participate in its investigations into Hong Kong, although it failed to obtain any formal support from the Japanese government at this time. The reason why the Gaimushō stopped its subsidy to Honkon Nippō in 1925 is not clearly revealed in sources such as Shinbun Zasshi Sōjyū Kankei Zassan (which collected all information about Japanese newspapers abroad), but an investigation into relationships between various newspapers with a Japanese background in foreign countries can be gleaned because the Gaimushō maintained its guidance of Honkon Nippō, just as it retained its right to direct the daily operations of Japanese newspapers in foreign countries (Intelligence Division of the Foreign Ministry 1929: 69-70). The relation between Honkon Nippō and the Gaimushō, therefore, turned out to be an unofficial one since there was no monetary association, however the 7

Other similar publications include ‘Foreign Ministry’ 1917; Maeda 1919.

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Gaimushō continued to manage newspapers abroad through the consular system. The Japanese consular office in Hong Kong had a close connection with Honkon Nippō which Japan was able to use to acquire useful information for its foreign expansion. One of the notable examples of this was the publication of Meiji Shonen ni Okeru Honkon Nihonjin (Japanese in Hong Kong in the early Meiji period) in 1935 and 1936, which preserved intelligence archives from early Hong Kong, and which had been gathered by the consular office since its foundation. Indeed, the consular system was another important constitution in the information network, something I will discuss later in this chapter. After the Marco Polo Bridge Incident in 1937, the geographical location of Hong Kong became vital to military strategy and enhanced the importance of Honkon Nippō as a propaganda tool to benef it Japanese military advancement. In order to further expand Japan’s influence over northeastern China, the Japanese military and government exploited the situation of a soldier missing from the town of Wanping (the town nearest to the Marco Polo Bridge) and started an attack after it was refused entry to the town by Chinese officials. This resulted in the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War (and marked the beginnings of World War II) (Gordon 2003: 204; Dryburgh 2000: 147). The Government-General of Taiwan purchased Honkon Nippō in 1938 via an organization called Zenrin Kyōkai. This was for the cultural penetration of southern China (GovernmentGeneral of Taiwan 1943: 796).8 The reason behind this was related to the southward advance as the authorized direction for the expansion of the Japanese Empire from 1936 onwards. The capture of Taiwan, which had been turned into a colony by Japan after they won the First Sino-Japanese War in 1894 (and is something that is examined by Faye Yuan Kleeman in chapter 6), marked the beginning of Japan’s southward advance, something that was supported in particular by the Japanese Navy (even though Japan had traditionally concentrated on northeast Asia, particularly places such as the Korean Peninsula and Manchuria, regarding them as nationally beneficial since the beginning of the Meiji Restoration) (Schencking 2005: 92-93). When Japan began to shift its focus to Southeast Asia, Hong Kong became one of the places that needed to be controlled along the route to

8 Zenrin kyōkai, founded in 1917, was integrated as one of the sub-organizations under Zenrinkai, which was established in December 1938. A Taiwan scholar regards Zenrinkai as a civil organization devoted to Japan’s southward advance. For more information on these two institutions, see Liu 1997: 340-352.

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the south (and beyond).9 Thus, Japan now came to regard Honkon Nippō’s function as vital, it also came to consider the role of Hong Kong as vital in the expansion of the Empire southwards. Since the Taiwanese colonial government’s decision to purchase Honkon Nippō as a component of Japan’s invasion of China, activities of the newspaper had to consistently reflect the significance of its Hong Kong location. Honkon Nippō’s office, where the Japanese consular office and other business companies were located, implied the central position of Hong Kong in the Japanese network because it was acquired in its entirety in 1939. The following extract is a description of Honkon Nippō at an early stage of the war by another local newspaper, Ta Kung Pao, generally biased against Japan because of its own patriotic background: Etō Toshihiko, the General Manager of Honkon Nippō, which is a Japanese propaganda tool, has recently purchased a whole building on Connaught Road as its head office. The building, sold for $260,000, is located near Cable and Wireless Ltd and Butterf ield & Swire. The office of Honkon Nippō will be moving into the building. Allegedly, Etō is preparing to publish an English version as an international advertisement to raise global sympathy for Japan through the use of positive press coverage.10

This indicates two clues to the connection between Honkon Nippō, the role of Hong Kong, and the network constructed for Japanese expansion. First, the support from Taiwan was certainly the turning point for Honkon Nippō as it now was able to have its own office, something it had not been capable of doing since its foundation, yet managed to do in the year after its purchase by the Taiwanese government. (The financial contribution from Japan at this time was decidedly greater than the subsidy it had received in the 1920s and signif ied an alteration in the Japanese government’s perceptions of the functions of Honkon Nippō, along with the strategic significance of Hong Kong.) Second, the Japanese presence in Hong Kong increased signif icantly, with Japan trying to expand southward using Hong Kong as a stepping stone. Because of the geographical location of Hong Kong, which is situated at the centre of East Asia and links Northeast and Southeast Asia, Hong Kong turned out to be a critical place when 9 Other places included the Philippines, Malaya, Java, and Burma, see Yang 2010: 298. 10 ‘Riren Ni Zaigang Ban Yingwenbao’ 日人擬在港辦英文報 [The Japanese Proposes to Publish an English Newspaper in Hong Kong], Ta Kung Pao, 27 June 1939, p. 6.

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the Japanese Empire and its related networks could extend all over the so-called ‘Great East Asia’ area. Later, in December 1941, Japan replaced Britain as the ruler of Hong Kong, a period commonly known as ‘the occupation of three years and eight months’, during which Honkon Nippō operated as a semi-off icial propaganda tool and, unoff icially, portrayed itself as an institution of news reporting. On 2 December 1942, when the Association of Japanese Journalists in Hong Kong was established under the guidance of the Government-General of Occupied Hong Kong, the general off ices of Honkon Nippō and Yomiuri-Hōchi were elected to be founding secretaries in which the influential role of Honkon Nippō was manifested because it was assumed to be the equivalent of one of the most prominent newspapers in the homeland, Japan.11 Also, through the recruitment of two staff members from the former Hōchi Shinbun and Asahi Shinbun in 1943, whom Etō directly contacted in Japan, it demonstrated that Honkon Nippō was one of the top newspapers in Japanese, maintaining a close connection with Japan.12 Considering the role of Honkon Nippō, both on the local level tying it to Hong Kong, and on the regional level tying it to Japan during the Occupation, Honkon Nippō reached its highest status with the Japanese government, while the situation of Honkon Nippō at this time also suggested how crucial a position Hong Kong was coming to occupy within the Japanese Empire. Through the accounts of Honkon Nippō, the trend of the Japanese presence in Hong Kong can be seen as something that was relatively indiscernible in the 1870s to something that was quite noticeable by the late 1930s, thus marking a parallel shift in Hong Kong’s position in East Asia from the perspective of the Japanese Empire. As has already been mentioned, although communication between Hong Kong and Japan started in the 1870s, real and frequent contact only began to be felt after the Tatsumaru Incident in 1908, when the Japanese Consul proposed publishing their own newspaper to promote Japan’s policies in Hong Kong. Honkon Nippō, then, acted as a link between the two places until World War II, gathering information for the further development of the Japanese Empire. During World War II the association of Honkon Nippō and other Japanese newspapers, as well as the attitude of the Japanese 11 ‘Honkon Kishakai Seidai na Hakkaishiki Agu’ 香港記者会盛大な発会式挙ぐ [The Grand Inauguration Ceremony of the Hong Kong Journalist Club], Honkon Nippō, 4 December 1942, p.2. 12 ‘Honsha Jūyō Nenshi’ 本社重要年誌 [Chronological Table of the Office], Honkon Nippō, 7 January 1943, p.1.

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government with regard to Honkon Nippō, further disclosed a hidden network linking Hong Kong to other parts of the Japanese Empire. Hong Kong, therefore, had gradually become a strategic hub and increasingly important to Japan as the Empire expanded into East Asia. The position of Hong Kong, therefore, depended closely on how the colony was related to Japan.

Hong Kong as Asia’s centre through its relations with Japan Traditionally, Hong Kong was only viewed as a trading port since its beginnings as a British colony, and was due to the British motivation to keep Hong Kong independent of the Qing regime. However, Hong Kong was not just an economic centre; the relationship with Japan was the key factor in making Hong Kong into the centre of East Asia. This section will demonstrate that the Japanese presence and the central position of Hong Kong were proportionately related, which means that the more noticeable the Japanese presence in Hong Kong became, the more strategic and central Hong Kong’s role became in the region of East Asia. By the early 1910s, the relationship between Hong Kong and Japan was not very close, although external communication between Hong Kong and other places was already available. As has already been mentioned, Japan was not at first particularly interested in southern China (compared to northern China) and Hong Kong had not yet been particularly connected to Japan, either culturally or politically, except with respect to economic matters. Most people agree that Hong Kong has been a regional and international business centre since the late nineteenth century (Chiu and Lui 2009: 24). But whether Hong Kong was the real centre in East Asia was rather doubtful because Hong Kong, as noted earlier, was not the final destination for business within East Asia, neither was it a political focus. Every great power had demanded concessions and benefits in northern China; Hong Kong, thus, was only important to commerce and for trading convenience but was not politically significant. As shown in Figure 5.1, Hong Kong was not the focal point of East Asia because Japan’s interests, as well as other countries’, revolved around Shanghai, which was a node of both Japanese and foreign submarine cables, while Hong Kong was on the periphery of this network. Later, when Japan began to pay more attention to the south, especially following the late Meiji period, Hong Kong turned out to be closely connected with Japan and the south.

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Figure 5.1  Japanese submarine cables in East Asia, 1915

Author’s drawing based on Yang 2010: 43

To achieve the goal of networking, after it had realized its interest in and benefit from the south, Japan founded several channels and infrastructures for information flow in Hong Kong. Shortly after the Tatsumaru Incident, and around the time of the inauguration of Honkon Nippō, Gaimushō also began to deliver Japanese news directly to newspapers in China by setting up an independent news agency in 1909. This action, obviously encouraged by Foreign Minister Komura Jutarō, aimed at affecting or even controlling public opinion for the protection of national

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interests abroad. 13 News and other communications from Tokyo was transferred via two routes: one was the northern division, through Mukden to Beijing and then Tianjin; the other was the southern division, through Shanghai to Hong Kong and then Canton. These routes actually reflected the Japanese concern to direct its foreign expansion, namely to the north and south, with Shanghai in the north having the geographically superior position to Hong Kong in the south since telegrams were dispatched via the Nagasaki-Shanghai-Hong Kong route via submarine cables until the 1910s. As a consequence, Hong Kong at this time could still be considered an outpost of the Japanese informal empire as the influence of Japan had not yet extended to southern China and was, as yet, still at a relative disadvantage in comparison to the European powers. The use of consular offices abroad was another aspect of this information flow. After the foundation of the Republic of China in 1912, China entered its Warlord Era, during which Japan as well as other imperialists struggled with each other and the warlords in order to maintain existing advantages and interests or expand their influence over the mainland. Information gathering became extremely important for the assessment of Chinese political development. Particularly in Canton, where the Nationalist Government had been situated since 1925, the conflict between warlords in the north and the Chinese Nationalist Party in the south led the path of Chinese political progress, with Japan eagerly collecting information on the situation through its consular offices in Canton and Hong Kong. However, due to the regional instabilities, telegraphic transfers between Canton and Japan were not efficient, and the Consul in Hong Kong acted as a middleman in assisting smooth message transmissions between the two places.14 Besides providing assistance, the Consul in Hong Kong also participated in intelligence-gathering about Chinese politics, especially in

13 Foreign Minister Komura Jutarō to Japanese Consul in Hong Kong, ‘Shinbun Denhō Tsūshin ni Kansuru Ken’ [A dispatch of newspaper, telegraph and communication], 30 July 1909. JACAR Ref.B03040684400 (29th to 30th pictures). ‘Shinkoku ni okeru Shinbun Sōjū no Tame Naigai Shinbunsha Denpō Tsūshin Haifu Zakken Dai Ni Kan, Honkon kore Bu’ [Section of Hong Kong, a miscellany of telegraphic deliveries to domestic and foreign newspapers offices for the press control in Qing China, Volume Two] (1.3.1) (Diplomatic Archives). 14 ‘Tōkyō Kanton kan Denpō Renraku ni Kansuru Ken’ [A dispatch of telegraphic communications between Tokyo and Canton]. JACAR Ref.B10074935500 (3rd to 4th pictures), ‘Honpō Kakkoku kan Denshin Renraku Riyō Zakken, Nichishi kan Kankei’ [Relations between Japan and China, a miscellany of the use of telegraphy between Japan and other countries] (F.2.2.1) (Diplomatic Archives).

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southern China; Honkon Nippō was related to this activity as well.15 Hence, Hong Kong acted as a steady gateway, both technically and physically, between Japan and China. The potential significance of the location of Hong Kong was clearly recognized by the Japanese government as early as 1897. In that year, Japan proposed that Britain lay a submarine cable between Hong Kong and Taiwan; the reason behind this suggestion was that it would benefit Japan. Since December 1882 Japan had granted the Great Northern company a monopoly on submarine cables between Japan and the Asian continent as well as to some coastal islands for a period of twenty years; this was due to expire in 1902.16 Given that the submarine cable between Japan and Taiwan would be completed in 1897, and that Japan could nationalize those cables under the Great Northern five years later, Japan attempted to connect itself with Hong Kong via Taiwan for a better and more convenient communication with areas west of Hong Kong in the future.17 Although this idea never came to fruition, it revealed quite obviously Japan’s advance strategy in China and even further to Southeast Asia, west of Hong Kong, plotting the route of Japan-Taiwan-Hong Kong-Southeast Asia that required Hong Kong to act as an interchange. With the increasing importance of the south to the Japanese Empire, Hong Kong was progressively posited in Japanese regional strategy. The Gaimushō submitted a book titled Shinbun Seisaku ni Kansuru Shinkeikaku An (New proposal to the media policy) in 1919 to initiate a reform of media promotion in China. In this proposal, twenty-nine places were categorized into three groups according to the priority given by the Gaimushō to spread cultural influence through newspapers and other media, and Hong Kong was labelled as the second-highest essential locality (Policy Bureau of the Foreign Ministry 1919: 10-11). Despite its lower rank than Shanghai, where Japan was keen to maintain its interests, Hong Kong was still considered crucial even when Japan did not have much direct interest there. In another 15 Consul Yoshida Tanichirō to Foreign Minister Shidehara Kijyūrō, 26 January 1931. JACAR Ref.B08060830000 (2nd to 3rd pictures), ‘Chūkoku ni okeru Sozei oyobi Futankin Kankei Zakken/ Rikin Kankei Dai Ni Kan’ [Miscellaneous information of rental tax and burden charge in China/ Likin, Volume Two] (E.1.3.2) (Diplomatic Archives). 16 The background to the granting of the monopoly was the Japanese desire to expand its influence in Korea; Japan required the technological assistance of the GNTC in international cable communications. See Yang 2010: 30-31. 17 Communication Minister Nomura Yasushi to Foreign Affairs Minister Ōkuma Shigenobu, 26 June 1897. JACAR Ref.B04011012400 (3rd to 4th pictures), ‘Taiwan Honkon kan Kaitei Densen Chinsetsu no Ken’ [A dispatch of laying submarine cable between Taiwan and Hong Kong] (1.7.4) (Diplomatic Archives).

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aspect of the wireless connection between Japan and East Asia, primarily China, in 1924, Japan showed a clear map of how to extend its network from northern China to reach as far as Southeast Asia, with Hong Kong as a major hub in central and southern China, while Shanghai (and Canton), as other important cities, would have the same function.18 From the examples of the newspaper and wireless connections, this meant that Japan had already regarded Hong Kong as one of the critical places in its expansion plan in East Asia, and this viewpoint was subsequently proven after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941. During the wartime period the central position of Hong Kong in the region of the ‘Great East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere’ was fundamentally consolidated, particularly when Japan confirmed its control of Southeast Asia. Hong Kong was, in effect, the checkpoint from Japan to the region. As shown in Figure 5.2, Hong Kong and Canton were originally planned to be two intermediate cities in ‘Great East Asia’ in 1940, connecting Japan with Southeast Asia by land cables; Hong Kong could also link to the Philippines via submarine cables in a way that Canton could not. Although this proposal was not fully executed (because of the later reliance of wireless networks to directly interact in those areas), the strategic position of Hong Kong at the initial stage of the war was clearly perceived. Apart from Southeast Asia, Japan constructed a microwave telephone link between Hong Kong and Canton through the International Telecommunication Corporation, a private organization founded in 1933 to facilitate a better wireless communication within Japan, Japan’s colonies, and other Asia countries during its occupation of Hong Kong, which was the only one of its type in the Japanese-ruled areas (Yang 2010: 304). The intention behind this action was to reinforce the role of the hub for Hong Kong and for Canton to act as an information hub in southern China, as they were both geographically near to Southeast Asia. To sum up this section, Japan was the driving force that helped Hong Kong become the centre of East Asia, which had been limited and neglected under the Euro-centric approach. By comparing the Japanese influence in Hong Kong’s external communication in previous sections with Figure 5.3, we can see that descriptions of the worldwide network before World War II were totally different. The former indicates the important position of Hong Kong during the Japanese expansion to the 18 JACAR Ref.B10074939800 (12th picture), ‘Honpō Kakkoku kan Musen Denshin Renraku Riyō Zakken’ [‘A miscellany of the use of wireless telegraphy between Japan and other countries’] (F.2.2.2) (Diplomatic Archives).

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Figure 5.2  Planned cable routes in the East Asia Stability Sphere, 1940

Author’s drawing based on Yang 2010: 288

south, while the latter views not only Hong Kong but the entire Asian region as the periphery of a global network. Why colonial Hong Kong was considered to be only a business centre in the pre-war period could be attributed to this Euro-centric approach and because the existence of Hong Kong was the result of a business quarrel between the West and Qing China. As a consequence, whether Hong Kong was the centre of East Asia depends on from where one cares to interpret the issue. The closer Japan’s connection with Hong Kong, the more observably Hong Kong performed as the centre of the region.

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Figure 5.3  The cable and wireless network, 1934

Author’s drawing based on Hughill’s redrawing of ‘Cable and Wireless via Imperial’, 1938, Cable and Wireless Archives (Hugill 1999: 50)

Conclusion This chapter tries to emphasize the central position of colonial-era Hong Kong in East Asia before the end of World War II. Although Hong Kong had long been thought of as a business hub since it became a British colony, it did not necessarily mean that Hong Kong was merely an economic centre, let alone at the periphery of mainland China, East Asia, or the world. From the development of Honkon Nippō, the long-lasting Japanese newspaper in Hong Kong, the location of Hong Kong was meaningful to Japan when it expanded into southern China and Southeast Asia. The Japanese government maintained relations with the Nippō to collect information and to promote Japan in the region. Not just the newspaper, indeed, Japan had also established other means, such as the consular system and telecommunication networks to connect itself with the south, and Hong Kong was a key locality to all of these methods. Thus, Japan is an important factor in assessing whether Hong Kong was the centre of East Asia apart from economic aspects. In conclusion, the central position of Hong Kong in East Asia can be asserted through studying the Hong Kong-Japan relationship.

6

Chain Reactions Japanese Colonialism and Global Cosmopolitanism in East Asia Faye Yuan Kleeman

Abstract The nations of East Asia have long shared intertwined historical, cultural, and economic interests, and globalization has further promoted economic and cultural integration. In the f irst half of the twentieth century, modern ideas and material goods circulated among cities like Dalian, Harbin, Tokyo, Seoul, Shanghai, Taipei, Hong Kong, and Saigon, forming a network of urban centres that fostered a uniquely East Asian cosmopolitanism. All of these cities were shaped by one or multiple colonial experiences and all were at one time or another ruled by the only Asian colonizer, Japan.

Introduction Compared to other colonial powers, Japan’s meteoric rise to Imperial dominance in Asia, though rapid, was relatively short-lived. Unlike Britain’s hold on India, which fundamentally changed the intellectual and linguistic landscapes of that nation, with repercussions that still resonate to this day, Japan’s colonial and cultural impact in Asia was and is mostly limited to East Asia. Surely, there was the obligatory introduction of institutions that encompassed colonial modernity: infrastructures for the railway system, hygiene, legal, and education apparatuses, together with the installation of a civil society that was not necessarily equal. Though relatively short-lived, Japan’s colonial legacy was perhaps best manifested in the legacy of its colonial cities. Many cities in China, Taiwan, and Korea were created in the colonial period to accommodate the functions and needs of the Empire. The nations of East Asia have long shared intertwined historical, cultural, and economic interests, and globalization further promoted economic and cultural integration. In the first half of the twentieth century, modern ideas and material goods circulated among cities like Dalian, Harbin, Tokyo, Seoul, Shanghai, Taipei, Hong Kong, and Saigon, forming a network of urban centres that fostered a uniquely East Asian cosmopolitanism. All

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of these cities were shaped by one or more colonial experiences and all were at one time or another ruled by the only Asian colonizer, Japan. This brand of East Asian colonial modernity interwove colonialism, technology, and movements (of ideals, human resources, and material culture) that were disseminated from the metropole, circulated among the colonies, and formed a cultural sphere that encompassed local, regional, and global effects. The trajectory of the cultural flow was not always unilateral. On various occasions, encounters with the local, native culture came to crossfertilize and, ultimately, transform both cultures. The current condition of linked postcolonial metropolises mirrors the colonial city chain. Despite roughly half a century of anxiety caused by the Cold War, tensions over territorial disputes, and geopolitical realignment, we once again see a robust transregional trade and commerce, augmented by lively intercultural flows in the products of soft power. Cultural exports from Japan (anime, manga, J-pop, film, food, style, art, etc.) and South Korea (the Kanryū boom) disseminate a ‘cool aesthetic’ that is consumed and shared by youth in these urban areas. The ubiquity of new media has led to the synchronic consumption and reproduction of both popular and highbrow Japanese culture throughout the region. One might say that consumers in East Asia are at times more familiar with the cultural products from elsewhere in the region than with those closer to home. For instance, many Hong Kong residents know more about Japanese manga than they do about Hong Kong film, which has a greater following in Shanghai than in Hong Kong (Thornber 2009: 465). This chapter examines the larger context of this chain of ex-colonial cities and their gradual emergence as global cities at different junctures in the postcolonial era. First, a brief survey of the history and features of Japanese colonial cities will be provided. The chapter then will move on to examine, in particular, two cities: Taipei and Seoul, which serve as examples of cities that successfully transitioned from colonial city to global city in recent decades. Taipei is the oldest of Japan’s colonial outposts and, consequently, the urban centre influenced most profoundly by this encounter. Seoul, on the other hand, has emerged as one of the top global cities in recent years. Both nations experienced Japanese colonial rules for decades. They also faced the disruption of their unity as one singular nation after the war and were soon folded into the geopolitics of the bilateral United States-Soviet Union Cold War schema. Further, the two nations experienced rapid economic growth as part of Asia’s ‘Four Dragons’ group of economic powerhouses. The Japanese colonial legacy left a deep and lasting imprint on these two East Asian cities, to the extent that one cannot talk about the contemporary

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cityscapes in Taiwan and Korea without considering the impact of Japanese colonial city planning. However, despite these corresponding similarities, Taipei and Seoul took very different paths in the process of decolonization that reflects an intriguing divergence in how they constructed their postcolonial memories and refashioned their cityscapes accordingly. The similarities and differences in how the twin cities evolved reveal how the past and present are intertwined, each reshaping and reconstructing the other. The comparative framework also illustrates how each city exploited its respective colonial past and revitalized its ties to Japan through adoption/rejection of (nostalgic) language use, strategic preservation, erasure, and repurposing of colonial architectural structures and cityscapes. Finally, the chapter looks at both cities within the framework of global cities and asks: What makes a colonial city colonial? What makes a global city global? What made a colonial city transform into a global one? Does the colonial past hinder or facilitate these cities going global? What do these two diverse cities tell us about the process of turning from colonial to global? What role does the East Asian network, first facilitated by the Japanese Empire, and further promoted in the post-war era through close strategic and economic ties, play in cultivating a specific kind of cosmopolitanism? Though the scope of this chapter, narrowly focused as it is on two postcolonial East Asian cities, and, in turn, restricted by specific social, political, and geographical conditions, it is my hope that it will provide a comparative overview on how both coloniality and postcolonialty, through global and local interfaces, determined the course of the transformation.

History and typology of Japanese colonial cities Japan acquired its first colony after its victory over the Qing dynasty in the first Sino-Japanese War in 1895. It set up its Governor General Headquarters in Taipei as a counterpoint to the traditional cultural and economic capital of Tainan. Rice production as well as sugar plantations in Taiwan provided a badly needed food source for the metropole. Later, as World War II intensified, the island became an important strategic base for Japan’s ‘South Advancement’ (nanshin南進) policy, something that is also explored in the previous chapter by Wai Shing Lee. Japan’s acquisition of Korea was the culmination of a process begun in the Japan-Korea Treaty of 1876, whereby a complex coalition of Meiji government officials, businessmen, and military officials sought to subjugate Korea both politically and economically as a ‘protectorate’. The Japan-Korea

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Treaty of 1905 formally declared Korea (Chōsen) a protectorate, and in 1910 the Meiji Government officially annexed the Hermit Kingdom and brought to a close the Joseon (Choson) dynasty. Japanese control of the Korean people continued until Japan’s defeat at the end of World War II at which time Korea became an independent nation albeit divided under two separate governments and economic systems. Crimes and indignities committed against the Korean people during the Japanese administration of Korea continue to be the subject of contention and controversy between these two nations. With its two jewels acquired, the Japanese Empire continued its rapid expansion, extending to the South Pacific Islands in the 1920s, and northbound to Manchuria in the 1930s. After the explosive beginning of World War II between China and Japan in 1937, Japan further occupied portions of northern and central China, forcing the Nationalist government, led by Chiang Kai-shek, to retreat to the southwestern city of Chongqing. At the height of its imperial dominance, the Japanese Empire was four times as large as Japan proper and the population under its colonial rule was equal to that of Japan. Compared to European colonial empires such as those of the British or the French, the Japanese colonies were distinguished by their proximity to the homeland, with economic structures such as rice agriculture and levels of industrialization that were relatively similar to Japan. Large-scale emigration of Japanese to the colonies gave rise to many cities, often on a scale and with a layout similar to those in the metropole. In the 1940s, of the six largest cities in Japan (excluding the two metropolises of Tokyo (6.78 million) and Osaka (3.25 million)), the remaining four cities (Kyoto, Nagoya, Kōbe, and Yokohama) each had a population of around one million. By comparison, the population of major colonial metropolises such as Fengtian (currently Shenyang, capital of Manchuria, 1.4 million) and Seoul (0.94 million) were comparable (Taipei was an exception with only 0.33 million people).1 Hyeng Ki Joo, in a study of Seoul spanning the Joseon kingdom and the Japanese colonial period, points out that during the first decade of Japanese colonization (1910-1920), the native Korean population of Seoul actually decreased due to the mass influx of Japanese immigrants. Hyeng attributes the decrease to the severity of military rule during the first decade but 1 Between the 1920s and the 1940s, the average population growth was about 15 percent measured in five-year intervals in Japan, China, India, Latin America, and Africa. Compared to the sixteen major cities in Manchuria (48 percent), Korea, and Taiwan (35 percent) Japanese colonial cities grew at a much faster pace. See Hashitani 2004: 8-9; Mizuuchi 1985: 365-370.

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changes to the cost of living must also have been a factor. Beginning in 1920, industrialization attracted back the native population (Hyeng 2004: 316-317). Hyeng’s study reminds us that population growth in the colonies was neither monolithic nor unidirectional and one must also pay attention to varied migration patterns in each locus. In Taiwan, Japan practiced mainly an economy of plantation agriculture, so the colonial Japanese population was relatively small with mostly government officials, teachers, and policemen and relatively small numbers of civilians who engaged in commerce. The industrial economy in Korea brought in more Japanese settlers, with many of them working-class labourers who competed with the native population (Lee 2010: 2-10). However, these similarities did not mean that Japanese colonial cities were monolithic. A variety of cityscapes emerged due to assorted elements such as geographical location, utility and functionality, and the dynamic interplay with the existent old cities. According to Hashitani Hiroshi, there were roughly three types of Japanese colonial cities (Hiroshi 2004: 11-45). First, completely new cities formed due to Japanese colonial rule. These cities included port cities such as Pusan 釜山, Incheon仁川, and Wonsan 元山in Korea; Kaohsiung 高雄 and Keelung 基隆in Taiwan; and Dalny/Dalian 大連 in Manchuria. There were also mining and industrial towns such as Fushun 撫順, Anshan 鞍山, and Benxihu 本溪湖 (Manchuria) and Heungnam 興南(Korea) and Kaohsiung高雄 (Taiwan). The second type of colonial city was cities built around traditional cities with new layers due to colonial governance such as Taipei 台北, Tainan 台南 in Taiwan or Seoul京城/首爾, Pyongyang 平壤, and Kaesong 開 城 in Korea. The third type are what may be called ‘parallel’ cities with new sections of town built alongside existing cities such as Fengtian 奉 天 (modern Shenyang 瀋陽), Shinkyō 新京 (modern Changchun長春) and Harbin 哈爾濱. The questions most pertinent to this chapter are: What happened to these colonial cities in the postcolonial era? What are some of the impacts one sees in this transition? In this game of reshuffling and geopolitical re-alignment, not all cities were created equal. What, then, allowed some cities to successfully transit and transform from colonial cities to global cities while others failed? I seek to think through these issues through the close examination of two cities, namely Taipei and Seoul, that transformed themselves successfully from colonial cities to postcolonial global metropolises. Although the historical narrative of how these two cities came to become part of the Japanese Empire sounds familiar, the decolonization process nevertheless took divergent routes.

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The Cold War and postcoloniality in Taiwan and Korea The decolonization process in Korea and Taiwan followed paths that were similar in some ways but divergent in others. To understand the complexity of the processes and their postcolonial transformations, one must factor in both internal factors of national politics and the external Cold War geopolitics in East Asia. Taiwan reverted back to Chinese territorial sovereignty in 1945, but the brief reunion with China lasted only four years. When the Chinese Communist Party won the civil war over Chiang Kai-sheik’s Nationalist Party (Kuomintang or KMT) and Chiang was forced to flee to the island, he transformed Taipei into the temporary capital of the Republic of China. Even during the brief period of union with the mainland, the relationship between the native islanders, who had been colonized by Japan for half a century and had been assimilated to Japan in language and customs, and the newcomers from China, with their divergent language and habits, was not affable. Conflicts arose from Chinese opinions that deemed the islanders lacking in patriotic allegiance to the Motherland and ‘slavish’ in conforming to Japanese ways. The native population, despite their generally enthusiastic initial embrace of reunion with China, soured upon extended contact with the mainlanders, whom they saw as backward, arrogant, and prejudiced against the islanders. The conflict and mutual distrust culminated in the bloody uprising that began on 28 February 1947, commonly referred to as the 228 Incident, which resulted in the death of 18,000 to 28,000 civilians. It wiped out the native elite intellectual population and remained a taboo topic throughout the whole martial law era (1949-1987). This internal strife was compounded by the ongoing wartime hostility towards the communist Chinese mainland. Similarly to South Korea, Taiwan served as a military base for United States forces (1955-1979) and assisted the United States in prosecuting the Korean and Vietnam Wars. The brief postcolonial union and subsequent ideological break between Taiwan and China was mirrored in Korea, which was divided into North and South after the end of the Korean War in 1953. Similarly, both countries endured a long period of one-party dictatorial rule. South Korea was controlled by the authoritarian regimes of Syngman Rhee (1948-60) and Park Chung-hee (1963-1979) much as Chiang Kai-shek and his family dominated Taiwan for a quarter century (1950-1975). The despotic governments were in some sense tolerated by the United States as part of its Cold War strategy of containment versus the Soviet Union and China. In exchange for cooperation, aid, and support for economic development promoted rapid

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growth in South Korea and Taiwan that put them in the ranks of Asia’s Four Dragons. It was not until the1990s that democracy emerged and both could afford to re-examine and re-articulate their postcolonial subject position, which had not been possible during the Cold War era. Despite many corresponding factors in post-war ideological, political, and economic conditions, the two countries parted way in their trajectories of decolonization since the 1990s. In Korea, a psychological reunion of the North and the South (mostly initiated by the South’s Sunshine Policy) sought to rid them of the shared memory of the traumatic Japanese colonial rule. Recently, while maintaining affable co-operation with the United States, Korea has also taken the initiative to enhance trade, diplomatic, and strategic ties with China. The situation in Taiwan is more complicated due to its multi-ethnic and multilinguistic situation and the layering of its colonial past. Historically, indigenous aboriginal tribes with ties to the Austronesian peoples of the South Pacific inhabited Taiwan. In the seventeenth century, Dutch and Spanish occupied the island as part of their Far Eastern trading empires (1624-1662). In subsequent years, the island was ruled by the Ming dynasty loyalist General Zheng Chenggong (1662-1683) and by the Manchu Qing dynasty (1683-1895), until the Qing signed it over to Japan in the Treaty of Shimonoseki as part of the compensation it paid to Japan after the First Sino-Japanese War. Ethnically, other than a small minority of the aborigines, the majority of the island inhabitants are Han Chinese (mostly Fukienese and some Hakka) from the southeastern coastal provinces. This ethnic, linguistic, and cultural diversity, coupled with the multiple colonization by various Western and Asian powers, made the decolonization process a dynamic and complex one. Thus in deciphering the transformation and reconfiguration of the postcolonial cityscapes in Seoul and Taipei, one needs to attend to the fissures between official stance and popular sentiment, together with colonial past and the vision of a postcolonial/global future. These issues will be addressed shortly below using concrete case studies to illustrate the process of decolonization and the reconfiguration of the twin cities from colonial city to postcolonial global ones.

Decolonization and the refashioning of a postcolonial cityscape: a case study in comparative perspectives The simultaneous processes of democratization, decolonization, and globalization imposed variegated pressures that refashioned Seoul and Taipei

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Figure 6.1  Bank of Korea (present day)

Author’s photo

into postcolonial global metropolises. Different views of their colonial pasts led each city to adopt a distinctive approach to fashioning its contemporary cityscape. The following analysis proposes four main key concepts for assessing the role of the Japanese colonial legacy in the development of these cities. Continuance Like many ex-colonial cities, Taipei and Seoul were demarcated by landmark architectures (government offices, train stations, public halls, banks, hospitals, and schools) that were built in the colonial period. Many of these structures were sturdily built, typically in a neoclassical, baroque, or Tropical Colonial style, and stood up well to the ravages of time. These structures often continued to serve the same purpose, though sometimes with a new name, such as Bank of Chōsen, which was renamed the Bank of Korea (see Figure 6.1). An example of a more extensively altered continuity is the National Taiwan Museum. It was first built in 1915 as a commemorative hall for the two most influential colonial civil officials, named the Memorial Hall for Governor General Kodama and Civil Governor Gotō. Originally, this magnificent building was built to house the Bureau of Lottery. Later, when the lottery was deemed to imperil national morals, it was used as a commercial

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Figure 6.2  National Taiwan Museum 1949-present

Author’s photo

exhibition hall.2 Since 1949, it has served as the National Museum of Taiwan (see Figure 6.2). Erasure One type of architecture that was almost completely eradicated in the postcolonial period is the Japanese Shinto shrines that were erected extensively throughout its colonies (for example, 68 in Taiwan and 82 in Korea). ‘Where there are Japanese, there are Shinto shrines; and where there are Shinto shrines, there are Japanese’ was the refrain that one heard 2 Though in this article I focus on the colonial to postcolonial transition, the prehistory of this specific building is much more complicated. The specific location was originally a major Temple of the Empress of Heaven [Tienhougong] [天后宮]. Dedicated to Mazu, the most important patron goddess of fishermen and sailors, the main deity was fervently worshiped by the natives. It was demolished in 1905 to accommodate the Taiwan Governor General Museum (established in 1908). In 1915 the current building, designed by Nomura Ichirō and Araki Eiichi, combining Neo-Greco and Baroque styles, was built on the site as the Memorial Hall for Governor General Kodama and Civil Governor Gotō. The park surrounding the museum was called the New Park since the colonial period, until 1996 when it was renamed 228 Park to commemorate a civilian massacre.

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Figure 6.3  Remains of torii gate (present day)

Author’s photo

often from religious leaders. Aoki Akihito traces the history of two of the most important colonial shrines: Taiwan Shrine (Taiwan jinja, established in 1901) and the Imperial Shrine of Chōsen (Chōsen jingū, established in 1925) to illuminate the character of Japanese colonial cities.3 He points to the unique fact that unlike other colonial cities built by Western colonial powers, which privileged hard infrastructure (i.e. roads, waterworks, government offices buildings) in their city planning, Japanese shrines were built simultaneously with other larger civil-engineering projects. They were usually built imposingly on the ridgeline of hills that overlook the city, with a main thoroughfare connecting the shrine (the spiritual centre) and the city centre where off icial business and commercial activities took place. As a national religion, Shintoism complemented the colonial 3 Jinja refers to a regular shrine while a jingū (as in Korea) refers to a shrine that is directly related to the Imperial family. The shrine built in Korea in 1925 was a higher ranking one. Although the Taiwan shrine was the first one Japan built overseas (1901), it was designated as jinja until 1944 when the shrine added the female deity Amaterasu no Ōmikoto, who is considered to be the ancestress of the Imperial lineage; the shrine was then upgraded to Imperial status.

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governance in constituting a spiritual and administrative whole (Akihito 1997; 2005). It is perhaps this religio-cultural aspect, as opposed to the utilitarian function of the architectural structures, that made removal of the shrines a priority in the decolonization process. In many cases the shrines were demolished but their torii gates were left standing (see Figure 6.3). Disruption and restoration Sometimes a site can be the locus for contention which results in a process of disruption and restoration. The primary example of this would be the Governor General’s Headquarters of Chōsen (Chōsen sōtokufu). In 1926 the Japanese authorities built the Governor’s Office on the site right opposite the old Yi dynasty palace, the Palace of Brilliance and Auspiciousness (Gyeongbokgung 景福宮경복궁), relocating its main gate, (Gwanghwamun 光化門광화문), which had been first erected in the fourteenth century. During the colonial era, the palace was left to deteriorate. Many Koreans considered the construction of the colonial government’s headquarters in this location, blocking the view of the palace from the street, as an act of disrespect, if not provocation. It was a continuing cause of anti-Japanese sentiment. After the war, debates raged between nationalists, who viewed the existence of the structure as a humiliation and wanted to demolish it, and others who thought it should be preserved as a reminder of the past. The gate was restored in 2010 to its original site. 4

4 The gate in a sense came to symbolize the micro-history of (post)colonial Korea. Built in 1395 together with the Gyeongbokgung Palace, it was originally called the Fourth Main Gate [Sajongmun] [四正門] as one of the four city gates. In 1425, it changed to its current name. In 1592, the Japanese warlord Toyotomi Hideyoshi burned down the palace and this gate in his attempt to conquer the Korean peninsula. They were rebuilt in 1864 (completed in 1868). The gate, like many other dynastic palatial structures was originally supposed to be demolished (some say up to 80 percent of them have been destroyed) by the colonial authorities. However, at the urging of the Japanese folk-art scholar Yanagi Muneyoshi (1889-1961), the gate escaped the fate of being dismantled and was preserved at another location. It was burned during the Korean War and in 1972 the then president rebuilt the gate using concrete. In 2010 the gate was restored to its original location. Later, the re-instated Hangul plaque was changed back to its original Chinese characters using a photograph taken in 1900. See Park and Furukawa 2005.

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Figure 6.4  Taiwan’s Presidential Palace (present day)

Author’s photo

Repurposing, revalorization, and commodification The same sort of Governor General’s Headquarters existed in Taiwan, too, but its preservation was never controversial. The Taiwanese way of dealing with the colonial legacy was to repurpose it as the Presidential Palace. Similar to the National Taiwan Museum mentioned above, the continuing utilization of colonial-period structures is less offensive to the native population. This may have to do with the different decolonization experiences of these two countries. Korea, though now politically divided, is ethnically and linguistically homogeneous and unified, whereas in Taiwan, multiple ethnic and linguistic tensions between the new ruling class who privileged a foreign tongue, Mandarin Chinese, and the native population who spoke the southern Minnan dialect (actually mutually unintelligible languages) led some native Taiwanese (particularly the generation who experienced most fully the colonial era, sometimes referred to as the Japanophone generation) to feel a kind of colonial nostalgia towards the Japanese era. Whereas both Koreas were united in displaying nationalist resentment towards Japan, a large segment of Taiwanese society harboured goodwill towards Japan, especially

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in contrast to their dissatisfaction towards the Nationalist government’s imposition of a mainland-centric political, language, and cultural policy. In Taiwan, other than the Shinto shrines that were demolished in a systematic way relatively early in the KMT Nationalist government’s rule, most of the major architectural remnants remain in use, albeit with different functions and capacities. The prime example of this is the colonial-period’s Governor’s Headquarters discussed above. Built in 1919, the late-Renaissance-style red-brick structure (quite similar to the main train station in Tokyo) with a central tower, stands proudly as if proclaiming its unchallenged status as the constant nerve centre of political power in the island nation (see Figure 6.4). The repurposing of the old colonial power centre to a new Nationalist (KMT) one shows pragmatism and a different, slightly more nuanced interpretation of its colonial past. This type of re-evaluation of the past and a more flexible way to accommodate the present can be seen again in the above-mentioned National Taiwan Museum. During its colonial heyday, life-size statues of the colonial officials Kodama Gentarō and Gotō Shinpei’s would have greeted visitors from alcoves on both sides of the entrance lobby. The statues were removed and stored away for over six decades until in 2008, to celebrate the centennial of the museum, a special exhibition room was set up on the third floor for these images of the two top bureaucrats. Now the lobby alcoves contain two large vases, which are dwarfed by the alcoves, while the original statues are housed on the third-floor exhibition room as part of a permanent display of the history of the museum. Instead of erasing relics of the colonial period, the past has been re-appropriated in a new environment to acclimatize with the contemporary socio-political context. The repurposing of colonial architecture was not limited to grand-scale official buildings. In fact, in recent years, Japanese-style residential houses left over from the colonial era have often been refurbished and repurposed. Considered old-fashion relics of the past, and lacking modern amenities, they have nevertheless become highly sought-after properties that provide a respite in a busy and noisy city. One of the prime examples is Qingtian 76. A humble Japanese-style wooden structure that originally housed a geology professor of the Taiwan Imperial University (now National Taiwan University), it has now been refashioned into a chic coffeehouse that is popular with youth. The coffeehouse, located on a narrow side street where many Japanese bureaucrats and university faculty used to live, is now among the most desirable residential streets in Taipei, with its one-storey structures, large yards, and mature trees lining the street. Many of the new

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construction projects also tout their Japanese-influenced architectural style (heshi 和式, hefeng 和風). Qingtian 76 is not a simple result of gentrification but an adaptive reuse that factored in all the historical and hybrid cultural nuances. The commodification of the colonial past signifies a relaxation of the taboo on the discourse about and consumption of Japanese coloniality. Though one might argue for a certain segment of the population it was always there as a subtext of postcolonial Taiwan, this type of repurposing taps into and overlaps with two trends of commodification and consumption. To promote tourism, Taipei has reached into its hidden past, drawing on both precolonial native and indigenous culture and the now exoticized colonial past to construct a layered, multicultural urban space. In short, ‘Old is new again’.5 With the ending of the taboo on things Japanese coinciding with the ending of martial law, the nostalgia and melancholy of a silenced longing for Japaneseness have been transferred to a younger generation who, with no colonial memory, pursue all the currents of Japanese pop culture with gusto. For them, it is a non-sentimental act of pleasure, just like their consumption of Euro-American cultural artefacts.

Conclusion: imagining a (pan)Asian city To return to some of the questions I posed at the beginning of this chapter: What makes a colonial city transform into a global one? Does the colonial past hinder or facilitate these cities going global? What does the postcolonial transformation of Seoul and Taipei tell us about the process of turning from colonial to global? Redfield and Singer have suggested that cities undergo two types of transformation, which they called ‘heterogenetic’ and ‘orthogenetic’ transformation. Heterogenetic transformation refers to urban cities that did not exist before colonization, a newly designed urban area that is incongruent with traditional local culture (for example, many of the colonial cities in Manchuria). Orthogenetic transformation points to traditional urban cultures that existed before the establishment of the colonial city. These cities tend to resume or continue their primacy in the postcolonial era. For example, Taipei has remained a centre of power 5 From food consumption to everyday life and practices, Taiwan consumers crave ‘oldfashioned’ merchandise as typif ied by packaging that promotes it as having ‘the old taste’ [guzaowei] [古早]味or related to ‘the old ways [guzaoshi] [古早式].

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throughout both periods and Seoul has served as the capital of South Korea since 1945; even the North Korea constitution designated it as its capital until 1972. Some Japanese colonial cities grew into global metropolises that serve as the political, economic, and cultural centres for the liberated nation. They are bubbling with vibrant commercial activity and cosmopolitan urbanity while others retreated to the status of minor, provincial cities. There are many possible reasons for these developments, including the natural advantages of certain locations, the degree of modernization fostered by colonialism, the effects of multiculturalism and hybridity resulting from cross-cultural contacts, etc. What we do see is that single-purpose cities (e.g., coal producers) did not make the transition into global cities. In the second half of the twentieth century, Korea and Taiwan were two of the most successful later industrializers in East Asia (excluding the city-nations such as Hong Kong and Singapore). Seoul is a two-thousandyear-old city that survived colonization and warfare before emerging as a rapidly rising global city, the centre of an economic boom known as ‘Miracle on the Han River’. Despite a shorter history, smaller geographical scale, and population,6 Taipei is more ethnically and linguistically diverse. The infusion and amalgam of many distinct regional cultures – aboriginal tribes, Fukienese Min and Cantonese Hakka immigrants, colonial Japanese, and continental Chinese cultures blending with Western influence – has created a hybrid nation. The differences in every aspect of the two cities can be gleaned from the following concrete data. Taipei was founded in the early eighteenth century. In terms of area, Seoul is 605 square kilometres, twice as big as Taipei’s 271 square kilometres. The population of Taipei is 2.2 million compared to Seoul, which has a population of 10 million. The GaWC Study (2010) ranks Seoul as an Alpha city and Taipei an Alpha-minus city; the Global Cities Index (2012) ranks Seoul 8th (up from 10th) and Taipei 40th (down from 39th); the Global Power City Index (2013) ranks Seoul as 6th while Taipei is 33rd; the Wealth Report (2013) ranks Seoul 13th while Taipei is not in the top 40; and finally, the Global City Competitiveness Index (2012) ranks Seoul 20th and Taipei 37th. 6 For detailed information see the GaWC study (2010): http://www.lboro.com/gawc/ world2010t2.html; Global Cities Index (2012): http://www.atkearney.com/documents/10192/ dfedfc4c-8a62-4162-90e5-2a3f14f0da3a; Global Power City Index (2013): www.academia. edu/5811901/Global_Power_City_Index_2013_NYC_Only_Contribution_Preview_Version; Global City Competitiveness Index (2012-2013): http://www3.weforum.org/docs/WEF_GlobalCompetitivenessReport_2012-13.pdf.

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The old East Asian Co-prosperity Sphere created by the Japanese Empire was transformed into a new East Asian network where Taiwan, Korea, and Japan enjoy robust transregional trade relations and cultural connections. The ubiquity of new media makes living on Tokyo/Seoul/Taipei time almost simultaneous. Both Seoul and Taipei trumpet variety, complexity, diversity, accessibility, connectivity, liveability, and a transcultural cosmopolitanism that appeals to worldly global citizens. Both were traumatized by the Japanese occupation but were able to deploy that experience to adapt and to recalibrate their post-war rebirth. In other words, these ‘glocal’ (global+local) cities are successful in going global while still retaining their local identities. Japan’s fanatic ambition to refashion East Asia into a homogeneous sphere in its own image connected by a chain of colonial cities seems to have come full circle. Nearly seventy years after the collapse of the Japanese Empire, has the Japanese imagination of the Asian cities changed? In the popular imaginings of a futuristic (mostly dystopian) global world, from Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (1982) to the most recent iteration of Total Recall (2012), a generic Asian-ness plays a major role in the construction of its aesthetic. As a coda to this chapter, I would point to the representation of the cityscape in the highly acclaimed animated cyberpunk film Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence (2004). Despite its full-blown post-human cybernetic plotline, the creator/director Ishii Mamoru’s imagining of a faraway city in the future looks eerily similar to Hong Kong (or Taipei, for that matter), with disorderly store signs in Chinese and unkempt backstreet scenes. The irony must not have escaped thoughtful viewers as they watched it with an eye on East Asia’s colonial past.

7

Old Networks with New Users Mapping Global Mobility between Dongguan and Hong Kong Max Hirsh Abstract This chapter examines a cross-border ferry system that allows passengers in Mainland China to fly through Hong Kong without going through customs and immigration procedures. It argues that the ferry network originated in the late 1980s through a partnership between local officials and overseas Chinese entrepreneurs who could trace a common ancestral connection to the same village or township. While these installations initially aimed to abet the transfer of capital and expertise from Hong Kong and Taiwan, they gradually became appropriated by a wider range of passengers travelling to Africa, South Asia, and the Middle East. Through an investigation of the ferry terminals’ design and use, the chapter analyses broader changes in global migration patterns that are taking place in the Pearl River Delta.

This chapter investigates the development of the Pearl River Delta’s ‘upstream’ check-in system: a network of ferry terminals that allows passengers in Mainland China who fly via Hong Kong International Airport (HKIA) to bypass Hong Kong’s customs and immigration procedures. Located deep inside Guangdong province, these terminals cater to passengers whose movement across international borders is limited by their income or citizenship: Mainland Chinese tourists, for example; as well as traders from Africa and the Middle East. At the upstream terminal, travellers print their boarding pass, check their luggage, and proceed through Chinese emigration. A ferry then takes them across the border to HKIA, where they are shuttled via an underground train that takes them directly to their departure gate. Isolated from other passenger flows, these travellers technically never enter Hong Kong.1 Focusing on the check-in terminal in the industrial city of Dongguan, the chapter argues that the PRD’s upstream system originated in the late 1980s thanks to a partnership between local officials and overseas Chinese 1 A pattern we see echoed in the University of Macau’s tunnel as highlighted in chapter 3 of this book, Thomas Daniell’s ‘Artifice and Authenticity: Postcolonial Urbanism in Macau’.

160 Ma x Hirsh Figure 7.1 Hong Kong-Macau Passenger Ferry Terminal, Humen Town, Dongguan, China

Author’s photo

entrepreneurs who could trace a common ancestral connection to the same village or township in Guangdong province. While these installations initially aimed to abet the transfer of capital and industrial expertise from Hong Kong and Taiwan into Mainland China, more recently they have been appropriated by a much wider range of passengers who are travelling to Africa, South Asia, and the Middle East. In effect, a regional transport network predicated on common ethnic bonds has been reconfigured in order to accommodate the increasingly diverse geographic scope of Dongguan’s global business ties. By tracing the history of Dongguan’s ferry terminal from 1980 to the present, the chapter posits changes in the physical design and passenger profile of the upstream check-in system as a useful lens for interrogating broader shifts in global mobility patterns that are taking place in the Pearl River Delta. Outside of Southern China, very few people have heard of Dongguan – yet it is highly likely that anyone reading this book is wearing a piece of clothing, or using an electronic device, that was manufactured there. A sprawling city of nearly six million residents, Dongguan consists of dozens of former villages and rural townships that occupy the hilly terrain on the Pearl River’s eastern shores,

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sandwiched between the much larger cities of Guangzhou and Shenzhen. Seventy kilometres north of HKIA, Dongguan’s upstream check-in terminal is located on a sleepy tributary of the Pearl River in the city’s Humen district.2 A short drive from the garment factories and fabric markets that have given Humen the dubious reputation as the ‘fashion capital’ of the world, the terminal’s surroundings are decidedly slow-paced and countrified. Flanked by aging tenements, a failed toy mall, and a wholesale seafood market, HKIA’s check-in counters are housed in a repurposed ferry terminal that was never intended for international air traffic. The river floats by lazily, its surface covered in weeds and household trash. Across the street, squat apartment blocks sit cheek by jowl with a village wet market in a warren of narrow alleyways. On one side of the street, women sell live chickens and puppies in cages; on the other side, passengers check in for flights to Bangkok and Dubai. To understand how an airport check-in terminal came to be built in such an unlikely context, it is important to consider the seminal role that international migration has played in the region’s urban development. Blessed with an expansive seacoast, a long tradition of foreign trade, and proximity to British-controlled Hong Kong, Guangdong has historically been one of the main sources of Chinese emigration.3 From San Francisco to Singapore to Sydney, millions of Overseas Chinese can trace their genealogy back to towns and villages in Guangdong; their common ancestral origins solidified by the enduring use of the Cantonese language in diaspora communities around the world. Emigration has been a defining facet of the region for centuries: deployed by local communities as both a tool for upward mobility and as a logical response to periodic bouts of political turmoil throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In the immediate post-World War II period, civil war and the establishment of Communist control provoked a massive wave of emigration that lasted throughout the 1950s, when thousands of Guangdong residents fled to Hong Kong and Taiwan. Encouraged by the contemporaneous repeal of racially discriminatory immigration policies in Australia, Canada, and the United States, many subsequently settled beyond Asia, strengthening existing communities abroad and intensifying the Cantonese diaspora’s global reach. Dongguan’s recent urban development is largely the product of these overseas communities’ re-engagement with Mainland China, and in particular with the villages of their ancestors. The area occupied by present-day Dongguan represents the ancestral home of a vast number of overseas 2 3

Site visit to Hong Kong-Macau Ferry Terminal, Humen Town, Dongguan, 23 February 2010. Kuhn 2008; Wong 1999.

162 Ma x Hirsh Figure 7.2  Apartment blocks near the upstream check-in terminal, Dongguan

Author’s photo

Chinese – by last count nearly one million strong. 4 In the 1980s, the region’s strategic location at the heart of the PRD allowed Dongguan ‘to embark on a path of export-led industrialization by merging the capital and industrial facilities relocated from Hong Kong with the influx of interior cheap labour transferred primarily from the transportation hub in Guangzhou’ (McGee et al. 2007: 97). Encouraged by Deng Xiaoping’s appeal for foreign direct investment, entrepreneurs from Hong Kong and Taiwan came to Dongguan in the 1980s to develop modern infrastructure systems, which were correctly perceived as the requisite precondition for the industrialization of the region. Based on village-based ancestral ties, these family connections formed the linchpin between local administrators and state-owned enterprises on the one hand and overseas investors on the other (McGee et al. 2007: 100). Dongguan thus became a laboratory of experimentation for new systems of transport and communication: in 1987, Dongguan became the first city in China to install a digital telephone system; ten years later, it designed and 4

See ‘Population of Dongguan’ 2012.

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built its own municipal highway network, without intervention or subsidies from the central government (McGee et al. 2007: 115). Crucially, these developments were based on interpersonal connections between local officials and overseas investors who could claim a common ancestral bond at the village level, which typically proved more expedient and reliable than operating through official channels at the national or provincial level (McGee et al. 2007: 78-79; 115). Specifically, it offered two benefits: first, informal family connections ensured both a swifter march through China’s bureaucratic apparatus; as well as what McGee and Lin refer to diplomatically as a ‘secured return on investment’ – that is, a lower likelihood of being scammed by unscrupulous officials. The peripheral village locations where these infrastructure developments took place were well suited to investors’ needs, as they provided both a source of cheap land and labour, as well as a less regulated environment in which to operate. In particular, the region’s status as rural land prior to Dongguan’s incorporation as a city in 1988 permitted a massive influx of migrant workers from the countryside who, impeded by the strictures of China’s internal passport system, were barred from moving to urban areas like Guangzhou and Shenzhen (McGee et al. 2007: 78-79). In subsequent decades, as Dongguan became a hub for the production of textiles, furniture, and electronic components, these villages developed into highly industrialized zones teeming with factories, wholesale trading markets, and densely packed migrant settlements. The boosterish narrative of Dongguan’s rapid development masks the drab reality that permeates its distended landmass: a landscape of garish luxury hotels, KTV lounges, and down-at-heel tenements produced by a bottom-up, village-based ‘industrialization of the countryside’. It is within this context that the development of the ferry terminal in Humen needs to be understood. Opened in July 1984, the Hong Kong Macau Passenger Ferry Terminal was part of a larger government-led investment programme under which state-owned enterprises and local authorities used foreign loans from Hong Kong and Taiwan in order to upgrade Dongguan’s substandard transport infrastructure.5 The ferry service catered to overseas Chinese entrepreneurs shuttling between the inner city of Hong Kong and Dongguan. In the absence of direct flights between Mainland China and

5 The Taiping Passenger Transportation Port was founded in June 1982. Eighteen months later, in January 1984, the People’s Government of Dongguan county and the Huiyang Shipping Bureau established the Humen Passenger Ferry Joint Company, a state-owned enterprise charged with operating ferries between Dongguan and Hong Kong (Shiziyang Sea Express 2012).

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Taiwan, it was also used by Taiwanese businessmen, who flew to Hong Kong and then continued by boat to production sites in Dongguan. Two decades later, the ferry terminal operator shifted its service approach: discontinuing service to downtown Hong Kong in 2003; and, in the same year, becoming the first Mainland port to experiment with HKIA’s upstream check-in service. Rebranded as the ‘Shiziyang Sea Express’, the ferries initially served the same clientele of Overseas Chinese entrepreneurs, who could now travel by boat directly from the airport.6 Very quickly, however, their numbers were surpassed by two new groups of travellers: garment traders from Africa and the Middle East on the one hand, and Mainland Chinese tourists on the other. Since the late 1990s, Dongguan has specialized in the production of ‘Islamic fashion’ and ‘ethnic apparel’ destined for markets in Africa, the Middle East, and South Asia: articles like headscarves, abayas, kaftans, and kurtas. Traders from these countries flock to the PRD, and their primary port of entry is Hong Kong. Yet for many of them – Pakistanis, Syrians, Bangladeshis – travelling to Dongguan requires two separate visas: one for Hong Kong and one for China. Depending on their citizenship, the application process is onerous, expensive, or virtually impossible. The remaining travellers are Mainland tourists embarking upon or returning from holidays abroad. Weighed down by excess baggage, they are members of China’s incipiently mobile middle class. They fly through Hong Kong because international flights there are cheaper than in Mainland China. Yet their access to the airport is complicated by Hong Kong’s immigration policies, which require that all Mainland Chinese citizens apply for a visa in order to enter the city; and by the vestiges of China’s hukou, or household registration, system, which defines how often Mainland citizens can travel to Hong Kong according to where they were born and what kind of company they work for. Caught on the one hand between a keen desire and newfound financial ability to see the world beyond China, and on the other hand by a legal status that complicates foreign travel, such passengers experience what the anthropologist Pál Nyiri has dubbed the ‘frustrated mobility’ of the twenty-firstcentury Chinese tourist – a juxtaposition between the image of the borderless ‘globally modern Chinese’ and the often humiliating experiences in which the mobility of PRC passport holders is frustrated by an immobilizing global migration regime. A People’s Republic of China passport is indeed among the 6 See ‘Congratulating the Official Establishment of Dongguan Longwei Taxi Service Co., Ltd’ 2003.

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worst to have when applying for a visa or arriving at a border (Nyiri 2010: 6-7; 153-154). This is where upstream check-in comes in. Brochures distributed at Humen terminal invite passengers to ‘travel hassle-free like never before: Free yourself from further immigration checks in Hong Kong! For ferry transfer passengers, immigration and customs procedures are not required at HKIA’. All that travellers need is a ‘valid air ticket and a valid passport for intended onward destination’. At the same time, a sign warms prospective travellers that the ferry is ‘[o]nly for transit to Hong Kong airport. Passengers who want to enter Hong Kong city are not accepted’.7 Once they have boarded the ferry, upstream travellers are considered ‘transborder’ air passengers. Shuttling across the mouth of the Pearl River Delta on the one-hour ride to the airport, they are neither in China nor in Hong Kong, but rather in an extraterritorial maritime corridor that functions as an extension of international airspace. As such, the upstream terminals represent the physical border between the People’s Republic of China and the outside world. Deep inside Chinese territory, travellers are shunted through remarkably flimsy design elements never intended to denote an international frontier – a wire fence, a wooden pier, a PVC door. Whether they depart from Dongguan or any of the other Mainland check-in terminals, the journey ultimately takes passengers to the SkyPier terminal at HKIA, which processes more than three million passengers travelling to and from Mainland China every year.8 Arriving ferries dock at two pontoon bridges floating in the sea in front of SkyPier. The pontoon is designed as a mobile kit of parts, consisting of a deck, a ramp, and a crane. These are connected, via a moveable bridge and a series of hinges, to the curtain wall of the terminal.9 Passengers proceed up the ramp and into a ‘Sea Module’,10 and then on to a security screening room on the lower level.11 While they must present a boarding pass, they do not go through immigration or customs checks. Travellers then enter the atrium 7 See Dongguan Humen Longwei Passenger Ferry Co. (n.d.). 8 See Hong Kong Airport Authority 2010; Hong Kong International Airport 2011/2012: 43. (Unless otherwise noted, information in the following section was collected during two site visits to SkyPier on 16 December 2009 and 23 January 2011.) 9 SOM Aedas JV 2004: Fig. 2.10.2 ‘Pontoon Design – Kits of Parts’. 10 Ibid: 1-2. 11 ‘Transfer passengers who have checked in upstream go directly to security screening, then proceed downstairs via escalators/lifts to the secure APM taking them directly to the East Hall in the PTB. Transfer passengers who have not checked in upstream go to the baggage reclaim area, then proceed to check-in, after which they drop their bags at the baggage drop-off point and proceed to security, where they join the other transfer passengers’ (SOM Aedas JV 2004: 10-7).

166 Ma x Hirsh Figure 7.3 Rendering of SkyPier, Hong Kong International Airport; Terminal 1 in the background

Courtesy of HKIA

of the Automated People Mover station, or APM. Here they may gaze, briefly, onto HKIA – their only opportunity to see the airport’s exterior during the entire journey. Next, passengers take an escalator down to the APM platform and board the train, which shuttles them through a tunnel beneath the airport’s check-in halls and ground transportation centre. After about f ive minutes, upstream travellers emerge on the airside of Terminal 1. From here, passengers take escalators up to the departures level and to their respective gates. At no point can they enter the city of Hong Kong. At the same time as passengers move through SkyPier, the Mainland ferry staff bring their luggage, housed in pallets, up to the deck. Prohibited from interacting with their Hong Kong colleagues, the Mainland Chinese crew attach the pallets to a crane, which then hoists the luggage across to SkyPier.12 Because the dimensions of the Mainland pallets do not conform 12 ‘The baggage containers are lifted from the ferryboats by a crane using a special sling with four hooks that are secured to four handles located on the side of the baggage container … The average time required to unload one inbound baggage container would be 2.5 minutes … [and] to load one outbound baggage container would be three minutes’ (SOM Aedas JV 2004: 8-1, 8-2).

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Figure 7.4 APM tunnel between SkyPier and Terminal 1, Hong Kong International Airport

Author’s photo

to international aviation standards, the luggage is then ‘repalletized’ before being transferred through an underground baggage tunnel that runs parallel to the APM to the airport terminal.13 Separated by less than 5 metres from the ferries, airport employees are forbidden from communicating with the Mainland ferry crew; who, in turn, must remain aboard the ships and pontoons at all times, and are not permitted to enter SkyPier. SkyPier’s organizational logic reveals much about the aesthetics of transborder infrastructure. Accessible only by ferry and underground train, it cannot be entered at the ground level, either by passengers or by employees. The building can only be seen at a distance – either on approach from the sea, or from the rear of the airport. Moreover, the word ‘SkyPier’ itself is not actually used in airport signage, as its designers worried that the term might be confusing to the uninitiated.14 From the user’s perspective, then, 13 Oren Tatcher, Principal, OTC Planning & Design, interview with the author at SkyPier, Hong Kong International Airport, 16 December 2009. 14 ‘“SkyPier” may sound good, [but] for the uninitiated this name will not be as easily understandable as “Ferries”, “Ferry Transfer”, or “Ferry check-in area” … All international SkyPier passengers will be required to access the building via the APM where it will not be necessary to expose them to the SkyPier name anywhere along the route’ (SOM Aedas JV 2005: 3-3).

168 Ma x Hirsh Figure 7.5  Mainland ferry staff at SkyPier, Hong Kong International Airport

Author’s photo

SkyPier is a building without a name, which can’t be accessed from the city in which it is located, and which can only be viewed from afar. In effect, the terminal supplants the notion of a border as something static and two-dimensional with one that conceives of it as flexible and divisible in section. Both the pontoon and the APM neatly underline these spatial reconfigurations. Inherently temporary, the pontoon formalizes a pragmatic approach to international mobility that deploys flexible infrastructures and adjusts territorial boundaries to enable the cross-border movement of goods and people. Like the entire upstream system, it is a prosthetic extension of the airport, made up of modular and mobile components that extend and collapse according to user demand. The pontoon allows travellers to rapidly traverse international boundaries while also marking the limitations placed on the movement of the Mainland ferry crew. You are no longer in China, it says; but you are also not in Hong Kong. The pontoon functions as an intermediary agent between the two, with the rational movement of the luggage crane obviating the need for direct interaction between Mainland and Hong Kong Chinese staff. The design of the Automated People Mover, or APM, further underscores that spatial fluidity. The APM transports passengers who do not have

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Figure 7.6  Luggage cranes at SkyPier, Hong Kong International Airport

Author’s photo

permission to enter Hong Kong: their right to remain is provisory, their presence tolerated as long as they remain in motion. The construction of a cross-boundary plane below the surface of the airport – a literal and f igurative undermining of Hong Kong’s spatial integrity – enables the conveyance of these passengers. In effect, SkyPier’s designers devised a sectional approach to territory that both pays homage to and circumvents Hong Kong’s border regulations. By divorcing the use of its infrastructure systems from a concomitant right to access the city, Hong Kong can operate as a transfer hub for passenger flows to China without compromising its security and migration policies. The discourse of ‘upstream’ travel naturalizes profoundly technical and technocratic processes. In so doing, it avoids uncomfortable questions – Why are some passengers allowed into Hong Kong while others are not? Why is access to foreign travel determined by one’s place of birth? What is the nature of the boundary between Hong Kong and Mainland China? – and reduces them to a sequence of banalities: check-in, security screening, tax refund. That process is abetted by a simplified visual language that masks complex territorial reconfigurations beneath a Taylorized logic of flow charts, acronyms,

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and modular components. Passengers are not moving between the People’s Republic of China and Hong Kong, but rather between PRD and HKIA. A visit to the Pearl River Delta’s upstream check-in terminals raises considerable conceptual challenges for scholars of urban infrastructure. In recent decades, a wide range of architects, anthropologists, and urban theorists identified airport hubs – and their terrestrial support systems – as generic ‘non-places’ designed to accelerate the ‘seamless’ movement of an elite jet set through transport corridors that are both socio-economically and spatially segregated from the surrounding city.15 Manuel Castells argued, for example, that these spaces ‘[s]upersed[e] the logic of any specific place’ and ‘escap[e] the socio-political control of historically specific local/national societies’, catering instead to the aesthetic sensibilities of a global elite ‘whose identity is not linked to any specific society but to membership of managerial circles of the information economy across a global spectrum’ (Castells 1996: 413). What we see at SkyPier is a much messier articulation of international mobility, and of aviation infrastructure. In Dongguan, tourists and traders with less than desirable passports check in for international flights at a terminal that is indistinguishable from the factories, tenements, and village markets surrounding it. From here, passengers proceed to SkyPier, which essentially functions as an intermodal purgatory for the region’s semi-privileged air travellers. These are not upscale facilities designed for a kinetic elite, but rather infrastructural experiments that offer a limited form of mobility to people who have the ‘right’ financial resources but the ‘wrong’ travel documents. That conditional mobility is made possible by extending international airspace to a network of Mainland ferry piers; and, in the process, exploiting maritime space in order to evade the migration restrictions of terrestrial borders. Extraterritorial, explicitly under-designed, and ephemeral, the SkyPier terminal would, at first glance, seem to validate the ‘non-place’ axioms that have become so popular in scholarly discourse over the past twenty years. Yet to make such an assertion would be to ignore the contrast between SkyPier and its typological foil, the upstream check-in terminal in Mainland China. On paper, the upstream terminals are ostensibly built to the same design standard as the Hong Kong airport. In reality, they reflect the broader tendencies of contemporary Chinese urbanism: improvised, rough around the edges, and juxtaposed with an extreme diversity of urban practices.

15 See, for example, Augé 1995; Chalfin 2010; Saolo et al. 2009; Keller 2005; Fuller at al. 2004; Stephen et al. 2000; Ibelings 2002; Thackara 2005; Tiry 2005.

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In this chapter, I have argued that opportunistic retribalization – that is, a revival of transnational cultural and linguistic ties predicated on a shared village-based provenance – led to the formation of an ad-hoc transport system, built cheaply and anonymously, to connect Hong Kong and Dongguan in the 1980s. Initially designed to abet the influx of capital and expertise from Hong Kong and Taiwan into Guangdong province, these spaces were subsequently reprogrammed in order to serve the travel demands of those engaging in low-end forms of cross-border mobility, such as budget tourism or trading in Third World shmatta. Observing contemporary Chinese attitudes to mobility and migration, Nyiri has written that ‘the conflicting imperatives of encouraging the cross-border movement of goods and of controlling the flows of individuals sometimes results in elaborate farces that are invisible to the uninitiated outsiders’ (Nyiri 2010: 157). Beguiled by the spectacle of China’s airport megaprojects, scholars have thus far failed to identify the cleverly concealed spatial correlates of these ‘elaborate farces’. In Dongguan, this has entailed the insertion of international aviation infrastructure into a decidedly downtrodden urban context – precisely because the flows that the upstream check-in system enables are both necessary for socio-economic cohesion yet undesirable from the perspective of national security. The proliferation of these terminals is emblematic of the tolerance for pragmatic rule-bending that characterizes development on both sides of the Hong Kong-PRC divide – an unspoken willingness to ignore gray areas, both juridical and spatial; and a flexible attitude towards ideology aimed at harmonizing dissonant political and economic objectives.16 These types of infrastructural quasi-logics are endemic to situations where overarching political ideologies are not, or are no longer, consonant with socio-economic realities on the ground. Hong Kong’s upstream checkin system reduces extremely complex territorial manipulations to a discrete set of logistical procedures. In so doing, it smoothes over the conflicting imperatives of free-market globalization and place-based protectionism – neither of which will disappear anytime soon. Such infrastructure strategies appeal to and are propelled by subaltern constituents caught in the interstices between competing ideologies. These interventions are more 16 The political scientist Wang Fei-ling notes that ‘[t]he Chinese traditionally have a low opinion of written law and rely heavily on the administrative capacity of the ruler, allowing and tolerating humane circumvention... and some flexibility [that], ironically perhaps, further strengthens the whole system’ (Wang 2005).

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than just curious anomalies or footnotes to absurd historical situations: indeed, they entail a fundamental reordering of urban space. Transborder infrastructure removes passengers from the remote confines of the airport and inserts them into a variety of banal locations, thus making the flow of international air traffic a facet of everyday urban life. In so doing, it invests these distinctly local venues with a global significance that explodes their spatial and typological definition. Moreover, the development of transborder infrastructure typically portends both a re-articulation of existing mobility patterns, as well as a paradigm shift in political and economic structures.17 Hong Kong’s upstream check-in service exploits loopholes in the region’s customs and security apparatus in order to expose incipient members of China’s middle class to the outside world, and to abet the flow of low-end trade between developing countries on different continents. Scholars of the contemporary Asian city would be well advised to study the vanguard role that such transborder infrastructure systems play in both anticipating and advancing systemic changes in the global flow of goods, people, and information.

17 Imtiaz Muqbil notes that ‘[f]or years, many Asia-Pacific governments have allowed visa-free access to Europeans, Americans, Australians, Japanese and other citizens of industrialized countries. Now, they are totally confused on how to handle the future travellers from China, India, Russia and other countries within the region. Each of these countries has problems with illegal immigrants, crime syndicates, and other undesirables that governments want to keep out. How these issues are sorted out is going to be a major challenge in the future’ (Imtiaz 2006: 130).

8

Asian Cities in the Global Maritime Networksince the Late Nineteenth Century César Ducruet

This work is dedicated to the memory of Prof. W. Rhoads Murphey III

Abstract Based on an untapped data source providing information on global movements of merchant vessels, this research maps for the first time the level and nature of port traffic among Asian port cities every forty years or so since the year 1890. The main results, which reveal major internal differentiations within Asia, and their evolutions, are discussed in the light of geographical research about Asian ports published since the 1950s, providing many case studies. While West Asia exhibits certain prominence in the late nineteenth century, due to the concentration of steamer vessels, East Asia attracts the most productivity from 1925 onwards, backed by the rapid growth of Japan and, since the early 1960s, the Asian Tigers. Such dynamics have produced a decreasing concentration of port activity, with the Asian port system evolving towards a more even distribution. Although such a large-scale analysis cannot describe in detail each port city, it serves as a useful benchmark for identifying change, resilience, and path-dependency within one of the world’s largest trading areas from colonial times to the present.

Introduction One of the most striking features of contemporary Asia is the dominant concentration of population and economic activities along its shores, with a limited inland penetration of hinterlands (Arasaratnam 1992: 367-372). Many scholars have already acknowledged the importance of port activities throughout Asian history (Murphey 1989: 223-245),1 Asian cities being best 1

See also McGee 1967; Basu 1985; Broeze 1997; Gipouloux 2009.

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understood in their form and function as ‘brides of the sea’.2 Despite many physical difficulties inherent to rapid urban and port growth,3 maritime networks remain more than ever essential to the development of Asian cities and their host nations. 4 Port traffic has long been closely tied to its adjacent urban economies although like in other regions, Asian port cities have developed a preference for other, more lucrative transport functions such as airlines (Okuno 2000: 426-439) and value-added logistics (Cheung et al. 2003: 245-253; Wang and Cheng 2010: 104-115). Nevertheless, certain aspects such as urban morphology have remained rather stable over time, as in the case of main Indian cities (Kosambi and Brush 1988: 32-47). While such aspects have been abundantly documented through case studies of particular places at specific time periods, this chapter innovates by mapping for the first time the changing distribution of port activities in Asia over the last 120 years. A snapshot of maritime activity every forty years or so was chosen to best reflect major evolutions in the port hierarchy and the functions of Asian cities. How path-dependent have been port activities in Asia since the late nineteenth century? How can a study of maritime flows reveal some of the factors explaining the emergence of the current port city hierarchy? In this chapter, Asia is defined by its most extended definition ranging geographically from Greece to Siberia, but excluding Oceania. Whenever possible, reference is made to existing works on Asian port cities but without pretending to be exhaustive. One way to complement historical research has been to cover a number of papers written by geographers about Asian ports since the 1950s based on a review on port geography in general by Ng and Ducruet (2014).5 All in all, the main goal of this research is to provide a solid comparative overview serving as a reference for more detailed studies.

Methodology and preliminary results An untapped resource was used in this study to measure the level and nature of port activities worldwide, namely merchant vessel movements published by Lloyd’s List, the world’s leader in maritime insurance and intelligence, on a daily or weekly basis. Such publications have never been 2 3 4 5

Broeze 1989. Ness and Tanigawa 1992. Taillard 2004. As has been done elsewhere (see Ng and Ducruet 2014).

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used in a systematic manner but as a secondary source to identify specific vessels for detailed uses. This is rather surprising because it contains most of world trade activities through a very detailed description of vessels and their circulation, thereby allowing an analysis of shipping routes and port hierarchies as well as traffic concentration levels. Such documents provide new avenues to understand, alongside other possible research fields, the precise position of Asian port cities in light of global maritime flows. The number of vessels, and the vessel calls, was calculated in order to establish a ranking of Asian port cities according to their level of overall maritime and port activity. The study period chosen in this chapter starts in 1890 and ends in 2008. This choice is partly explained by data availability but mostly by the fact that Lloyd’s List started to include information from its direct competitors since 1890 onwards, i.e. vessel movement information from fleets insured by other companies, such as Nordske Veritas (Denmark) and Bureau Veritas (Belgium-France), but also Russian and Japanese fleets. This makes the spatial coverage of the analysis more relevant and complete than in the pre-1890 period when only the movements of British vessels were reported. More concretely, Lloyd’s List reports in its Shipping Index the origin and destination of vessel voyages among ports of the world, including the dates of departures and arrivals, the type of vessels (e.g. steamer, tanker, containership) as well as their flag, registry, and tonnage capacity. Not all such information is used in this chapter, which focuses dominantly on counting the number of port calls per continent, region, and port city. A snapshot of global maritime activity has thus been extracted manually from paper sources in 1890, 1925, 1946, 1951, 1960, 1965, 1970, 1975, 1980, 1985, 1990, 1995, 2000, and 2008, around the months of April-May, i.e. one publication only among the 52 weekly publications each year. Figure 8.1 provides an example of such records for sailing vessels in 1890: each vessel has one voyage reported between two or more ports, depending on the mention or not of intermediary calls along the route. The method has been to calculate the sum of movements for each port on the level of the global maritime network formed by the links among the ports.6 Lastly, and although it is strictly impossible to systematically confront the global data from Lloyd’s to more local information on port activities due to obvious constraints, a focus on China is proposed in Figure 8.2. The 6 Ducruet 2013.

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Figure 8.1  The Lloyd’s Shipping Index in 1890

data collected by Wang and Ducruet (2013) about Chinese port traffic over the 1868-2009 period confirms the accuracy of the global source, despite, for instance, the non-inclusion of river traffic by Lloyd’s, which is more specialized in tracking ocean-going vessels embarked on international trade. For China’s totals, the power-law relation between tonnage (local) and vessel calls (global) accounts for no less than 95 percent, while for Shanghai, it amounts to 92 percent using the same statistical method. It is also satisfactory to observe identical traffic variations in times of drastic political changes, as seen with the sharp decline of all traffic between 1925 and 1951.7 The rest of the evolution is more linear for tonnage and more fluctuating for vessel calls, but this is probably due to the fact that vessel calls do not take into account the size of vessels, in terms of their carrying capacity. Nevertheless, such an exercise, especially based on such a complex case like China, demonstrates the accuracy of Lloyd’s information and its ability to translate not only global but also local dynamics, thereby motivating its application to the rest of Asia. It is a fact that Asia as a whole had concentrated a growing proportion of global port activity, from about 10 percent in 1890 to nearly 45 percent in 7 Chinese data consists in port traff ic provided by the Chinese Customs measured in Hong Kong taels for the period 1868-1938, and by the Ministry of Transport measured in metric tons for the period 1932-2009. The two time series were adjusted based on one single unit, the metric ton, although the f irst reports international traff ic only, thus excluding domestic activities (Wang and Ducruet 2012). Due to the absence of local source data for 1946, 1949 has been used.

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Figure 8.2 Global and local data source comparison based on the Chinese case, 1890-2008

Figure 8.3  Regional distribution of world vessel movements, 1890-2008

2008. This evolution is illustrative of the well-known global shift of production and manufacturing that occurred since the 1960s, notably promoting East Asia as one of the three major economic poles of the world economy. As seen in Figure 8.3, the share of Asia as a whole has grown at the expense of the two other main economic poles, namely Europe and North America,

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Figure 8.4  Regional distribution of vessel movements in Asia, 1890-2008

while other regions have seen their relative weight being rather stagnant over the period. One notable exception is the initial and overwhelming importance of Latin America, mostly backed at the time by the economic boom of Argentina (particularly around Buenos Aires). In fact, Asia’s growth has been rapid in the first phase in the context of increased colonial interest, then it stabilized in the 1970s and 1980s, following the independence of former colonies, and then went through a rapid growth again from the 1990s onwards, based on rapid port modernization and the ‘China effect’. Internal trends are more visible in Figure 8.4, where one can observe extremely large traffic shifts across Asia over time. Northeast Asia has become Asia’s largest concentration of port activity as it comprises Japan, China, and three of the four so-called ‘Asian Tigers’ (South Korea, Taiwan, and Hong Kong8) where port growth has been the fastest. At the start of the study period, the Indian subcontinent was by far the largest port region, but its share rapidly shrunk up to the 1970s, leaning towards a mere 10 percent nowadays. This evolution has a lot to do with the demise of the British Empire and, of course, the rapid industrialization of Japan, which was largely dependent upon maritime trade. Southeast Asia occupies the second rank nowadays, which was also true in 1890, but it is only from the 1990s that it regained this position. One main reason has been the reinforced 8

The fourth is Singapore.

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connectivity of the Singapore hub to cope with the rise of the so-called ‘Asian Tigers’ in that region. The fast growth of port activity in the Middle East in the early period is largely due to the boom of oil trade and shipping. East and South Asia altogether occupy no less than 70 percent of Asia’s total port activity nowadays. The role of individual port cities is explored in the next section.

Changing port hierarchies of Asian cities Overall traffic distribution Asian ports have become organized around a trunk line or corridor along which major hubs concentrate and redistribute cargo flows to/from secondary ports (Ducruet et al. 2011: 60-74). Recent structures are, of course, inherited from the past, notably colonial times, when East-West routes were based on strategically located factories for entrepôt trade established by European powers (Murphey 1963: 612) and even on earlier trade patterns taking place prior to colonialism.9 Figure 8.5 serves to situate the main port cities of Asia and their changing level of activity from one period to the other. The most active cities in 1890 belonged to European empires (e.g. India, Hong Kong, Singapore, Myanmar, Indonesia, Macau, and the Philippines) with Calcutta being the largest port at the time (Dutt 1971: 22-27; Tan 2007: 851-865) but also Japan, China, and the Black Sea. Overall, Asia has a higher proportion of steamer traff ic compared with the rest of the world outside the North Atlantic in the late nineteenth century.10 Besides the stability of the port system in the second period, certain cities have witnessed tremendous growth, as reflected by Yokohama and Kobe in a context of industrial and colonial expansion since the Meiji era, with direct impacts on Dalian in China (Todd and Zhang 1993: 441-453). Other cases such as Karachi in Pakistan (Maxwell 1957: 61-66; De Nie 1960: 266-273), Mumbai, Galatz, Constantza, and Piraeus better depict the reinforced importance of the Europe-Asia link through the Suez Canal, which opened in 1869. In comparison, Hong Kong and Shanghai have seen their activity stabilizing or even declining due to political instabilities in mainland China. Yet, Shanghai remains China’s main gateway with the outside world due to its sea-river connection through 9 Gipouloux 2009. 10 Ducruet 2012.

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Figure 8.5  Traffic hierarchy of Asian port cities, 1890-2008

the Yangtze (Reischauer 1940: 142-164; Wiens 1955: 248-264; Tang 2009: 632-652), which reached far beyond Tianjin, for instance (Hitch 1935: 367-381). In the early 1960s, Japan kept its prominence because f ive of the top twenty cities were Japanese (Hanrath 1960: 75-76). There was a rapid growth of Hong Kong (Boxer 1962: 321; Dwyer 1963: 317-320) and Singapore as the new Asian Tigers promoting export-led growth through

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free-zone development as well as elsewhere in Asia (Robinson 1984: 133143), compared with the relative decline of Indian ports where new ports have developed outside traditional port cities for the bulk handling of raw materials (Van Suylichem 1968: 326-334; Kidwai 1989: 207-222). Another specificity of the 1960s was the fast growth of Gulf ports (Hughes 1979: 54-56; Walker 1989: 273-284; Jacobs and Hall 2007: 327-342) with Dubai and some specialized oil ports (e.g. Mena al Ahmadi, Ras Tanura), and transit hubs (such as Aden), but also Black Sea ports, such as Odessa, in a

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context of Soviet control (Krug 1964: 134-135). Aden was still at this time part of the British Empire with facilities dedicated to British Petroleum, but also acting as an inter-regional hub port for mail. Other Asian ports received far less attention from geographers except from specific papers on Keelung (Chen 1957: 112-118), Borneo (Lee 1962: 161-172), Cebu,11 and Malaysia (Ward 1961: 113-142; 1966: 242-251). The last period confirms the overwhelming dominance of the Asian Tigers and Japan, concentrating twelve of the top twenty ports in 2008, followed by other major ports in China (Shanghai), the East Mediterranean and Black Sea (Alexandria, Piraeus, Constantza), Southeast Asia (Port Klang, Jakarta), and the Middle East (Fujairah, Jebel Ali). Across the entire study period, only Japan, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Jakarta have remained among the top twenty Asian ports notwithstanding certain fluctuations in their rank order. This relative success is well reflected by a voluminous literature on the evolution of containerization in such Asian global port cities (Robinson and Chu 1978: 98-111; Bristow et al. 1995: 525-536; Airriess 2001a: 235-254) but also urban and regional issues in port development (Todd and Hsueh 1990: 421-433; Chang et al. 2004: 413-436; Lee and Ducruet 2009: 162-184) as well as competition and technological diffusion in port systems (Airriess 1989: 453-461; 1991: 183-196; Slack and Wang 2002: 159-166; Song 2002: 99-110). South Asian ports have clearly lost their initial importance in recent times (India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Myanmar) compared with the rapid growth of Korean and Taiwanese ports such as Busan (Frémont and Ducruet 2005: 421-432), Incheon (Ducruet et al. 2012: 149-169), and Kaohsiung (Todd 1993: 3-18; Haynes et al. 1997: 93-113). Chinese ports received attention only recently after a period of maturation in the container business, on the national level (Todd 1997: 39-53; Wang and Ng 2011: 188-204; Wang and Ducruet 2013: 521-5438). Large regions, such as the Pearl River Delta (Wang and Slack 2000: 263-275), or individual cities and corridors (Todd 1994: 285-303; Wang and Olivier 2006: 1487-1503; Wang and Ducruet 2012: 58-69) are the exception from the lack of case studies in the past (see Tregear 1954: 113-117). Other abundant works have been published in more transportoriented journals dealing with aspects of port governance, operation, and management, thus reaching beyond the scope of this chapter despite their relevance. Elsewhere in Asia, Piraeus also had a relatively stable position among major ports, while the Black Sea was always represented, but by different ports over time.

11 Uernstedt 1966.

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Individual port trajectories Mapping the more detailed evolution of individual Asian port cities is addressed here based on a selection of the three largest ports of each sub-region of Asia, in terms of their average number of vessel calls all along the period (see Figure 8.6). Hong Kong and Singapore are kept apart for the sake of comparability as their trans-shipment hub activity gives them too large a number of calls to be placed in the same figure with other Asian ports. The most striking fact is the vast heterogeneity of trajectories among Asian ports, even within the same sub-region. Even so, in Japan the top ports went through growth and decline phases, with Nagoya being the exception, enjoying a more stable profile probably due to the prolonged vitality of its automobile industry, which relied heavily on the port for coastal and overseas trade. The relative decline of Japanese ports in recent decades is explained by several factors: an environment-friendly transport policy in favour of smaller ports and coastal shipping to prevent further expansion of already gigantic ports, the shift of trans-shipment activities to South Korea and notably Busan, and an overall reduction in demand in an ageing country where cargo value takes over from cargo volume as a priority. In the rest of Northeast Asia, Busan and Kaohsiung show a close trajectory; with an earlier take-off of Kaohsiung, notably since the development of its free-trade zone in 1966. Shanghai has a distinct profile, although it also has grown rapidly in recent decades and, interestingly, is the only port to have a smaller number of calls than Busan in the 1990s. From 2008 however, Shanghai has become the world’s largest port in terms of tonnage, and the second in Asia after Singapore for the number of vessel calls. As already investigated earlier, the rise of traffic volumes did not necessarily mean a shift of centrality towards Shanghai from other established hub ports, which, on the contrary, reinforced their trans-shipment activities during this period, for technological but also for geopolitical reasons of logistical and information control, and also due to the fact that China still does not offer a transparent business environment to foreign investors, of which global shipping lines and terminal operators are an important part.12 Between Hong Kong and Singapore, the huge difference observed by the number of vessel calls overestimates Singapore’s true importance in the region. The simple fact that more than 80 percent of Singapore’s total port activity is dedicated to transit trade (trans-shipment) largely explains those 12 Ducruet et al. 2012.

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Figure 8.6  Port trajectories of selected Asian cities, 1890-2008

numbers, bearing in mind that most of the containers are counted twice during their transit through Singapore. Also, such a trans-shipment activity has the direct effect of increasing the call frequency of smaller vessels (feeder vessels) that redistribute the cargo from larger (mother) vessels within and between regions. Another differentiating factor is the lack of landside access from Singapore to the continent, whereas for Hong Kong, its gateway function towards Mainland China has always been a decisive aspect of its activity, even prior to China’s official opening to the world in the late 1970s. In the rest of Southeast Asia, Manila has been stagnating somewhat over the period, while Bangkok went through a rapid decline after reaching a peak of activity in the early 1990s. Like in other South Asian cities, and as seen in Figure 8.6 with other cases such as Calcutta, Mumbai, and Karachi, modern port activities have been shifted outside the original urban core. New ports such as Bin Qasim for Karachi, Haldia for Calcutta, Jawaharlal Nehru for Mumbai, and Laem Chabang for Bangkok are clear examples of renewed port functions outside traditional Asian port cities.

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Still, local factors and planning problems remain secondary compared with the wider geopolitical shifts that occurred, for instance, in India when the British Empire was dismantled, with direct effects on port activity in Mumbai and Calcutta, but also Karachi and Yangon (see also Figure 8.5). Competition for oil extraction and shipping explains better the decline of Ras Tanura and Mina al Ahmadi in the Middle East, but again, the activity of Dubai (Port Rashid) is by no means backed by the rapid growth of the recently developed Jebel Ali container port, which has become the main hub of the region in recent years.

Conclusion This chapter has tackled something difficult, namely to map and analyse the changing spatial patterns of the Asian port system since the late nineteenth century. This posed a number of conceptual and methodological challenges, from the definition of ‘Asia’ to the technical feasibility of measuring port activity across such a large land mass and over such a long period of time. Due to the existence of a largely untapped resource, namely vessel movement information published by the maritime insurer Lloyd’s List, the goal has been achieved and the main results provide novel evidence about one of the major economic functions exerted by Asian cities, ‘brides of the sea’.13 Although such a large-scale approach has blurred the local situations and dynamics, it allowed evaluation and comparison of the unevenness of port activity throughout the Asian port system at selected key periods based on harmonized measures. The main lesson to be drawn from this study is, perhaps, the confirmation of Asia’s early and reinforced importance in global trade during the contemporary era. The current pattern of port activity has witnessed important shifts in the region, but it still rests on inherited patterns that exhibit strong path-dependency. Yet, ‘colonial Asia’ remains very different from ‘global Asia’ in many ways. Like other main economic poles of the world system, it faces important challenges of portcity planning due to the unprecedented levels of traffic concentration at its gateways and hubs. The analysis of the changing distribution of vessel movements is only a first step towards a better understanding of Asian port cities as a whole. Further research shall concentrate on better classifying port cities based on more advanced statistical methods that would highlight, for instance, 13 Broeze 1989.

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specific clusters of port cities sharing comparable evolutionary pathways. Another research direction would be to better link port dynamics with urban dynamics over the period under study, perhaps through major efforts being put on collecting urban indicators such as demographic size of cities. This would better highlight the relative importance of port activities compared with the rest of the urban economy, as port functions grow but also decline depending on local policies and strategies in various domains. Lastly, it was not assessed how Asian port cities have been connected through maritime flows and what is the architecture of such linkages, based on a more detailed view of the network designed by the overlap of vessel flows. Such findings would prove even more fruitful when put into a comparative perspective with other large regions of the world such as Europe and North America, for instance, where larger cities and larger ports continue, more than ever, to concentrate the bulk of economic life.

Acknowledgements The author wishes to thank Mrs Liliane Lizzi at Géographie-Cités for her help with cartography as well as Prof. François Durand-Dastès at Paris I University for his useful comments on the results of this work. The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Research Council under the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP/2007-2013) / ERC Grant Agreement n. [313847] ‘World Seastems’.14

14 http://www.world-seastems.cnrs.fr.

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Back to the Future Feasible Cost-Sharing Co-operation in the Straits of Malacca1 Senia Febrica

Abstract This chapter explains the importance of Britain’s abolition of dues in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore in the early nineteenth century in relation to contemporary cost-sharing co-operation in the Straits. It points out that the opening of the Straits during British colonial rule was particularly important in transforming the legal regime in the Straits and advancing a free-passage regime in straits used for international navigation. Given the contemporary implementation of the free passage regime the collection of dues to maintain the safety of navigation and prevent pollution in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore is prohibited. In dealing with cost-sharing problems that are rooted in the colonial era, this chapter surveys possible examples of cost-sharing co-operation from the past and present. These examples show that despite the free-passage regime being the accepted norm, there are legal precedents for cost-sharing co-operation in waters used for international navigation.

Introduction Safety of navigation and marine pollution in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore are important issues both for Straits states and the international maritime community. The Straits are an area of enormous significance. The majority of Middle East oil exports to Asia and most commerce between Asia and Europe pass through this 980-kilometre-long Straits (Coutrier 1988: 186). At least 400 ships navigate through the Straits of Malacca and

1 This chapter is based on research entitled ‘Accounting for Feasible Cost Sharing Co-operation in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore’ at the Scottish Centre for International Law, University of Edinburgh, and the United Nations, New York, and the author’s PhD thesis, ‘Explaining Indonesia’s Participation in Maritime Security Co-operation’, at the University of Glasgow.

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Singapore every day.2 This includes 72 percent of supertankers and other vessels plying between the Indian and Pacific Oceans, making these Straits the busiest sea lane of communication and sea lane of oil trade globally (United States Energy Information Administration 2011; United States Department of Defense 2006: 33). At its narrowest point the Straits are only 2.75 kilometres wide and at its shallowest point 25 metres deep, creating a natural bottleneck and making it vulnerable to potential collisions, grounding, oil spills, or terrorist attack (Reuters 2010; United States Energy Information Administration 2011). In the period after the 11 September attacks, the potential for maritime terrorism and sea robbery in the Straits has grabbed headlines in the media but for littoral state officials and the concerned shipping businesses the safety of navigation is deemed a more immediate concern because of the risk of collision, grounding, and near misses.3 Currently, the burden for maintaining the safety of navigation, and pollution prevention is primarily left to the Straits states; for example, the Straits states are required to allocate resources to prevent and deal with the aftermath of accidents caused by the high volume of traffic in the Straits. Against this backdrop Straits states have been calling for an urgent need to find a workable cost-sharing mechanisms with the users, both state and non-state actors. This chapter argues that the system of collecting tolls for ships plying the Straits of Malacca during the colonial era has continued to shape current cost-sharing co-operation between user and coastal states in the region. Payment of tolls through straits, rivers, and channels has been a normal practice dating back to the sixteenth century. During the Portuguese and later Dutch occupation of Malacca the colonial authorities exacted tolls from all merchant vessels navigating through the Straits. This system changed in 1824 when Malacca and Singapore fell under British occupation. The new colonial ruler established free passage for all vessels through the Straits of Malacca. The legacy of the post-1824 colonial system continues to govern cost-sharing co-operation in the Straits today. At present, although the implementation of dues in straits used for international navigation has become less common, there have been calls for burden sharing in maintaining navigational aids and pollutioncontrol measures from the Straits states. Yet, given the constraints of 2 Interview with an Indonesian Navy official, Jakarta, Indonesia, 14 July 2010. 3 Interview with a spokesperson of an international shipping operator, Singapore, 19 August 2010; Interview with the head of the Marine section, international re-insurance company, Singapore, 17 August 2010.

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the free-passage regime laid down since 1824, the Straits states need to f ind a delicate solution to engage users without applying unilateral dues. Drawing from a variety of cost-sharing practices worldwide, this chapter discusses the feasibility of co-operation options for the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. This includes addressing the types of burdensharing mechanism which could be legally instituted in the Straits, the advantages and disadvantages of these mechanisms, and the obstacles given the colonial legacy.

Cost sharing in non-straits areas Cost sharing for the management of straits has been utilized historically in a number of key waterways. In the past the payment for passage through rivers and canals as well as international straits had been applied to sea-going vessels by the coastal states. This payment was designed to compensate the affected states for the costs of the establishment and maintenance of navigational aids, as well as the provision of armed forces to escort vessels in order to deter pirates. Payment of tolls through non-straits areas including rivers and channels has been a normal practice that dated back to the sixteenth century. The kings of Poland during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries levied dues from ship masters at the cities of Konigsberg-Pillau, Memel, and Danzig (Verzijl 1971: 138). In 1700, Norway demanded vessels pay their duties at the city of Bergen (Verzijl 1971: 138). In a similar vein, a French proclamation in November 1792 pertaining to the riparian states’ rights over rivers that flowed across their territories influenced the practice of payment for passage through the Rhine River (del Castillo-Laborde 2009: 330). The Rhine riparian states collected tolls from vessels plying through the river for almost a decade until the Paris Declaration (1802), an act between the Holy Roman Empire and France (1803), and the Paris Convention between the Empire and France that abolished the implementation of tolls, customs duties, and other navigation dues on the Rhine (1804) (del Castillo-Laborde 2009: 330). The establishment of the 1868 Convention for Rhine Navigation between France, the Grand Duchy of Baden, Bavaria, the Grand Duchy of Hessen, the Netherlands, and Prussia confirmed that the navigation from Basel to the open sea was free to the vessels of all countries (Inland Transport Committee 1993).

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The abolition of dues in the Straits of Malacca During the Portuguese occupation of Malacca from 1511 to 1641 the colonial authority issued passes and exacted tolls from all merchants’ vessels navigating through the Straits (Hussin 2007: 21). In 1641 the Dutch East India Company challenged the Portuguese and took over Malacca (Kraal 2012: 7). The Dutch retained the Portuguese system and maintained control over the passage (Shaw 1973: 89-91; Hussin 2007: 21). The Dutch authorities frequently patrolled the waterways and collected passage tolls (Hussin 2007: 23; Kraal 2012: 7). They introduced higher dues than those imposed by the Portuguese, and their monopoly practices also involved forcing merchants’ vessels to dock at designated ports, where customs duties were collected (Hussin 2007: 23; Kraal 2012: 7). Due to the Dutch imposition of tolls in the Straits of Malacca the British felt an urgent need to retain access to free of navigation into the region (Dodwell 1961: 603-604; Tarling 1975: 20-21). Foreign Secretary Lord Grantham instructed the British envoy: ‘[The] Dutch have hitherto kept themselves Masters of Navigation of the Eastern Seas … It will … be necessary that the liberty of navigating those seas should be asked for and granted’ (Tarling 1975: 10). Britain finally obtained the opportunity to abolish Dutch control over the Straits through Anglo-Dutch negotiation in the early nineteenth century. As part of the agreement, Britain gained Malacca, Dutch establishments in India, and Dutch acceptance of British occupation of Singapore (Tarling 1975: 20-21; Dodwell 1961: 604). An agreement was signed by both parties in London on 17 March 1824 (Dodwell 1961: 603; Shaw 1973: 89-91). The London treaty established free passage for all vessels through the Straits of Malacca. A couple of decades after the abolition of duties in the Straits of Malacca the changing of the passage regime that governed the Danish Straits further strengthened the core principle of free passage in international straits during the colonial era. The history of the openness of the Danish straits is particularly important not only in transforming the navigational regime in these straits, but also in denoting the final establishment of the free-passage principle in straits used for international navigation (Cobbett 1931: 144). The British government was a strong proponent of free-passage regimes in the first half of the nineteenth century. The British became the first nation to challenge the implementation of dues directly by shelling Copenhagen in 1801 and capturing the Danish fleet in 1807 (Van Dyke 2008: 198). A leap forward in the protest against these dues took place when the United States Ambassador to Denmark, Henry Bedinger, announced on 14 April 1855 that Americans would refuse to pay these dues to the Danish

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government from 14 April 1856 onwards (International Court of Justice 2000: 245; Somers 2002: 16). The United States questioned the legality of the imposition of charges and argued that the Danish action was a violation of the principle of freedom of navigation (Cobbett 1931: 143). After a year of extensive negotiations all the contracting parties agreed to compensate the Danish government with a payment of 30 million rig dollars (an estimated amount of £238.8 million) which was calculated on the basis of the shares of fifteen European powers (Cobbett 1931: 144; Hansard United Kingdom Parliament 1857). Every nation was obliged to pay their share over twenty years (International Court of Justice 2000: 245). This agreement paved the way for the signing of the Treaty on the Redemption of the Sound Dues between Denmark and other European maritime powers on 14 March 1857 which ended the dues (International Court of Justice 2000: 245; Somers 2002: 16). The United States refused to join the 1857 treaty but later became a party to the United States-Denmark Convention of 1858. The bilateral agreement stipulated that the Denmark government maintain free passage for American vessels in return of a payment of 10,021 rig dollars (an estimated £79,757) (Cobbett 1931: 144). Having surveyed the co-operation in the non-straits and straits areas above it is apparent that cost sharing in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore had been a common practice that dated back to the sixteenth century. Nevertheless, the implementation of dues in straits used for international navigation, including in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore, has become less common at present. As previously discussed in this chapter, the collection of dues in the Straits of Malacca had faded out since the 1820s because of user states’ pressure. Charging dues has been a minority rather than majority practice in key straits. The free-passage regime introduce since the 1820s was then institutionalized when the United Nations Law of the Sea Convention was established in 1982. The issue of free passage was at the heart of the debate between users and straits states during the negotiation of the Convention. The following section of this chapter discusses about the development of the Law of the Sea Convention.

The legal framework for international co-operation under the Law of the Sea Convention and related instruments The collection of dues for ships transiting through the Straits of Malacca had been an accepted norm until the eighteenth century. The pressure of imperial power, primarily marked by the United Kingdom’s strong opposition

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to the imposition of tolls in the Straits of Malacca and the Danish Strait, put an end to this practice. The prominence of the norm of freedom of navigation, established during the colonial era, did not end following the independence of the littoral states of the Straits. This practice was then, arguably, institutionalized by the establishment of the United Nations Law of the Sea Convention. The legal framework for passage through straits was subject to extensive discussion and reform at the Third United Nations Conference on the Law of the Sea from 1974 to 1982. This raised the expectations of straits states, user states and shipping businesses that a possible co-operation solution could be found. During the negotiation, maritime states made it clear that maintaining freedom of navigation and over-flight through and over straits used for international navigation was essential for obtaining agreement pertaining to the extension of maximum breadth of the territorial sea to 12 nautical miles as well as the adoption of the Exclusive Economic Zone (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 282). The straits states on the other hand maintained that a regime that acknowledged unimpeded transit through their straits must not deny their legitimate interests to protecting their territorial waters and coastal areas from what they deemed as threats to their security, their coastal environments, as well as economic interests (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 283). The series of negotiations from 1974 onwards produced the 1982 Law of the Sea Convention that came into force in 1994. The Convention sets out a regime of free passage through straits used for international navigation that reflects the importance of global navigation issues at the Law of the Sea negotiations (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 279; 283). The 1982 Convention also creates a legal basis for user states and states bordering a strait to co-operate in establishing and maintaining navigational aids and preventing pollution from ships. The widespread acceptance and ratification of the 1982 Law of the Sea Convention provided the opportunity for states bordering such straits, including Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore, to discuss modalities of international co-operation and cost-sharing mechanisms with user states and shipping businesses (Beckman 1998: 234).

Part III of the 1982 Law of the Sea Convention: Management of Straits Used for International Navigation As previously explained, the 1982 Law of the Sea Convention aims to strike a balance between the competing interests of user states mainly represented by maritime states and the straits states (George 2004: 21). The key interest

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of maritime states lies in the maintenance of unrestricted passage over and through straits used for international navigation (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 282). The straits states interest, on the other hand, rests on greater protection of their coastal environment and population (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 282). Thus, at the heart of the Law of the Sea Convention response to these conflicting forces is the introduction of the right of transit passage for all ships and aircraft (George 2004: 21). Part III of the Law of the Sea Convention regulates transit passage in straits used for international navigation. Transit passage is defined as ‘the exercise of freedom of navigation and over flight solely for the continuous and expeditious transit of the strait between one area of high seas or economic zone and another … for the purpose of entering, leaving, or returning from a state bordering the strait’ (Law of the Sea Convention, Part III, Article 38; Churchill and Lowe 1999: 107). Powers of straits state are different from the powers that it can exercise in its territorial sea (George 2004: 22). Article 38(1) of the Law of the Sea Convention articulates the right for unimpeded transit passage for all ships and aircraft (Law of the Sea Convention, Article 38(1)). These ships include merchant ships and ships granted sovereign immunity, including warships and submarines (George 2004: 22). Article 38(2) provides the freedom of navigation for the ships to enter, leave, or return from a state bordering the strait and the right for continuous and expeditious transit of the strait (Law of the Sea Convention, Article 38(2)). In contrast to Article 25 of the Law of the Sea Convention which allows the suspension of innocent passage through a territorial sea, Article 38(2) prohibits the suspension of transit passage by straits states. The unconstrained and maximized freedom of passage given by the transit-passage regime has implications for both the straits states and user states. For the straits states the transit passage regime creates responsibilities to provide sufficient information concerning any danger to navigation or over-flight in the straits and to enhance the safety of navigation (Law of the Sea Convention, Articles 41 and 42). The Law of the Sea Convention also endows the user states with responsibilities to co-operate to improve the safety of navigation and prevent and control pollution in the strait (Law of the Sea Convention, Article 43).

Charges and fees Straits states are not entitled to charge tolls from ships navigating through their waterways merely to transit through the strait (Churchill and Lowe

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1999: 271). This is consistent with Articles 38(1), 26(1), and 44 of the Law of the Sea Convention which specifically mandates no charge may be levied upon foreign ships by reason only of their passage (Churchill and Lowe 1999: 271; George 2004: 39). For the straits states the economic costs for violating these rules are substantial since they might have to compensate for the ship, crew, cargo importers, and even the consumer’ economic loss (George 2004: 39). Straits states may, however, levy charges ‘upon a foreign ship passing through the territorial sea as payment for specific services rendered to the ship’ as stated in Article 26 of the Law of the Sea Convention, since the legal status of waters forming straits used for international navigation is not affected by the regime of passage in such straits (Law of the Sea Convention, Article 26(2); Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 295). Article 34 of the Law of the Sea Convention confirms the sovereignty of the straits states in its territorial sea. To quote Article 34: 1. The regime of passage through straits used for international navigation established in this Part shall not in other respects affect the legal status of the waters forming such straits or the exercise by the States bordering the straits of their sovereignty or jurisdiction over such waters and their air space, bed and subsoil. 2. The sovereignty or jurisdiction of the States bordering the straits is exercised subject to this Part and to other rules of international law. (Law of the Sea Convention, Article 34) Charges however may only be implemented on non-discriminatory basis and for specific services including towage and pilotage (Law of the Sea Convention, Article 26(2); Nandan 1999: 433; Anderson 1999: 446). Article 26 of the Law of the Sea Convention implicitly notes that any charges for specific services must correspond to the costs incurred by the services and must not use ‘as a disguised toll on passage’ (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 295). As Article 26 of the Law of the Sea Convention does not provide mandatory provision for users to make use of the ‘specific services’, therefore, an agreement between relevant user states and straits states need to be obtained before the implementation of any charges to the user states (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 295). Although navigational services such as pilotage and towage fall under Article 26 of the Law of the Sea Convention category of ‘specific services’ the majority of services to enhance the safety of navigation and control marine pollution fall outside this category. Article 26 does not clearly articulate whether general services, including the maintenance of navigational aids,

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fits in the scope of ‘specific services’ expression (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 236). This suggests that to facilitate cost sharing for the majority of services that fall outside ‘specific services’ category a co-operation mechanism that involves straits states and the users is required. The next section discusses the legal basis of co-operation under the Law of the Sea Convention.

International co-operation Article 43 of the Law of the Sea Convention sets out the co-operation framework between straits states and user states (Law of the Sea Convention, Article 43). The formulation of Article 43 is an attempt to meet the straits states concerns. Strait states had raised issues related to the financial burden that they have to bear to maintain navigational aids and environmental protection measures without receiving corresponding benefits as most vessels only transit through the straits bordered by the straits states on the way to another state’s port (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 383; Rothwell and Stephens 2010: 241). At the 1976 session of the Third United Nations Conference on the Law of the Sea, Malaysia proposed to incorporate additional provisions to Article 43 that identical to those contained in Article 26 on charges which could be collected from foreign vessels in innocent passage in the territorial sea (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 382). The Malaysian proposal did not receive significant support from other states (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 382). Following a lengthy discussion, participants of the Third United Nations Conference on the Law of the Sea reached an agreement on Article 43 of the Law of the Sea Convention. Article 43 reads as follow: User states and states bordering a strait should by agreement cooperate: 1. In the establishment and maintenance in a strait of necessary navigational and safety aids or other improvements in aid of international navigation; and 2. For the prevention, reduction and control of pollution from ships. (Law of the Sea Convention, Article 43) Although Article 43 establishes the principle to co-operate, it does not present a direct enforcement mechanism to guarantee acts of co-operation from user states. If a user state does not co-operate then straits states cannot impede, hamper, or suspend transit passage, as stipulated in Article 38(1) of the Law of the Sea Convention (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 383). Nevertheless, if user states refuse to co-operate, straits states can refuse to provide

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navigational aids (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 383). According to Nandan and Rosenne, this action can be used to encourage co-operation from user states since straits states are under no obligations to establish and maintain navigational and safety aids (Nandan and Rosenne 1993: 383). Under Article 44, straits states are only obliged to provide ‘appropriate publicity to any danger to navigation or over flight’ (Law of the Sea Convention, Article 44). However, this would not be a practical solution for states bordering the straits because disastrous accident will bring negative impacts to both the coastal population and marine environment of the straits states (Nandan 1999: 434). This circumstance poses limitation to the practice of charging users by straits states.

Current gaps and challenges in co-operation and cost-sharing partnerships The abolition of dues by the colonial power continues to affect cost-sharing co-operation in the Straits of Malacca. At present the imposition of tolls is not seen as an acceptable option for the Straits states or the international community. In the post-colonial era, the Straits states of Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore shoulder the main responsibility to finance the maintenance of navigational aids and pollution-control measures. Although co-operation among the Straits states and users has existed since the 1960s, the installation of navigational aids and measures to deal with pollution has been under constant pressure for enhancement because of increases in shipping traffic in the Straits. This ongoing phenomenon generates an increasing financial burden for the Straits states to maintain the safety of navigation and to deal with the environmental impact of accidents and discharge of waste from ships. One issue is related to the sustainability of co-operation. With the Technical Expert Group as an exception, the Malacca Straits Committee, established as part of the 1971 tripartite accord between Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore, has long been inactive (Djalal 2006: 276). The Technical Expert Group was established in 1975 by the three littoral states and comprises maritime experts from maritime authorities of the three states (Singapore Maritime and Port Authority, 10 July 2014). It meets annually to discuss and address issues related to the safety of navigation, marine environment protection, and traffic management measures in the Straits (Singapore Maritime and Port Authority, 10 July 2014). According to Djalal, throughout the years the issue of co-operation in the Straits of

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Malacca and Singapore has been reduced to the degree of being seen as merely a technical issue of the safety of navigation (Djalal 2006: 276). Most recently, the institutionalization of the Cooperative Mechanism marked a leap forward in navigational safety and pollution-control co-operation. The Cooperative Mechanism is a key co-operation institution in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore for the straits states, user states and businesses to discuss, exchange information and contribute to improve navigational safety and marine pollution control (Singapore Maritime and Port Authority, 24 December 2012). This institution was the result of a series of International Maritime Organization-sponsored meetings on the Straits of Malacca and Singapore under the International Maritime Organization’s Protection of Vital Shipping Lanes initiative (Singapore Maritime and Port Authority, 24 December 2012). Following the Batam meeting at the beginning of August 2005, Indonesia, sponsored by the International Maritime Organization and in close co-operation with Malaysia and Singapore, hosted the Jakarta Meeting on the Straits of Malacca and Singapore, ‘Enhancing Safety, Security and Environmental Protection in the Straits’, in September 2005. At this meeting the three Straits states agreed to establish a mechanism to meet user states, the shipping industry, and other stakeholders with an interest in the safety of navigation of the Straits on a regular basis (Ong 2007; Singapore Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2005). The purpose of the International Maritime Organization-sponsored meetings was to discuss various issues related to the safety, security, and environmental protection of the Straits and explore possible options for burden sharing (Ong 2007; Singapore Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2005). A year later, at a meeting in Kuala Lumpur held from 18 to 20 September 2006, Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore agreed to establish the Cooperative Mechanism to facilitate dialogue between the three littoral states and other stakeholders (Ong 2007; Singapore Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2005). At the Kuala Lumpur meeting the three Straits states invited the International Maritime Organization to continue its cooperation with the straits states and to provide assistance in generating sponsors for the agreed co-operation projects and contributors for maintaining, repairing, and replacing of navigational aids in the Straits (International Maritime Organization 2006). In consultation with the Straits states, the International Maritime Organization was also involved to convene further follow-on meetings to identify specific needs of straits states and to identify possible assistance or burden-sharing options for users whether in the form of provision of resources, capacity building, training, or technical support (International Maritime Organization 2006).

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As a follow up to the Batam, Jakarta, and Kuala Lumpur meetings, the government of Singapore, together with the International Maritime Organization, jointly convened another meeting on the safety of navigation in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore from 4 to 6 September 2007. At the Singapore meeting Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore presented details on the Cooperative Mechanism that they developed following the Kuala Lumpur meeting (Maritime Port Authority of Singapore 2007). By co-operating closely with the International Maritime Organization the three Straits states indicated their intention to reach out to all users, both state and private, to join the co-operation. During the launch of the initiative at the Singapore meeting, fifty states and seventeen maritime-related organizations provided their support of the Cooperative Mechanism (Maritime Port Authority of Singapore 2012c). A group of states including Australia, the Bahamas, China, Cyprus, Germany, India, Japan, Norway, Panama, the Republic of Korea, South Africa, Turkey, the United Arab Emirates, the United Kingdom, and the United States, as well as international shipping associations, such as the Nippon Foundation, the International Association of Independent Tanker Owners, and the International Chamber of Shipping, voiced their explicit support during the meeting (Maritime Port Authority of Singapore 2012c). With extensive international support the Cooperative Mechanism has laid a basis for future co-operation between Straits states and the users of the Straits. Since 2007 the development of co-operation under the Cooperative Mechanism has been deemed rather slow (Rusli 2011: 70). Japan is the only user state that provides consistent assistance to the Straits states. The Nippon Foundation of Japan made a contribution worth US$2.5 million in 2009 to deal with the maintenance of the straits route. 4 Yet, the Nippon Foundation donation has not been followed by other substantial contributions from private sectors. In the absence of additional contributors, long-term donors such as Japan may begin undergoing ‘donor fatigue’ and start questioning the merits of sustaining its assistance to the Straits states (Wai and Basiron 2007: 6-7). The Japanese private sector, for instance, began to query their contributions to assist the Straits states since the big shipping businesses of China and South Korea do not take part in assisting co-operation.5 There has been widespread concern among the Straits states regarding the difficulties of overcoming free-rider syndrome (Wai and Basiron 2007: 5). This issue has been constantly raised in the Cooperative Mechanism (Rusli 4 5

Tharp 2010. Interview with a Japanese government official, Jakarta, 13 December 2012.

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2011: 74). User states such as the United States have stated their interests to contribute in assisting the Straits states in removing the identified wrecks in the Straits at the 2006 Kuala Lumpur meeting but have not followed up their commitment (Wai and Basiron 2007: 5). Given the lack of commitment in cost-sharing co-operation, the Straits states considered filing a complaint to the International Tribunal of the Sea referring to the users’ violations of Article 300 of the Law of the Sea Convention pertaining to good faith and abuse of rights.6 Nevertheless, the Law of the Sea Convention dispute-settlement mechanism could be seen as an option of last resort because it may develop unwanted and ‘unnecessary tension’ between the Straits states and the users of the Straits (Wai and Basiron 2007: 7). The funds needed by the littoral states to finance six crucial projects identified at the Kuala Lumpur meeting in 2006 was estimated to reach US$42,802,400, with the Aids to Navigation Project alone costing US$18,225,000 (Djalal 2009: 324). These six projects include 1) removal of the identified wrecks (US$19 million); 2) co-operation and capacity building on hazardous and noxious substance (US$3.5 million); 3) demonstration project of Class-B Automatic Identification System on small ships (US$400,000); 4) setting up tide, current and wind measurement system in twelve locations (US$774,400); 5) replacement of aids to navigation (US$18,225,000); and 6) replacement of seven aids to navigation damaged by a tsunami in 2004 (US$276,000) (Djalal 2009: 321-322). The International Maritime Organization’s Malacca and Singapore Straits Trust Fund has been set up to provide assistance in attracting funders for these six projects and any future projects. Currently, the International Maritime Organization Straits Trust Fund has reached an amount of US$1,238,193 and €315,000 (Cooperative Mechanism 2014). Greece, Germany, China, Norway, and the European Commission have contributed to the Trust Fund. In addition, as part of the Cooperative Mechanism public and private actors have provided voluntary contributions worth US$15,087,737 for the Aids to Navigation Fund. The Aids to Navigation Fund is dedicated to the replacement and maintenance of fifty-one aids to navigation in the Straits (Project Number 5) (Djalal 2009: 323). At the 2007 Singapore meeting the Nippon Foundation of Japan announced its commitment to provide one-third of the five-year costs of the Aids to Navigation Fund that reached a total amount of US$9 million (Basiron 2007: 2). As a matter of urgency there is a need to address the gap between the actual funds needed by the littoral states to maintain the navigational safety of the Straits and the available contribution made by both public and private funders. The user states and shipping businesses 6 Basiron 2007.

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have a strong interest in investing in the navigational safety and pollution prevention in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. If the Straits of Malacca and Singapore are closed due to accident, tsunami, or terrorists attacks the costs for detouring will increase the costs of the international cargo shipping by an extra US$20.9 trillion or over 2,000 times more than the actual fund needed by the littoral states to improve the safety of navigation and pollution-prevention measures as identified in the 2006 Kuala Lumpur meeting (Shibasaki 2010: 19).

Analysis of different models of cost-sharing partnerships The impact of the abolition of dues in the Straits of Malacca by the imperial powers, notably the United Kingdom, cannot be reversed but there are possible solutions to address the cost-sharing problems faced by straits states. In order to deal with the problem which is rooted in the past, this chapter looks at examples both from the past and the present. For this purpose this chapter discusses four different models of cost-sharing partnerships at global and regional levels in order to find what type of co-operation arrangement might be suitable, and legally feasible to implement, in the context of the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. Cost sharing in the Dover Strait: a work in progress The Dover Strait lies between the coast of England and France. Similar to the Straits of Malacca and Singapore the Strait of Dover is an extremely complex case (Oudet 1972: 61). The Strait is one of busiest waterways in the world. In 2001, 120,000 vessels and 74,000 ferries carrying 21 million passengers navigated through the Strait of Dover.7 In 2001 alone, 654 incidents were recorded by the Dover Coastguards where 193 people were rescued and 21 died (Anderson 2002: 26). The density of maritime traffic continues to generate maritime safety concerns. Britain and France have long co-operated closely in managing the Strait of Dover and bear the costs of co-operation. The two countries have installed navigational aids including radar, buoys, and lighthouses; removing wrecks, carrying out hydrographic surveys; keeping 24-hour radar watch on the Strait; tracking vessels contravening International Maritime Organization 7 British Coastguard and Maritime Agency, Press Release No. 119e/02, 13 May 2002, as cited in Anderson 2002: 26.

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recommendations on navigation in the traff ic-separation scheme and broadcasting navigational warnings (Gregory 1974: 53-54). Since the early 1970s a cost-sharing mechanism for managing the Strait of Dover has been deemed a pressing issue. International funding is crucial not only to finance the maintenance of navigational aids in the Strait but also to meet expensive requirements, including hydrographical surveys and wreck removal (Oudet 1972: 61). In terms of hydrographic survey, the French and British naval establishments, which in the past did not hesitate to carry out surveys, are at present reluctant to carry out such work due to lack of funds (Oudet 1972: 62). Military budget reductions in both countries have reduced their financial capacity to conduct hydrographical surveys (Oudet 1972: 62). The removal of wrecks from the Strait of Dover is essential but costly. Wreck removals are carried out by Trinity House, the authority responsible for pilotage and lighting along United Kingdom coasts (Oudet 1972: 62). Trinity House, however, has no funds for the removal of wrecks outside British territorial limits and no one can force it to remove them (Oudet 1972: 62). Funding for Trinity House is generated only from charges levied on ships visiting British ports and only 20 percent of the traffic on the Strait is bound for British ports (Oudet 1972: 62). Although currently there is no system governing cost sharing in the Strait of Dover, the United Kingdom has attempted to introduce a set of principles to develop a future system for charging ships for services provided by straits states (United Nations 1998: 248). At the 68th Session of the International Maritime Organization Maritime Safety Committee in June 1997, the United Kingdom put forward an item of ‘any other business’ (Van Dyke 2008: 193).8 This item was ‘Developing Principles for Charging Users the Cost of Maritime Infrastructure’ to the Legal Committee of the International Maritime Organization (Van Dyke 2008: 193). It suggested that the International Maritime Organization should develop fair principles regulating charges that straits states could levy on users for navigational aids and other services that they render (Nandan 2002: 8). According to a United Kingdom official, the proposed ‘item was intended to test the water of the Committee to see if there would be a support for putting the topic forward as a formal resolution for adoption’.9 The United Kingdom proposed that charges would be implemented on a non-discriminatory 8 E-mail correspondence with an official from the Northern Lighthouse, 30 November 2012; Van Dyke 2008: 193. 9 Ibid.

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basis and would be tied to the recovery costs, including capital investment and improvements, but excluded any form of profit (Ahmad 1997: 132-133). While there was some support for the United Kingdom’s proposal most delegations appear to have disagreed with it. They questioned whether such suggestions would ‘exceed the technical mandate so far exercised by the International Maritime Organization in the adoption of international safety and anti-pollution rules’ (United Nations 1998: 248).10 Due to the reservations of most delegations, the International Maritime Organization Legal Committee then ‘concluded that the proposal had not received sufficient support’ to go forward (United Nations 1998: 248).11 Cost sharing in the Torres Strait: fees for compulsory pilotage The Torres Strait is located between Australia and Papua New Guinea and connects the Indonesian archipelago with the South Pacific (Rothwell 2012: 11). The Strait is known as one of the most dangerous stretches of waters routinely navigated by large vessels (Bateman and White 2009: 185-187). Around 150 small islands, reefs, cays, and islets are spread across the waterway (Rothwell 2012: 12). Apart from numerous islands and other navigational dangers scattered throughout the Strait, the water is also shallow and narrow. The depth in the Varzin Passage is only 10.5 metres and in the Prince of Wales Channel 11.5 metres (Bateman and White 2009: 185). In addition, at its narrowest point the width of the Strait is only 800 metres (Bateman and White 2009: 187). These circumstances increase the risks of accident. Therefore, in order to reduce the risks of marine accident, on 6 October 2006, Australia announced the implementation of compulsory pilotage for the Torres Strait.12 This initiative became a subject of debate at the International Maritime Organization. The United States, Singapore, and the International Chamber of Shipping put forward their formal protests to the International Maritime Organization Sub-Committee on Safety of Navigation.13 These maritime stakeholders are concerned that as ‘the extension of the Great Barrier Reef compulsory pilotage arrangements to [the] Torres Strait lies outside the territorial waters of Papua New Guinea and Australia (proposing states), this will set a precedent for other straits 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid. 12 Marine Notice 8/2006 & Associated Marine Orders Part 54, as cited in Australian Navy 2007. 13 Australian Navy 2007.

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used for international navigation’.14 Despite international protests, Australia adopted the compulsory pilotage measure. The Australian government argued that compulsory pilotage is crucial to protect sensitive marine habitats in the Great Barrier Reef and Torres Strait. Australia submitted its request to the International Maritime Organization to identify the Great Barrier Reef as a Particularly Sensitive Sea Area (PSSA) and received International Maritime Organization approval in 1990.15 The International Maritime Organization resolution recommended member states to comply with Australia’s pilotage system.16 Australia and Papua New Guinea then proposed for the extension of the Great Barrier Reef PSSA to include the Torres Strait to prevent and mitigate the vulnerability of the Strait from damage cause by shipping traffic and activities.17 The International Maritime Organization approved this proposal and on 22 July 2005 designated the Torres Strait as an extension of the Great Barrier Reef PSSA.18 The International Maritime Organization resolution recommends member states: To inform ships flying their flag that they should act in accordance with Australia’s system of pilotage for merchant ships 70 m in length and over or oil tankers, chemical tankers, and gas carriers, irrespective of size when navigating through (a) the inner route of the Great Barrier Reef between the northern extreme of Cape York Peninsula and in Hydrographers Passage and (b) the Torres Strait and the Great North East Channel between Booby Island and Bramble Cay.19

Following the International Maritime Organization resolution, the Australian government issued regulations establishing a compulsory pilotage system for the Torres Strait and Great North East Channel.20 The new navigation act makes it an offence to ‘navigate in a compulsory pilotage area without a pilot’.21 The Australian government applies significant penalties to a ship master or shipowner who does not comply with the compulsory

14 Ibid.; International Maritime Organization 2004. 15 Ibid.; Ibid. 16 Australian Navy 2007. 17 International Maritime Organization 2005. 18 Ibid. 19 Ibid. 20 Australian Navy 2007. 21 Australian Maritime Safety Authority 2006.

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pilotage requirements.22 Under the new regulations all vessels of 70 metres or more in overall length, and all loaded tankers, chemical tankers, and liquefied gas carriers, when transiting through the Torres Strait Pilotage Area, must have a pilot on board.23 These regulations recognize the principle of sovereign immunity for defence-force ships (warships) and government vessels not employed on commercial service by exempting these ships from the regime.24 Vessels transiting the compulsory pilotage area must notify the head office of Torres Pilots at least four days before their arrival and provide the head office with a range of information including pilot boarding ground, time/date pilot required, destination and intended route, and the vessel’s operational speed, International Maritime Organization number and call sign (Torres Pilots 2012). The fee for pilotage is Australian $4,000 per vessel per passage (Bateman and White 2009: 196). Australia has established measures to monitor ships’ compliance without physically denying passage. Ships that are entering Australia’s exclusive economic zone are tracked using the Australian Maritime Information System (AMIS) run by the Border Protection Command.25 The ships’ movement on the Strait is then monitored by REEFCENTRE, which manages vessel traffic and information systems for this route.26 A ship that is approaching the Torres Strait is also interrogated by the shore’s Automatic Identification System (AIS) and tracked by shore-based radar.27 This ship can also be identified by remotely operated video cameras in the areas surrounding the Prince of Wales Channel and surveillance aircraft.28 All of these mechanisms are in place to identify any vessel that does not take a pilot and fails to report itself.29 The International Ice Patrol in the North Atlantic The sinking of the RMS Titanic on 15 April 1912 generated public demand for the establishment of a co-operative scheme to address the navigational hazard caused by icebergs (International Ice Patrol 2012c). In 1913, as part of the international effort to prevent any future navigational disaster resulting from 22 Ibid. 23 Ibid. 24 Ibid.; Australian Navy 2007. 25 Australian Navy 2007. 26 Ibid. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid.

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ships colliding with icebergs, the first International Conference on the Safety of Life at Sea was convened in London. This conference produced in 1914 an early version of International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea (SOLAS), which set the legal foundation for the establishment of the International Ice Patrol. Article 6 of the 1914 SOLAS Convention established an obligation for the contracting parties to ‘ensure the destruction of derelicts in the northern part of the Atlantic Ocean’ and ‘to establish a service for the study and observation of ice conditions and a service of ice patrol’. Article 7 regulates the contribution of the contracting parties to the expense of establishing and operating the ice patrol. The 1914 SOLAS Convention established fixed percentages for each nation to contribute to the patrol (as shown in Table 9.1). Table 9.1 Contribution of each state to the IIP States Austria-Hungary Belgium Canada Denmark France Germany Great Britain Italy Netherlands Norway Russia Sweden United States

Contributions (percentage) 2 4 2 2 15 15 30 4 4 3 2 2 15

Source: Article 7 of the 1914 SOLAS Convention

As a follow-up to the first International Conference on the Safety of Life at Sea, maritime nations with ships transiting the North Atlantic established the International Ice Patrol in 1914 to monitor the iceberg danger near the Grand Banks of Newfoundland and relay the information to the marine community (International Ice Patrol 2012d). The United States was invited to manage and operate the International Ice Patrol (1914 SOLAS Convention, Article 7; International Ice Patrol 2012a). The Revenue Cutter Service is charged with this mission and in 1915 this responsibility was assumed by the United States Coast Guard (International Ice Patrol 2012b). The activities of the International Ice Patrol include reconnaissance work and data analysis. In terms of reconnaissance work, the United States Coast

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Guard collects information regarding ice conditions from air-surveillance flights and ships operating through the area (International Ice Patrol 2012e; 2012b). During the ice season that runs from 1 February through 31 July, the United States Coast Guard carries out reconnaissance flights for five days every other week (International Ice Patrol 2012b; 2012e). Each patrol takes between five to seven hours and each flight covers an area of 30,000 square miles or more (International Ice Patrol 2012b; 2012e). The data gathered from surveillance flights and ships is entered into a computer model at the International Ice Patrol Operations Center together with ocean current and wind data to predict the drifts of the icebergs (International Ice Patrol 2012b; 2012e). The International Ice Patrol has conducted its activities every season with the exception of the period of the two World Wars (International Ice Patrol 2012b; 2012e). Although the United States is in charge of the management of the International Ice Patrol at the operational level, the United States government is not the only party that bears the costs of International Ice Patrol activities. The expense of the International Ice Patrol operations is shared by thirteen nations interested in trans-Atlantic navigation who are signatories to the 1914 SOLAS Convention (International Ice Patrol 2012b). These are Belgium, Greece, Poland, Canada, Italy, Spain, Denmark, Japan, Sweden, Finland, the Netherlands, the United Kingdom, France, Norway, the United States, Germany, and Panama (United States Coast Guard 2011: 58). These nations agreed to share costs based on a formula that reflects their level of individual benefits (United States Coast Guard 2012). In the early years of the International Ice Patrol this cost-sharing mechanism was calculated on the basis of a fixed percentage (United States Coast Guard 2012). At present, the percentage of the total cargo tonnage of each participating nation which transits the North Atlantic area during the ice season has been used to measure contributions (United States Coast Guard 2012). The United States Department of State is tasked to do the actual billing of each nation for their contribution (United States Coast Guard 2012). Contribution for the maintenance of Red Sea Lights Another instance of international cost-sharing practice is shown in the maintenance of two navigational lights in the southern part of the Red Sea. These navigational lights on the Islands of Abu Ail and Jabal al-Tair in the Red Sea were constructed by the Ottoman government before World War I (Garner 1975: 130). On 24 July 1923, under Article 16 of the Lausanne Treaty, Turkey renounced all her rights and titles over the two islands;

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since then there has been no determination of sovereignty over these two islands (Garner 1975: 130).30 The United Kingdom continued to maintain these navigational lights with contributions from Germany, Italy, and the Netherlands.31 In an attempt to maintain the crucial operation of these lights in October 1962 the British government invited all nations having 2 percent or more total tonnage transiting through the Suez Canal and thus, benefited from the lights, to attend a conference in London (Garner 1975: 130; Anderson 1999: 451). The successful conference produced the Agreement for the Maintenance of Certain Lights in the Red Sea, signed in London on 20 February 1962. The purposes of the agreement were to maintain navigational lights on the Islands of Abu Ail and Jabal al-Tair and regulate the sharing of the costs of their maintenance (Garner 1975: 129).32 The contracting parties to this agreement included Denmark, the Federal Republic of Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Norway, Sweden, the United Kingdom, the United States, Pakistan, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and the United Arab Republic.33 Each of these states paid the expense of managing the navigational lights based on the total tonnage of their vessels.34 The government of the United Kingdom was assigned as the managing government with responsibility to manage and maintain the lights.35 The British government then appointed their Department of Trade and Industry to administer the Red Sea Lights agreements (Garner 1975: 131). In 1967 the British government pledged the Inter-governmental Maritime Consultative Organization to carry out the reconstruction of the Red Sea Lights at its own expense. Nevertheless, the government also claimed that any additional costs incurred in connection with the lighthouse would be shared among the contracting parties.36 As a managing government the United Kingdom was also responsible for collecting annual contributions, for announcing the annual expenditure in managing and maintaining the lights, and estimating the next year’s 30 Preamble of the International Agreement for the Maintenance of Certain Lights in the Red Sea, 1962. 31 Ibid. 32 Ibid. 33 The International Agreement for the Maintenance of Certain Lights in the Red Sea, 1962. 34 Article 3(1) of the International Agreement for the Maintenance of Certain Lights in the Red Sea, 1962. 35 Article 2 of the International Agreement for the Maintenance of Certain Lights in the Red Sea, 1962. 36 Department of State Airgram, unclassified, London A-1390 of Nov. 26, 1973, with enclosure from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office dated Nov. 13, 1973 as cited in Garner 1975: 133.

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expenditure, as well as consulting with the others on any expenditure (other than regular maintenance) in excess of £5,000 (Garner 1975: 133).37 More importantly, the managing government was tasked with assessing the contribution of each government based on the total tonnage of the vessels of each contracting government plying the Suez Canal ‘as compared with the total tonnage of all vessels of the contributing governments’ navigating through the Canal during one year.38 This international cost-sharing scheme lasted for almost thirty years before Yemen started to operate navigational lights in its own area, after its independence from Aden (Anderson 1999: 451). In June 1989 Yemen informed the British government that regarding the location of the two navigational lights that fall under the Yemeni Exclusive Economic Zone it was willing to take responsibility in managing and operating the two lighthouses (Lauterpacht 1999: 67). Since 1989 ‘it became clear that many parties’ – including the United Kingdom – had revealed their intention of denouncing the 1962 Treaty. As no positive action was taken to extend the 1962 Treaty, the international agreement expired on March 1990 (Lauterpacht 1999: 68).

A way forward The impact of the abolition of dues during the colonial era in the Straits of Malacca and other international straits persists to today. In the post-colonial era this practice was institutionalized through the establishment of the 1982 Law of the Sea Convention. The Law of the Sea Convention sets both opportunities and limitations for cost sharing in straits used for international navigation such as the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. It prohibits straits states from imposing tolls but it does provide the opportunity for financial co-operation between straits states and users to take place. In dealing with a co-operation problem which is rooted in the past, this chapter reviewed examples from the past and the present. The cost-sharing examples explained above show that there are precedents for cost-sharing co-operation in international waterways. Although the United Kingdom proposal for cost sharing in the Strait of Dover has not been put into practice, however, as previously mentioned the principles for 37 Articles 3(2) and 3(3) of the International Agreement for the Maintenance of Certain Lights in the Red Sea, 1962. 38 Article 3(5) of the International Agreement for the Maintenance of Certain Lights in the Red Sea, 1962.

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charging users put forward by the British government could be used as a guideline for possible future cost-sharing arrangements in straits used for international navigation. This is because the four cost-sharing principles as proposed by the United Kingdom underline the requirement not to impede innocent passage, discriminate vessels based on their flag states, link the charges only with costs incurred in delivering specific services, and avoid overcharging the users (Djalal 1999: 469). Although the United Kingdom proposal for cost sharing did not gain sufficient support from other states, there is a possibility for the United Kingdom government to drive forward the co-operation proposal through the European Union regional framework. Increasingly, the European Union is seen as an organization that can produce a stronger and quicker solution in comparison to the International Maritime Organization (Gaskell 2003: 161). The Erika disaster incident in 199939 shows that when the compensation fund available under the 1992 renewal of the International Convention on Civil Liability for Oil Pollution Damage (CLC Convention) was not sufficient to cover all pollution claims, the International Maritime Organization working group’s decision to revise the International Fund for Compensation for Oil Pollution Damage (IOPC Fund) was attributable to European Union action (Gaskell 2003: 161-162). Most vessels that navigate through the Channel and the Strait of Dover call at European ports, mainly northern continental ports, including Rotterdam and Bremen (Gilman and Williams 1976: 138-139). Therefore, a regional mechanism to deal with cost sharing for the maintenance of navigational aids and pollution-prevention measures is a feasible option for the straits states of the Dover Strait. However, a regional solution to work out cost-sharing co-operation in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore is not the type of co-operation scheme that could be easily implemented in these key waterways. Mainly this is because most ships sailing through the Straits of Malacca and Singapore call at ports outside the Southeast Asian region and use flags of convenience. Consequently cost-sharing co-operation in the Straits needs to be established with a close co-operation with international organization that deals with global shipping such as the International Maritime Organization. The negotiations which led to the adoption of the Law of the Sea Convention clearly show that the International Maritime Organization was the organization being thought of every time various articles of the convention refer to ‘competent international organization’ in 39 The MV Erika was an oil tanker that sank off the coast of France in 1999, causing a major environmental disaster.

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the singular and ‘reference was being made simultaneously’ in regards to standards regulating the safety of navigation and prevention and control of marine pollution (Van Reenen 1981: 3-44; Popp 1980: 3-30; Kingham and McRae 1979: 106-131). Without prior approval from the International Maritime Organization, the Straits states cannot presume that they are ‘competent to implement such measures in international straits, in archipelagic sea lanes or in the EEZ [Exclusive Economic Zone]’ (Harrison 2011: 192). Many cases demonstrate that early implementation of navigational safety or pollution-prevention measures is impossible in the absence of co-operation arrangements and guidelines that need to be developed through the International Maritime Organization (Harrison 2009: 734). In the case of the Torres Strait, the practice of compulsory pilotage in the Strait raised a debate among the international maritime community pertaining to whether the imposition of the pilotage hampers transit passage or serves as a legitimate measure to mitigate the risks of environmental damage (Rothwell 2012: 10).40 There have been calls to consider the Straits of Malacca and Singapore as a Particularly Sensitive Sea Area that would open the possibility to implement a compulsory pilotage system in the Straits (Rothwell 2012: 19). As explained earlier in this chapter, the narrowness and shallow depths of the Straits of Malacca and Singapore coupled with the high volume of traff ic have created hazardous conditions in these waterways. Although the implementation of compulsory pilotage in the Torres Strait since 2006 has set a precedent for the application of similar measure in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore, nevertheless, the International Maritime Organization Revised Guidelines for the Identification and Designation of Particularly Sensitive Sea Areas required straits states to simultaneously obtain the International Maritime Organization Marine Environment Protection Committee resolution on Particularly Sensitive Sea Areas and its approval on protective measures (Unlu 2006: 546-547; Rusli 2011: 513). Given strong opposition from extra-regional states, the United States, and one of the littoral states, Singapore, on the compulsory pilotage regime at Torres Strait an attempt to apply the same practice to the Straits of Malacca and Singapore is likely to generate a political row at the International Maritime Organization (Rothwell 2012: 19). Since the Straits of Malacca and Singapore are one of the key sea lanes for world trade, the implementation of a compulsory-pilotage regime in the Straits would hamper commerce. This concern was also raised by some states with regards to the implementation of compulsory pilotage in the Torres Strait. 40 See also Beckman 2007; Bateman and White 2009.

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Arguments have been put forward by maritime states that compulsorypilotage regimes impair the right of transit passage since ships need to stop to take on a pilot and pay for their services (Beckman 2007: 345). Addressing the perceived impact of compulsory pilotage on trade activities in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore is seen as crucial in gaining support for driving forward the compulsory pilotage regime in the Straits from Singapore41. The other two cost-sharing examples discussed in this chapter, the North Atlantic International Ice Patrol and the maintenance of navigational lights in the southern part of the Red Sea, provide the most useful analogies for finding a feasible cost-sharing mechanism for the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. These co-operation mechanisms show that applying specific fees for relevant states in order to improve the safety of navigation in key waterways is feasible. Under the co-operation schemes in the North Atlantic and the Red Sea, user states are required to contribute a specif ic amount every year. The United Kingdom, as the managing government for the maintenance of lights in the Red Sea, and the United States, as the state responsible for the management and operation of the International Ice Patrol, calculate the annual expenditure, and assess and collect contributions for each government. In both cases the percentage of the total cargo tonnage of each participating nation which navigates through the North Atlantic area or the Red Sea has been used to measure contributions. A number of useful principles flow from the two existing cost-sharing co-operation schemes that could be adopted to develop a burden-sharing mechanism for dealing with marine pollution and navigational safety in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. These principles include the following: first, that all parties must agree in the first place – and this a critical point – to co-operate and discuss the possible cost-sharing schemes with good intentions and a peaceful manner. This is because straits states cannot impose charges upon users transiting their waters without a prior co-operation arrangement. Second, both the North Atlantic and the Red Sea co-operation schemes show the importance of reaching such arrangements among interested states before establishing mechanisms to calculate total costs and contributions for each state. In both co-operation arrangements all relevant states found it necessary to enter into agreement before evaluating costs. Under the two co-operation schemes, interested states who are participating in the agreements have 41 Sulaiman, 2 September 2011, as cited in Rothwell, 2012: 19.

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signif icant number of vessels transiting through the North Atlantic Sea and the Red Sea. In the case of the North Atlantic International Ice Patrol the thirteen participating states are those with the most cargo that transits the North Atlantic area during the ice season. Similarly, in the case of cost sharing for the maintenance of lights in the Red Sea the eleven participating states were all nations with most total tonnage transiting through the Suez Canal. In the case of the Straits of Malacca and Singapore, defining the user states and consequently, the primary contributors in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore, would be far more difficult than in the North Atlantic or the Suez Canal. This is because vessels from various flag states ply the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. A number of states, including Japan, Greece, the United States, the United Kingdom, and Singapore own most of the tonnage which transits the Straits (Noer and Gregory 1993: 6). Nevertheless, large amounts of tonnage are also owned by other countries although their presence is discretely played down due to the usage of vessels flying flags of convenience. The use of flags of convenience points to ‘the registration and operation of vessels beneficially owned and controlled by foreign interests under the laws of certain states with only a tenuous connection between the state of registry and the vessel’ (Herman 1978: 3). These ‘certain states’ include countries such as Panama, Liberia, Costa Rica, and Honduras whose laws make it easy for foreign nationals or companies to register their vessels under these states’ flags (Goldie 1991: 64; Herman 1978: 3). Most vessels navigating through the Southeast Asian waterways, including the Straits of Malacca and Singapore, use flags of convenience (Noer and Gregory 1993: 6). More than three-quarters of United States ships and most Japanese ships in Southeast Asia are ‘flagged out’ (Noer and Gregory 1993: 6). A number of concerns arise from the use of flags of convenience, including such flag states’ low standards of worker safety and work conditions, less stringent regulations regarding environmental protection and safety on the seas, and their lack of power and administrative structure to enforce rules (Powell 2013: 273-276). In the context of cost-sharing co-operation, given maritime flags symbolize the nationality of the ship, the use of foreign registration makes it harder to identify ‘the location of those responsible for the vessel’ (Goldie 1991: 63). This circumstance would create difficulty in determining the participating states and measuring their contributions. A report produced by the United States Center for Naval Analysis confirms this as it claims that nationality is an ambiguous concept when applied to merchant shipping (Noer and Gregory 1993: 6). This is because of the slight correlation between nationality of registration and nationality of owners;

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these two factors often have an insignificant ‘relationship to the economies shipping or receiving cargoes’ (Noer and Gregory 1993: 6). Considering the ambiguous concept of nationality in shipping, a cost-sharing scheme to improve navigational safety and pollution prevention is likely to work better globally due to the fluidity of the nationality in the areas of merchant shipping. However, this chapter does not suggest that a new global initiative under the International Maritime Organization for the Straits of Malacca and Singapore needs to be developed. Instead of building a new institution that may involve a costly and lengthy negotiation process, Straits states and users of the Straits of Malacca and Singapore could adapt the current Cooperative Mechanism platform to a new system for charging users. This initiative resulted from the International Maritime Organization-sponsored meetings. Ever since it launched in September 2007, the International Maritime Organization has continued to play a central role not only in convening meetings but also in urging users to contribute to f inance the maintenance of navigational aids and environmental protection in the Straits. The International Maritime Organization’s long-term commitment to the Cooperative Mechanism is proven from its establishment of the International Maritime Organization Malacca and Singapore Straits Trust Fund to attract more users to sponsor projects identified during the 2006 Kuala Lumpur meeting. As a f irst step in developing a new cost-sharing system, and in line with the f irst principle highlighted above, the Strait states, users, and the International Maritime Organization can, through the Cooperative Mechanism, begin to negotiate a solution to the current pressures facing the Straits states. Through the Cooperative Mechanism Straits states can then forge the co-operation agreement required by the second principle which ultimately can lead to an agreed upon mechanism for imposing dues on ships transiting the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. Arguably the International Ice Patrol and the Maintenance of the Red Sea Lights agreements also show how to use cargo tonnage as a means to calculate the costs which should be imposed. In this manner a historical problem can be resolved using both historical examples and the experiences of contemporary institutions.

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Acknowledgements The author acknowledges her profound debt to Professor Alan Boyle, Dr James Harrison, Dr François Bailet, Professor Alasdair Young, Dr Cian O’Driscoll, Dr Daniel Hammond, and the many others who provided insights, guidance, and advice. Finally, the author also thanks the Nippon Foundation of Japan and the United Nations DOALOS for the generous support that made this research possible.

Part Three Cities and Buildings

10 Rallying Towards the Nation Theatre of Nation Building in Post-colonial Dhaka Kishwar Habib and Bruno De Meulder Abstract This chapter examines the production and reproduction of Ramna and the surrounding area in Dhaka, Bangladesh. Created by the Mughals, Ramna was as an area of pleasure gardens situated outside the city. Throughout the colonial times (from the presence of the East India Company until the British Commonwealth), consecutive manipulations and (re)structuring of Ramna established it as a unique and layered space – a campus-like environment with new types of recreational facilities (for horse racing, polo, etc.) and various institutions (Curzon Hall, a college, a hospital, clubs, etc.) embedded in a unifying and picturesque park. Simultaneously, this constructed ‘natural’ environment became the centre of the metropolitan city that, paradoxically, is also the threshold between the traditional, indigenous, and contemporary post-colonial parts of the city. As the centre of the city and comprised of public buildings and functions, Ramna is positioned between the park and the city, nature and culture. Following independence, the area has become the nation’s pre-eminent representative landscape, where competing centres of power are juxtaposed within a space of a few square kilometres. Using ethnographic and historical morphotypological data and mappings of different trajectories through time, this chapter aims to understand the intertwined histories of the continuous production and reproduction of the Ramna area, its role in the construction of the nation, and (re)aff irmation of Bengali cultural identity.

Can the city centre be empty space? Looking down from above in an effort to reveal a ‘hitherto unexplored plain’, the Ramna area stands out in a vast, growing grey surface as a green

218 Kishwar Habib and Bruno De Meulder Figure 10.1 The timeline of Dhaka. The timeline shows the position of Ramna – a green oasis in-between indigenous and postcolonial extensions of the city

Authors’ drawing based on Dani 1962: Maps 2 and 3, Dhaka City Corporation GIS Map 2008, Google Earth 2010

oasis at the heart of the capital city.1 While Dhaka has been growing as a capital for about 400 years, Ramna – the geographic centre of the city and in-between the old indigenous city and the dramatic post-colonial extensions – remains, in many ways, empty. In a context where the metropolis’s green areas are evaporating, Ramna remains a remarkably vast, ‘natural’ open space (see Figure 10.1). Interestingly, Dhaka does not have majestic geographic conditions like Cape Town or Rio de Janeiro that leave the city centre empty and guide the path of urbanization. 2 (Re)reading Ramna reveals that the area is a park or a forest due to its high density of trees, and it forms a unique characteristic in the city centre; it is in sharp contrast to Dhaka’s extremely dense urban morphology.3 In this way, it is an exceptional and extraordinary space (see Figure 10.2). While the view from above reveals other vast open spaces (the National Assembly complex and surroundings, the military domains, and the military airport), Ramna best reflects the meaning of public space: a place of meeting, exchange, and greetings of all kinds (see Figure 10.3). 4

1 The phrase ‘hitherto unexplored plain’ is from Le Corbusier’s Aircraft (1935) and refers to the developing genre of aerial discourse. Le Corbusier reveals that visual and spatial perception (our mental image) of cities and geography changes when we look at them from above. See also Corner 1999. 2 Conniff 1981; Evenson 1973; Turok and Watson 2001; Saff 1998. 3 Dhaka has one of the highest population densities in the world and still sees rural to urban immigration. 4 For definitions of public space, see Madanipour 2009: 8-11; Low 2000: 238-240.

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Figure 10.2 Inside-out Ramna. These aerial photographs show Ramna as a forest or park at the centre in sharp contrast to the dense urban morphology

Courtesy of Thomas Ruskin

Figure 10.3 Open spaces in the capital. Ramna (number 10) is a vast open public space located at the heart of the capital

Authors’ drawing based on Dhaka City Corporation GIS Map 2008 and Google Earth 2012

220 Kishwar Habib and Bruno De Meulder

The history of Ramna can be traced back to the Mughal era (1576-1757), when it was home to pleasure gardens located on the periphery of the city. During the colonial era (from the presence of the East India Company until the British Commonwealth), consecutive manipulations and (re) structuring of the area established it as a unique and layered space, with new types of recreational facilities (horse racing, polo, golf) and other uses, as desired by the British elite at that time. Various institutional uses (Curzon Hall, Secretariat, hospital, clubs, college, university, etc.) deemed unsuitable or too large to be placed in the existing city were located here. These were ‘model’ institutions that resonated with the self-proclaimed aim of a ‘civilizing mission’ and that found themselves embedded in a unifying and picturesque park. As if this instrument of ‘civilization’ found itself not in a polluted city but, rather, in a pure natural environment, yet this colonial-era reconstruction of a Mughal space was the first of many reuses that were to occur in the post-colonial era. Today, Ramna is a preeminent representative landscape consisting of a few square kilometres. As a condensed representation of political-cultural elements, Ramna is a rallying ground for demonstrations, a space for manifestations of cultural expression and other public and social functions. Simultaneously, this constructed park-like environment is the centre of a metropolitan city that, paradoxically, is a threshold between the traditional, indigenous, and (post-independence) newer parts of the city. In itself, as an empty centre of the city, as a theatre of colonial display, and a collector of public buildings and functions, Ramna is positioned between the park and the city, between nature and culture. This chapter reads the Ramna area from different perspectives: from a bird’s-eye view to labyrinthine trajectories, while the (re)reading is complemented by ethnographic f ieldwork and analyses of historical morpho-typological data.5 By combining historical layers with contemporary observations, this chapter aims to critically analyse Ramna’s spatial setting(s), unravel intertwined histories of continuous production and reproduction, and explore its role in the construction of the nation and (re)affirmation of Bengali cultural identity.

5 Ethnographic fieldwork is based on analyses of archival drawings and documents, and on techniques that included visual observations, semi-structured interviews, group discussions, surveys of everyday users and experts (historians and architects), and mental mappings from June 2008 to March 2012.

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Shifting scenery: from elite recreational space to a space of nation building During pre-Mughal times Dhaka had a spectacular natural setting on the waterfront, and Ramna was a more or less an uninhabited area on the northern outskirts of the city.6 In addition to the strong functional relationship with water, the Mughals created pleasure gardens, a new environment for the lush city.7 A large imperial garden (the Bagh-e-Badshahi) was for pleasure trips and entertaining Mughal government officials, and it was located near the aristocratic residential quarter.8 The centrality of the city as a Mughal provincial capital (1610-1717) and its strategic location on the riverbank attracted European settlers, who were lured into appropriating the land for themselves.9

Colonial (re)creations: from elite world to the birth of a university city The British victory over the Mughals resulted in the creation of a new world that operated in parallel to the native (or old) city.10 Although in the beginning (1668), the East India Company placed factories along the river, prominent landmarks were later shifted north to the area around the Mughal pleasure garden. The British thus gave dual orientation to the city, as commercial and industrial activities acted as an interface between the river and the city, and the Ramna area was transformed into a picturesque park (see Figure 10.4). The British established a number of important institutions 6 A very strong relationship and meaning between public space and water and/or river systems existed in pre-Mughal time (up to 1608 CE). The waterfront was the focus of public life, whether social (ghat, bazaar), economic (livestock market), spiritual (mosque, temple), or as a site of negotiation and conflict. 7 Mughal Subedar Shaista Khan founded the city as an administrative capital (Subhe-Bangla) in the Province of Bengal. See Chowdhury and Faruqui 2009: 56-76. 8 The Mughal’s aristocratic residential quarters were Mahalla Chistia and Mahalla Sujatpur. The exact extent of the garden cannot be traced because of a lack of contemporary accounts or images (interview with Professor Sharifuddin Ahmed, 12 September 2011). 9 Dani reports that many foreign nations flocked to this city on account of its widespread trade and commerce and great variety of commodities, ‘which are produced in profusion in the rich and fertile lands of this region. These have raised the city to an eminence of wealth which is actually stupefying’ (Dani 1962: 33). 10 The Battle of Polashi in 1757 marked the end of the Mughal period and the beginning of British colonial rule.

222 Kishwar Habib and Bruno De Meulder Figure 10.4  Dhaka City Map, 1859

This map shows the city’s dual orientation – investments at the riverside and civic life at Ramna Green towards the northern side of the city. Author’s drawing

in and around the pleasure garden, at a sufficient distance from the native city, to support their public and civic life. The area was named Ramna Green. The notion of public space was complemented with the establishment of a collective domain for the British and local elites’ social needs, including clubs and other collective institutions. A racecourse was established in 1825, and an entertainment house ‘Dowes Folly’, a golf course, a polo field, and the Dhaka Club were all established by 1851. A women’s club was added later. They all functioned as British enclaves in a Ramna that had turned itself into a park-like area. By importing elements of their English homeland

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(where Hyde Park in London, and other parks were being laid out), they created exotic spaces and at the same time invented an image of empire. It resulted in a certain Britishness in Dhaka. Gupta claims that ‘the British Indian towns had only small sections planned, and subsequent growth was by accretion, in an ad-hoc manner, by taking in adjacent villages’ (Gupta 2009: 636). Ahmed maintains that ‘all these reforms were carried out in the dialect for the British to make India at least part of it look like their homeland’ (Ahmed 2003: 44). In colonial creations, the major aspect was not the city; they wanted recreational infrastructure for their colonial staff. As a ‘natural’ environment for this infrastructure, they recreated nature by turning Ramna into a park that reproduced the mother country. Ramna was created to provide the British with what they needed for their civic life, and British civic life did not take place in the city. The topos of this civic life was based on life on a country estate. Along with local elites, the British helped to make Ramna a popular place.11 New scenery emerged in a very organic way in the form of impressive club buildings within Ramna’s forest-like environment, at a considerable distance from one another (Haque 2011: 186-187; Mamoon 2000: 220-222). Within these establishments, Ramna became an elite recreational world parallel to the old city. The railway line, which was built in 1885-1886, eventually articulated the old city into a native part and the new European settlement, namely Ramna Plains and Ramna Racecourse.12 During the first half of the British colonial period, the production of Ramna reflected the dominant European architecture of the time: Dhaka Old State Bank and Dhaka College were examples of the popular neoclassical style. Then British architecture became mixed with Mughal elements, which became known as the Indo-Saracenic style.13 This remarkable shift is seen as a strategy of the British to seek connections with their Mughal predecessors and to legitimize their power and gain support from the local Muslim elites. Belluardo states that ‘it shows a feeling for the picturesque, 11 During the second decade of the nineteenth century, Magistrates Charles Dawes, Henry Walters, Russel Moreland Skinner, and R.H. Proudlock, along with influential locals like Nabab Khwaja Abdul Gani, were major actors in creating the Ramna area by setting up a permanent body ‘the Dacca Municipal Committee’, through which most of the development works of the city were to be done. For further discussion, see Mamoon 2000: 217-228. 12 In 1859, the Surveyor General of India mapped Dhaka city and divided the Ramna area into two parts: Ramna Racecourse and Ramna Plains. The limit of Ramna Plains was extended from the Governor’s House to Nilkhet. In the process of consolidating Dhaka’s commercial dominance in Eastern Bengal, the Narayanganj-Dhaka-Mymenshing railway was laid (1885-1886) parallel to the Mughal road from Tongi through Tejgoan to Phulbari area. 13 ‘Indo-Saracenic’ is a style with the arch and dome as main architectural features.

224 Kishwar Habib and Bruno De Meulder Figure 10.5  Map of the new Civil Station of Dhaka (1905)

This map shows three elements in Ramna: the civil station, the racecourse (oval-shaped area), and the park (north side of the racecourse). The conceptual map on the right shows the new civil station and the railway line that articulated the old city into a native part and the new European settlement Left-hand image courtesy of Q. Azizul Mowla; right-hand image by authors

which helped to shape Victorian taste and arouse romantic fantasies of the exotic east’ (Belluardo 1998: 20). This became apparent in Ramna when Bengal Province was divided in half in 1905, and Dhaka became the provincial capital of East Bengal and Assam.14 This required a British administrative and military presence and added new programmatic requirements for the new capital. In this context, there were three overlapping elements in Ramna: a Civil Station, a racecourse, and a park (see Figure 10.5) (Rabbani 2011: 237). A series of government buildings, bungalows, and other residential accommodation, together with the roads to access these facilities,

14 In 1905, Bengal Province was divided in two: the province of West Bengal and that of East Bengal and Assam. Dhaka became the capital of East Bengal and Assam until 1911. The capital was transferred to Calcutta (now Kolkata) in 1912.

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Figure 10.6  Neoclassical Dhaka College (left) and Indo-Saracenic Curzon Hall (right)

Left-hand image from Wikipedia; right-hand image by authors

transformed Ramna Plain into a ‘New Civil Station’.15 Zahiruddin et al. notes that ‘the aloofness and detachment of these buildings was consistent with the general attitude of the British towards the projection of their image abroad’ (Zahiruddin et al. 1990: 21). This new scenario was a complete shift from the old city’s dense urban fabric, with its narrow lanes and small, congested streets. By establishing imperial buildings in Ramna, the British appropriated previous European prototypes and imposed a monumental image of the Raj to suit Dhaka’s local context (see Figure 10.6) (Dani 1962: 104-116; Belluardo 1998: 14). Government House, the new residence for the Lieutenant Governor of East Bengal and Assam (currently Banga Bhaban, the Presidential Palace), as well as a number of offices, the Cantonment (Paltan), and the residences of high government officials were situated within this European-inspired spatial setting.16 A description of the new Civil Station is given in The Times of 24 May 1909: Almost parallel to the river (Buriganga) at a distance of some two and a half miles, runs a road skirting the old race course at its southern extremity. At the east end of this road is being built Government House, at its west end the new Secretariat. Facing Government House is Dacca Government College with its magnificent Curzon Hall. Immediately behind Government house is the Maidan, enclosed by a race course of 15 Zahiruddin et al. reports that the structures have the overtones of imperial imperatives and that ‘the overall effect was monumental oppressiveness and exposure of power and an alien dominance supportive of their political will’. See Zahiruddin et al. 1990: 20-21. 16 The Lieutenant Governor of East Bengal and Assam’s new house was built in 1911 towards the eastern side of Ramna Plain after the old Government House was declared inappropriate for a Governor General’s residence (Mamoon 2000: 155, 165).

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two miles circumference, on the Maidan are the golf links and a fine polo ground. To the right and left of the Maidan are sites of the new houses or European residents, many of which are completed. The whole station will be circulated by the Curzon Drive, which will extend for some six miles from start to finish. Between the old town and the new runs the railway from Narayanganj to Mymensing.17

The partition of Bengal barely lasted half a decade; provincial government buildings were then given over to Dhaka and Jagannath Colleges, while the racecourse and recreational space remained for the elite. The removal of the administrative function from Dhaka to Calcutta (now Kolkata) left Ramna politically inactive. To rekindle its spirit, in 1912, the colonial government decided to re-imagine Dhaka as a university town and ‘a splendid imperial compensation’ to the Bengal Muslims (Mamoon 2000: 107). Patrick Geddes, a Scottish city planner, was invited to formulate a master plan for a university city.18 In order to build a harmonious relationship between the arts and sciences, he suggested laying out the universities (Dhaka University and an engineering and medical college) and their residential accommodations all in close proximity to one another, and in a park-like system. Although due to time constraints this master plan was rather schematic, he proposed that the university be woven into the city, occupying an area across the Buriganga River.19 He showed the link between the university and the old city as a possible way to revive the latter. In his report, he mentioned the fitness of these schemes adjacent with the university, which naturally not only respects each historic tradition, but seeks to continue each and at its highest.20 With his proposal, Geddes positioned himself in opposition to the prevailing colonial concept of segregation from the native city. Geddes envisioned a universal community that could harmonize the unique social and physical environment of the campus. While Geddes’s proposal was given little recognition, it was the change in Dhaka’s administrative status that led to the establishment of a parklike campus in which universities were embedded like pavilions in the landscape.21 The university simply took over vacant government buildings, 17 As quoted in Mamoon 2000: 58. 18 Geddes did not make a formal master plan for the city. His plan proposed an extension of new quarters in Dhaka, a renewal of the old city, widening roads for future traffic, and the creation of plans to accommodate growth, etc. (Geddes 1917). 19 The area is in the northwest part of the city, across from the Dolai Khal of the old city. 20 Geddes 1917. 21 Mohaiman 1990; Shafi 2010.

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Figure 10.7  The wave of new construction around Ramna

Authors’ drawing based on City of Dacca map, 1952

with parts of the Ramna Civil Station being given to the newly established Dhaka University. A number of colonial buildings, for example Curzon Hall, Dhaka College, government houses, and the Secretariat, formed the university campus that extended more than 1.5 kilometres in length (see Figure 10.7). The British officials’ houses in Ramna Plain were used as residences for the university teachers. The proximity of these institutions

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in and around Ramna strongly resembled the sketches proposed by Geddes to complement the city. During World War II Dhaka gained importance as a military centre, with British troops being concentrated in two airports in the north and in various medical treatment centres. Part of the provincial Secretariat (currently Dhaka Medical College) was converted into a place for the treatment of wounded soldiers. Roads were extended from Ramna to the east and northeast of the city, which resulted in the establishment of the medical college (Mohaiman 1990: 25). This series of ad-hoc developments resulted in a hybrid space in the centre of the city, where government bodies and the university campus, medical institutes, and an engineering university were all intertwined. Nevertheless, Ramna’s open space as a healthy, modern environment imported by the British into Dhaka was still an inversion of the native city. This concentration and co-habitation of university and central government institutions in a park-like environment is rare.

Post-colonial Dhaka: born of Bengali nationalism The end of colonial rule in the subcontinent in 1947 brought independence and the region’s partition into two different nations – India and Pakistan. East Bengal became part of Pakistan, with priority being given to religion over Bengali culture in state creation. Tensions rose immediately as Bengali cultural consciousness conflicted with the exclusively Islamic ideology of Pakistan. The imposition of Urdu as the state language further aggravated the prevailing discontent. The language issue became the symbol of resistance by stressing Bengali over Muslim identity.22 On 21 February 1952, the police opened fire on university students who were demonstrating against the imposition of Urdu as the state language. The immediate construction of the Martyr Monument (Shaheed Minar, or the Language Martyrs’ Monument) where a student was killed transformed Ramna into a place of pilgrimage and accelerated the awakening of Bengali nationalism. In this context, Ramna acted as a theatre of demonstration where equal status for the Bengali language was claimed. The colonial-era university city became the capital of East Pakistan in the 1950s. This new role resulted in new priorities, with large-scale 22 Although modern Bangla originated as a nineteenth-century dialect of the Calcutta elite, it has a thousand-year history and is actually an Indo-Aryan descendant of Sanskrit. See Thompson 2007.

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Figure 10.8 Constantine Doxiadis’s 1963 plan for the Teachers’ Students’ Centre (TSC), Ramna

B. Ismail Choudhury

development, planning, and construction intended to realize a vision of Dhaka as a modern capital. Through the 1948 replanning of Dhaka, and the Dhaka Improvement Trust of 1956, massive public investments were used to reconstruct the city. A series of symbolic elements and new areas were added, such as the Motijheel commercial centre, the shopping area of Nawabpur, the industrial neighbourhood of Tejgoan, the new housing estates of Azimpur, and Dhanmondi and Eskaton as new residential neighbourhoods (Hafiz 2011: 191). This wave of construction dramatically transformed the area. Programmes that were more directly

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and institutionally linked to the state, and in that sense, representing the state’s reconstruction, were systematically drawn towards the Ramna area. The state emerged as the major client and changed the administrative scenario as well as the scenery. Architects with international reputations were commissioned to build large-scale spatial restructuring plans meant to systematically transform the city (see Figure 10.8). With modernist inspiration, Louis Kahn’s Assembly Building Complex (1963-1966), Constantinos Doxiadis’s Teacher-Student Centre (1963) and Home Economics College Dacca (1961), five polytechnic institutes designed by Stanley Tigerman and Mazharul Islam (1965-1971), Robert Boughey’s Kamalapur National Railway Station (1969), Richard Vrooman’s Architecture Building of the Engineering University (BUET) (1962-1963), Richard Neutra and Paul Rudolph’s Agriculture University (1965-1975), and other projects all contributed to the modernization of Dhaka and other parts of East Pakistan.23 Hafiz reports that ‘though modernism had made its appearance in Europe in the 1920s, its wave reached the shore of Dhaka in the mid-1950s’ (Hafiz 2011: 191). These projects created and conformed to the modern architectural vocabulary, with functional language and free-form colonial architectural references (Ashraf and Belluardo 1997: 203). The first master plan of the city was made by the British planners and architects Minoprio and Spencely and P.W. Macfarlane in 1959 and covered an area of 570 square kilometres to serve one million people. Major expansion areas were provided in the north to accommodate an estimated population of 250,000 by 1978.24 Because of the university’s central position in the city, the master plan also proposed its removal from Ramna. However, due to massive population growth, as well as changes in socio-political conditions, the plan was never fully implemented (Islam 1996: 17). The university, for example, remains in Ramna. Major expansion of the city was further accommodated by the building of new roads, railways, and service infrastructure.25 As a result, Ramna became a central area situated between the native city and the new urban area, with its dual characteristics of park and urban programme, government and university fully intact (see Figure 10.9).

23 A brief review of these projects is available in Zahiruddin et al. 1990. 24 Minoprio and Spencely and Macfarlane 1959. 25 After the British left the subcontinent, the government initiated a five-year road plan with 5,000 miles of road as a target to connect major urban areas. By 1951, 2,000 miles of road had already been added to the 600 miles in existence. See Kamal 2006: 206.

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Figure 10.9  Ramna in 1952 (left) and 1960 (right)

Comparing the 1952 and 1960 maps, massive public investments were seen as a kind of reconstruction of the city by building new areas. Ramna’s openness was used by the ruling powers to implement socio-political ideals. Courtesy of Ahmad Hasan Dani and the Government of Pakistan

By the 1950s, Ramna had become divided into two areas: the racecourse and Ramna Park. The remaining area was taken over by the East Pakistan government. Buildings that used to express British power were now used for new administrative and institutional purposes. For example, the old house of the Lieutenant Governor of East Bengal and Assam was adapted for use as the High Court of East Pakistan and an office for the Ministry of Defence. Additionally, Curzon Hall was used by Dhaka University, a colonial off icial’s house as the residence of the Chief Justice, and the Secretariat as Dhaka Medical College (Hafiz 2011: 191-193). The same scenery staged different types of plays that alternated with existing colonial buildings to accommodate a national activity centre. Subsequently, all kinds of public-sector investments materialized in the Ramna area or the other side of the old city, including institutional (Dhaka University departments, University of Engineering and Technology, etc.), administrative (Dhaka Improvement Trust DIT, New Secretariat, Education Extension Centre, etc.), cultural (National Stadium, Bangla Academy), religious (the National Mosque, Eid Gah/National Eid prayers plaza), or other essential institutions for the new capital city (market, hospitals, hotels, etc.). Ramna became a pre-eminent representative landscape, where competing centres of power are juxtaposed within a space of a few square kilometres.

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During this time, Ramna followed two parallel architectural schemes to represent the nation. On the one hand, the pseudo-Islamic architectural style started as a political intent to merge two socio-culturally divergent nations by way of a common religion (see Figure 10.10); the Governor’s House, Bangabhaban (now the Presidential Palace), the Supreme Court Building, and Baitual Mukarram (the National Mosque) are such products in Ramna (Zahiruddin et al. 1990: 21). On the other hand, modernist institutional building projects produced by internationally recognized architects, including Muzharul Islam’s Art College, Dhaka University Library, the National Institute of Public Administration building, Constantinos Doxiadis’s Teacher-Student Centre, and the Home Economics College are amongst the most exemplary modernist creations in Ramna. Generally known as the ‘Father of the Nation’, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman gained the support of university students and teachers and played a remarkable role in consolidating the concept of a Bengali national identity. This important role was, in fact, almost continuously performed in the Ramna area. As such, Ramna’s institutional space and openness became a theatre of manifestation and nation building. Rahman’s political speeches, meetings, and student processions took place in Ramna’s colonial Civil Station, racecourse, and streets. Ramna’s racecourse proved to be the perfect setting for mass political gatherings, most noteworthy of which was Rahman’s historical address in which he declared the Liberation War on 7 March 1971. This address is said to have ignited the nation, leading to the surrender of the Pakistan Army and eventually to the birth of an independent, sovereign Bangladesh. By stressing Bengali cultural symbols and linguistic links, Rahman united the intellectual strata of society with the rural peasantry, urban workers, and the common people. Van Schendel notes that Bengali culture became a collective resource during this time and fuelled Bengali solidarity regardless of class, religion, or region, which eventually gave coherence to demands for autonomy and, ultimately, independence (Van Schendel 2009: 158).

Creation of a nation-state Bangladesh modernity of the 1970s incorporated nationalism, socialism, democracy and secularism within its constitution. Bengali identity became a top priority on the agenda of the new state.26 In this context, architecture 26 After independence, the Bengali nationalist feeling was remoulded into two streams: the Awami League and the Bangladesh Nationalist Party.

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Figure 10.10  Pseudo-Islamic versus modern architecture in Ramna

Pictures shows parallel schemes to represent the nation during the 1960s. The Supreme Court as a pseudo-Islamic style was created to strengthen the common religion between the two wings of Pakistan (left); Muzharul Islam’s Art College is remarkably far from colonial influences with traditional motifs and dominant religious ideology (right). Images by the authors

was used as an instrument and served as tangible and iconic evidence of the new nation: ‘As a centre of political power capital cities rely on an ensemble of symbols and practices to represent the power of the nation’ (Therborn and Ho 2009: 54). This need for representation is reflected in the first nationwide call for the redesign and reconstruction of the Martyr Monument, which had been destroyed during the Liberation War (Habib and De Meulder 2013: 181198). However, a new form of national sentiment, Bangladeshi Nationalism, emerged on the stage during the mid-1970s under General Zia’s military leadership. This new ideology stressed Bangladesh’s Muslim identity and positioned the people as linguistically similar but religiously different from the people of West Bengal, India. In a way, this ideology can be seen as an ironic return to the beginning of the postcolonial two-nation theory. Nevertheless, this notion increasingly became a prime focus in the establishment of Dhaka as a modern Islamic capital (for example, Dhaka earned the title City of Mosques for the large numbers of mosques built during this time). During the 1980s and 1990s the nation was either under actual or de facto military rule. During that time, (re)production of space in Ramna was seen to divert socio-political ideas and erase those of the ‘opponent’. For example, the racecourse disappeared in the 1980s for the benefit of a children’s park (Shihsu Park), and numerous trees were planted throughout the rest of the area. This intentional change drastically transformed Ramna’s spatial quality by hindering the use of the space for mass gatherings or rallies and making it a purely recreational park (Suhrawardy Uddyan) (see Figure 10.11). In 1991, a formal ‘return to democracy’ occurred, due in part to a popular uprising that was held mainly in the Ramna area. The death

234 Kishwar Habib and Bruno De Meulder Figure 10.11 The gradual transformation of Ramna racecourse from a maidan (open space) to a children’s park and the city’s recreational Park Suhrawardy Uddyan (left); figure-ground plan of Ramna (right)

Left-hand image from Google Map, right-hand image by authors

of political activist Nur Hossain near Dhaka stadium, and of Dr Milon in front of the Teacher-Student Centre only increased the mass uprising that eventually toppled the government. The creation of Shaheed Nur Hossain Square and Shaheed Milon Memorial strengthened Ramna’s role as a theatre of manifestation. The fall of the military regime was possible

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because of massive street demonstrations in Ramna staged by political parties, university students and teachers, and with the participation of ordinary citizens. Colonial buildings still play a dominant role in serving the administrative needs of the government, such as the Chief Justice’s house, the Ministers’ houses on Minto Road (northern side of Ramna), Dhaka University ViceChancellor’s residence, State Guest Houses, and so on. Interestingly, all colonial elements (administrative, institutional, cultural) function as club domains where entry is restricted to those with ‘membership’. Some examples include government buildings (Secretariat, Bangladesh Bank, Public Works Department, National Fisheries Department), cultural institutions (National Museum, Osmani Memorial Hall, Shilpa Kala Academy – National Academy for Arts and Culture), educational institutions (universities, Institute of Post Graduate Medicine and Research, BIRDEM Hospital), club houses (Ladies’ Club, Dhaka Club, Tennis Club), housing (government high officials’ residences, university residential halls), religious centres (National Eidgah, National Poet’s Mausoleum), and monumental functions (Three Martyrs Mausoleum in Suhrawardy Uddyan, honouring three prominent Muslim Bengali politicians). Strangely enough, an important axis of the city remains in Ramna, leading to the Teacher-Student Centre (TSC). The scale of the street that leads to the TSC is simply enormous; an axis of more than a mile guides the spatial expansion in different directions, forming large-scale settings with representative buildings, institutions, and residential accommodations within walking distance. The strategic location of the TSC building expresses the power that teachers and student bodies have in Dhaka. University functions are intertwined with the TSC and situated in the centre; this vast portion of the city seems to remains under the authority of the university, students, and teachers. Interestingly, this avenue is the only one in Dhaka where trucks and buses are not allowed (under a claim of road safety). Several accidental deaths of students in recent years has made Ramna a more exclusive space; and thanks to the demands of several student unions, major public transportation vehicles are no longer allowed in the centre. The collective memory of the national struggle and the Bengali opposition to suppression is visualized in the (re)production of symbolic monuments in Ramna. For example, in 1996, Suhrawardy Uddyan’s pure park-like environment was (re)structured by adding the Tower of Light and the Liberation War Museum. However, the plan immediately attracted criticism for its extravagant concrete surface and built structure that

236 Kishwar Habib and Bruno De Meulder Figure 10.12 The Design interventions of Liberation War Museum at the historical Ramna racecourse (present Suhrawardy Uddyan)

Section A-A indicates the prominent role of the light tower in the Park Suhrawardy Uddyan. Authors’ drawing based on rendering of Khashif Chowdhury and Marina Tabassum’s Suhrawardy Uddyan’s Liberation War Museum

required the cutting of a large number of trees in a densely populated city centre. With dwindling support exacerbated by political instability, the plan was abandoned. However after five years of changing governments, the plan was f inally implemented, and today this memorial-cum-city

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park is one of the city’s largest spaces, hosting a number of cultural and political manifestations throughout the year. This design intervention is emblematic, as it represents Bengali ideology in architecture (see Figure 10.12). Scale, symbolism, and spatial form articulate this as one of the only public spaces to evoke a sense of the Bengali vision of history, and the modernist architecture gives a new context to the park-like environment. At present, representative buildings and nationalistic names at Ramna’s park-like environment demonstrate a multiple dualities – administrative and educational, cultural and recreational, and eventually create a hybrid quality in the centre of the city.27 On the other hand, the accumulation of all sorts of adaptations, amputations, and additions without fully following any master plan have turned Dhaka into an incredibly unplanned, dense metropolis. 28 The massive development in the north on the other side of the old and overwhelmed city makes Ramna an extremely central space at the crossroads between south and north, and the old and new parts of the capital. Because of this central position within the dense urban context, Ramna’s definition is broad: it is a university campus, a cultural centre, an administrative centre, and a natural park in the city.

Conclusion This chapter began with view of the city from above in an effort to explore Dhaka’s geographic reality, where Ramna is the heart of the capital city and in sharp contrast with the surrounding built environment. From a labyrinthine perspective, Ramna is positioned at the city centre in a unique park-like environment. Within the dense urban fabric, this park-like environment holds the delicate balance between institutions and representative buildings and monuments, between common substance and special objects, between rules and exceptions (see Figure 10.13). From the Mughal’s pleasure garden to the colonial recreation, and to the present post-colonial contested territory, the process of (re)production 27 The colonial-era racecourse is now named after a popular Bengali Muslim leader, Suhrawardy Uddyan; Ayub Avenue (after the military-backed president of Pakistan) was renamed for the national poet, Kazi Nazrul Islam; Mughal’s Diwan Bazaar Road was renamed Shaheed Minar Road; the colonial-era Park Avenue is now Bhashani Road (after the first Prime Minister of Pakistan); Jinnah Avenue is now Bangabandhu Avenue (popularly known as the Father of the Nation); and Dhaka Stadium is Bangabandhu National Stadium. 28 A plan for urban expansion to the east and west has not been completed.

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in Ramna has been a result of spontaneous and organic gestures rather than a superimposed plan for the city. The garden, a fundamental Mughal component, was (re)constructed during the colonial period as a recreational park with civic amenities. The British envisioned the city as the provincial capital of East Bengal and Assam. As a result, colonial architecture was used as a medium to demonstrate political power and iconic structure in Ramna’s environment. Later, when Dhaka was stripped of its provincial capital status, the decision to (re)imagine the city as a university city offered a much broader perspective; institutions, government functions, and park were interconnected by a spine, making Ramna the backbone of the city’s civic axis. During the post-colonial era, the colonial environment was re-edited with an emphasis on strengthening the nation building paradigm and fulfilling a vision of Dhaka as a modern capital. Comparing maps of the 1950s and 1960s it is also evident that Ramna’s natural forest-like environment was deliberately used by the ruling power to implement socio-political ideologies or to divert the political manifestations that were counterproductive for those in power. During this time, the installations of Islamic versus internationally renowned modernist architecture dominate Ramna’s spatial settings. The construction of Shaheed Minar or other symbolic places (for example, colonial-era Bardhaman House as Bangla Academy for the circulation of Bangla Language, or Banayan Tree for celebrating Bangla New Year) were created to materialize national identity. These symbolic gestures also help to eternalize the momentum of important events and inscribe history and identity into Ramna’s spatial form. As a condensed representation of political-cultural elements Ramna is a rallying ground today. The fact that major universities were, accidentally or not, historically interwoven with Ramna’s park-like environment creates a unique situation. The omni-presence of students and the majestic university settings in this representative environment has facilitated historical movements and moments: for example, 1952’s Bengali Language Movement, the Liberation War declaration in 1971, the demise of the military regimes in 1990, and the re-establishment of democracy in the face of the ongoing political struggles. While Ramna’s institutional spaces and streets have been extensively and intensively used for public gatherings and protests, spectacular events have also become a hallmark of Ramna. Whether national celebrations (such as Independence Day, Language Martyrs’ Day, etc.), cultural manifestations (Bengali New Year, Spring Festival Day, Victory Day), Islamic religious celebrations (Eid-e Miladun Nabi, Muharram), Hindu religious celebrations (Vijaya Dashumi carnival), or other fairs, festivals,

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Figure 10.13 Ramna holds a delicate balance between institutions, representative buildings, and monuments at the centre of the city

Authors’ drawing based on Dhaka City Corporation GIS Map 2008 and Google Earth 2012

or funerals (for national leaders or intellectuals), Ramna is inevitably the main stage. The strategic node of the Teacher-Student Centre, the presence of representative structures (Shaheed Minar, High Court, Bangla Academy), and the assemblage of the public club domains, offer scenery for cultural manifestations to take place, but more importantly, they create an active place for political debates. Ramna’s porous tissue and spatial setting(s) allow for massive flows of people and for a strategic central gathering place – where celebrations, manifestations, protests, and demonstrations frequently, and sometimes simultaneously, occur. Nevertheless, historical and modern references have become very symbolic in Ramna’s unique environment. This symbolism materialized and gave meaning to the space and structure that supported ritualized demonstrations and manifestations. As such, Ramna become a place of pilgrimage and of manifestation, where political and social, religious and secular interact, and where the nation could unite. Ramna’s centralized location and spatial settings accumulate and accommodate monumental moments to project a public character, a place of national pride, and feeling of belonging connected to the ‘imagined community’ of a Bengali nation.

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Selectively Connected New Songdo and the Production of Global Space Bridget Martin

Abstract For many, the phrases Special Economic Zone (SEZ) and Free Economic Zone (FEZ) will conjure up images of sites of material production. However, New Songdo, in Incheon, South Korea (part of the Incheon Free Economic Zone (IFEZ)), is representative of a new trajectory for zones that seek to be liveable, globally connected urban spaces. This chapter situates New Songdo within local, national, and global contexts, challenging its self-presentation as a coherent, bounded space that is radically different from its outside. By looking at New Songdo’s constitutive insides and outsides together, I provide a framing for understanding how a city-scale zonal space such as New Songdo paradoxically functions as both an enclave and a hub. Selective spatial liberalization and selective connectivity work together to amplify particular, often imagined, constitutive elements while obscuring others.

Introduction Since 2003, the South Korean government has established seven Special Economic Zones (SEZs) across the country, each promoted as bringing a designated focus and economic benefit to its respective locality. The largest of these zones is the Incheon Free Economic Zone (IFEZ), west of Seoul. The IFEZ is constituted by three sections, all located within Incheon Metropolitan City: Yeoungjong Island, Cheongna International City, and New Songdo International City. While Yeoungjong and Cheongna have lagged behind their projected development schedules and are described as ‘dead’ by some locals and planners, hopes and resources continue to be placed in New Songdo. Compared to other sections of the IFEZ, and to other zonal projects across the country, New Songdo continues to be the most viable as well as the most ambitious project. Unlike globally connected cities such as Seoul, Hong Kong, and Singapore that have evolved out of complex colonial pasts, New Songdo’s ‘global city’ and ‘global business hub’

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ambitions are drawn from a set of reference points detached from the rich history of Incheon. New Songdo, which has been planned in various forms since 1988, is one of the largest real estate development projects in history, with an estimated combined public and private input of US$35 billion in its central International Business District (IBD) alone. United States development firm Gale International, along with POSCO E&C, the engineering and construction subsidiary of South Korean steel giant POSCO, was contracted by the city of Incheon to develop New Songdo’s flagship 600-hectare IBD. Other foreign and South Korean firms have worked on the development and construction of the rest of the new city. This article explores the ways in which New Songdo is being produced as a coherent and stable ‘global’ space in infrastructural, spatial, and discursive terms. The production of space in New Songdo and elsewhere involves more than the physical construction of the built environment. Space is also produced when everyday spatial practices, everyday perceptions or interpretations of space, and expert plans and representations of space operate in relation to each other.1 Some spaces are imagined, represented, controlled, and constructed with the intention or presupposition of including and excluding very specific aspects, creating what Weizman calls an ‘edited landscape’.2 In the contest of signifiers in New Songdo, the ‘global’ has come to mark an extreme form of urban modernity associated with a rather limited set of activities. Particular, often imagined, aspects of New Songdo are emphasized and made visible by New Songdo’s boosters while others are obscured. Paradoxically, New Songdo is meant to function both as an elite enclave and as a global hub. It is portrayed as self-contained and bounded within Incheon, not unlike a colonial cantonment, yet it represents the ‘future’ of Incheon Metropolitan City as a whole through its potential to connect with the wider world. First, drawing mainly on Park’s and Lepawsky’s analyses of South Korea’s FEZs as instantiations of ‘spatially selective liberalization’, I situate New Songdo’s production within existing discussions of neo-liberalism and development in South Korea.3 While New Songdo is often represented as a fresh, detached, or far-flung place, it has in fact been conceived and constructed at a particular historical moment. Second, drawing from 1 2 3

Lefebvre 1991; Merrifield 1993. Weizman 2007. Park 2005; Park and Lepawsky 2012.

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ethnographic fieldwork and an analysis of IFEZ promotional materials, I describe the space of New Songdo in both its experienced and imagined forms. 4 Third, by looking at New Songdo’s border areas and constitutive insides and outsides together, I provide a framing for understanding how a city-scale zonal spaces such as New Songdo can paradoxically function as both enclaves and hubs, and thus global spaces of selective connectivity.

Spatially selective liberalization For many, the phrases ‘Special Economic Zone’ and ‘Free Economic Zone’ will conjure up images not of flagship architecture or real estate markets, but of sites of production, such as the sweatshops and factories of the garment industry or of the electronics industry. Various zonal configurations – Export Processing Zones (EPZs), Industrial Special Economic Zones (ISEZs), Free Enterprise Zones (FEZs), and ‘live, work, play’ FEZs such as New Songdo – have sprouted up across the global south as well as the global north, in places as diverse as South Korea, China, Chile, India, France, and even Cuba, and North Korea. Noting the lack of consistency in the usage of the term ‘Special Economic Zone’ and its offshoots, Meng counts at least sixty-six different designations for economic zones (Meng 2003: 17). New Songdo marks a shift in the genealogy of zonal projects, as a residential, ‘live, work, play’ economic zone and the first – but certainly not the last – full city-scale, start-to-finish economic zone development project to actually be constructed from scratch. Unlike a traditional economic zone, it is designated not as a space of labour-intensive production, but as an elite enclave focused on finance, ‘value-added’ sectors, and the ‘knowledge economy’ including education and high-tech firms. However, it retains traditional zonal benefits such as cheap land, tax exemption, and lax labour laws for large enterprises. Certain institutions such as the United Nations Green Climate Fund also enjoy special benefits such as cash funding and free office space. Incheon was the first locality in South Korea to host an FEZ. Since the 1980s, the city government had been developing plans to reclaim about 53 square kilometres of land in order to build a new residential area where New Songdo now sits. The demand for housing dipped in the 1990s, however, and the space was re-imagined as an innovation city-style ‘hub’ focused on, among other sectors, ‘knowledge, IT industries, and global business’ (Van 4 Fieldwork in New Songdo was conducted May-August 2012, January 2014, and July-August 2014.

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Winden et al. 2010: 103). However, as a result of the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis the project was stalled. New Songdo re-emerged in the form of a proposal for a financial hub which would eventually become a major part of the IFEZ. Shortly after this, the ‘innovation cluster’ model was revived as a supplement to the financial hub model to increase the viability of the project (Van Winden et al. 2010: 103). Incheon sits within the Seoul Metropolitan Area controlled growth zone, and the IFEZ plan violated the principle of regionally balanced development across the national space. Therefore, two FEZs in the southern part of the country were also approved the same year. Park frames the country’s FEZs as sites of ‘spatially selective liberalization’, a meeting of the country’s pre-existing developmental framework and the emerging neo-liberal paradigm.5 In the late 1980s and increasingly in the 1990s, after decades of authoritarian state-led development and industrialization which focused on the cultivation of chaebol, South Korea responded to United States pressure for liberalization. This trend was accelerated in the aftermath of the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis and with the subsequent demands of the International Monetary Fund (IMF). As Park argues, FEZs were confined to and cultivated within particular spaces due to institutional constraints within South Korea and contestations from labour organizations and anti-liberalization activists as well as some chaebol opposed to broad-scale liberalization. Thus, FEZs can be read as a compromise, at once both a containment strategy of economic liberalization as well as strategy to attract foreign capital to certain localities as a neo-liberal alternative to centrally coordinated development. Political devolution and economic liberalization that picked up speed in the 1990s allowed localities to attempt to connect to global capital. This has led to intensive place-making in the forms of planning, constructing, and marketing, which have become core responsibilities of local governments in an unprecedented way.6 While city and regional branding has become a global imperative, it has been particularly forceful in South Korea and especially in Incheon.7 If the central state has relaxed its goal-oriented development schemes in favour of a more liberal regulatory approach, the local state has only intensified its efforts to attract free-flowing capital in what Choi (2004) describes as an ‘extremely skewed or distorted urban policy repertoire based on capital subsidies, place promotion and local boosterism’. 5 Park 2005. 6 Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, and Transport 2013. 7 Lee 2009; Suh 2009.

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South Korea’s FEZs bear some resemblance to zone-like spaces such as ‘innovation cities’, ‘tourist zones’, and ‘foreign investment zones’ designated by the central government in the 1990s, which followed from earlier developmental zone-like forms such as factory-anchored ‘enterprise cities’ and residential ‘new towns’. However, a significant difference between the FEZ configuration and earlier zonal configurations is that while the FEZ may receive some support or prioritization from the central government for infrastructural projects, the local project operator – in New Songdo’s case, the city-administered IFEZ Authority – is directly responsible for attracting foreign investors and working with developers. Project operators such as the IFEZ Authority are also meant to be largely self-financed, which has implications for how the projects are carried out. In New Songdo, for example, the sale of reclaimed land for residential properties has been indispensable to the financing of the project and the financial viability of the IFEZ Authority. Because of its over-reliance on residential properties and its failure to attract many large-scale enterprises to the IBD, some observers have noted that New Songdo could potentially fail in its effort to become a global city. Shwayri, for example, argues that fluctuating support of various stakeholders has led to a strategy of short-term benefits over an achievable master plan: the development of commercial properties has been scaled back in favour of a more profitable residential property market which might lead New Songdo to become ‘the richer suburb of Incheon city or simply another Korean city’.8 In South Korea, the locally driven hub-oriented spatial strategy was developed alongside the increasing promotion of high-tech and knowledge sectors and an increasing emphasis on green neo-liberal strategies at the national scale.9 These agendas have been bundled together and funnelled into attempts by zonal boosters to reshape South Korea’s economic relations with other countries as well as to cultivate a particular international image. For example, one prominently displayed slogan in New Songdo’s publicly administered Compact Smart City Exhibit explains the relationship between the domestic spatial strategy and international economics this 8 Shwayri 2013. 9 For example, the Ministry of Land, Transport and Maritime Affairs launched the ‘Ubiquitous Eco-City Planning in Korea’ project in 2006 as part of the larger Value Creators 10 project. Other examples of technology- and knowledge-focused territorial strategy are evident in the programming of the government-run Korea Research Institute for Human Settlements, an organization whose stated vision is to be ‘the world’s leading think tank in the field of spatial policy to create new territorial values of the future’ (http://www.krihs.re.kr/english/main/main. asp, accessed 30 October 2013).

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Figure 11.1 New Songdo’s high-rise towers, including the First World Complex, with real estate advertisements lining the streets

Author’s photo

way: ‘Opportunity: abundant labour force and cheap wages in China. As the first Free Economic Zone in Korea, Incheon is going to change [the] Korean economy, more developing [sic] and highly value added’.10 Although Incheon itself is also an industrial city and a port city, factories, physical labour, and ‘brown’ industry are specifically not part of New Songdo’s development strategy, which is geared towards attracting international capital and workers in the ‘value-added’ sectors and in the ‘knowledge economy’ including finance and high-tech industries.11

The spaces of New Songdo Because New Songdo is a new city constructed on 53 square kilometres of reclaimed tidal mudflats with no pre-existing fixed infrastructure, its space 10 Compact Smart City Exhibit, New Songdo, Incheon, visited 5 June 2012. 11 Interview, IFEZ Authority spokesperson Cha Myeong-hae, 3 July 2012.

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was a virtual tabula rasa and a playground for planners, developers, and architects who snapped up the opportunity to pursue bold, mega-grained projects before the 2008 recession hit. John B. Hynes, former CEO of Gale International, told the New York Times that ‘the project is nothing short of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity’. The same article quotes an architect who calls New Songdo an ‘architect’s dream’.12 The space of New Songdo is divided into distinct sections, centring on the showcase IBD developed by Gale International and POSCO E&C, and radiating outward to new residential areas, a Global Campus, and capacious Information Technology and Biotechnology clusters. At the time of writing, the commercial area of the IBD remains a quiet space, with empty office and shop spaces exceeding the occupied spaces in some key buildings. The Northeast Asia Trade Tower, New Songdo’s showpiece skyscraper and South Korea’s tallest building, sat empty for five years due to financial difficulties and opened partially in 2014. Large banners advertising available spaces have been attached to the sides of many commercial buildings in the IBD since the area opened in 2009. Life in the residential areas of New Songdo proceeds at a somewhat more recognizable pace than in the IBD, most notably within a three or four block radius of the Dream City complex. This small quadrant of restaurants, karaoke lounges, bakeries, and shops looks much like Seoul, and is surrounded by dozens of high-rise apartment blocks of the type for which South Korea is now famous. Friday night traffic jams up along this small strip, while throughout much of the rest of the new city one might hear nothing but the croaking of frogs that occupy the empty lots. In order to attract large enterprises in desired sectors, IFEZ has offered not only traditional incentives associated with economic zones, but has attempted to create an atmosphere infused with a specific set of characteristics that signify ‘the global’: it is marketed as luxurious, ‘green’, high-tech, and international. These characteristics are not unique to New Songdo but rather have reached their most extreme imaginative capacity there. First, New Songdo’s class dynamics and luxury spaces have received less media and scholarly attention than its high-tech and ‘green’ projects. However, the categories of luxury, green, and high-tech are in practice intertwined. New Songdo’s aesthetic (if not its actual environmental practices) could be described as a kind of suburban ‘green luxury’ centred around technology. Emphasis on luxury in New Songdo, like elsewhere, promotes 12 Cortese 2007.

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Figure 11.2 IFEZ advertisements (‘Developing the City at the Heart of South Korea’s Leading Service Industries’, right-hand poster translation)

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an image of an idealized subject as a consumer in a smooth, crisp office park or apartment complex setting completely separate from classes that engage in more physical work and working-class consumption patterns. Luxury apartment complexes in and near the IBD such as the aptly named First World Towers integrate all of these elements into the their design concepts. IFEZ and Incheon City promotional materials for New Songdo focus solely on its pricey ‘green’ centre and iconic infrastructure, representing a vibrant yet limited spectrum of high-class consumers, luxury high-rise dwellers, and recreating park-goers appearing to be almost exclusively East Asian and Caucasian. Dirty and difficult labour which is necessary to the city is predictably obscured. Second, in addition to being dubbed as a place of luxury, New Songdo is marketed as a ‘green’ city or ‘eco’ city. This branding is mainly substantiated by the existence of LEED-certified buildings and a high ratio of green space

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in New Songdo’s centre.13 Starting in 2006, well after the project was underway, IFEZ contracted a United States firm to train local builders in green building practices, which were not part of the original plan for New Songdo.14 Today, the new city has about ten city blocks of LEED-certified buildings, including many of its flagship sites in the IBD such as the Convensia and the private Chadwick International School. In contrast to some of its buildings, New Songdo’s planned green spaces, which occupy 32 percent of the space in the city, cannot so readily be categorized as environmentally friendly. They are highly manicured and include a private golf course, reflecting a modern pastoral ideal and privileged access to fresh air more than concerns about environmental quality. Furthermore, environmental organizations such as Birds Korea, the Korean Federation for Environmental Movements, and the Black-faced Spoonbill Network have criticized land-reclamation projects in Incheon which have destroyed extensive tidal mudflats. Nonetheless, New Songdo was awarded the Financial Times and Urban Land Institute’s 2008 Sustainable City Award, before its doors were officially even open to residents. The 2012 announcement of the establishment of the United Nations Green Climate Fund (GCF) administrative headquarters in New Songdo has also bolstered the city’s ‘green’ image and legitimacy as a budding ‘global’ city. While winning the bid to host the GCF was a triumph for New Songdo’s promoters, the selection process was mainly based not on environmental factors but on the existence of legal infrastructures, privileges and immunities, local support, facilities, and South Korea’s willingness to provide a high level of cash funding to the GCF.15 Here, green neo-liberalization in practice connects the GCF with a constellation of real-estate projects, international image-making, and a perceived greening of state development strategies.16 Third, emphasis on technology is integral to New Songdo’s development and also reflects how South Korea is repositioning itself on the international stage through government programmes, such as the market-oriented Green Growth Strategy. Technology-oriented firms and workers would not only bring economic benefits to New Songdo’s developers and the IFEZ Authority, but would also boost New Songdo’s cachet as a legitimately elite and futuristic place. In addition to the relative compatibility of ‘green’ (read 13 LEED stands for Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design. The LEED organization verifies green building practices using a standardized system. 14 Phone interview with Parson Brinckerhoff architect Suzanne Johnson, 10 September 2012. 15 Green 2012. 16 Eckersley 2004.

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‘value-added’ or ‘non-manufacturing’) enterprises and liveable spaces, the establishment of ‘green’ tech industries rather than ‘brown’ industries also marks the space as ahead of the curve, a model for less-developed countries without sacrificing its real estate potential. Indeed, plans for new cities in China based on New Songdo have already been sold by Gale International. A site of ‘test bed urbanism’, New Songdo is a scaled-up space of experimentation for a tech-savvy world.17 Developers have partnered with Cisco to incorporate U-city technologies into the Zone, meaning that the experimental space of the city is, or will be, ‘studded with chips talking to one another’.18 Emphasis on technology can be linked to disaster preparedness and energy efficiency as well as to a regime of surveillance and increasing personal responsibilization. The already constructed 47,000-square-metre Tomorrow City complex would serve as a comprehensive city monitoring centre, although it has been closed since 2009 after being used only briefly. While my own ethnographic fieldwork leads me to be sceptical about the real impact of U-city technologies on everyday life in New Songdo beyond their use for marketing real estate, theorization and appraisals of U-city technologies are abundant in popular journalism. More importantly, the U-city vision is very much alive in New Songdo’s promotional literature. Fourth, the imagined ‘global city’ or ‘international city’ is, by its most basic definition, connected in some way to the rest of the world. So far, however, the presence of foreigners in New Songdo is not notable. In spite of high aspirations, according to staff at the IFEZ Global Center, in 2012 there were 800 foreigners living in the new city, accounting for less than 2 percent of the population.19 By 2014 this figure increased to around 1,600. English instructors likely form a significant proportion of this number, although original plans to make New Songdo an English-speaking city have been scrapped. In New Songdo, internationalism mainly ties South Korea to a Caucasian, English-speaking elite class of investors and workers in knowledge industries on the one hand, and to a ‘cheap’ Asian labour force on the other. Chadwick International School, which provides instruction in English for over US$30,000 a year, is already operating, albeit with mostly South Korean students.20 A private international hospital is also planned. The IFEZ 17 Halpern et al. 2013. 18 Lindsay 2010. 19 Meetings with IFEZ Global Service Center Staff, 7 June 2012 and 1 August 2014. 20 Kang 2011. This trend was corroborated in an interview conducted with a Chadwick teacher, 27 July 2012. The teacher noted that most of the school’s foreign (non-Korean heritage) students were children of teachers.

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Authority has also pursued an aggressive recruitment campaign to attract universities to the Zone’s Global Campus, offering free facilities and even cash funding to Yonsei University and the State University of New York at Stony Brook.21 In addition to the presence of foreign residents, global transportation connectivity also forms an important element of New Songdo as it is imagined, promoted, and spatially situated. New Songdo’s promoters boast its proximity to South Korea’s main airport, Incheon International Airport, with the US$1 billion Incheon Grand Bridge providing a quick route between the two. New Songdo’s proximity to one-third of the world’s population (including China’s workers) via air travel is emphasized in almost all IFEZ promotional literature. New Songdo as a ‘hub’ has a dominant presence in the new city’s marketing materials: it is presented all at once as a business hub, logistics hub, IT and Biotech hub, and a leisure and tourism hub.22 The production of a space that is at once an enclave and a hub involves not only processes of selective liberalization, as argued by Park, but also necessitates patterns of selective connectivity and obfuscation.

The constitutive outside New Songdo is a ‘live, work, play’ environment that has been comprehensively developed much like a colonial cantonment: the idea is that the foreign elite can spend their lives within the enclave, and go to the airport without ever having to come into contact with the messiness of South Korea’s multilayered present.23 One foreign collaborator was quoted in the New York Times calling New Songdo ‘a comfort zone in a foreign land’.24 In this scenario, the ‘global’ city is presented as if it is detached from its locality while highly connected to an imagined ‘global’ space. What results on the ground is a dual urban morphology, which casts the Zone’s inside and outside as spaces as radically different while obscuring their connections and co-evolution. 21 Interview, IFEZ spokesperson Cha Myeong-hae, 3 July 2012. See also the New Songdo Global Campus site: http://www.sgu.or.kr/sgu/eng/inuniv/01_current.htm, accessed 30 August 2013; see also Looser 2012. 22 See, for example, http://www.investkorea.org. 23 I thank Tarak Barkawi for initially drawing the connection between the new FEZs and colonial cantonments. Other examples of the ‘live, work, play’ zone as a space for a global elite are Iskandar in Malaysia and Mahindra World City in India. 24 Cortese 2007.

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Figure 11.3  Compact Smart City Exhibit Building

Author’s photo

New Songdo’s permanent Compact Smart City exhibit – one of the first places a tourist or a potential investor in New Songdo would likely visit upon arrival – has three levels, each with a model of Incheon displayed at different temporal points. The first level showcases Incheon’s ‘past’, the city’s historic colonial centre just north of New Songdo. South Korea’s first historically ‘international city’ is featured here; maps display the different sections inhabited by Korean, Chinese, Japanese, and Western people before the turn of the twentieth century. The second level of the exhibit displays Incheon’s ‘present’. Here, the entire city of Incheon is reconstructed in miniature in its idealized form. In this model, high-rise buildings that do not yet exist sit in spaces which are actually low-rise housing units or empty lots, and poor low-rise residential areas are marked not by buildings but by rolling green hills; the present is coloured by an imagined future. The third level of the exhibit displays Incheon’s ‘future’. Significantly, on this level only the three sections of the IFEZ, including New Songdo, are displayed in miniature, and the rest of the city of Incheon, including the historic centre, is left out. A planned

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Figure 11.4  Model of New Songdo

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(but by some accounts cancelled) 151-storey building glows white at New Songdo’s centre. ‘The future’ is a commonly repeated refrain in New Songdo. It is on signs and advertisements, in place names and business names, on the fences of construction sites, and in everyday speech. Time takes on an odd spatialization in this zone of targeted development. In its fantasy shape, available in digital representations, architectural schematics and videos, and in marketing materials, New Songdo is presented as ‘the city of the future’, its space taking on a hyper-real character, with the model preceding the real, or ‘the generation by models of a real without origin or reality’.25 New Songdo’s apartment showrooms illustrate one of the many ways in which models precede reality, operating in the Zone as well as in wider South Korean society. While many people in South Korea view the purchase of an apartment primarily as an investment and may not even care for an international lifestyle, the IFEZ Authority’s messaging seeps into New 25 Baudrillard 1995.

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Figure 11.5 Show-model apartment in New Songdo’s POSCO (The Sharp at Greenworks)

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Songdo’s residential real estate markets: the space of the home is luxurious, green, high-tech, and selectively international. Warehouse-sized, box-shaped buildings at the edge of the IBD serve as showrooms for apartment complexes. Ideal New Songdo family spaces and subjects are represented in these model walk-through apartments: photographs of Caucasian families often sit on the walls and on nightstands, and kitchens are almost always stocked with red wine and Italian recipe books. Western furniture decorates each room, and English-language books are set carefully on coffee tables and desks. Bedrooms are decorated with gendered pink or blue sets, each featuring a theme such as Yale University or European travel. In the living rooms of these model apartments, television screens run advertisements promoting New Songdo. In one advertisement, a man lounges at a café table with a woman, and looks into a bright blue sky, smiling. He says in Korean, ‘It’s just like New York!’26

26 Site visit to POSCO, the Sharp showroom, 8 June 2012.

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Figure 11.6  New Songdo’s border area

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The dream of New Songdo as a coherent and bounded, blank, and ideal space can be unsettled by examining New Songdo’s outsides. The rest of the city of Incheon, especially at New Songdo’s periphery, has been greatly influenced by developments along Incheon’s coastline for decades. Formerly coastal communities have witnessed profound transformations in Incheon’s landscape and in their local communities due not only to development itself, but also to the anticipation of development. Into the late 1960s, the area that sits along the former coastline was once home to a small population of people tending agricultural lands, along with a small-scale fishing industry (see Figure 11.6).27 In the 1980s, land reclamation on Incheon’s coast began to occur in phases, with the chaebol Daewoo notably involved in some of the largest projects. Due to financial 27 Korean National Geographic Information Institute. Incheon [aerial photos]. Scale unknown. 1966 and 1995. (Aerial photographs from 1966 show the existence of agricultural lands in Yeonsugu in Incheon. By 1995, when land reclamation had already blocked off phases of the local coastline, these had mostly been replaced by small-scale commercial properties such as an urban golf course, hotels, and restaurants.)

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problems, Daewoo’s reclaimed land – the size of several shopping malls that sit directly adjacent to New Songdo – has not seen any building or development in twenty years yet direct access to the coastline for locals has been blocked off. A Paramount movie theme park was planned for the space but cancelled. Like undeveloped sites inside New Songdo, unpaved parts of these reclaimed sites have been utilized by fence-breaking local senior citizens engaging in ‘illegal’ farming. Controversial ‘squatter’ businesses including car export lots staffed by migrants from Africa and Central Asia also occupy some of the undeveloped reclaimed spaces at New Songdo’s edge, although these workers are not the ‘global’ workers promoted in New Songdo’s image. Meanwhile, land continues to be reclaimed for the ongoing construction of New Songdo. The visible changes to the coastline, along with talk of the development of New Songdo International City – called simply ‘the new city’ by long-time residents of the coastal area – led to an influx of new residents and a return of absentee landlords. Incoming residents, to be differentiated from long-time fishers and farmers, were mainly lower-middle-class people. They erected buildings and therefore gained the right to receive compensation should the local development association, a group of local and absentee landowners, decide to sell the entire area to a local developer.28 Because this group of people lives amongst squatters, renters, and ‘original’ residents and members of the fishermen’s union with specific rights, village areas on New Songdo’s outskirts form a complex patchwork of groups engaged in property battles on different fronts. According to Pak Won-ju, a housing rights advocate working on behalf of local squatters, neighbourhood relations between classes of property owners at New Songdo’s edge are ‘awkward’ and confrontations do not normally take place face-to-face.29 In spite of the area’s complexities, three points related to Incheon’s rural transformation at New Songdo’s periphery are clear: first, people have already been removed. One group of people was removed and by all accounts paid fair compensation in order to create space for the construction 28 I identified this historical pattern throughout the course of three months of immersed fieldwork which involved a series of informal conversations and formal interviews with local residents. The existence of this trend was also confirmed by an interview with a Yeonsu-gu District Office city planner, Incheon, 27 July 2012. From the perspective of this planner, newcomers to New Songdo’s periphery who had erected homes in hopes of receiving compensation were an undeserving group. 29 Interview, Incheon People housing rights activists Park Won-ju and a group of local squatters, 4 August 2012.

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Figure 11.7  Ja-ap Village near New Songdo being demolished

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of a highway which cuts perpendicular through a village located along the former coastline. This highway, like the Incheon Grand Bridge, is a part of the infrastructural system that connects New Songdo to capital-rich places such as Seoul yet skips over marginal areas. In other areas such as the now renamed Ja-ap Village, the local development union voted to redevelop the entire village for the development of an apartment complex in spite of protest from many residents, including some property owners. One long-term Ja-ap Village resident, a homeowner forced to leave his home, resisted eviction and took the local development union to court. He blames New Songdo for the sudden urbanization of his village by way of the sudden surge of property speculation in the area.30 While the village has been completely cleared out to prepare for the erection of new apartment buildings, protest banners remain on site. Second, residents who own buildings, such as the ones with whom I lived during my fieldwork period, sunk much of their money into small homes on New Songdo’s periphery. Because development has not taken off 30 Interview, local protester and small building owner Seong Jeong-sun, 22 July 2012.

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as expected, in 2012 they stood to receive as little as US$12,000 to US$17,000 in compensation for their homes if they chose to leave before development arrived. To put this in perspective, the average price of an apartment within New Songdo’s IBD at that time was US$508,000.31 As a result, many residents are simply waiting for the compensation levels to increase, and have been living in the area for much longer than expected. Subsequent fieldwork has revealed no substantial change in this situation except that some residents have given up and left the area, receiving poor compensation. Third, because absentee landlords have begun fencing off their claims and renting out lots to junkyards involved in New Songdo’s construction industry, remaining formerly coastal communities have become almost unliveable. Vacated homes are normally spray-painted on their sides in large lettering reading bosang wonlyo, meaning ‘compensation received’. Residents awaiting development are now forced to live adjacent to junkyards and abandoned homes, and neighbourhoods have become slums. Furthermore, as one resident noted, a number of former residents have committed suicide due to shame and financial stress.32 Property battles and the plight of some marginalized groups are preconditions and constitutive aspects of the making of New Songdo. Land reclamation and Incheon’s reorientation away from its historic centre and towards New Songdo have had tremendous impacts on local communities. The relocation of Incheon National University and the proposed relocation of the Incheon’s international passenger ferry terminal from central Incheon to New Songdo have also created controversies affecting Incheon as a whole. Moreover, Incheon maintains the highest urban debt ratio of any city in South Korea although it is unclear whether the ambitious IFEZ projects are to blame.33 These struggles are largely obscured by the Zone itself, not least in official and English-language promotional materials, and also spatially and visually through the use of infrastructure that skips over or hides peripheral spaces. National and city development strategies of selective liberalization have met with real estate interests at various scales both inside and outside of the Zone. While New Songdo is promoted as a coherent, homogenous 31 Gale International, ‘Songdo IBD 3rd Quarter 2012 Briefing Document’, received 23 July 2012. 32 Interview with resident Kim Sun-yeo, 17 August 2012. 33 Sources vary widely on whether or not IFEZ is a main reason for Incheon’s debt. Incheon Metropolitan City makes some money from the sale of New Songdo’s reclaimed land, and IFEZ Authority is meant to be financed separately from the city. However, the city has invested in a number of supporting projects such as the Incheon Grand Bridge that are not strictly IFEZ projects.

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space, it is in fact the site of complex strategies, compromises, and ongoing struggles, and it is integrally bound out with its own outside at the local and national scales.

Conclusion In the space of a city that has grown in situ, such as Incheon City itself, the infrastructures, institutions, meanings, and scars of old regimes, along with borrowings of knowledge and visions and materials from across geographies, are adapted and reworked in relation to the changing desires and necessities of new layers of social and material practices. Incheon is a former colonial port city and South Korea’s first ‘international city’. It is already home not only to South Korea’s largest Chinatown but is also home to a number of more recent migrants from across Asia and Africa who have come to work in diverse sectors including manufacturing and in import-export businesses. The multilayered spaces of in situ cities are continually changing, rich in ambivalent histories with no clearly materialized separation between past, present, and future. New Songdo should be understood not only as a budding ‘global city’ or a straightforward real estate project, but also as a meaning-making project. New Songdo has been constructed on an enormous area of reclaimed land where ambivalences and contestations are more easily obscured, hidden from newcomers and potential international investors and denizens. If the colonial cantonment was a sequestered reproduction of the colonizers’ home alongside the home of the colonized, the new post-industrial economic zone is a reproduction of this reproduction, true to its modular style.34 Practicing selective connectivity, if only for marketing purposes, its promoters attempt to distinguish the Zone from the old city, drawing its layering and place-making practices not from the situated materiality of the Zone’s own space but from a mélange of ideals and images from across geographies. Parks and canals are modelled on cities in the West, while economic ambitions are modelled on Asian cities such as Hong Kong and Singapore (see Chua 2011). In its most idealized form New Songdo seems to mimic not only existing infrastructures found elsewhere in the world but also a future available in video games and architectural schematic drawings.

34 For an example of dual urban/colonial morphology, see Noble and Pandithara 2003.

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The ‘green’, high-tech post-industrial Special Economic Zone, and New Songdo in particular, is a kind of ‘ex-situ city’, or out-of-place city. New Songdo’s quest to become a ‘global’ city is not a question of more versus less connectivity, but of its style of connectivity. A regime of selective connectivity has been pursued by New Songdo’s promoters in the sense that emphasis on desired high-tech and international connectivity are exaggerated, while more constitutive relationships at home that create the conditions of possibility for new Songdo are rendered invisible. Representations of New Songdo as an apotheosis, as a coherent and bounded space, or a rising ‘global city’ are ironically rooted in the grittiness of Incheon itself.

12 The Vernacular and the Spectacular Urban Identity and Architectural Heritage in Southeast Asian Cities Rita Padawangi Abstract This chapter questions the existence of the vernacular city in architectural heritage trajectories of Southeast Asian cities. Architecture and the urban built environment are involved in the production, transformation, and construction of the identity of the city and its residents. In efforts to achieve the elusive competitive city status, with modern skyscrapers and technologically advanced constructions reflective of global economic institutions, built environments are adjusted and retrofitted. How does the shift from colonial to global cities in Southeast Asia reflect the vernacular city – a city that is built by and for the people – in its architectural heritage? The discussion starts with a theoretical review on the relationship between the vernacular city, urban heritage, and Guy Debord’s Society of the Spectacle. While independence is associated with breaking free from colonial rule, urban heritage is often geared towards preservation of colonial buildings, thoroughfares, central squares, and infrastructures. The exoticism of colonial heritage buildings and spaces add directly to the pride of the city in the era of global tourism. Urban heritage becomes less about the vernacular, but more about spectacular images to boost the urban economy. Rather than pointing solely to commodification, this chapter argues that the dominance of the spectacular over the vernacular in urban heritage discourse is a process whereby the power structure and systems of the architectural profession are related in the context of globalizing market forces. Several cases in Singapore and Jakarta illustrate this analysis and lead to a conclusion on urban identity, possible vernacularization of the colonial, and their position in urban development towards global tourism-led urban enchantment.

Introduction In popular discourse, heritage often refers to practical work or tourismrelated aspects. To gain a deeper and more critical understanding of

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heritage, it is important to understand it as a process affected by human action and agency and as an instrument of cultural power (Harvey 2003: 473-487). The association of heritage with specific landscapes and artefacts also links heritage with identity construction, through which heritage classification indicates the creation or dispute of national, local, group or individual identities. The process of assessing heritage values is both politically and socially constructed, in which clashing views often occur (Negussie 2006: 1803-1824).1 This chapter looks into the experiences in several Southeast Asian cities to identify traces of vernacular city in heritage preservation. It specifically analyses how heritage is defined in the preservation projects and how it is implemented in practice. Concurrently, this chapter examines how the heritage discourse relates to the city’s involvement in the global economy.

The vernacular city and spectacular architectural heritage The word ‘heritage’ has its roots in ‘inheritance’, but the symbiotic relationship between urban spaces and the accumulation of capital has often turned heritage preservation into strategies of economic revival of cities. This is especially when urban heritage is tied into revenues from tourism and, more broadly, economic development. Nevertheless, the link between heritage and inherited identity, which is based on the social and cultural relationships of the urban society, is not necessarily symbiotic with the economic rationale of urban heritage preservation, especially when the heritage land has accumulated land value over time and has overpriced indigenous economic activities. The increasing entrenchment of capitalist logic into urban development has been perpetuated by the cities’ more active role in the global economy. Cities’ legacies as trade ports in Southeast Asia flourished during the colonial period, especially after the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869. But the prominence of cities in the global economy has been on the rise mostly since the 1980s, as a result of growing industrialization and rapid urbanization in the preceding decade. 2 The combination of capitalist urban development and globalization on heritage preservation results in the almost instantaneous association between heritage and the city’s economic growth. In other words, heritage projects should not impede the 1 2

Graham et al. 2000. Rimmer and Dick 2009.

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city’s economic growth and should preferably propel it. Urban identity that precedes heritage understanding becomes a resourceful concept to enhance the city’s competitiveness to attract tourists as well as capital investments (Steinberg 2008: 463-475).3 Urban heritage and urban identity are inseparable from the vernacular city. Self-identity is reflexive of social relationships and the ordinary everyday life, all of which construct place identity (Low 1996: 383-409). 4 Vernacular refers to the native language of a particular community, although the boundaries of the native population are more often than not politically defined (Chang and Teo 2009: 341-367). The vernacular city is a city built by and for its residents, which reflects social and cultural layers of urban communities. The focus on making building façades financially valuable again leads to commercialized and touristic heritage preservation that relies on the fetishization of the vernacular. Eventually, these heritage-themed developments destroy the urban mosaic – the essence of the vernacular – because they become themed environments that push aside the meaningful everyday life of urban residents (Chang and Teo 2009: 341-367; Boyer 1992: 181-204).5 The separation between the façade and the everyday life dismantles vernacular place identities and replaces them with touristic heritage preservation that museumifies and romanticizes selected parts of urban identity. The emerging urban identity is based on the new everyday life, which is infused with commercial economic values that may not be in line with the social and cultural layers that built the façade. The replication of tourism-historic districts through a top-down approach often results in homogenous landscapes instead of ones that are unique for each city. They are material representations of the convergence of market demands, global cultural trends, and urban planning theories (Chang et al. 1996: 284-305). The condensation of activities in a globally linked everyday life delinks time and space and the cultural spatial markers related to space, which eventually pulls space away from place.6 Cities use culture and heritage to frame their exoticism in heritage policies, but the practical and economical foci have shifted the attention from a deeper understanding of urban identity towards practical usage to create markets, jobs, and revenues.

3 4 5 6

Harvey 2012. Giddens 1991. Hewison 1987; McGee 1994. Giddens 1991.

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Urban identity is globally projected as an image, in which appearances of beautiful architectures and landscapes become global appeals. The image of comfortable and beautiful cities in exotic Southeast Asia had been featured in travel guides since the colonial era. Europeans and Americans could visit or do business in Southeast Asian cities without having to learn the culture or language. The cities were accessible, safe, and featured roads, railways, trams at a ‘comfortable cultural and social distance’ from the exotic East background (Rimmer and Dick 2009: 33). The emphasis on these exotic, yet sanitized, images of the East is a reflection of Guy Debord’s ‘society of the spectacle’, in which he described that life is presented ‘as an immense accumulation of spectacles’ (Debord 1994: 12). The representation of the city in the form of architectural aesthetic qualities and infrastructure advancement is separated from the everyday life of the vernacular city. Heritage itself becomes an ‘instrument of cultural power’, through which one can choose specific periods and elements to examine (Harvey 2003: 475). In the current consumptive society, Debord argued that the images become the only thing to see in the society of the spectacle.7 Spectacular monuments and large-scale architectures are presented as images of the city that are reproduced and represented independently from the life of the ordinary. While the work of Debord describes the trajectory of urban heritage discourse, the processes behind the construction of the spectacle is not merely commodification of culture. The dominance of the spectacular over the vernacular in urban heritage discourse is a process whereby power structure and systems of architectural profession are related in the context of globalizing market forces. Cultural organizations that certify the worth of spectacular architecture on the international level also help in identifying them as heritage buildings and districts. Historic residential areas in the city may not gain similar support (Steinberg 1996: 463-475). Architecture and planning are ‘silently complicit’ in perpetuating capital accumulation in urban spaces (Dovey 2000: 267-280); hence, heritage preservation that is based on building aesthetics would eventually value physical buildings more than the lives in and in-between buildings. Vernacular dwellings are often deemed to lack planning and infrastructure. Therefore, they were labelled as slums that needed to be cleared for progress to be made, although these areas might have had historical links with the past, ‘a physical manifestation of the social and

7

Debord 1994.

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cultural traditions which have developed to give the modern city and society its meaning and character’ (Steinberg 1996: 465). Traditional economic activities and their land use gradually disappeared as urban development transformed commercial activities. The emphasis on economic efficiency, pitted against sentimentality, often becomes justification to replace a city’s historic built environments with a new, modern establishment that is perceived to be more economically suitable (Tarn 1985: 245-268; Steinberg 2008: 463-475). The reasons to balance the local revenues of development and cashing in from tourist attraction are more likely to favour large-scale investments that are often private. The educational role of architectural heritage in providing first-hand experience of various different periods and their achievements has been recognized (Steinberg 2008: 463-475).8 Both economic efficiency and education need to be unpacked to gain a deeper understanding of how heritage is constructed. The education realm is not free from political influences that affect judgements of what needs to be passed to the next generation and how to frame the information. Since memories and social experiences are difficult to quantify, they are often left behind in the measurement of economic efficiency.9 Moreover, memories are subjected to social and political construction by whoever interprets them (Harvey 2003: 473-487). Several scholars have advocated for a participatory approach in urban heritage preservation issues, any regeneration projects that are related to historic districts, and the management of built heritage conservation (Negussie 2006: 1803-1824; Steinberg 2008: 463-475). The Second United Nations Habitat Conference on Human Settlements (Habitat II) in 1996 supported conservation of cultural heritage because they play significant role in ‘producing a sense of cultural identity and continuity in a rapidly changing world’ (Steinberg 2008: 25). But it is also important to realize what projects qualify as heritage preservation, why, and whom they are affecting. Many Southeast Asian cities that have gone through periods of colonization show multilayered urban patterns in which colonial plans and buildings are imposed on existing precolonial fabric, and later on the modern layer of post-independence development.10 Rapid population growth and transformation of urban lands into land plots with high commercial values have contributed to the declining 8 See also Fitch 1982; ‘European Charter of the Architectural Heritage’ 1975. 9 Friedmann 1992; and to a certain extent, the environment also suffers the same experience of not being counted in the costs of development (Harvey 2012). 10 Santoso 2011.

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interests in preserving historical districts. Often with active advocacy efforts, colonial architecture has received a nudge in qualifying for heritage status. Jakarta, Bandung, Singapore, Manila, Malacca, Penang, and Hanoi are among the cities in which colonial architecture and urban fabric receive conscious attention in heritage preservation. Meanwhile, development pressure to justify for economic productivity potentially drives urban heritage discourse into commercially profitable projects rather than into meaningful projects by and for the city residents. Cities’ participation in the global economy and the role of global capital in financing urban projects, which usually require a quite surmountable resource from money to expertise, add to the appeal of framing heritage as a saleable identity to boost the city’s economy. Since the responsibility for heritage decision-making is still within the government’s realm, the results are in the end political, not economical, despite the economic framing of the arguments.

Urban heritage in Southeast Asia Heritage districts and architectures in Southeast Asian cities are mostly inseparable from colonial influences. Many cities’ existence predated the arrival of colonial forces, but post-independence urban development typically continued colonial infrastructures, patterns, and buildings. Colonial governments usually built their offices, residences, and infrastructures such as roads, water supply, and drainage systems to support their economic activities in the city, over the existing urban fabric. In Jakarta, for example, the colonial government built roads and infrastructures to serve the European population but the existing settlements were localized into pockets of urban villages behind the colonial houses. The colonial Kota Tua (Old Town) was near the harbour, through which goods were shipped to Europe. In Singapore, the British built their settlements and government offices strategically near the port, on the grounds of the ancient city that was gone. Intramuros, the walled Spanish city in3 Manila, was the colonial administrative centre that was built on Raja Sulayman’s thirteenth-century trading post (Turalba 2008: 164-202). Architecture and urban plans reflect power structure and social relationships, and so do colonial cities. European districts in colonial cities become city centres with European-style buildings, plazas, and infrastructure support. Jakarta’s Old Town features a square in front of the city hall that was bustling with activities during the colonial period. Manila experienced an urban plan by Daniel Burnham who implemented City Beautiful concepts.

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The concentration of monumental architectures and urban spaces in colonial quarters in Jakarta, Manila, Malacca, and the Intramuros area of Manila provides the scale that allows them to remain relatively more consolidated. There are also some cities in which old districts are still used as its main housing area, such as Hanoi and Penang, although market forces have crept in to transform these buildings in smaller scales (Steinberg 2008: 463-475). From a practical point of view, the scale, structure, and infrastructural support to existing colonial buildings make them readily available structures for post-independence functions. This pragmatic and to some extent economic justification – by utilizing existing spaces – are seemingly logical justifications for maintaining colonial buildings. In many Southeast Asian cities, including Singapore, Jakarta, Manila, and Hanoi, buildings that housed colonial institutions outlived their original occupiers and functions because of the transition from colonial to national or local governments. Many institutional buildings from colonial times had to be retrofitted into new functions, or adapted to new institutions, after the colonial forces left. But these practical-economic considerations could also be ones to justify demolishing heritage buildings.

Constructing heritage in Southeast Asian cities: Singapore and Jakarta In Hanoi (which is also explored in the next chapter, ‘Heritage in Times of Rapid Transformation: A Tale of Two Cities – Yangon and Hanoi’, by William Logan), the French Quarter and the Ancient Quarter has been acknowledged as development potential in the Master Plan for Year 2020. The high-density and mixed-use characters of the Ancient Quarter made it difficult for local authorities ‘to ensure that all development is in accordance with existing building and heritage legislation’ (Steinberg 2008: 32). Prices in Hanoi’s urban land increased tenfold between 1990 and 2004, with most appreciation in the city centre and in residential accommodation. Spatial policies can either exacerbate or hold land market pressure in imposing development pressure on historical districts. In Jakarta’s Kota Tua (Old Town), a district where the colonial City Hall and early business establishments in Jakarta are situated, the floor space index is maintained through the city’s Spatial Master Plan to stay at 2:4, which is 50 percent lower than in other districts in Jakarta with comparable land values (Steinberg 2008: 463-475). The floor ratio becomes a disincentive for new investment in the historical district, because the low floor ratio is also a factor in

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keeping the land value high. In contrast, the land price within the historic Intramuros area in Manila City in the Philippines is half of the districts surrounding it. Established by the Spanish colonial government as a walled colonial administrative centre of Manila, Intramuros is situated at the mouth of the Pasig River towards Manila Bay and was 90 percent destroyed in World War II. After its restoration from 1966 to 1986, self-built settlements crept into the compound, but were cleared again later on in an attempt to promote Intramuros for tourism. Singapore Singapore is probably the most organized and controlled case of heritage preservation among Southeast Asian cities. The Urban Redevelopment Authority (URA) has been involved in conservation since the 1970s. By the end of 2012, the authority has awarded conservation status to more than 7,000 buildings in over a hundred areas in Singapore, including in Chinatown, Kampong Glam, and Little India as the historic districts. Although there is an acknowledgement that a good restoration is not just about the façade but also about retaining ‘the inherent spirit and the original ambience of historic buildings’, the URA’s focus is much on the architecture of the buildings, by specifically focusing on architectural history and featuring conservation as an effort to ‘bring the past back to productive life’.11 Singapore also has a National Heritage Board (NHB), which is identified as ‘the custodian of Singapore’s heritage’ that is ‘responsible for telling the Singapore story, sharing the Singaporean experience and imparting our Singapore spirit’.12 Among heritage programmes under the NHB are the heritage trails of various districts in Singapore, including the Civic District, Kampong Glam, Little India, and several residential areas such as Ang Mo Kio and Tiong Bahru. The Civic District trails were the first ‘permanent’ heritage trails in Singapore, which consisted mostly of colonial buildings and sites at the centre of the city, such as the Victoria Concert Hall, the Supreme Court, the City Hall, and the Asian Civilizations Museum that was formerly the Empress Place.13 The public housing programme in the 1960s moved the population out from the city centre and allowed new businesses to take over 11 Urban Redevelopment Authority 2013. 12 National Heritage Board 2013. 13 Heritage trails have also featured in popular tourist publications, such as Singapore: A Walking Tour.

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Figure 12.1  Clarke Quay shophouses and the tourist boats

Author’s photo

emptied heritage buildings. The management of the Clarke Quay area, for example, including the refurbished shophouses (see Figure 12.1), is under CapitaMalls, one of the largest shopping mall corporations in Singapore. This results in segregation between consumptive shopping and retail spaces that are connected to people’s everyday lives in the residential areas. ‘The planning and resettlement authorities [of Singapore]... were of the view that the city centre would not be the place for small-scale retailers’ (Ooi 2004: 119). Central city areas are prime real estate that could only be afforded by international retail chains and global brand retailers. These areas happen to be near the colonial city centre, which was a strategic location considering the availability of infrastructures and buildings from the colonial era. An interesting trend of Singapore’s heritage programme is the increasing inclusion of residential districts as ‘heritage’ areas. Recent inclusion of the Tiong Bahru Heritage Trail at one of the oldest public housing estates in Singapore marks a contrast from how heritage was very closely associated to tourism three decades ago. Heritage preservation was the ‘least-cost’ strategy to improve the competitiveness of Singapore in the tourism industry, by portraying ‘an exotic and culturally rich touristic image’

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with its British colonial history. ‘Exotic East’ and ‘Colonial Heritage’ were themes in the Singapore Tourism [Promotion] Board first tourism master plan (Chang et al. 1996: 284-305). The Tourism Board’s focus on heritage as a tool to garner revenues from tourist attractions is different from the NHB’s more inward focus towards citizens, which explains the bulk of popular history information that can be found on heritage at the NHB. While the colonial district was emptied out to give way for architectural rehabilitation and adaptive reuse for commercial and tourist functions, this practice is less feasible in an established housing area with a stable resident population. The acknowledgement of Tiong Bahru as a heritage district is inseparable from its distinct sense of place identity and familiarity that followed the ageing population through the 1980s. Conservation status was conferred by the state in 2003 after the place was featured in several studies by Singaporean geographers (Kong et al. 1996: 529-549; Yeoh and Kong 1995: 88-115; Yeoh and Kong 1997: 52-65).14 Not long after, property prices increased and now Tiong Bahru is one of the more expensive places to stay or rent in Singapore. The population of people over forty-five years of age increased by 15 percent from 1990 to 2000, but the 2010 census actually showed a decrease of 5 percent in this age category overall. Artist communities began to move into Tiong Bahru and established their studios and activities there. Jakarta The Singapore heritage story and the Tiong Bahru experience contrasts with Jakarta’s Kota Tua (Old Town) case. Kota Tua has been gazetted as a heritage district since 1974, but very little was done either to revitalize the area or to repair the buildings until relatively recently (Sugiantoro 2008: 105-162). There was quite a bit of attention paid by Indonesian scholars and community groups in Jakarta to promote heritage conservation of Kota Tua, and conservationists blamed nationalist resistance towards acknowledging colonial heritage as the force behind Kota Tua’s neglect.15 The area became notorious for dilapidated old buildings, traffic jams, recurrent flooding, parking congestions, ubiquitous street vendors, and polluted waterways.16 Until 2005, the popular image of the historic regional trading post was that is was unsafe, uncomfortable, and difficult to access, as well as peppered 14 Goh 2013. 15 Febrina 2007. 16 Febrina and Ismawati 2006.

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with sex workers and thugs at night.17 In contrast, the 1970s was the era of economic boom in Jakarta, in which many new buildings were constructed. The 1980s was when many new skyscrapers were built and Indonesia rose as an economic powerhouse in Southeast Asia. In the 1990s, big shopping malls started to grow in Jakarta – eleven malls in seven years – compared to only three big retail establishments from 1965 to 1982. Despite the rapid urban development, general guidelines about heritage preservation in Jakarta were only issued in 1999 as Local Regulation No. 9, following National Law No. 5/1992. The more specific guidelines for Kota Tua revitalization were only completed in 2007. The guidelines described Kota Tua as a ‘living heritage’ quarter with the concept of ‘memory of the past’ through a revitalized district. Kota Tua was geared as a place where all Jakarta residents could go to engage in recreational or cultural activities, reside, or work while protecting the heritage values of the area.18 Detailed architectural guidelines with categories of Factions A, B, and C for each building determined the allowed interventions on the buildings. These guidelines, like the Singapore URA’s conservation guidelines, are focused on architectural standards such as building measurements, appearance, billboards, and scenic streetscapes. The absence of the everyday practice of urban residents in the extensive guidelines reflects the gap between architectural heritage and urban identity beyond scenic beauty. The notion of the vernacular as social identity is not yet included, or perhaps neglected, in the heritage discourse. The revitalization of Kota Tua in recent years is inseparable from the role of the ‘heritage buffs’.19 Jakarta Old Town-Kotaku (JOK) is a group of heritage activists that form a network of support among officials in the Jakarta administration, building owners, artists, architects, businesspeople, and heritage enthusiasts. JOK advocated for revitalization as something ‘more than just conserving buildings’ to involve social, economic, and cultural aspects.20 Kota Green Map volunteers found migrants from West Java locales who became homeless residents of Kota Tua, becak (pedicab) drivers, scavengers, nomad fortune tellers; all of whom have been parts of Kota Tua’s walks of life. They also founded a flower shop that provided free daily meditation lessons and flower-arranging classes, a Buddhist charity

17 Agence France Presse 2006. 18 Jakarta (DKI) 2007. 19 Ibid. 20 Febrina and Ismawati 2006.

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shop, and an affordable Traditional Chinese Medicine centre. Buddhist monks have also been regularly giving offerings for the poor in the area. The revitalization process emphasized architectural restorations, injections of museums, galleries, cafes, and reception halls. All these functions were deemed suitable to turn Kota Tua into a worthy tourist destination, as later promoted by the Indonesian Culture and Tourism Minister in Busan, Korea, in September 2012. 21 These functions are far from the everyday life of Kota Tua. The revitalization process and implementation had not involved people who actually work and live in the area, although Budi Lim, an architect and leading member of JOK, asserted early on that the Kota Tua revival should be for the people of Jakarta, including those who were already there.22 The first to leave were the street vendors, who were evicted to a nearby but much quieter street in 2007, without plans to integrate them with the revitalization project. Local businesses, which may or may not see eye-to-eye with the street vendors, were not consulted about traffic changes and suffered the impact of the road closures.23 The larger Old Town area also experiences pressure from economic development, especially the buildings that are not slated as valued heritage architecture. As the area revitalises and grows, existing residents and businesses would have to adapt to the new dynamics while their everyday roles that contribute to the social identity of the district may not be protected by the heritage guidelines that are solely architectural.

Common characteristics of urban heritage in Southeast Asia In most of the urban heritage and colonial architecture preservation efforts mentioned above, there are three areas of common characteristics. First, all heritage preservation projects in these cities focus on colonial architecture and districts. Second, they are preserving districts or buildings that are perceived as having distinct identities; but the characteristics, demographics, and functions that construct these identities were declining or gone. And finally, the voices of the residents are virtually unheard in the heritage discourse, which is seemingly normalized as the proper role of the state and to a certain extent the private sector that would finance or manage it.

21 Antara 2012. 22 Febrina 2007; Agence France Presse 2006. 23 Mariani and Putra 2007.

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The first characteristic points to colonial architecture and districts. Efforts to preserve colonial districts and buildings are consistent with keeping the historical legacy of cities that have gone through development under colonial rule. The sole focus on the architectural-aesthetic qualities of the buildings and spaces will likely leave behind the contexts that shaped these districts, all the inequalities and power struggles behind these colonial façades. The built environment and the urban plans were designed to glorify the ruling power. They were meant to be spectacles in the city as buildings and spaces to look up to and to admire, especially if they are government buildings such as the Palace of the Governor-General and the City Hall in Jakarta, the Supreme Court and the City Hall in Singapore, or the French Opera House in Hanoi (for more information on this particular project, see Logan’s chapter 13 in this book). These are massive architectural interventions that are easily identifiable, and are often used as images from and of the city that is projected for residents and beyond. Built architecture and the design of urban spaces normalize these inequalities in the built environment. Hierarchies of space and infrastructure services are normalized through aesthetics, structural splendour, and spectacular views that could only be afforded by the privileged segments of society. In contrast, ordinary people who do not have access to these designs and services live in utterly different neighbourhood settings inbetween these designed buildings and houses. Urban villages in Jakarta are structured as enclaves behind colonial dwellings so that they could tap into some infrastructure services that were laid for the colonial houses, but the urban villages are not provided with direct services such as water supply.24 These urban villages may not even be categorized as urban heritage because architecturally they are not spectacular enough and, technically, infrastructure services are more difficult to access. Mohammad Danisworo, Chairman of the Centre for Urban Design Studies in Bandung, West Java, claimed that conservation in Indonesia, particularly in the case of Kota Tua, is still the idea of the elite and not the general public.25 The entanglement of architectural qualities and aesthetics with the power structure is intrinsic in colonial architectural heritage. An urban heritage discourse that focuses only on aesthetics and building economics places the vernacular urban fabric – which may or may not have such physical qualities – at a disadvantage.

24 Bakker et al. 2006. 25 Mariani and Putra 2007.

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The increasing role of cities in the global economy brings us to the second characteristic of urban heritage preservation, which is a fascination with physical structures and districts in constructing the city’s identity. The flow of global capital into and from the city propels economic growth and arguably generates wealth. But it also boosts large-scale urban developments in the city that are in line with such growth. In Singapore, Jakarta, and Metro Manila big department stores were established during the colonial period, but large-scale stores began after independence. Mega projects grew even more in and after the 1990s. Furthermore, urban heritage is measured based on how they can be economically efficient. The emphasis on translating building aesthetics into projects that contribute to urban economic growth has induced the seemingly routine association between urban heritage and the tourism industry. In the process, the exoticization and commercialization of urban identity become standard practice – a process of image construction to represent the city that is detached from the actual vernacular life of the district and the city. Gentrification becomes a seemingly natural process as it fits the logic of economic growth, such as the exclusion of the resident businesses, local professions, and street vendors in Kota Tua. In Intramuros, Metro Manila, the squatters were evicted during the process of revitalization because they were thought not to fit into the heritage discourse. (It is not clear whether there had been any effort to integrate the settlers into the new economy in the Intramuros area.) In other words, urban heritage preservation practices have the tendency to appreciate colonial architecture but not so much the vernacular appropriation of those spaces. Rather than making this architecture connect to the ordinary, it becomes an urban spectacle to garner revenues from heritage tourism. The detachment of these spectacles from meaningful everyday life could possibly lead to them becoming spectacular shells that dominate vernacular forms and practices; a contemporary socio-economic-architectural colonization by the spectacular over the vernacular. This takes us to the third characteristic, which is the emphasis on the role of the state to regulate, and the private sector to finance heritage projects. The role of the private sector in heritage preservation is a strategic move especially as they are the ones who have the capacity to finance or manage heritage projects. In contrast, the ordinary people do not have such financial resources, but community involvement is associated with taking time and energy that would potentially decrease the economic efficiency of heritage projects. The distancing between urban heritage and the ordinary lives of the city potentially brings beautification projects that separate the city’s official image from what it means to live in the city. For example,

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Figure 12.2  Museum Fatahillah in Kota Tua (Old Town), Jakarta

Author’s photo

in Jakarta heritage buildings have to fulfil at least six criteria: historical value, age, originality, scarcity, landmark status, and architectural value (Sugiantoro 2008: 105-162). Seventy-eight percent of the land use in Kota Tua heritage district in Jakarta is commercial, and residential is only 5 percent, but most of the residences are in urban villages with low infrastructure services (Sugiantoro 2008). There is detailed classif ication of heritage buildings, which are mostly colonial, with the old City Hall (Stadhuis) and its surroundings mostly categorized as Faction A, to which changes are restricted to the restoration of original conditions. The old City Hall has now become Museum Fatahillah, which is basically the Jakarta History Museum, and stores more than 20,000 objects, including colonial heritage as well as local Betawi furniture and prehistoric inscriptions (see Figure 12.2). The colonial town square is now the Fatahillah Square, a popular weekend gathering place, especially for youth. But other parts of the Old Town that do not belong to Faction A, B, or C are subjected to gentrification. This includes old residential neighbourhoods in the area. There is almost no house in its original form that still stands in the old Chinatown area. Almost all have been rebuilt, modified, and gentrified. While communities

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there still practice and preserve their traditions and cultures, heritage recognition to these forms of vernacular identities, spaces, and architecture is incomparable to the preservation of colonial buildings.

Conclusion The distancing of urban heritage from the vernacular city can be traced to two factors: The first is an epistemological issue on the inseparability of urban heritage and architecture, which has its main focus on building structures and aesthetics. The architecture field itself has faced criticism of not being critical enough towards the rich and powerful – even to building symbiotic relationships with them – because of architecture’s capacity to manifest power in the built environment and thereby into the everyday use of space. Similarly, the architectural profession has also becomes the agent to channel capital into fixed resources such as property (De Carlo 2005: 3-22; Jones and Card 2011: 228-244). Architecture’s support to the right to the city has been questioned by scholars of the social architecture discourse (Ward 1996: 27-70). With the lack of pressure from architecture to focus on the vernacular city, urban heritage would follow a similar trend. In fact, the latching of urban heritage onto revenue generation and tourism concurs with the use of architecture to create wealth along with the city’s ambition to aggressively pursue economic growth. Along this line, the exoticism of colonial architecture and nostalgic visions of European urban spaces in Southeast Asia generate an appealing urban identity to invoke curiosity to visit and spend money in the city. The focus on spectacular architectural heritage may not be in line with the vernacular urban fabric that has closer ties with local economic activities. At the same time, local economic activities are diminishing as the city is increasingly dominated by spectacular mega-projects. Urban patterns in favour of these spectacles often result in the marginalization of vernacular heritage, both in terms of culture and the built environment. The second factor is a technical issue on the practice of urban heritage preservation that requires financial and technical resources. Technical languages, historical expertise and economic calculation create boundaries between the experts and the ordinary person. Urban heritage becomes the prerogative of certain institutions, experts, and individuals, and at the same time renders public participation irrelevant due to the perceived necessary skill sets to participate in the heritage discourse. Heritage information for

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urban residents is channelled through popular means or museums, but not yet made inherent in their everyday practices. Although colonial architecture is unarguably a part of history and therefore merits the acknowledgement as elements in a city’s urban identity, heritage is not an exclusive term for urban spectacles. The lived spaces of ordinary urbanites are progressively constructed as meaningful spaces, which eventually lead to heritage for future urban generations. Urban heritage in Southeast Asian cities is beyond the colonial. While urban heritage is subjected to the globalization of the city, it is not conceptually limited to revenue generation and simplistic cost-benefit analysis. Urban heritage preservation is inherently a process of redefining urban identity, meanings of urban spaces and urban lives. Architecture is a culturally bound spatial marker that triggers place awareness, which also requires the existence of vernacular practices beyond spectacular shells.

13 Heritage in Times of Rapid Transformation A Tale of Two Cities – Yangon and Hanoi1 William Logan Abstract Myanmar is opening up to the world after fifty years of military rule and heading into times of rapid economic, social, and political transformation. There is some indication that the changes taking place in Myanmar will parallel those faced in Vietnam twenty-five years ago when it, too, emerged from a period of isolation and opened up to global investment, tourism, and intellectual influences. One of the similarities is likely to be in the growing awareness and use of cultural heritage as a political, economic, and social asset. In all states, capital cities are pivotal in the transformative processes and governments make use of heritage as part of nation-building strategies. This chapter opens up consideration of the role of heritage in times of rapid transformation in Yangon and Hanoi – respectively the colonial and post-colonial capitals of Myanmar (until November 2005) and Vietnam. Important cultural and political differences between the two national contexts are noted and questions asked about what Yangon might learn from the Vietnamese transformation experience.

After fifty years of military rule and international isolation Myanmar (formerly Burma) is now opening up to the world and heading into times of rapid economic, social, and political transformation. If the current peace process is maintained in Myanmar, a dramatic impact will be felt in all aspects of life: democratic elections will be resumed; relations between the state and civil society and between the state and ethnic minority communities will be reshaped; and economic development will create new jobs and alleviate 1 This chapter is an early output from a comparative Hanoi-Yangon urban heritage project that the author is undertaking with colleagues Professor Andrea Witcomb and Kristal Buckley in the Cultural Heritage Centre for Asia and the Pacif ic at Deakin University, Melbourne, Australia. The information provided by Daw Moe Moe Lwin and Rupert Mann, director and senior program off icer respectively in the Yangon Heritage Trust director, and Christopher Lamb, former Australian Ambassador to Myanmar, is gratefully acknowledged.

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poverty. The impact will be felt, too, on the built environment of Myanmar’s major cities, especially the former capital Yangon, as new investment enables the construction of modern commercial and residential buildings and urban infrastructure in historic quarters. Investment is moving in from China, Korea, the United States and other foreign sources, adding to the funds being packaged internally. An extensive three-storey shopping complex is already being constructed by Chinese investors in downtown People’s Park adjacent to Yangon’s iconic Shwedagon Pagoda. Meanwhile historically significant nineteenth-century buildings stand empty, deteriorating and vulnerable to demolition. There is a weak legislative and policy framework to guide such rapid growth and protect the city’s distinctive heritage, and the local administrative and professional workforce is struggling to manage circumstances beyond their experience. In this context Myanmar is looking to developed countries such as the United Kingdom, Australia, the United States, and Japan for policy advice and technical assistance. While this is important, of course, Myanmar could also learn much by looking closer to home, to the experience of another developing country in Southeast Asia that has passed through a process of rapid transformation following a period of international isolation – Vietnam – and to its capital city, Hanoi. Although the Vietnamese transition process is twenty-five years ahead of the changes in Myanmar, there are already prima facie indications that the broad changes taking place in Myanmar might closely parallel those faced in Vietnam a generation earlier. One emergent similarity between Myanmar and Vietnam lies in the growing awareness and use of cultural heritage as assets that can be used to facilitate and shape political, economic, and social transformation, an issue that was explored in the previous chapter by Rita Padawangi in the case of Singapore and Jakarta. States all around the world make quite deliberate use of heritage as a key component of their nation-building strategies, and in most states capital cities are pivotal in these transformative processes by dint of their being the seats of government and administration.2 Moreover, because capital cities strive to be the sentimental heart of the nation, heritage buildings reflecting the nation’s past often assume greater importance in capital than in other cities. This chapter, then, opens up consideration of the role of heritage in times of rapid transformation in Hanoi and Yangon – respectively the colonial and post-colonial capitals of Vietnam and, until November 2005, Myanmar. Important cultural and political differences between the two national contexts exist, of course, and need to be taken 2

Logan 2005-2006; Logan 2009a.

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into account. Starting from this similarity, however, I ask, What lessons might Yangon learn from Hanoi’s transformative experience? A brief introductory word is needed about how the concept of heritage is understood in this chapter. Conventionally the heritage field is divided into natural and cultural, and the latter is further divided into two sub-types – tangible and intangible; that is, historic places and artefact collections such as those held in museums, on the one hand, and ‘living’, ‘embodied’ heritage on the other, including performance skills in music, dance, handicrafts, and building. Much as separating the two forms might be criticized as an essentially Western approach, the division has become enshrined in the international and national heritage protection systems, including the highly influential World Heritage system developed under UNESCO auspices and the national systems in most Asian states. This chapter focuses on the tangible heritage form as represented in the built environment of Hanoi and Yangon, although acknowledging that much of the significance attributed to urban buildings and sites relates to intangible characteristics such as sacred and religious values or associations with historic events and people. In this chapter, heritage protection is not seen just as a technical matter. Certainly the conservation of the physical fabric of places and artefacts, and the management of heritage sites and collections, are critically important for the survival of the legacy of the past, and related activities provide employment for many professional practitioners and tourism workers. My interest in heritage protection is primarily, however, in seeing it as a cultural practice, a form of cultural politics that is dominated by particular regimes and social groups and in which decisions are made about the future of and access to scarce resources.3 Understood in this way, heritage interventions and the field of heritage studies always involve fundamental philosophical and ethical questions: Why are we protecting heritage? Which heritage? Who for? Who said? Are the local people whose heritage is being ‘protected’ involved? How does it fit with other human rights? How does it fit with sustainability? Seen this way, heritage and its protection play a critically important social, economic, and political role in nations, states, and cities undergoing rapid transformation.

Vietnam and Myanmar: parallel development trajectories? There are already many signs suggesting Myanmar and Yangon will pass through the same set of stages in terms of urban development and heritage 3

Logan 2013.

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as Vietnam and Hanoi. Both countries have faced heavy international embargoes on aid and investment. After military conflict ceased and Vietnam was reunified in 1975, a United States-led embargo meant that there was little foreign aid or private investment in the country. In Myanmar, an embargo was also imposed by the United States administration, in this case under Clinton in 1997 and toughened by President Bush in 2007 and 2008. The effect of these sanctions in both countries was increased poverty among the general population and a lack of urban and economic development and job creation. The embargoes also contributed significantly, however, along with internal political shifts, to the decisions by both countries’ governments to embrace change and to end isolation. In Vietnam, the policy shift occurred at the 6th Vietnamese Communist Party Congress in 1986 and is referred to as doi moi (renovation). In Myanmar, a softening of the military junta led to the release of Aung San Suu Kyi in late 2012 and the lifting of sanctions by the United States and the European Union. Both Vietnam and Myanmar required new legislation, including labour and investment laws. Following their opening up, both countries became the ‘international flavour of the month’. Hanoi saw a swag of ‘carpetbaggers’ moving in to exploit the new commercial opportunities, followed by more substantial exploratory missions by Western and later East Asian industrial, financial, and other service corporations. It was anticipated that the United States embargo would ultimately be lifted and development interests would intensify.4 My initial project in Hanoi, for UNESCO in January 1990, was precisely responding to this expectation and sought to put in place heritage controls before that happened.5 Indeed, as anticipated, when it came urban development investment was attracted to Hanoi’s historic core and threatened many heritage buildings and precincts. Ironically, there was major investment in hotels to cater for the boom in international tourism, much of which was heritage-focused. In Myanmar, the lifting of American and European Union sanctions also led to a flurry of activity in Yangon and to growing fears that international developers would target city-centre sites that are home to many of Myanmar’s finest nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century buildings.6 The same selfdestructive forces are threatening, especially heritage-based tourism leading to new hotel construction that undercuts the heritage values of the city. In Hanoi, prominent historians like Dr Phan Huy Le and Nguyen Vinh Phuc led a campaign to save the city’s built heritage. Burmese historian Dr 4 Logan 1995. 5 Logan 1990; UNESCO 1990. 6 Daniel 2012; Nelson 2012.

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Thant Myint-U is campaigning in a similar way in Yangon and successfully established a Yangon Heritage Trust in 2012. The Hanoi historians were backed by foreign ambassadors, notably from Australia, France, and West Germany, and their national aid and/or cultural agencies. On the Australian side, an important part was played by political and diplomatic figures such as Graham Alliband, Ambassador to Vietnam (1986-1991) and Gough Whitlam, former Prime Minister (1972-1975) and Australian Ambassador to UNESCO (1983-1986). It was in large part because of their urging that the planners in the Ministry of Construction’s National Institute for Urban and Rural Planning (NIURP) took the first steps towards protecting the Old Sector in collaboration with UNESCO (Whitlam 1997: 58-59). It was also because of their interventions that UNESCO chose an Australian consultant to undertake its 1990 project and I began what has become a twenty-five-year engagement with Hanoi and its urban heritage. In the early 1990s, Whitlam helped establish and was patron of the Friends of Hanoi Trust. Drawing together Australian business people wanting to establish a foothold in Vietnam, the Trust was a mutually useful, if short-lived, mechanism that led, on the one hand, to the restoration of an Ancient Quarter temple and the hosting of the ‘Developing Whilst Preserving Hanoi’ workshop in November 1993 and other meetings, and, on the other hand, to the Trust members winning favourable attention from the central government and Hanoi People’s Committee. A later prime minister, Paul Keating, was sufficiently captivated during a visit to the Ancient Quarter in the early 1990s that he arranged funding for the large ‘Hanoi Planning and Development Control Project’.7 The project took up the recommendations of the UNESCO report and expanded them into an attempt to put in place an urban management system, not just for the historic Old Sector, but for the entire metropolitan area. In the Myanmar case, Thant Myint-U and the Yangon Heritage Trust are also being supported by the British, Australian, New Zealand, and United States governments. The British Department for International Development is playing a useful role (Lenaghan 2012: 46-47). Thant Myint-U is quoted as saying, however, that too much assistance from Myanmar’s old rulers might be counterproductive: ‘There are people for whom the colonial relationship is no great thing, that’s why it’s important we have support from elsewhere’.8 Australia has been quick to position itself as a supporter of the reviving democracy movement and as an economic investor and supplier of foreign aid. Australia’s Foreign Affairs Minister, Bob Carr, again following a 7 8

Logan 1995; Logan 1996. Nelson 2012.

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Figure 13.1  The South Gate of the World Heritage-listed Thang Long-Hanoi citadel

Author’s photo

personal visit to the historic centre, accompanied by Thant Myint-U, gave a commitment in June 2012 to helping conserve Yangon’s built heritage. This use of heritage as a soft diplomacy tool is an important acknowledgment of economic, social, and political role that cultural heritage plays in times of rapid transformation. Diplomatic personnel are again involved, including the current ambassador, Bronte Moules, and the former ambassador, Christopher Lamb (1986-1989). It is too early to tell whether these international interventions will have the same effect on the Myanmar government and Yangon City Development Committee as they did in Hanoi where the Hanoi People’s Committee gradually installed protective regulations to protect its urban heritage and where, in 2010, Vietnam won World Heritage recognition of the Thang Long-Hanoi citadel. Yangon is currently contemplating new planning regulations and Myanmar is looking for World Heritage status, although at the moment for the ancient Pyu cities and Bagan (Pagan) in the north rather than for Yangon.9 9 The Pyu Ancient Cities, a serial site nomination comprising archaeological remains at Halin, Beikthano and Sri Ksetra, were inscribed on the World Heritage List at the 38th Session of the World Heritage Committee in Doha, Qatar, in June 2014. It is likely that a nomination for Bagan will submitted in 2015 or 2016.

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Figure 13.2  The Shwedagon Pagoda in Yangon, a future World Heritage nomination?

Author’s photo

Cultural, historical, and political similarities and differences International comparisons are always fraught with difficulties and, indeed, while there are striking similarities between Myanmar and Vietnam, the important differences should not be ignored. Vietnam’s dominant culture

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is Sinicized; Myanmar’s is Indianized. Both states are multi-ethnic but with one ethnic group dominating economically and politically. The dominant group in Myanmar are the Burman (68 percent of total population) whereas the Kinh Viet dominate in Vietnam (86 percent). Burma has 135 ethnic minorities while Vietnam officially recognizes 50, in addition to the Kinh and the Chinese. Most ethnic minorities live in mountainous rural areas, where they eke out a difficult existence and have resisted assimilationist policies imposed since colonial times.10 The colonial overlords in Myanmar were the British whereas the French controlled what is now Vietnam. Both Yangon and Hanoi owe much to their location on navigable waterways that facilitated trade. In Hanoi’s case Chinese traders arrived soon after the Thang Long citadel was built in 1010 CE by Ly Thai To as the capital of his newly independent Vietnamese kingdom. They sailed up the Red River from the Gulf of Tonkin and settled outside the citadel in what has become the market town known locally as pho co and internationally as the ‘Ancient Quarter’ or ‘Area of the 36 Commercial Streets’. Yangon started life in the sixth century CE as a small settlement known as Dagon, where the Shwedagon Pagoda was later erected. When King Alaungpaya unified Burma in the years 1752-1759 the village became his capital under the name Yangon. The town was greatly extended when, after 1824, Burma became a province of British India and the colonial authorities based in Calcutta decided a new administrative and port town was needed to serve imperial interests in Burma. Yangon lies conveniently on the eastern estuary of the Irrawaddy River, 40 kilometres from the Andaman Sea. The British name of Rangoon reverted to Yangon in 1989. As the result of colonial immigration policies designed to attract labour for the fast-growing city, Yangon’s population became overwhelmingly Indian with sizeable British (mainly Scottish), other European, and Chinese components.11 This contrasted with Hanoi, which was predominantly Vietnamese with French and Chinese minorities. The British/French difference in colonial control affects the built heritage that remains today in the two cities. This is mostly in design detail, however, rather than in the more significant aspects of building and urban form which are essentially Western European and very different from the earlier indigenous building forms found in Yangon and Hanoi. The way in which the colonial powers sought to mark their presence on the ground through town planning and architecture – indeed, to show who was in 10 Pelley 1998; Hessey and Hirst 2012. 11 Egretau 2011; Daniel 2012.

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Figure 13.3 The beaux-arts palace of the French Indochina Governor-General built in Hanoi in 1907

Author’s photo

Figure 13.4  The neoclassical New Law Courts built in Yangon in 1927

Courtesy of R. Mann

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control – was, however, exactly the same in both places. The layering of built forms from successive periods and regimes, including the colonial, has been internationally recognized as a key heritage feature of Hanoi12 and was one of the reasons for the World Heritage listing of Hanoi’s Thang Long citadel in 2010.13 Even though Yangon’s layering and the encrypting of political and cultural power in its built form are still to be rigorously explored, it is clear that both cities drew strength from colonialism in being made capital cities. In fact Yangon (Rangoon) was essentially a colonial creation, not only with the initial 1824 decision but also with, in the 1850s, the move to Yangon of the royal symbolic and administrative functions from Mandalay, which had been the Burmese royal capital for thirty years. The Vietnamese story is more complicated due to its two twentieth-century wars of independence and territorial division in the period 1945-1975, and Hanoi, like Yangon, lost its capital city status when the last dynasty – the Nguyen (1802-1845) – created a new capital at Hue in central Vietnam. The French allowed the royal court to remain in Hue but made Hanoi the capital of French Indochina (Tonkin, Annam, Cochin China, Cambodia, and Laos). Trade and shipping, however, was, and remains, dominated by Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City). Despite the interruption, Hanoi was always seen as the cradle of Vietnamese civilization. A point of major difference between the two countries lies in the way colonialism ended. British withdrawal from Myanmar (then Burma) in 1948 was negotiated rather than settled by open conflict. But the country fell into increasing isolation following the military coup d’état in 1962, a bloody crackdown on dissidents in 1988 and imposition of martial law the following year, the rejection of the 1990 general election result and the subsequent house arrest of Aung San Suu Kyi. By contrast, the end of colonialism in Vietnam was achieved by war, both international and civil – in the north at the 1954 battle of Dien Bien Phu and in the south with the capture/fall of Saigon in 1975. The ending of the trade and investment sanctions is also somewhat different. Nations like Sweden, Norway, and Australia ignored the embargo on Vietnam and eventually the United States relented and withdrew the embargo in 1994. The United States has been much quicker to respond to liberalization in Myanmar’s case. In May 2012 President Obama suspended sanctions and in November 2012 made the first United States presidential visit to Myanmar. Unlike in Vietnam, American companies have been quick to enter and are adding to pressures for development. 12 Logan 2000. 13 Logan 2010.

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The role of heritage in Hanoi’s time of rapid transformation In this historical and international-relations setting, heritage has played a significant economic, social, and political role in Hanoi’s transformation. Hanoi’s heritage is almost entirely constructed. It does not possess an imposing natural environment. The wide and shallow Red River skirted the urban area and rainy season floods required the construction early in Hanoi’s life, one thousand years ago, of a series of dykes that still exist. But the city was in a visual sense closed off from the river. Today the city sprawls across the river, where the airport is also located, and increasing traffic brings the river into greater prominence. The main part of the city, however, lies on flat land, much of it reclaimed under the French colonial administration, with numerous lakes and ponds. But what mostly captures the imagination is the built city, the remnants of ancient monuments, the tripartite ‘Old Sector’ comprising citadel, market town and French quarters, and the Vietnamese temples and pagodas and French colonial villas. The first official list of heritage monuments was drawn up by the École Française d’Extrême-Orient in the early twentieth century. Sabine Marschall (2008: 350) argues in relation to post-colonial nations that the ‘destruction, removal or alteration of colonial heritage and, if possible, its replacement with symbols of the new socio-political order, appear not only to be desirable but indeed a psychological imperative’. This is generally true of all changes of regime, including the changes from precolonial to colonial and later to independent status. In post-colonial Hanoi the authorities changed street names from colonial to revolutionary, erected a new set of socialist realist statues and constructed new housing estates using the Soviet mikrorayon approach (Logan 2000: 202-208; 214-219). Key buildings associated with the independence struggle were added to the official heritage register. That the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV), which had been established in northern Vietnam in 1955, did not do more to remove the colonial legacy, was due to fact that the wars and trade and investment embargoes limited the amount of new building that could be afforded. The opening up of Vietnam’s economy led to investment in urban redevelopment by local residents as well as foreign investors. This was reflected in the construction of medium- and high-rise office and hotel blocks in the French quarters and to the replacement of shophouses in the market town. The latter mostly dated from the colonial era and now have special conservation zoning. But visiting Hanoi for my first time in 1990 was like entering a time warp. There was almost no redevelopment pressure in the

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city; the precolonial and colonial survived. There was a strong appreciation of the city’s heritage among the city officials and professionals with whom I talked but it was narrowly defined – essentially temples, pagodas, communal facilities and shophouses. Apart from a few major landmarks such as the municipal theatre (‘Opera House’) and the Presidential Palace, there was little official interest in the French legacy (Logan 1995: 337), a reflection of lingering anti-colonial sentiment. This changed after 1900, however, with the growth of international tourism, especially from France (Logan 2000: 143).14 By the mid-1990s Hanoi had become a boom town and the balance between urban redevelopment and heritage conservation changed again (Logan 2000: 225-236). The authorities were quick to see the economic importance of Hanoi’s historic ambience, especially as a main tourism asset and leading to jobs in tourism and associated handicrafts and cultural performances. This realization then impacted upon the planning of the metropolis, most importantly with high-rise buildings being mostly located in peripheral areas. The adoption of a Paris rather than a Chicago city model may serve Hanoi well in future, ensuring a more human scale and historically rich central city. It seems to have genuine popular support, as evidenced by the Golden Hanoi Hotel controversy in the late 1990s, the first public outcry over an urban environmental issue, one that reached such heights in the print media that the then prime minister, Vo Van Kiet, was forced to intervene to halt construction, completely overturning the official decision-making process.15

The political role of heritage, especially in capital cities Once considered as an impediment to modernization and progress, heritage in Vietnam is now more likely to be seen as a ‘vector of growth’. This is in line with the growing global consensus that cultural heritage provides people with a sense of identity, a social anchor that gives them the self-assurance to take on development risks – a consensus that extends to the United Nations Organization and its agencies, such as the UNDP, as well as the World Bank and UNESCO.16 Today Hanoi is a richly layered city, with reminders of all periods of its evolution. Thousand-year-old temples such as the Van Mieu (Temple of Literature) survive not far from the colonial Hoa Lo prison (now a museum) and high-rise office and apartment buildings in what used to be 14 See also Biles et al. 1999. 15 Logan 2002. 16 UNESCO 2011; Serageldin and Martin-Brown 1999; Slatis 2003.

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the French quarter. Near the Thang Long-Hanoi citadel is one of the world’s few remaining statues of Lenin, while on the banks of the central Hoan Kiem lake stands a statue of King Ly Thai To, founder of the Ly dynasty and Thang Long, who ruled the Dai Viet homeland on the Red River from 1009 to 1028 CE. The Ly Thai To statue is new, its erection in 2004 marking a tendency by some ministerial and municipal decision-makers to see the Ly period (1009-1225 CE) as Vietnam’s halcyon days. Ly Thai To’s role in creating an independent kingdom resonates, of course, with the government of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam – the name given to the reunited country after 1975 – which draws on heritage assets to reinforce its own position of power in the context of increasing numbers of IT-informed Vietnamese citizens wishing to see political liberalization follow economic liberalization. The Vietnamese experience shows that governance issues are important in explaining how effective economic, social, and urban planning and heritage protection strategies have been in the past and might be in the future. On the one hand, government authorities in a communist state such as Vietnam have enormous power to get things done. One of the most draconian examples of this occurred in 1995 when cracks appeared in Hanoi’s main dyke due to illegal building activity. Prime Minister Vo Van Kiet simply ordered in bulldozers to demolish all constructions within 5 metres of the dyke. On the other hand, public participation still barely exists in the form liberal democracies know it, and there was comparatively little media coverage of heritage management matters. In the last decade, however, the print media have reported protests over the development of golf courses on farm land around Hanoi’s periphery, and the previously mentioned Golden Hanoi Hotel controversy set a powerful precedent for environmental protest, highlighting the potential for media protest to encourage the development of civil society institutions that will act as a counterbalance to the centralized power of the state (Logan 2002: 144-145). There is some environmental and social non-governmental organization activity in Vietnam, but NGOs are relatively tightly controlled and can only be set up with the formal approval of the central government, through the Fatherland Front. There are some small informal networks that have formed over the last five or so years on the Internet around issues such as urban planning. Some of these have been closed by the government authorities, only to be replaced by new networks. An important global influence on Vietnam’s development thinking relates to Hanoi’s status as a major city and, more particularly, as the capital city of a nation emerging from a long period of war and isolation. In the twenty-first century it is accepted that ambitious cities around the world try

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to attract globalized functions that act as world status markers – international banks and stock exchanges, telecommunications, air transport hubs, global organizations in the United Nations system.17 They seek to host major international events, such as the Olympic Games, football championships and United Nations meetings. A very strong element of image-making is at work here – of public relations, of using major projects and events to win media attention in order to gain a favourable place in the global hierarchy of cities. In this, heritage, with its pool of powerful icons, plays an essential role in creating desirable images of the city. Compared with other cities, capital cities have an additional responsibility: to create a city worthy of the nation.18 Capital cities in fact operate at three levels: first, they are home to their residents and provide local services for them; second, they are cities for all citizens of the state, performing capital city functions across the entire national territory; and third, they perform functions beyond the national borders, representing the state globally. Capital cities represent power both in and of the nation. They do this in many ways, including through urban planning and architectural design and the building of heroic monuments. A very close link thus exists between capital city building, nation building, and the definition and management of heritage, and architects, town planners, museum curators, and tourism operators are drawn into this political/ideological strategy.19 Vietnam’s political legitimacy had been hard won through thirty years of war and the communist government, based in Hanoi, wanted international recognition for the nation’s (and its own) achievements. It came to realize in the 1990s that one way to win international recognition for Hanoi was through its heritage. Other Vietnamese cities, Hue and Hoi An, clearly demonstrated the public relations and economic benefits deriving from inscription on the World Heritage List. There was some thought in the 1990s that the Ancient Quarter might be nominated, but the growing loss of building integrity meant that by 2000 it was no longer a viable candidate for inscription. Finding an alternative in Hanoi was not an easy task since the city has no single feature of iconic status known and valued across the nation and internationally. In the early 2000s, therefore, the Vietnamese were in a quandary about what to submit to the World Heritage Committee. Possibilities canvassed included the Van Mieu, but its authenticity had been diminished by the largely conjectural reconstruction of the associated Quoc 17 Logan 2005-2006. 18 Logan 2009a. 19 Therborn and Ho 2009; Logan 2005-2006; Logan 2009a; Logan 2009b.

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Tu Giam (National School). A combination of the Thang Long Citadel and the earlier Co Loa Citadel on the outskirts of Hanoi was also considered, but at that time it was thought that both sites suffered from inadequate research. Then, in 2002, the spectacular discovery of archaeological vestiges at 18 Hoang Dieu Street adjacent to the central citadel area, followed by a decision by the People’s Army of Vietnam to vacate much of the citadel site, created previously unimagined possibilities to research and restore the citadel, open it up to visitors and nominate it for World Heritage listing. The discovery occurred as the result of the Vietnamese government’s growing practice of using major events as a way of securing Hanoi’s place in the national and international consciousness. The first major international meeting was an Organisation Internationale de la Francophonie (OIF) conference that Hanoi hosted in 1997. Several Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) meetings and the 2003 Southeast Asian Games followed. But the most significant gathering of foreign leaders ever to occur in Vietnam was to take place in November 2006 when Hanoi would host the 14th Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) Economic Leaders’ Meeting. The meeting was to have taken place in the National Assembly building on Ba Dinh Square opposite Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum and adjacent to the Thang Long citadel. The building required enlargement, however, and it was during test excavations for the foundations that archaeological remains of a citadel dating back to the seventh century CE were uncovered. Excavation work ceased while the archaeologists explored further and mounted a case for conserving the site. The episode is significant in showing that even state power can be brought to a standstill by cultural concerns on occasions. A new building was erected instead in the southern outskirts of the city, serving APEC apparently well, and is now a national conference centre. The old National Assembly building has since been replaced by a building that is of contemporary design but does not extend onto the now World Heritage-listed Thang Long-Hanoi citadel site. In the case of Yangon, its status as capital city came much more recently than Hanoi’s, dating only from the mid-eighteenth century under King Alaungpaya and, more importantly, in the nineteenth century with the creation of British Burma. The city was a provincial capital within British India from 1824 to 1937, capital of a separate colony until 1948 and then capital of independent Burma/ Myanmar, a status it enjoyed until the military junta decided to create a new capital at Naypyidaw (also spelled Naypyitaw) in November 2005 and speedily transferred functions and personnel to the new city in 2006.20 According to 20 Seekins 2009; Preecharushh 2009.

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Kean, the military rulers have ‘always been ambivalent about this “foreign” city’, Yangon, whereas Naypyidaw is centrally located, in the traditional heartland of Burmese kings and safer from the two main perceived threats to their military rule – foreign invasion and popular uprising.21 Nevertheless, while no longer officially the capital city, Yangon still has the aura of one. For many Myanmar citizens, particularly the Burmese majority, Yangon remains the emotional heart of the country; certainly that is how the Yangon people themselves feel about their city. Hanoi recovered its capital city status from imperial Hue; it remains to be seen whether Yangon resumes the capital city functions as part of the country’s twenty-first-century transformation.

The role of heritage in Yangon’s transformation Some scholars argue that Myanmar’s military regime appropriated the country’s Buddhist heritage of archaeological sites and urban pagodas to bolster its own legitimacy.22 The conception of heritage is now being recast as the regime changes and a greater focus is being placed on Yangon’s colonial built heritage. This heritage is still essentially intact but in desperate need of repair, much as Hanoi’s buildings were in the early 1990s. The creation of Naypyidaw took some pressure off central Yangon but left many buildings without a use. Christopher Lamb, formerly Australia’s Ambassador to Myanmar, is of the opinion that, had the regime not been so isolated at the time, the transfer might have been conducted differently, ensuring that new uses were found for buildings as they were vacated.23 In this respect Yangon differs from Hanoi where more extreme economic duress meant that no building stood unused for any length of time. Myanmar’s military government was not always as isolated as it was in the 2000s, however, and there was a partial economic opening-up in 1990 that led to some generally negative impacts on Yangon’s built heritage. The old British planning by-laws were revised to allow eight-storey walk-up residential buildings. Permits were issued for high-rise buildings near the Shwedagon Pagoda, which prompted the Association of Myanmar Architects to fight, successfully in the end, for a reduction in height and preservation of a clear vista between the pagoda and the parliament building. The fight

21 Kean 2010. 22 Nwe and Philp 2002; Philp 2005; Philp 2010; Philp and Mercer 1999. 23 Personal communication, 3 September 2013.

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to save the skyline around the pagoda resurfaced in the mid-2000s24 and in September 2012 a group of lawyers began fighting to prevent the fight the sale of another key historic building – Yangon’s century-old High Court – and a plan to convert the city’s imposing old police headquarters into a Chinese-owned hotel.25 These interventions highlight one of the important and most promising differences between Myanmar and Vietnam – the relative freedom within which NGOs operate and issues can be debated in the Myanmar media. NGOs are able to register without the heavy-handed scrutiny that continues to characterize the Vietnamese situation today. This difference reflects the larger fact that Vietnam remains a relatively tightly controlled Leninist state whereas Myanmar is moving – or so it seems at the time of writing – to a more open, multiparty democracy. Nevertheless the economic situation in both states bears much similarity, as does the desire on the part of government to encourage economic development as a means of creating jobs and raising living standards. The Myanmar Urban Development Conference in 2013 included a ‘Historic Preservation for City Branding’ theme in its programme, a very strong sign that Yangon will go through a trajectory of increasing awareness of the economic, political, and social value of its heritage similar to that experienced in Hanoi.26 Whether this will be quick enough to save at least the best of the Yangon’s buildings, townscapes and precincts is less certain. The tourism potential is already clear, with international tourists now crowding the city’s chief heritage sites. Due to international travel agency boycotts during the junta period, however, the potential remains unmet. This is seen in the fact that Myanmar currently gets only 300,000 foreign tourists per annum, compared with neighbouring Thailand’s 18 million (Hammer 2012: 58). Existing tourism infrastructure is poorly developed and will be insufficient for the growing demand, generating a strong argument for Yangon’s political and planning decision makers to give favourable attention to tourism industry investors wanting to build new hotels in the historic city centre. The current heritage management system in Myanmar is probably insufficiently robust to achieve a satisfactory balance between urban development and heritage conservation in Yangon. The current legislation controlling national institutions and economic and urban planning functions is mostly a hangover from the colonial period. There is no government agency charged with built heritage management; indeed even authority over general town 24 Messeri 2007. 25 Win 2012. 26 Myanmar Urban Development Conference 2013.

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planning in Myanmar seems to be moving terrain. In 2010 a government restructure shifted economic and urban planning from the Ministry of Construction at the Union (national) level to agencies at the regional level, like the Mandalay Development Corporation. Such regional agencies have little planning experience and no planning legislation. Yangon is different in that the Yangon City Development Committee (YCDC) was created under a 1990 Yangon City Development Law, although it still falls for some purposes under the 1922 Rangoon Municipal Act. The YCDC has twenty departments housed in the City Hall and largely funds its own operations through land and other taxes, fees, licences, and property development. Among the YCDC’s responsibilities is the management of public property such as parks and historic sites. In 2001 it did in fact draw up a list of 188 heritage buildings but did little more in the subsequent decade and has few staff resources for working in the heritage field today. Sixteen ancient pagodas were designated by the Ministry of Culture in 2010.27 In the absence of a specific government authority adequately funded and staffed to conserve the city’s historic places, an NGO – the Yangon Heritage Trust (YHT) founded by Thant Myint-U in 2012 – has stepped in with a mission to ‘protect and promote Yangon’s urban heritage within a cohesive urban plan by advocating for heritage protection, advising the government and developers on heritage issues, and undertaking preservation projects, studies, conferences, and training’.28 When asked what are the key issues confronting the Trust’s ability to achieve its goals, its director, Daw Moe Moe Lwin, listed the low level of awareness of Yangon’s rich built heritage among decision makers, developers, and even some professionals, the consequent failure to consider heritage protection as a component of urban planning, and the absence of heritage legislation and professional skills.29 The Trust’s current activities include developing an inventory of buildings and their uses, defining a set of heritage conservation zones, and drafting heritage legislation. The YCDC makes use of the Trust’s inventory and refers developers to it for information (the Trust has no statutory authority to provide advice). The Trust has taken on a large and challenging programme, especially given its NGO status and the fact that it receives no government financial support other than provision of its low-cost premises. 27 The Ministry of Culture is responsible for two categories of historic sites: 1) Ancient Monument Zone and Protected and Preserved Zone, and 2) Ancient Monument Zone. The Shwedagon Pagoda is inscribed under the first category, while the remaining 15 designated in 2010 fall into the second, lesser category. 28 Yangon Heritage Trust 2012. 29 Personal communication, 3 September 2013.

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Figure 13.5  Demolition site in Hanoi’s French Quarter, 1990

Author’s photo

Figure 13.6  Derelict warehouse, Yangon 2012

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Conclusion: learning from Hanoi as Yangon goes global Despite its current governance and capacity difficulties, Yangon seems to be starting off along the same path as Hanoi in coming to see the usefulness of its urban heritage as it moves from an isolated to a global city. The time lag of twenty-five years does not seem to change the basic processes at work and Yangon might well learn from the Hanoi experience. Some of these lessons relate to the broad spatial aspects of city planning, in particular the general principle that both modern development heritage conservation can be accommodated if the new developments are located away from heritage-sensitive areas. A key issue is height control. Essentially Myanmar needs to decide very soon whether it wants its cities to become like United States and Australian cities, Bangkok, and Kuala Lumpur, and steadily fill the historic core with high-rise buildings, or to follow the Paris model where high-rise buildings are located in clusters outside the historic centre. In Hanoi the Paris approach led to the encouragement in the late 1990s of a modern hotel zone several kilometres north of the Old Sector and, a decade later, plans were drawn up to create a new central business district in the same area. Yangon also has a plan to construct a new central business district, some 9 kilometres from the current historic commercial centre. As in Hanoi, this would have the important effect of diverting redevelopment pressure away from the historic city, but it is being held back by the fact that Yangon City Development Committee does not own the land in the proposed site. As previously noted, such a planning response is predicated on the narrow view that a city’s heritage lies in its built form, omitting the intangible. It is, moreover, a top-down approach in which government agencies impose what the heritage experts have determined is of value. There has been little or no community consultation in either Hanoi or Yangon – no attempt to capture what Nguyen describes in his study of grassroots heritage in Hanoi as ‘spontaneous’ or bottom-up heritage practice.30 This means in the Yangon case that, while there seems to be a broad acceptance by the Burman middle class of the importance of the colonial buildings in Yangon, this may not be held by the majority. There has been so far no attempt to see heritage in an inclusive and holistic way and local working communities and ethnic minority in-migrants are not being drawn into the process of heritage identification and management. To draw them is likely to bring

30 Nguyen 2012.

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intangible forms of heritage to the fore. It is also more consistent with a rights-based approach to heritage management.31 Governance is the key issue. It underlies the list of difficulties the Yangon Heritage Trust director sees facing the management of Yangon’s heritage assets, although it also relates to notions of public participation and fairness in planning processes. The YHT Director’s list is remarkably similar to the set of governance problems the 1990 UNESCO project set out to remedy in Hanoi. That project identified its five immediate objectives as: 1. To identify precisely the built heritage of Hanoi’s Old Sector; 2. To formulate appropriate legislation, policies and guidelines, and develop appropriate management structures and office systems; 3. To develop implementation structures and systems, including planning permit approval and enforcement; 4. To develop proposals for public relations activities demonstrating to Hanoi residents, international tourists, and property developers the cultural significance of the Old Sector; and 5. To build the capacity of Vietnamese planners so they can carry out the tasks required and not be dependent on outside experts. The approach taken in 1990 and in subsequent heritage planning interventions in Hanoi seems highly relevant to Yangon in its current situation. It is, of course, something of a paradox that Yangon and Hanoi should be making use of the past to aid transition into a bright new future. However, it is highly likely that the very factors that encouraged the colonial authorities to make them into capital cities – Hanoi’s prestigious cultural status as cradle of the Vietnamese civilization in addition to its river port functions and Yangon’s coastal location and hinterland links – will continue to influence their twenty-first-century evolution and their efforts to move up the global hierarchy. The colonial buildings, monuments, streetscapes, and precincts associated with these assets will continue to have symbolic significance and economic value through tourism. They give a distinctive identity to the two cities – a sense of place – and create an ethos that, if carefully maintained, can give their communities the confidence needed to adapt to social and economic change. If Hanoi’s experience tells us anything about the transformation from colonial to global city – from a city locked into its colonial and military past to a city open to the world and contributing to it economically and culturally – it is that the process is difficult and requires good, determined, 31 Ekern et al. 2012.

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and sensitive management. It requires that policy and decision makers have an understanding of the past, a sensitivity towards place and a respect for cultural activities and traditions as well as an awareness of current global trends in city promotion and branding, including the importance of good design for new buildings in the ‘historic urban landscape’ – the new concept espoused by UNESCO and the World Heritage Committee.32 There will be very intense and sometimes corrupt pressures on the Yangon’s decision makers that will have to be resisted. It may be that the political usefulness of heritage as part of the new nation-building strategy that Myanmar will need in its post-junta era will help mitigate the ‘economic development at all costs’ approach taken by so many countries as they rush to get rich. The next ten years will tell.

32 Bandarin and Van Oers 2012.

14 Small-scale, Bottom-up Cosmopolitan Linkages Reglobalizing Shanghai’s City Centre Ying Zhou Abstract Shanghai’s urban development has come to represent China’s rapid economic growth and global integration following the country’s accelerated transition to a state-controlled market economy since the 1990s. In the centrally located historic neighbourhoods at the western end of the former French and International Concessions, socio-demographic, cultural, and economic changes are producing a new international trend quarter with a vibe and look echoing the likes of Berlin’s Prenzlauerberg or New York’s Williamsburg. What is the constellation of actors and agents who have activated the reuse of existing building typologies for the production and consumption of the new economy? And how do they relate a cosmopolitan history to the renaissance of Shanghai as a global city? And finally, what could be learned from these specific and localized transformation processes for future developments? This chapter will try to unpack how Shanghai’s transnational networks, cosmopolitan agents, and diasporic linkages helped expedite the reglobalization of the city after 1992, especially in the reconfiguration of the former concession areas, both physically and socio-economically. Transformations to Shanghai’s existing vibrant inner-city neighbourhoods is a specif ic example of how these hitherto little-studied and yet crucial ‘centralities’ – one of many in the polycentric urban system serving whole regions – spatially manifest the recalibration of drivers, agents, networks, and urban forms responding to globalization’s effects on local frameworks.

Introduction The rising towers, booming highways, glitzy new malls, and branded international schools manifest the astounding economic growth of a Shanghai again connected to the world in the two decades since 1992. Numerous statistics of how many new buildings have been built, how many more towers

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exceed the number in Manhattan, and how many hectares were demolished to make possible the rise of the new, have been reiterated by researchers and the media alike.1 But in the under-researched parts of its city centre, left behind by the much reported demolition-reconstruction processes of urban renewal and modernization, global aspirations are realized on the everyday scale by small-scale, bottom-up transnational linkages. Creative reuses of housing largely built in the 1930s are transforming neighbourhoods into global trend quarters resembling the likes of New York’s Williamsburg or Berlin’s Prenzlauerberg, areas in the West known to be the harbingers of the creative class. The return of the city as a space for consumption over a place for production (as it was under the decades of the planned economy) comes as no surprise. As in most post-socialist cities, the return of capital and consumer demand generated commercial and spatial opportunities.2 Unique to Shanghai, as a former global city, is the extremely rapid usurping of international trends in the grasping of these opportunities.3 In the city centre, converted terraces of alleyway houses, street-front ground-floor spaces of apartment buildings, and insertions into and constructions from garden walls in the early 1990s became anything from convenience stores to hair salons to small restaurants, all initially necessitated by increasing demand no longer fettered by a planned economy. Some are operated by local small-scale entrepreneurs, initially forced into this work by the State Owned Enterprise (SOE) reforms4 of the late 1990s and through commercial enterprise,5 and often supported by street offices at the local scale. Others evolved into cafes, boutiques, design ateliers, and event spaces run by younger generations of creative entrepreneurs – a constellation of locals, returnees from overseas, 1 Books from Great Leap Forward (2002) to The Endless City (2007) highlight the rapid and massive changes to Chinese cities while often overlooking the subtle changes in the everyday city that remains. 2 Andrusz et al. 1996; Blanchard et al. 1992. 3 Walder 1995; Whyte 1995. 4 Under the centrally planned economy of China, which began in 1949 and only began its first stages of decentralization and liberalization in the late 1970s, state-owned enterprises (SOEs) were responsible for all facets of economic life, from providing employment to almost all labour, provisioning welfare goods such as housing, and directing the resources along production value chains in almost all industries. When economic liberalization began, market demand rather than central planning increasingly steered the direction of resources along production value chains. With the return of market competition, many SOEs were not able to stay afloat without the subsidies provided under central planning. Massive layoff in the late 1990s from uncompetitive industries resulted in mass unemployment, propelling some to turn to open small enterprises for financial survival. 5 Davis 1999.

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as well as expatriates, hosting a range of events that link the international value chain to the locally situated spaces and producers. On the one hand, these small-scale projects cultivated in the historic urban quarters could be seen as dispensable. A city’s economic growth could just as well rise with the skyscrapers, new towns, and the influx of multinationals without the charm of creative quarters and their mix of local and transnational occupants.6 A Sino-sized Shanghai, with its large-scale generic new urban-scape to be found all over Chinese cities, is indeed very visible beyond the city core’s first ring. Unencumbered by the complexity of fragmented ownership legacies that remain in city-centre Shanghai, despite rapid and immense urban restructuring, the economic mechanisms of export-oriented Special Economic Zones (SEZs) and Foreign Direct Investment (FDI) attributed to the reglobalization of Shanghai7 are taking place in the large swathes of new developments outside of the city core. Land marketization, in larger quantities in the periphery, are expedited by the economic autonomy given to Chinese municipalities and local governments by the fiscal decentralization in the 1990s to fund the fundamental infrastructure modernization that would attract FDI.8 Shanghai seemed to be leading a place-independent development strategy that capitalized on the initial investment and know-how from abroad, which has since multiplied in other Chinese cities, from the coast inwards. On the other hand, the legacy conditions embedded in the small-scale historic neighbourhoods not only laid the crucial foundations for the reglobalization of China through its initial pilot in Shanghai, but the reuse of its physical structures for new economies today shows a viable alternative to the demolition-reconstruction cycles that pervade the developmental urbanism of, not only Chinese cities, but of many East Asia’s cities in the pursuit of global aspirations. The choice of the ‘head of the dragon’ fell on Shanghai precisely because of the potential of the city’s cosmopolitan history and its transnational linkages, harboured in the western end of its former concessions. The pre-war neighbourhoods attract transnational 6 Singapore would exemplify the kind of successful economic growth model with erasure of most of its physical urban structures and the mix of functions in the city. Most developing Chinese cities similarly are following the demolition-reconstruction mode of modernization towards mono-functionally planned districts. Singapore, since the 1980s, has recognized the commercial value of its remaining historic buildings, and converted many into commercial tourist sites (something already highlighted by Rita Padawangi in chapter 12 of this book). China is only recently learning similar lessons in its historic building stock. 7 Sun 2000; Yusuf and Wu 2002; Chen and Orum 2009; Cheng 2012. 8 Ye and Wu 1996; Hsing 2006.

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entrepreneurs of large-scale9 as well as global and local small-scale entrepreneurs of the new economy. The modern urban structure of the neighbourhoods, with open networks, semi-permeable block hierarchy, fine-grained ownership patterns, as well as modern buildings, is adaptable and better suited for the commercial realization of new consumption as well as creating the necessary urban value-chain of living, working, and encounters that are both local and global. Spatial specificity, particularly in the city-centre urban structure as a legacy of concession-era planning, is a resource that has distinguished Shanghai’s economic liberalization in the quality of its expedited reglobalization and the diversity of its products. This chapter presents a more nuanced or ‘thickened’ version of the cosmopolitan legacy to the reglobalization narrative in an effort to unpack the contribution of the historic neighbourhoods as harnessed by the fine network of small transnational entrepreneurs to the economic liberalization of Shanghai. Firstly, the notion of a ‘localized’ cosmopolitan confounding the local-global distinction is presented as a key figure of spatial mediation between global aspirations and local frameworks. The relation of the cosmopolitan agents to the local institutional framework is then unpacked in the case of the development of Yongkang Lu and the necessity of innovating public-private and global-local alliances. Jing’an Villas, another variant on how creative linkages manifest spatially, is a case where transnational actors utilize the spatial characteristics of the historic legacy to facilitate entrepreneurial innovation. And finally, the development of a preservation movement reveals a ‘gentrification with Chinese characteristics’10 that instrumentalizes heritage architecture for commercial upgrade. Vignettes distilled from fieldwork, including in-depth stakeholder interviews, site documentation, and mapping at the architectural and urban scale, seek to show the relationship between the legacy to contemporary development as manifested in the spatial productions in the former concession areas that elucidate the importance of the cosmopolitan urban actors to a sustainable redevelopment of Shanghai’s city centre.

The ‘localized’ cosmopolitan – confounding the local-global distinction The freshly roasted coffee beans sold by the Café Volcan on Yongkang Lu, where the certified barista has worked since its opening in the fall of 2012, 9 Zhu et al. 2006. 10 Zhou 2013.

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Figure 14.1  Café Volcan

Author’s photo

Figure 14.2  Yongkang Road

Author’s photo

is packaged in a way that connotes a growing consciousness of Shanghai’s transnational linkages and identities. Lined with pockets that hold two cards, one of which denotes the origin of its contents and the other the nature of its roast and the foremost flavour, the beautifully etched paper bag (in both English and Chinese) intimates its origins in contemporary global design vocabulary. The graphic designer, an Indonesian-Chinese woman who studied in the United States, has been living in Shanghai for almost a decade. Her

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design alludes to the multinationality of the project that seems to be a specif ic highlight for the area in Shanghai. The general manager is a German cultural entrepreneur who personally selected, from amongst numerous tastings, the Japanese milk for the optimal frothing. The interior designer for the café is a French woman. The barista is a locally certif ied Chinese man who moved to Shanghai from the region a decade ago, and the investor and owner of the café is a Shanghainese returnee from Paris, where he worked as a banker since emigrating almost twenty years ago. His departure from China in the late 1980s hints at the resources and transnational connection that predate the 1949 closure of China that made possible this early exodus and current homecoming. Their ensemble is not only indicative of the confluence of internationals but also an adept integration into the local context: a cosmopolitan set of actors. The term ‘cosmopolitan’ is, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, someone who ‘belongs to all parts of the world’; ‘having characteristics which arise from, or are suited to a range over many different countries’ (OED). Ulf Hannerz, a cultural anthropologist of globalization, has posited that increasing interconnection of the world is reorganizing cultural diversity, and notes specifically that cosmopolitanism is an ‘intellectual and aesthetic openness towards divergent cultural experiences, and an ability to make one’s way into other cultures’ (Hannerz 2005: 200). It is not only the physical circumstances of being in another’s culture but the ability to adapt and attain a mastery of other cultures in addition to one’s own. ‘Exiles can be cosmopolitans, but most are not’ (Hannerz 1990: 243). Shanghai’s beginnings as a treaty port concession city in the early twentieth century had attracted a bevy of locals from the region whose openness and adoption of foreign, largely Western tastes, mannerisms, and lifestyles was first the envy and later the scourge of the city. Whether they hailed from Ningbo or Yangzhou, their mastery of the ‘modern’ (‘modern’, according to an archived letter to the French Concession’s Municipal Council in 1920, is synonymous with ‘European’11) and their ability to adapt the ‘modern’ in the local Chinese context would become the outlook and the skill for the many who came to call this early-twentieth-century ‘SEZ’ home. Inherent to the cosmopolitan is the receptivity to that which is not of one’s self, the comprehension of that which is unfamiliar and foreign. So it is on the one hand the Chinese elites who arrived in Shanghai questioning traditional obstructions to progress and articulating a Chinese modernity modelled 11 Letter from the Shanghai Municipal Archives.

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on the Western nation-state and, on the other, the merchants of different Chinese ethnicities who flocked to the Westernized entrepôt of Shanghai for commercial opportunities who were the first cosmopolitans. Their active encounters and ability and willingness to learn (with its potential for stakeholding and active agency) distinguish the cosmopolitan from a merely multicultural society. Just as Shanghai’s beginnings as a modern metropolis in the nineteenth century were shaped by FDI – both in the capital and human resources that also became stakeholders for the development of the nascent city – so too the re-opening of the city in the 1990s was also initially shaped by the influx of FDI that engaged the local frameworks in a learning process that brought in international expertise. Investments, especially from the diaspora of Taiwan-, Macao-, and Hong Kong-based expatriates, many of whose families left China in 1949, and the more temporally distant diaspora, such as the Overseas Chinese in Southeast Asia, not only brought the capital but, more importantly, the know-how to ease the economic transition in the late 1980s and early 1990s.12 The Chinese exodus that picked up again in the early 1980s, especially from the former treaty port cities like Shanghai, where many families had overseas connections from before 1949, also brought back the initial wave of haigui returnees, or ‘sea turtles’,13 when China opened again in the 1990s, and eventually their second generation contributed to the human capital for rapid economic development. Within this context, the team that created and runs Café Volcan, a small establishment that looks like it could be in any of the global metropolises, represents an assemblage of capital, international know-how and local access that has transformed Shanghai from the drab, overcrowded, and run-down city of the 1990s to the international metropolis that boasts a centre where English is spoken.14 The graphic designer whose upbringing in Southeast Asia and training in the United States fills a talent gap that is especially pertinent in the design fields. And the investor whose fluency in English, French, Mandarin, and Shanghainese, continues the role the Shanghainese have held since the early twentieth century in the mediation of transnational linkages in the local context. 12 Rudolph and Lu 2008; Tseng 2011. 13 Haigui [海归] literally translates as ‘return from the sea’, and is a homonym of haigui [海龟], meaning ‘sea turtles’. 14 The saying in Shanghai goes: ‘Inside the city core, English is spoken; outside the first ring, Shanghainese is spoken; and outside the second ring, Mandarin is spoken’.

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Today, it is the investor and others like him, filling the city with new globalized programmes and reprogramming existing typologies, who are pivotal in the spatial production of new creative economies in this unique local context. China’s specific institutional frameworks under the transitional economy inflect the rules and terms of globalization, bending them in ways that produce globally oriented products with distinctly local flavours. The ‘localized cosmopolitans’, those with access to the local culture and who have an understanding of the institutions through their diasporic origins or their returnee positions, facilitate the introduction of products and services from international know-how and adapt them in situ. Amongst the owners of food-and-beverage chains, like Wagas and Fresh Elements, that are known to produce fusion foods as contextualization of global values, there is a notable number of Hong Kongese, Taiwanese, Singaporeans, and returnee Chinese haigui entrepreneurs, precisely because they are the localized cosmopolitans who thrive on the contribution to the reglobalization of the city within these oftentimes confounding and opaque local frameworks. The distinct access to both the tastes of the world and the logic of the local institutions and cultural habits is embodied in Shanghai’s developments in the city centre. It is not only ‘sea turtles’ but also the white-collar middle classes from all over China who are attracted to the central neighbourhoods of Shanghai. As the generations of globally connected Shanghainese left the western end of the former concession areas for Hong Kong or Taiwan (or a smaller percentage for the United States), first before 1949 and then after the 1978 opening, Shanghainese from areas of city that were considered lower-rung but who have in the meantime achieved financial and social upward mobility, also ushered in a ‘new Shanghainese’ type of resident for the city-centre areas.15 As have the inland elites from all over China, whose hard work and intelligence have enabled them to get into the higher education institutes of the city. As much as Shanghai serves as the accessible entry point for expatriates who come to the opaque and incomprehensible Far East, a kind of ‘window into China’, so too the city-centre areas also serve as much as a kind of ‘window on the world’ to the changing outside world, motivating those from inland cities to be one step closer to the fast-moving modern world outside the country. Cosmopolitanism is not necessarily how much one has travelled, or how far; it is the state of being at home in other cultures, as well as in their place of origin, or in a state of transplantation. In the short decade, the ‘new Shanghainese’ have grasped the changing taste of 15 Fan 2002.

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the growing international influx, participating in the production of new spaces, products, and services for the changing economy. The legacy of Shanghai’s openness, which is forever changing with shifting global trends, has ushered in a new hybrid of the ‘localized’ cosmopolitan since China’s accelerated marketization. These actors, especially the private entrepreneurs that work between the global and local frameworks, are crucial linkages that are good at adapting to the changing conditions on the ground while global forces try to reform local procedures. And, in contrast to the development of SEZs, greenfield sites and new towns developed by massive Chinese capital, their preference for the city-centre areas as sites of investment and development also instigates developments of markedly different scales with an enhanced demand sophistication.16

Realigning global-local private-public alliances Café Volcan is one of the sixty or so street-front commercial spaces that have changed on Yongkang Lu in the span of three years. (Yongkang Lu is a former wet-market street in the western end of the former French Concession). Once catering to local functions, new programmes now cater to a growing globally oriented consumer base. The engagement of a private development group in 2009, formed by a young American-trained Taiwanese architect-developer with his older Chinese-American partner, whose experience in Shanghai dates to the earliest state-owned assets upgrading in the street-office jurisdiction since marketization began, came both from their familiarity with the local stakeholders and their international outlook and understanding of the changing markets of new economies. The scale of the development, an aggregation of multiple commercial units on the street, necessitates not only capital and international know-how but also access to local institutions, which, despite economic liberalization and reform in the two decades of marketization, remains largely residual. Cosmopolitan agents working within local institutional frameworks are thus obliged to innovate development processes entrepreneurially and reformulate possible public-private coalitions. 16 ‘Demand sophistication’ is a term borrowed from economics to mean the selectiveness of consumers in their decision on goods or services, that in turn pushes the market to be more competitive in the production of better products. In the case China. The article ‘Doing It Their Way’ in The Economist, 25 January 2014 highlights the growing demand sophistication of the Chinese market. The growing demand sophistication is also reflected in the diversity of urban forms that accommodate the diversity of goods and services.

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Following a halting interest beginning in the mid-2000s, pre-2010 World Expo demands for pro-image urban renewals17 compelled the district with the office responsible for this street to push forward Yongkang Lu’s upgrading project. One of the preconditions to expedite development is the possibility of consolidating majority ownership of the ground-floor spaces facing onto the street. At the urging of the district and its street office, which backed the development group, the officials leading the three SOEs, principally in the food-and-beverages industries that own a large portion of the real estate in this former market street, decided to offload their real estate. In exchange, the private development company formed an investment alliance with the SOEs where a 70-10-10-10 division in profits was agreed between the development company and the three SOEs. The retiring officials would share in future profit remunerations in addition to rents that the development company pays, albeit at lower than market prices.18 The offloaded SOE real estate in turn gave the development group over 60 percent of the total ground floor space on the portion of the street between Xiangyang and Jiashan Lu, propelling the development.19 While the private investors contributed capital from their Hong Kong-listed company, and the SOEs contributed otherwise untouchable real-estate resources, the local district government created the platform around which possible bureaucratic obstacles were alleviated. With the local government’s backing, access to the various city-level bureaus, ranging from municipal security to hygiene to the economic council tasked with the wet markets of the city, further facilitated the functional upgrade. Without the acquiescence and co-operation of the different municipal agencies, as smoothed over by the district’s relations, the realization of a globally aspirational street would not have been able to come to fruition, nor in such a short amount of time, nor with such rapid turnover. Pro-growth coalitions and urban regimes that are developmentalist persist,20 albeit with innovation in entrepreneurial forms that are mediated by cosmopolitan actors. After an initially sluggish start (with wedding specialty shops that tried to capitalize on the Chinese affinity for lavish nuptials as part of a fashion district concept) the developers changed tack from apparel merchandizing that has been proving commercially difficult. The fact that the commercial 17 Shi 2010. 18 Grey zones of prof it sharing and privileged access may not necessarily be identified as outright corruption, but the blurry areas of benefits and advantages are endemic to the system that is still mired in the institutional framework of the One Party system. 19 Interview with official from the responsible street office, 2012. 20 Zhang 2002; Zhu 2004.

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tenants of the fashion retailers which entered the street were of a lower calibre than hoped for also prompted a restrategization of the development plan. For a short period the street became home to nearly a dozen galleries as part of the cultural strategy to rejuvenate the street. But after two years of commercial flops, with a painful financial low point at the end of 2011, another decision was taken by the developer to change the programming, switching to food-and-beverage outlets, which has finally proved to be successful.21 Restaurants that rented at rates lower than that of the surrounding streets earned returns that far exceeded expectations, prompting more to move to the area. As with many conversion projects under time pressure, licencing follows development, rather than the other way around. This is the kind of informality of procedure that is more the norm than the exception in the quickly changing Chinese cities that are responding to immense market demands and who have little ready supply. The local district, along with the municipal state, has little choice but to condone commercial developments proceeding without first fulfilling the lengthy list of requirements, especially for zoning changes. Commercial spaces that experiment for feasible programming over several lease terms postpone the application for licensing until a feasible and successful enterprise is established.22 Once settled, the licensing can be applied for the corresponding functions. Food-and-beverage venues often only initially manage to get a snack license, then move onto a beverage license, while serving food, before awaiting success and the official food license. By creating the grey zone of a trial period, local authorities seem to be balancing the urgency of developing against trying to ensure the most appropriate and profitable functions. The cafes, bars, and sushi and pasta places on Yongkang Lu finally took off in late 2011, attracting a young, largely international crowd. Often partying noisily in the outdoor bars that open well past 10 p.m. in the residential neighbourhood, the globalized preferences do not always complement existing inhabitants, many of whom are older, semi-retired locals.23 Some returned to the overcrowded city centre, after decades of coerced exile in 21 The tenants that are commercially unsuccessful opt out of their leases early, allowing the developer to bring in new tenants with better potential. 22 As is apparent from the financial difficulties of commercial programming, that are not quite right, the stabilization of an appropriate programming requires time and experimentation. This is only possible if the licensing happens after the programme is settled rather than the other way around. 23 Numerous incidents of conflicts between residents who live above bars and restaurants with outdoor seating have been highlighted in online blogs.

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inland provinces that began with the Cultural Revolution, as part of the ‘Sunshine Policy’ to accommodate the children of Shanghainese with the blue-stamped hukou, or household registration system. Others are locals left behind by the rising costs of living in the quickly globalized metropolis and who have nowhere else to live in the city except in their old abode, with the hopes of one day getting compensated from demolition-displacement chaiqian fees for urban renewal so that they will be able to afford better accommodation.24 It is, therefore, no wonder that the residents often dump water from their second-storey windows on to the rowdy crowds of foreign fraternity kids patronizing the Irish pubs. The growing resentment of the rising social and financial inequity, especially represented by the foreign populace, manifests itself spatially in the jarring territorial contestation.25 A reconciliation of global and local in the spaces of encounter is thus seen as being of urgent priority. Proposals to make residents financial stakeholders, much as the SOEs have signed onto the profit-sharing of development projects, have been suggested by the developers but the practicalities of implementing such a scheme remain difficult. Yongkang Lu’s former self is visible on adjacent Jiashan Lu, which remains a market street, even though it is included as part of the larger plan to renew the area. On any given day one can still get everything from live fish to shoe repairs done in a few hours. The storefronts spill onto the sidewalk with fruit, vegetables, local snacks, household goods, and hardware supplies, and the public sidewalks are dotted with vendors peddling shoelaces and nail clippers, DVDs and fake books, shaving and tailoring services, bicycle repair, carpentry, and open games of mah-jong or Chinese chess, invariably surrounded by crowds of onlookers in the evening. Sometimes one even sees some small businesspeople cook their meals on makeshift stoves at mealtimes. At other times a boisterous dinner is set up under the pavement trees. The choice of urban upgrading by the local district government is because these are the last streets in the area that retain an ambiance of bygone days – their messiness and rowdiness is a source of mortification for the local authorities26 – but also because the selling of local foods and goods at discounted price also reminds the officials of the bygone days of price fixture and the paucity of revenues under the planned economy. 24 Interview with official from the responsible street office, 2012. 25 In conversation with the developers, the need to create a communication platform with the local residents is seen as a top priority. Even though this is not a case of demolition-displacement, there is still a visible lack of mediation procedures. The responsibility of mediation falls away from the local state who often push it onto the developer. 26 Interview with official from the responsible street office, 2012.

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The stalls can sell everyday goods at low prices because of their low rents, which remain lower than market levels in central locations because of the residual institutional framework. Once upgraded to functions such as cafes, bars, or sushi restaurants that cater to an expatriate clientele, the rents can multiply tenfold, making the effort of acquisition and redevelopment worth the earnings from the rent-gap that still exists in large parts of Shanghai’s city centre. As the renovation visibly cleans up much of the street life and small-scale production from carpentry to tailoring, it is precisely these aspects of publicspace appropriation and spaces of encounter that are a source of fascination for a number of the expatriate inhabitants who have chosen to settle in this area. The liveliness that the expatriates come to view as the authenticity of a Chinese, even Asian, urbanism is combined with the convenience of being able to procure amenities within a city block – anything from framing pictures to a quick hemline alteration.27 In a development that is very nearby (in a local wet-market lane), an Australian-Shanghainese designer duo have created a successful live-work, ground-floor commercial courtyard called Jiashan Market, where the mess of local street life is hidden from street view within the depths of the large French Concession-era block. As David Ley writes: one of the key components of the learning process of foreign cultures, ‘cosmopolitans … are cultural consumers who embrace difference [by using it] (Ley 2004: 162). Ironically, the liveliness and convenience that are experienced as urban qualities by the expatriate inhabitants (who tend to live in upgraded historic housing and new apartment towers built on demolished parcels of old housing) results from decades of densification in Shanghai that the locals associate with privacy depravation and infrastructure dilapidation. Behind the upgraded façades and the reprogrammed street fronts of Yongkang Lu, the older architectural typology that requires extensive infrastructural upgrading still houses residents who are living in overcrowded conditions, often with only recently acquired plumbing facilities that have to be shared. One block to the north of Yongkang Lu is the Hong Kong developer Sung Hung Kai’s new en-bloc project, the International Commerce Centre. It is a large-scale mixed-use development with commercial, high-end residential, as well grade-A office space that replaced a block of demolished lilong or 27 Interviews with expatriate residents, 2012 and 2013, where they reminisce about the convenience of living on streets such as Jiashan Road and Wuyuan Road, with a vibrant street life representative of the distinctiveness of living in Asian cities. In particular, the nearby tailors and carpenters were greatly appreciated.

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alleyway houses. It is an example of a development mode that would have also overtaken the older lilong houses of Yongkang Lu had time allowed the development from the main thoroughfare Huaihai Road to spread inwards without the intervention of the conservation policies. The new development is set to pivot the area and put even more pressure on the existing urban fabric, now largely protected from demolition by the heritage plan implemented in the mid-2000s, an upgrade to cater to its influx of white-collar workers from multinational companies. Even though calls by the district government to upgrade the entire area have persisted since the 2010 World Expo, the high density of inhabitants in this low-rise housing have made such a project hardly worth the effort, aside from the street-front commercial upgrades. Compared to other self-regenerating streets, such as Jingxian or Fuming Roads (both from the mid-2000s), and Anfu or Wuyuan Roads (since the 2010s), where small creative boutiques and cafes, restaurants and bars have clustered organically, attracting other like-minded patrons and investors, the curation of a street by one development group commissioned by the street office at the behest of the district appropriates the processes of bottom-up conversion projects, where small creative entrepreneurs, often a combination of localcosmopolitans and expatriate patron-designers individually converted the ground floor of old houses into boutiques and other creative economies. Adjusting to changing market tastes and tapping into Shanghai’s growing demand sophistication influenced by transnational linkages, the private developers of Yongkang Lu pooled their resources with the interests of the local institutional stakeholders from the street office and the local SOEs to the policy framework of the district and municipal governments, as well as accommodating the demands of the inhabitants. As localized cosmopolitans working within the institutional frameworks set up under the planned economy, they are setting a precedent in procedural innovation and reformulating the development processes. They are also important in diversifying the form of private-to-public alliances and changing the stake holding between global capital to local resources.

Bottom-up creative renewal of modern architecture If the Yongkang Lu development is said to be following in the footsteps of Xintiandi in the state-led engagement of private development to curate the commercial upgrading of old urban fabric, then the creative transformations in Jing’an Villas seems to be following the incremental bottom-up development at Tianzifang. Tianzifang, along with the Xintiandi project, is often

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Figure 14.3  Plan of Jing’an Villas, with ground-floor commercial insertions indicated

seen as setting an important precedent in Shanghai (and in other Chinese cities) in its successful reuse of historic structures for new commercial functions.28 But whereas Xintiandi underwent en-bloc acquisition by a single developer, whose preservation of the old buildings for commercial leasing to high-rent tenancy is only a small percentage of the entire development (all the rest of which underwent and is still undergoing a demolitionreconstruction process),29 Tianzifang consists of individual developments by small entrepreneurs, directly leased from the district or the residents who still hold the property rights.30 28 Rutcosky 2007; Su 2008; Tsai 2008. 29 He and Wu 2005; Yang et al. 2007; Ren 2008. 30 Zheng 2011.

316 Ying Zhou Figure 14.4  Jing’an Villas ground floor commercial viewed from the front courtyard

Author’s photos

An upper-middle-class residential neighbourhood block with a central axis that connects the busy commercial thoroughfare of Nanjing Road to parallel Weihai Road, Jing’an Villas has undergone partial commercialization since the mid-2000s (like many city-centre residences). What distinguishes the area from the usual process of local residents renting out ground-floor spaces for commercial use with the tacit approval of the local government, is the clustering of transnational creative functions in this lilong quarter. With cafes, such as Chabrol (which hosts weekly film screenings), small boutiques and designer showrooms, exhibition-cum-atelier spaces, a library, and services like the spa that specializes in Israeli olive soap, the shop owners epitomize the localized cosmopolitans that operate between multiple cultures. Reinforced by the informality of the commercial conversions, and the increasing difficulty to formalize said conversions, signage advertising new enterprises appear only when the ateliers, boutiques, and cafes are actually open. Often with irregular opening hours, the small commences seem to disappear easily back into the residential fabric. Without knowing that a particular gallery or designer showroom is located down a specific side lane, one could easily miss them when simply walking down the main lane, mistaking the neighbourhood for any of the other (increasingly fewer) older residential quarters that remain in the city core. In the quiet bustle of everyday life, where older residents gather to chat down one lane and deliveries are being cycled to their destinations in another, the young Airbook-toting freelancer generation deliberately choose Jing’an Villas

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for a kind of proximate seclusion for their fledgling enterprises. Only a stone’s throw away from Shanghai’s most famous commercial thoroughfare, Nanjing Road, where grade-A high-rise offices soar atop large-scale malls (mostly built in the late 1990s by Overseas Chinese developers of the kind who first introduced Louis Vuittons to the country) and tower over the diminutive alleyway house areas adjoining it where low rents remain in what are still state-managed but partially marketized historic buildings. Jing’an Villas remains an anomalous urban area and, as such, an attractive and practical one for creative entrepreneurs. Cheap rents in a central location are complemented by the quality of the modern architecture and urban structure. Ground-floor units for commercial as well upper-floor residences in the heritage-designated quarter harbour an ambiance that many of the creatives prefer for the habitat of their own design productions. The owner of Gezi Café, one of the earliest to move into a ground-floor unit with a front-terrace entrance, emphasizes the quiet of the location and character of the new lilong compound. The graduated privacy of the public space network, both in proximity to the bustle of commercial life at the periphery of the block but also preserving the quiet of the interior public spaces shaped the social success of the urban morphology in both historically and in contemporary reuse (Bracken 2013: 2-8). The atmosphere of the built environment from the 1930s is cited as what is suitable for the appreciation of his personally roasted coffee from different parts of the world. The revival of coffee culture, in the context of economic liberalization is according to Hanchao Lu, ‘not just about coffee drinking per se, but about the city’s presumably Westernized culture as many Chinese understand it’. But here more than at Yongkang Lu or Xintiandi, it is represented by the ‘children of reform [who] wish they had lived in their grandparents’ age’ (Lu 2002: 178). The setting that is representative of the historic Shanghainese identity, one that is modern, Westernized, and refined, also helps highlight a cultural emphasis on the goods and services of Jing’an Villas and the lack of a prevalent commercial flavour.31 Distinguished from commodity items that are taking over creative quarters, such as in the now fully commercialized Tianzifang, the products and services offered at Jing’an Villas are unique, creative, and cultural. Often referred to as similar to the current state of Jing’an Villas in the early 2010s, Tianzifang in the early 2000s, with partial commercialization, low 31 Interviews with several small entrepreneurs, 2011 and 2012, concur in the choice of selecting the historic alleyway houses as venue for their creative commerce and the importance of Shanghai’s refined cultural asset to their cultural credibility.

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rents attracting young start-ups amidst residential functions, and creative entrepreneurs producing distinctive designs, has since become overwhelmed by commerce, with increases in rents driving out creative entrepreneurs.32 Anxiety over the potential to over-commercialize Jing’an Villas (from the existing 30:70 ratio of commerce to residence to the 70:30 in places like Tianzifang) defines the mindset of the young entrepreneurs in the everchanging conditions of doing business in Shanghai. Always prepared to have to move to new locales, the small creative entrepreneurs are prepared for the everyday effects of unpredictable and discretionary policy implementations on creative developments in Chinese cities, whether state-backed promotion of a residential quarter’s conversion into a creative commercial area, such as in Tianzifang, or short-notice functional change and closure, as exemplified by the shutting-down of the neighbouring Weihai Road 696, an art factory which housed many ateliers and galleries of an international mix. Many having returned from stints abroad, some having worked for extensive periods, while others still work part-time in multinational creative firms while taking the plunge to open their own enterprises, the decision to start up by young creative entrepreneurs comes both from the desire to express individual design aspirations and from the interest to fill a market supply they often feel is being undersupplied by the existing choices.33 Connections and experiences forged and garnered in multicultural settings are complemented by the necessity of being able to negotiate with local resident committees and street offices for real-estate procurement and commercial approval. Although often without the necessary commercial licensing obligatory for formal enterprises, small penalties are worth the low rent and the flexibility that being ‘off the record’ affords, as long as there is no official disapproval. The combination of local agility with an international perspective enhances the realizability of global aspirations within the Chinese institutional frameworks. Once inside the spaces such as Chabrol, one is reminded of international trend quarters such as in Berlin’s Prenzlauerberg or New York’s Williamsburg. Visitors and consumers who manage to find this area are those who have access to the selected networks of Japanese and European design magazines 32 From interviews with small entrepreneurs, 2011 and 2012, who operate at venues such as Tianzifang and who consider it to have become too pedantic and commercial. 33 Many of the younger entrepreneurs originate from the advertising industry and diversify into creative productions. As Lu Hanchao notes in his article, Shanghai’s revival of commercial advertising, regarded as an instrument of capitalism’s gratuitous allure to consumption under socialism, shows the cosmopolitan legacy’s effects on the contemporary return to commercialism. Within this context, advertising as a service industry also simultaneously identifies market niches that are undersupplied, creating possibilities for entrepreneurial innovation.

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or are in a particular type of expatriate circle whose patronage of the area emphasizes its ‘hidden’ factor. As many design shops had web showrooms before physical showrooms, online publicity through channels such as Weibo, and Facebook and Twitter easily link the like-minded vanguards beyond the locality. The under-the-radar feel of the neighbourhood’s transformation, the young entrepreneurs’ shirking of official designation as a creative cluster, and their deliberate embeddedness deep inside a residential neighbourhood, contrasts with the broader accessibility of the development and publicity of the new economies of Yongkang Lu. Also, in contrast with the Yongkang Lu project, the lack of a single developer overseeing the different commercial programmes is compensated by a tight network of small and horizontally linked creative entrepreneurs. The self-formulated affiliations between the cafes, boutiques, spas, and galleries creates an urban ecology that thrives on the perpetuation of progressive creativity and deliberate exclusivity. The 2010 shutdown of adjacent Weihai 696 that led to an influx of many of the young designers to the Jing’an Villas also united their collective weariness of state-appropriation and converging artistic aspirations. One of the main reasons that the Jing’an Villas did not suffer the fate, as did many other lilong since the 1992 push to renew 365 hectares of existing old housing by 2000 through demolition and reconstruction,34 is because of its architectural typology. New lilong types, as contrasted with the old lilong, such as that at Yongkang Lu, and also at Tianzifang and Xintiandi, are, thanks to their design, much more adaptable to contemporary living and upgrading. Unlike the older types that require structural changes, including plumbing and parking, the new lilong types were already designed with modern plumbing and heating.35 Even their size made each residential unit’s reuse for contemporary functions much more possible than in the older type of lilong, where upgrading and commercialization necessitated the physical form of the units to be viably preserved. Especially in the western end of the French concessions, the new style lilong, which have wider arterial systems, with 8-metre-wide passages, as compared to the narrow 4 metres in the old lilong types, were designed to accommodate the car. Car-park spaces and attached garages were also constructed as part of the design. The architectural modernity in scale, infrastructure, material, and style of the new lilong types thus enables their contemporary reuse. The diverging architectural legacies of the old and new alleyway house, or lilong, often also built in the 1930s but contrasting in scale, infrastructure, 34 Wan 2009. 35 Zhao 2004.

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material, style, and modernity, have also contrasted in their roles in the contemporary modernization of a reglobalized Shanghai. Even before 1949, when population increases forced the division of lilong houses originally designed for one family into multiple units shared by many, the separation of front and back of each alleyway house type on the ground floor came into practice to allow the upper floors to have a private entrance from the back with the front entrance and terrace reserved for the groundfloor unit. With the exception of the intermediate floors, through which the residents of the upper floors must pass in order to reach their units, the house became separated into individual independent units, with private kitchens installed on the roof terraces. Demographic growth continued unprovisioned by housing construction since 1949, when housing tenure became severely fragmented and densities multiplied through the chaos of the Cultural Revolution. Amenities and infrastructures that were shared by multiple families also became spaces of contestation. It was during this time that the modern spatial provision for infrastructure typically became residential units to house the growing urban population. Under the planned economy central heating was discontinued south of the Yangtze River and boiler rooms became reused as dwelling space. Garages, similarly, became irrelevant and reused. In these ground-floor spaces for infrastructure, programmatic changes have become visible as the market economy has returned. Unlike Tianzifang or Yongkang Lu’s developments, it is not only commercial conversion that is changing the quarter. Many of the small entrepreneurs also choose to live in Jing’an Villas for the same reasons they started their businesses here. The modernity of the new lilong as a typology also makes it feasible to convert old units into spaces suited to contemporary living without the need for expensive structural alterations. Loft-like spaces on the top floors and the layouts around the central stairway so characteristic of the typology have also made the buildings favourites for their ambiance that is still not offset by high prices. An American musician who is learning Chinese and who shares a roof-top flat with a self-taught landscape designer from Australia is among those active in the local ‘scene’ of the film screenings, pop-up events and exhibitions but who does not have his own store on the ground floor. The convenience of the locally famous open-air noodle stall at the end of an adjacent side lane, and the cheap rent of publically managed buildings are key ingredients for this network of creative types who decide to settle in the Jing’an Villas neighbourhood.36 36 Interview with some of the creative entrepreneurs and residents also yield a network that connects to other hotspots along the creative conversions.

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The co-existence of the local and the global, along with the typological resilience of the modern architecture typology, have made Jing’an Villas a decidedly convincing product of bottom-up reuse and upgrading. Localized cosmopolitans subtly harness the legacies of modern spatial structures and try to stave off a full-scale commercialization that would upset the balance between commerce and culture. The specificities of the structural legacies, both in architectural typology and urban morphology, are urban resources for the continued development of Shanghai as a global city.

The cosmopolitan legacy as an instrument of global aspirations The spatial legacies of Shanghai’s modernity have not gone overlooked. A host of recent articles in Western media describes the influx of expatriates preferring the western end of the former concession areas in Shanghai. According to one article, the kinds of creative, international expatriates described are attracted to the former concession neighbourhoods in particular because the modern buildings along the sycamore-lined streets serve as ‘a reminder of home’.37 It is implied that the physical cues once manifested in Shanghai’s globalization (with today’s rekindling of those memories that can again make the city an important modern node in the global flows of capital and talent) confirms a growing narrative of cosmopolitan legacy’s contribution to Shanghai’s reglobalization. The initial evocation of the bygone era, now seen as the heyday of Shanghai and shunned by decades of austerity under the planned economy, took form in new developments rather than in the old. Implanted amidst a neighbourhood of former villas on Huaihai Road (formerly Avenue Joffre), the Ambassy Courts towers from the mid-1990s was amongst those that conjured up the distinction of being in a quarter with global connections and cosmopolitan imports. Situated across from the American Embassy and behind the German, it was built for expatriates who first came to Shanghai in the late 1990s and who required special housing, separate from the local conditions consciously recognized as being below standard. As with many early developments, developers from Hong Kong and Macao brought with them their know-how and international standards. Swimming pools, tennis courts, club houses, and parking were all amenities that were not only fitting for the internationals but also pointed to a new future for Shanghai’s rising middle class.

37 ‘New Style in Old Shanghai’ 2013.

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In the early 2000s, efforts of conservation proponents reacted to the massive demolition of Shanghai’s inner-city fabric, and by the mid-2000s, city-level implementation of heritage protection, not only at the scale of buildings, but also at the scale of the neighbourhood, was passed. The plan graded roads by importance and forbade the street widening that usually accompanied demolition and redevelopment.38 Detailed developmentcontrol plans began to be developed, where new construction had to pass through the city’s urban-planning bureau and undergo review by a panel of experts. Until the implementation of these historic districts, approval by the district-level planning bureau sufficed and ad-hoc changes responded to the changing economy rather than concerns for urban beautification. As with many projects with future aspirations realized in the wornout city centre, new lifestyles had required the demolition of the old city. Despite its claims to revive history, Ambassy Courts was no exception. In a plan drawn up in 1939 by the French Concession government outlining building regulations,39 the area on which Ambassy Courts is located was a pre-French Concession urban settlement, an ‘urban village’ around which modern typologies would later be permitted, according to strict zoning regulations. The area’s premodern typologies, infrastructural provision, and narrow network of streets had seemed to be destined for extinction. In face of the development pressures of the 1990s, selective replacement for urban upgrading chose demolition of the oldest part of this concession area that did not abide by modern standards of city building because of its age. As reflected in the Chinese translation and creative renaming of the French plan – notably they called it a ‘Beautification Plan’, a name that appears nowhere in the French documentation40 – these modern standards for city building were inherited with a contemporary emphasis on the preservation of appearances, as expressed by the name for the contemporary conservation areas as ‘Historic culture styles districts’. 41 The same ‘Beautification 38 Wu and Wang 2006. 39 The 1939 plan was a zoning code that dictated street widths, building styles, materials, setbacks, and made amenities such as indoor plumbing, fireplaces, and car parks essential to get development approval. Its implementation is responsible for the modern house types that exists in the much of the area in the former French concession designated as heritage areas today. (The document is part of Cole Roskam’s unpublished dissertation research and is part of his extensive archival research of the development of the French Concession civic buildings.) 40 In French the title is simply ‘Projet de Reglement’ which has been found in Chinese publications as 整顿及美化法租界计划, literally translated as ‘The plan for the regulation and beautification of the French Concession’. 41 In Chinese the designation for the conservation areas is 歷史文化風貌區, literally translated as ‘Historic cultural style district’. The addition of the word ‘style’ is a difficult word to translate

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Figure 14.5  People reading the plaques of the heritage buildings on Wukang Road

Author’s photo

Plan’ has since been reproduced in numerous publications supporting the contemporary heritage plan. The esteem for heritage is most apparent in the highly regarded Wukang Road, a new cultural street created in time for the 2010 World Expo. Formerly known as Ferguson Lane, the road is today thronged with camera-toting tourists who pause at every plaque that elucidates the historical past of the area featuring as it does important figures from modern-era Shanghai. As a non-Shanghainese real-estate agent advertises: ‘this was where the foreigners, the wealthy merchants and intellectuals lived’. 42 He ascribes these qualities to the real-estate value today. Interestingly, what preserved the street during the city’s most turbulent decades was the number of important Party leaders who lived here. Mao’s wife, whose name the young real-estate agent had difficulty recalling, used to live in a garden house whose large black gates can hardly be opened. And with soaring real-estate prices in the area, half of the street is government owned. The renovated garden houses have closed gates that do not give anything away about the kind of upgrades these houses have received. as it implies an emphasis on the appearance rather than sensibility or logic that is within the historic cultural district. 42 The author was accosted by the real estate agent.

324 Ying Zhou Figure 14.6  Photos of the interior of huiguan club houses on Wukang Road

Author’s photos

Conversions of former garden houses into huiguan or ‘club houses’, a reference to modern-era facilities originally catering for people of similar backgrounds, seem to have sped up since heritage designation. Eclectic furniture, paintings, and collectibles from the 1930s decorate these renovated historic houses. As do antiques, some old but most newly produced. New productions of the old is not only at the scale of ‘antique’ furniture but has also featured in buildings and their references to multiple heritages. Buildings from the earliest period of economic liberalization, covered with the white tiles of the early 1990s, or, a bit later, steel-and-glass façades, have been serially upgraded to be more attuned to the neighbourhood aesthetic of an historic cultural district, usually in white plaster and art deco railings, or yellow-and-orange brick. Whether in pace with marketization and rising middle-class leisure, or necessitated by top-down, pro-image ‘style’ protection, there is a seeming irreverence to the realities of a neighbourhood that is a mix of many different time periods and architectural ideologies. If anything, the heritage imposition has abetted government-related agencies in the reconstruction of an image of history, and in the process homogenizing the neighbourhood.

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Figure 14.7 Map with the creative commercial activities highlighted and the three research areas around Yongkang Road, Jing’an Villas and Wukang Road

Conclusion Shanghai’s speed of reglobalization can be attributed to the influx of capital, know-how and talent. The spatial specificities embedded in the former concession areas in Shanghai, in the modernity of architectural types, infrastructure, and networks, and in locational centrality, are preferred by the small-scale localized cosmopolitan actors precisely because they accommodate the growing demand sophistication. In the vignettes highlighted above, localized cosmopolitans engaging with local processes and bound by residual institutions, as seen in the Yongkang Lu development, as well as utilizing the modern architectural typology and urban morphology, as in the Jing’an Villa developments, are outpacing the top-down deployment of nostalgia in the Ambassy Courts construction and the Wukang Road reconstructions43 to regain Shanghai’s status as a world-class city since the mid-2000s. Their connections both to transnational as well as to local networks, especially the necessary access to space and local procedure, allows the localized cosmopolitan actors to operate between global know-how and 43 Lu 2002.

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local establishment, facilitating the area’s transformation in more agile and flexible ways than those imposed by the heritage designation, which are homogenizing rather than diversifying the area. The small-scale creative enterprises with tacit understanding of urban attributes beyond that of the New and the Big in global cities has expedited the process of Shanghai’s regaining world-class city status. Their know-how and their continued engagement in cultivating the spatial qualities of these urban structures are important markers for a maturing knowledge economy.

Conclusion Global Cities in Asia Gregory Bracken The term ‘global city’ is now more than three decades old, having first been brought to our attention by Saskia Sassen in The Global City (Sassen 1984: xix). Sassen acknowledges that her use of the term is a development of Goethe’s ‘world city’ (Sassen 1984: xix). Goethe is an interesting reference here because it was he who foresaw ‘that along the Pacific Ocean, where nature has already formed the most capacious and secure harbours, important commercial towns will gradually arise, for the furtherance of a great intercourse between China and the East Indies and the United States’ (quoted in Berman 1988: 73). This vision is something that has come to be realized, not just in the Pacific, but all over Asia. The term ‘global city’ has become, however, something of a commonplace over the decades, its meaning so shopworn that it seems to have been rubbed clean of any useful sense. We can no longer be sure it means anything at all, except perhaps as a catchphrase stuck onto any place with pretentions to commercial or cultural greatness (many of which are, sadly, simply drawing attention to their parochialness). But one thing that is often overlooked when people refer to Sassen’s analysis of the global city is the fact that she stresses they cannot stand alone as entities (something that has already been highlighted in the introduction to this book). Any city that operates within a global network must work with the others in the system if they want to thrive; this means that, rather than competing with one another (although there is a certain amount of competition, of course), these cities must work together to fit themselves into a hierarchy. This is a profoundly important point: a city network stands or falls on how well it operates as a network; the strength of each depends on the strength of all; nothing is gained if one or more of them fails, and this is something that is going to be even more important as the twenty-first century unfolds, and the skeins of globalization draw even tighter together.

Genealogy As has been pointed out in the introduction, the scholars in this book have been working as genealogists, with a number of the chapters, particularly

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Kah-Wee Lee and Elmo Gonzaga in chapters 1 and 2, who actually draw genealogical relationships between things (in Lee’s case the genealogy of discipline and punishment, and in Gonzaga’s, the link between the demise of Singapore’s pasar malam and the rise of the bright new shopping malls of Orchard Road) and Bridget Martin who examines the genealogy of zonal projects through the case of New Songdo in South Korea. It might be useful take a look at the term genealogy here because it is indeed a useful one in tracing the linkages between some of the disparate places highlighted in this book, and not just to one another, but to their individual and interconnected pasts. For Michel Foucault, the genealogist ‘must be able to recognize the events of history, its jolts, its surprises, its unsteady victories and unpalatable defeats’ (Foucault 1991: 80). Foucault’s genealogical method is often seen as a development of his archaeological one simply because the latter predates it. Foucault’s archaeology came to be seen almost as an alternative to classical history, whereas with genealogy he developed this further, trying to show how social and moral norms actually act as the transfer nodes in relations of power. (Although the genealogical method is sometimes thought to have replaced the archaeology in Foucault’s thinking, it is probably wiser to try and think of them as two complementary approaches.) Foucault saw archaeology’s aim as the writing of history without a subject (unlike the Whiggish interpretation of history, which tended to concentrate on kings and generals, their battles and triumphs). Foucault was looking for the little, seemingly unconnected things which when carefully assembled added up to a bigger picture, one which showed the myriad connections between things and places, and across time, all of which perhaps seeming unimportant at the time (certainly very little was consciously planned) yet all of it resulting in the world we live in today. Foucault’s genealogy was clearly influenced by the thinking of Friedrich Nietzsche, who had attempted to look behind science, and religion, and other cognitive authorities in order to try and unearth the power structures that masked themselves as disinterested logic. Another link between Foucault’s genealogy and Nietzsche’s is the latter’s claim that there is an intimate link between knowledge and power. A claim that Foucault famously went on to develop when he showed that changes in thought are not due to thought itself but are caused by the social forces that control each individual and their behaviour. Nietzsche used the words Ursprung and Herkunft for his origin of good and evil: they have both an Ursprung, an origin or source, and a Herkunft, a descent or ancestry. Foucault tended to see the combination of Entstehung

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and Herkunft as being more precise than Ursprung, especially when he attempts to record the true objectives of a genealogy (Foucault 1991: 80). Entstehung designates emergence, or the moment of arising, while Herkunft is the equivalent of stock or descent, which Foucault sees as ‘the ancient affiliation to a group, sustained by the bonds of blood, tradition, or social class’ (Foucault 1991: 81). ‘The body – and everything that touches it: diet, climate, and soil – is the domain of the Herkunft’ (Foucault 1991: 83), hence there can be Herkunft for the life of a city, and that is what is being investigated so meticulously in the chapterss in this book. For Foucault, any examination of descent will also allow for ‘the discovery, under the unique aspect of a trait or a concept, of the myriad events through which – thanks to which, against which – they were formed’ (Foucault 1991: 81). Foucault is careful to stress that it would be wrong to search for any uninterrupted continuity in a descent because ‘we should avoid thinking of emergence as the final term of a historical development’ (Foucault 1991: 83). Some of the cities described in this book seem to have glaring caesurae in their trajectory from colonial to global (Hanoi, Shanghai, Yangon, etc.) yet there is still a discernible descent because even these ‘interruptions’ are the things that make these cities what they are today. This resonates still further with what Foucault says he was doing when writing about history: he was ‘writing the history of the present’ (Foucault 1995: 30-31); Foucault was not interested in the past, except as a means of understanding the present. There remains, however, one major problem with both the archaeological and the genealogical methodologies, no matter how well they are combined, and that is they tend to concentrate on what has gone before to the detriment of what is there now. Foucault’s move, brilliant as it was at the time, of taking the subject out of history, has rendered his analyses somewhat arid (something that may well account for the pessimism with which his work is regarded); what we have been trying to do in this book is explore the living links connecting these cities to one another, and their pasts; therefore I would like, if I may, to coin a new term for our methodology: consanguinity.

Consanguinity Consanguinity could perhaps be seen as a new way of thinking about the city: a vibrant, multidisciplinary approach that grows naturally out of the different academic disciplines represented here. It could even be argued that the chapters in this book have been engaging in both an archaeological analysis, the better to see what had gone before, and a genealogical one,

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in their effort to try and understand the origins and descent of what is happening in these cities today, but most importantly of all they have been examining the consanguinities, because it is these that they really seek to show: the living links that circulate in and between these cities. As a collection of papers, these explorations present facets of what has allowed some of the cities in Asia to take a colonial heritage and turn it to advantage in an increasingly globalized world. They present facets that are interconnected – something we have seen highlighted by the authors themselves in their cross-references to one another’s work – but they also present different facets of a consanguineous whole (or as much of it as we can show in one small volume). These facets show, sometimes with a crystalline clarity, the living links that define, and redefine these cities, and that engender and nourish the connections between them. Goethe was right. The cities of Asia have indeed come to dominate the world; they have become truly global, with their infrastructure, and the geographical underpinnings that enabled them to be built in the first place, but let us never lose sight of the fact that the most important thing enabling these cities to enjoy their success is the people who call them home.

Contributors Gregory Bracken PhD is an Assistant Professor of Architecture at the Technical University of Delft and a Research Fellow at the International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS), Leiden. He is also a founding editorial board member of Footprint, and the co-founder of the Urban Knowledge Network Asia (UKNA), which is funded by the Marie Curie Actions ‘International Research Staff Exchange Scheme’ (IRSES) of the EU. Gregory’s research is concerned with the urban environment of East and Southeast Asia. Recent publications include The Shanghai Alleyway House: A Vanishing Urban Vernacular (Routledge, 2013); Aspects of Urbanization in China: Shanghai, Hong Kong, Guangzhou (editor, Amsterdam University Press, 2012); ‘Shanghai in Film and Literature: Beware of Nostalgia’ in Spectacle and the City: Chinese Urbanities in Art and Popular Culture (edited by De Kloet and Scheen, Amsterdam University Press, 2013); and Footprint 12: ‘Future Publics: Politics and Space in East Asia’s Cities’ (co-edited with Jonathan D. Solomon, Spring 2013). Gregory is also the author and illustrator of the popular ‘Walking Tour’ series of architectural city guides, which includes Bangkok, Hong Kong, Kuala Lumpur, London, Paris, Shanghai, and Singapore, as well as a number of fictional works, the latest of which, Tincture of Malice, is a murder mystery set in Singapore in 1907. http://www.gregorybracken.com Thomas Daniell is Head of Architecture and Design at the University of St Joseph in Macau. He holds a BArch from Victoria University of Wellington, an MEng from Kyoto University, and a PhD from RMIT University. Widely published, he is a correspondent and editorial consultant for the journals Mark, Volume, Interstices, Enquiry/The ARCC Journal of Architectural Research, and was previously on the editorial board of the Architectural Institute of Japan Journal. He is author of FOBA: Buildings (2005), After the Crash: Architecture in Post-Bubble Japan (2008), Houses and Gardens of Kyoto (2010), Kiyoshi Sey Takeyama + Amorphe (2011), and editor of Toyo Ito’s Tarzans in the Media Forest (2011). Bruno De Meulder is a Professor of Urbanism, Program Director of MAHS/MaUSP, and head of OSA, the Research Group of Urbanism and Architecture in the Department of Architecture, Urbanism and Planning (ASRO), KU Leuven and Eindhoven University of Technology (TU/e). His

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research shuttles between the development context and Europe, between spatial analysis and urban design, and between theory and the practice of urbanism. [email protected] César Ducruet obtained his PhD in Transport Geography from Le Havre University (2004) and has been research fellow at the CNRS GéographieCités research unit since 2009. His research interests include network analysis, territorial integration, and urban/transport geography, with a particular focus on port cities and maritime flows in Asia, Europe, and the world. Besides extensive publications on such topics, Dr Ducruet has been actively engaged in international activities such as post-doctoral research in South Korea and the Netherlands, scientific expertise (OECD project on port cities), guest lecturing, as well as large-scale European projects such as Marie Curie, ESPON-TIGER, and he is currently leading an ERC Starting Grant project (2013-2018) on the spatio-temporal analysis of global maritime flows since the eighteenth century. [email protected] http://www.world-seastems.cnrs.fr Senia Febrica is a Research Fellow at the American Studies Center, Universitas Indonesia. She holds a PhD in Politics from the University of Glasgow. The chapter in this book is based on her research ‘Accounting for Feasible Cost-Sharing Co-operation in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore: Navigational Safety and Marine Pollution’ at the Scottish Centre for International Law, University of Edinburgh, Scotland and the United Nations Division for Ocean Affairs and the Law of the Sea (UN DOALOS), New York. [email protected] Elmo Gonzaga is a Lecturer at the National University of Singapore’s Ideas and Exposition Program, where he teaches courses on the history of the photographic image and the visualization of urban space. He has a PhD in Rhetoric from the University of California, Berkeley, with fields of expertise in the visual and spatial culture of Southeast Asia, as well as in global and third cinema. His book in progress, Monsoon Marketplace, traces the entangled genealogies of consumer capitalism, public life, and urban modernity in Manila and Singapore’s important commercial and leisure spaces during the 1930s, 1960s, and 2000s. He is also the author of Globalization and Becoming-nation (University of the Philippines Press, 2009).

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Kishwar Habib is a PhD researcher and a member of OSA Research Group of Urbanism and Architecture at the Department of Architecture, Urbanism and Planning (ASRO), KU Leuven, Belgium. Her research focuses on representation and contestation in postcolonial public spaces in Dhaka, Bangladesh. [email protected] Max Hirsh is a Research Assistant Professor at the Institute for the Humanities and Social Sciences at the University of Hong Kong. He is currently working on a book that investigates the expansion of international air traffic since 1970 and its implications for the planning and design of Asian cities. Focusing on low-cost, informal, and transborder transportation networks in the Pearl River Delta, the book models a new understanding of urban space that fundamentally reconceptualizes the impact of crossborder mobility on urban form. His writing has appeared in History & Technology, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, Places, Log, and Informationen zur modernen Stadtgeschichte; as well as in edited volumes on architectural history and urban studies. Max holds a BA, MA, and PhD from Harvard University as well as a Magister from the Technical University of Berlin. [email protected] Faye Yuan Kleeman is a Professor at the University of Colorado-Boulder, Department of Asian Languages and Civilizations. She received a BA from Soochow University (Taipei), an MA from Ochanomizu University (Tokyo), and a PhD from the University of California, Berkeley. She is the author of several books: Under an Imperial Sun: Japanese Colonial Literature in Taiwan and the South, In Transit: The Formation of an East Asian Cultural Sphere, Dainihon teikoku no kureōru: Shokuminchi Taiwan no Nihongo bungaku (in Japanese), Diguo de taiyang xia: Riben de Taiwan ji nanfang zhimindi wenxue (in Chinese), and many other articles. Dr Kleeman is the recipient of research grants and fellowships from the Japan Foundation, the Chiang Ching-Kuo Foundation, Fulbright Hays Research Grant, and the International Consortium for the Study of the Humanities (Germany). Her research interests include comparative literary and aestheticism in East Asia through literary translation, the consumption of genre fiction, and the cross-fertilization of popular cultures. She has worked on Japanese colonial literature and Japan’s interactions with its East Asian neighbours from the mid-nineteenth century. [email protected]

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Kah-Wee Lee is an Assistant Professor of Architecture at the National University of Singapore, where he teaches architectural design and the history/theory of urban planning. He is currently working on a book, Las Vegas in Singapore, which traces the genealogies of violence and progress in Singapore’s urban modernity through the lens of gambling. His research focuses on the politics of planning practice, casino development, and the spatial history of vice. His writings have been published in Environment and Planning A and C, International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, and Geoforum. [email protected] Wilson Wai Shing Lee is currently a Doctor of Philosophy student in the Department of Japanese Studies of the Chinese University of Hong Kong. He is interested in colonial studies and history of medicine, as he studied the medical development of the colonial Hong Kong in his master degree. He also has a range of research interest including history of Hong Kong, history of Sino-Japanese relationship, Hong Kong society and overseas Chinese. He is now working on his PhD dissertation about the shaping of Hong Kong cosmopolitanism in the post WWII era through the communication with Japan. His publication includes a book chapter of “Challenges of Museums in Hong Kong in Promoting Local Cultural Heritage: An Assessment of the Hong Kong International Museum Day (2001-2010)” in Creativity and Culture in Contemporary Greater China: The Role of Government, Individuals and Groups (Bridge21 Publications, 2014). [email protected] William Logan PhD is Professor Emeritus and UNESCO Chair in Heritage and Urbanism at Deakin University, Melbourne, where he was founding director of the Cultural Heritage Centre for Asia and the Pacific from 2001 to 2009. He is a Fellow of the Academy of Social Sciences in Australia and member of the Heritage Council of Victoria. He has worked closely with UNESCO, ICOMOS, and ICCROM since 1986. He is a member of the Critical Heritage Association and the editorial boards of the International Journal of Heritage Studies and Historic Environment. He is co-editor of the Blackwell Companion to Heritage Studies and the Routledge ‘Key Issues in Cultural Heritage’ book series. His research interests include heritage theory, World Heritage, intangible cultural heritage, heritage and human rights, heritage education and training, the heritage of war, and Asian heritage, especially of Vietnam, Laos, China, and Myanmar.

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Bridget Martin is a PhD student in the Department of Geography at the University of California, Berkeley. She holds an MA from The New School for Social Research and a BA from Vassar College. She is pursuing research on green neo-liberalism, special economic zones, and rural transformations, and she continues to study the Korean language. Her fieldwork for this project was supported by the Steve S. Kang Young Artists and Scholars Fund and by the India China Institute. Rita Padawangi is Senior Research Fellow at the Asia Research Institute (ARI), National University of Singapore. She has a background in architecture, urban design, and sociology, which forms her research interests in multidisciplinary topics across the three fields. Through the support from a Fulbright scholarship, Rita got her MA in Sociology from Loyola University Chicago in 2005 and later obtained a PhD in 2008. Prior to joining ARI, she was Research Fellow at the Lee Kuan Yew School of Public Policy, National University of Singapore. A member of the Asian Urbanisms Cluster at ARI, her research interests covers place-making, the sociology of architecture and the built environment, social movements, civic spaces, and environmental sociology. [email protected] Minna Valjakka PhD is a post-doctoral researcher in Art History, University of Helsinki. She received her MA in East Asian Studies in 2005 and PhD in Art History in 2011, both from the University of Helsinki. Currently she is working on her research project ‘East Asian Urban Art: Self-expression through Visual Images in Hong Kong, Tokyo and Seoul’, funded by the Academy of Finland. Valjakka is also an Associated Member in the Cluster of Excellence: Asia and Europe in Global Context at Heidelberg University. Although specialized in Chinese contemporary art, her recent research interests have been directed to focus on non-institutional art and creativity in East Asia. [email protected] Ying Zhou is an architect researching and teaching at the Future Cities Laboratory (FCL), an ETH centre in East Asia sited in Singapore. Prior to turning her focus to Shanghai’s city-centre transformation processes and a four-East-Asian-city-centres project at the FCL, she taught at the ETH Studio Basel from 2007 to 2011 for the research studios for Kolkata, Damascus, and Cairo, where she also produced an urban comic book about MetroBasel. She has published in Critical Planning, Urban China, Monu, amongst others, and

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her work has been exhibited at the Swiss Architecture Museum in Basel and the Haus der Kunst in Munich. Born in Shanghai, Ying grew up in the United States and holds a BSE from Princeton and an MArch from the Graduate School of Design at Harvard. She was the recipient of the Harvard Graduate School of Design Wheelwright Prize and was a Fulbright fellow at the University of Stuttgart. She has taught and practiced in New York, Shanghai, Detroit, Boston, and Basel.

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Index aboriginal tribes 149, 157 Abu Ail Island 206-7 Adelson, Sheldon 77, 79 Aden 181, 208 Africa 23, 146, 159-60, 164, 256, 259 North Africa 57 Ai Weiwei 113-4, 120 airlines 174 airports 15, 227 airport hubs 170 Akihito, Aoki 152 Alaungpaya, King 286, 293 Alexandria 182 alleyways 73, 161 alleyway houses (Shanghai) (see also lilong) 17, 27, 302, 314, 317, 319-20 Alliband, Graham 283 Ambassy Courts (Shanghai) 321-2, 325 America 20, 49, 66, 111, 127, 129, 146, 172, 177, 186, 190-1, 264, 282, 289 American Air Force 73 American Embassy (Shanghai) 321 Euro-American 95, 105, 156 Latin America 178 amusement parks 42, 46-7 ancesters 162 common ancestral bond 159, 160-3 Andaman Sea 286 Anfu Road (Shanghai) 314 Ang Mo Kio (Singapore) 268 Angry Birds 116 anime 144 Annam 288 Anshan 147 Ao Man Long 76 Appiah, K. Anthony 15 arcades: arcade centres 46-7 commercial arcades 59 arcade walkways 73 archaeology (Foucault) 328 architects 18-19, 21, 25, 73-4, 170, 220, 228, 230, 232, 247, 271, 292, 295 architectural heritage (see heritage) Area of the 36 Commercial Streets (see Hanoi, Ancient Quarter) Argentina 178 armed forces 189 Arnholt, Simon 67 art deco 324 art museums 64 artists 93, 98, 101-2, 106, 108-11, 113, 115-6, 120, 270-1, 319 Asahi Shinbun 135

Asia 22-3, 27, 128-9, 135, 139, 140-1, 143-4, 149, 158, 162, 173-4, 176-80 182-3, 185-6, 250, 259, 282, 313, 327, 330 Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation 293 Asian Financial Crisis 77, 244 Asian Tigers (see Tiger Economies) Central Asia 256 cities 25, 27, 125, 128, 144-5, 158, 172, 173-4, 179, 185, 259, 261-2, 265-8, 303, 330 colonial domination of 17, 22, 126, 135, 140, 143-4, 149, 185 East Asia 17, 21-3, 125-7, 129-30, 132, 134-6, 140-2, 143-5, 148, 157-8, 173, 177, 248, 282, 303 Great East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere 140 Northeast Asia 130, 133, 178, 183, 247 ports 23, 173-5, 179, 184-6 South Asia 23, 125, 131, 159-60, 165, 179, 182, 184 Southeast Asia 25, 50, 57, 66, 125-6, 128-30, 133-4, 139-40, 142, 178, 182, 184, 209, 212, 261-2, 264-8, 271, 276-7, 280, 307 Southeast Asian Games 293 West Asia 23, 173 Asian Civilizations Museum (Singapore) 268 Association of Myanmar Architects 295 Association of Southeast Asian Nations 293 Atlantic 179, 205-6, 211 ATV studio building (Sai Kung, Hong Kong) 101 Aung San Suu Kyi 282, 288 Australia 162, 172, 198, 202-4, 279-80, 283, 288, 294, 298, 313, 320 Austronesian peoples 149 authoritarian regimes 148, 244 automobiles 78, 183 autopoesis 13 Avenida da Amizade (Macau) 76 Avenue Joffre (see Huaihai Road) 321 Ba Dinh Square (Hanoi) 293 Baden, Grand Duchy of 189 Bagan 284 Bagh-e-Badshahi (Dhaka) 221 Bahamas, the 198 Baitual Mukarram (see Dhaka, National Mosque) Bali 57 Bandung 266, 273 Banga Bhaban (see Dhaka, Presidential Palace) Bangkok 161, 184, 298 Bank of China 98 Bank of Chōsen 150 Bank of Korea 150

368  Bangladesh/Bangladeshi (see Bengali) baroque 80, 150-1 Basel 189 Batam 197-8 Bayley, David 51 bazaar 53-8, 63, 66-8, 221 Becak (see pedicab) Bedinger, Henry 190 Beijing 71, 75, 78, 106, 129, 138 Belgium 175, 205-6 Bengali: culture 24, 217, 220, 228, 232, 240 East Bengal 24, 228 East Bengal and Assam 223, 225, 230, 238 identity 228, 232 identity in architecture 235 language 238, 239 Muslim politicians 235 nationalism 228, 233, 240 opposition to suppression 235 vision of history 235 Benxihu 147 Bergen 189 Berlin 79 Berman, Marshall 327 Betawi furniture 275 Bin Qasim 184 Biotech 251 Black-faced Spoonbill Network 249 Black kampongs (see kampong) Black Sea 179, 181-2 Blade Runner 158 Bracken, Gregory 27, 99, 317 Bremen 209 Britain 16, 125-6, 128, 135, 139, 190, 200, 205 British architecture 223 bureaucracy 71 British Burma 273 colonial rule 24, 126, 128, 187, 221, 223, 270 British Commonwealth 217, 220 elite 220 British Empire128-9, 178, 185 government 127, 207-9 British India 286, 293 British Malaya (see Malaysia) military bases 55 naval establishments 201 British Petroleum 182 planners/planning 230, 294 ports 201 troops 227 Border Protection Command 204 border regulations 169 Borneo 182 Bosang wonlyo 258 Boughey, Robert 229 boutiques 66, 302, 314, 316, 319 brides of the sea 174, 185 Buddhist monks 272 Buenos Aires 178

Asian Cities: Colonial to Global

bungalows 224 Bureau Veritas 175 bureaucracy 65-6, 71 Buriganga River 225-6 Burma (see Myanmar) Burnham, Daniel 266 Busan 182-3, 272 Bush, President George W. 282 Butterfield & Swire 134 Cable and Wireless Ltd 134 cable networks (see networks) cafes 272, 302, 311, 313-4, 316, 319 Café Volcan 304-5, 307, 309 Calcutta (see Kolkata) Cambodia 288 Cambridge 16 Canada 162, 205-6 canals 25, 94, 189, 259 Canton 138, 140 Cantonese 104-5, 109, 157, 161-2 Canton Register 128 Cantonments 251 Cape Town 218 capital 14-15, 23, 49, 162, 244, 246, 257, 262, 264, 274, 307, 310, 314, 325 foreign 61, 65, 244 human 307 investment 53, 202, 263 mobility of 14, 126, 159-60, 171, 244, 276, 302, 321 capitalism 13, 15, 56 global capitalism 13, 17 liberal capitalism 66-7 CapitaMalls 269 car 319 car export 256 car parks 322 cargo 179, 183-4, 194, 200, 206, 211-13 carpetbaggers 282 Carr, Bob 283 Carroll, John 106, 126 cartoon 96 Carvalho de Lacerda, Hugo 72-3 casino 48-9, 69, 73-80 Castanheira Lourenço, António José 77 Castells, Manuel 14, 16, 170 cays 202 Cebu 182 censorship 33, 79, 106, 113 Central Park 25 Cerdà 74 Chabrol 316, 318 Chadwick International School 249-50 Chaebol 244, 255 Chaiqian 312 Chakrabarty, Dipesh 62-3 Changchun 147 Change Alley (Singapore) 58-9

Index

Cheongna International City 241 Chiang Kai-shek 146, 148 Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall (Taiwan) 111 Chicago city model 290 Chile 243 Chin Tangerine 102, 113-115 Chin Wan-kan 120 China 13, 15, 20-1, 23, 26, 70-1, 78, 80, 93, 98-9, 104-113, 115-116, 118, 120-1, 125-31, 133, 136-43, 146, 148-9, 159-65, 169-72, 175-6, 178-9, 182-4, 198-9, 243, 246, 250, 280, 288, 302-3, 306-309, 327 China Academy of Urban Planning and Design 78 China effect 178 China Mail 128 China Pavilion (Shanghai World Expo 2010) 79 China Street (Singapore) 43 China Submarine Telegraph Company 128-9 Japanese invasion of 134 Qing China 128, 138, 141 Republic of 138, 148 Chinese 16, 51, 54, 70, 72, 106, 108, 110, 125-6, 128, 148, 153, 158, 164-5, 167, 171, 252, 286, 295, 305-307, 309-310, 313, 317-318 art 93, 98, 113 chess 312 cities 302-303, 311, 315 Chinese Communist Party 148 colonial power 106 culture 157 elites 306 emigration 159-61 entrepreneurs 159-60, 162, 308 Chinese Evolution Aerosol (artist) 104 history 131 leadership 98 minorities 286 modernity 306 national identity 98 national sentiment 105 Chinese Nationalist Party 138 Chinese new year 51 officials 133 opera 55 People’s Liberation Army 114 politics 108, 138 ports and port traffic 176, 182 power symbols 98 tourists 159, 164-5 urbanism 171 Han Chinese 149 Mandarin Chinese 154 Overseas Chinese 23, 126, 161-2, 164, 307, 317-318 traditional Chinese medicine 272 Chinatown (Singapore) 43, 54, 268, 276 (Incheon) 259

369 Changi Village (Singapore) 55 Chiu, Stephen 128 cholera 59 Chongqing 146 Chōsen 146, 152-3 Choson dynasty 146 Chung, Joel 101 cinema 106 Cisco 250 city/cities: alpha cities 13, 157 beta cities 13 city authorities 96, 106, 121 City Beautiful 266 City of Dreams 78 competitive advantage of 15, 330 gamma cities 13 global cities (see global cities) global hierarchy of 14, 292, 199 post-socialist 302 strategic collaboration between 14 civil-engineering projects 152 civil service 16 cleanliness 19, 35, 40-1, 60, 62 clean-up programme (Singapore) 59, 61-2 Clementi Road (Singapore) 55 Clinton, President 282 clubs 32, 42, 46-7, 217, 220, 222 club houses (see also huiguan) 235, 321, 324 turf clubs 49 coastal states (see also littoral states, maritime states, and riparian states) 188-9 Coates, Austin 126 Cochin China 288 Cold War 144, 148-9 Collier Petty Chartered Surveyors 74 Coloane 71, 76-8 colony/colonial: colonial buildings 226, 230, 234, 261, 267-8, 276, 298-9 colonial heritage 261-70, 275, 289, 330 colonial modernity 143-4 colonialism 17, 22, 33, 93, 102, 143-4, 156, 179, 288 commerce 20, 54, 71, 128, 136, 144, 147, 187, 211, 221, 317-318, 321 chambers of commerce 40 communists 16 compradors 126 compulsory pilotage system 203, 210 Concession areas (see Shanghai) congestion 62-3, 78 parking congestion 271 Connaught Road (Hong Kong) 134 consanguinity (Bracken) 329 consultancy firms 64 consumption 20, 26, 33, 54, 57, 66, 114, 155-6, 248, 301-2, 304, 318, 333 containerization 182 Convention for Rhine Navigation 189

370  Convention on Civil Liability and Fund Convention 209 cool aesthetic 144 coolie 69, 71 Copenhagen 190 Cordon sanitaire 49 corporate headquarters 64 cosmopolitan/cosmopolitanism 17, 22, 26-7, 53, 65, 67, 143, 145, 156-7, 301, 303-304, 306-310, 318 Costa Rica 212 Cotai 76-9, 86-7, 91-2 counter-surveillance 43 creative class (Florida) 302 creativity 53, 56, 65-6, 107, 319 crime 31, 34-6, 38-9, 43-4, 46-7, 49-50, 172 Cuba 243 culture: cultural exports 144 cultural flows 22 cultural heritage 21, 26, 93, 99, 120, 265, 279-80, 284, 290 cultural legacy 102 cultural politics 26, 50, 281 cultural practice 26, 281 hybridization of 70 local culture 156, 308 material culture 144 native culture 144 Cultural Revolution (see also China) 312, 320 cyberpunk 158 Cyprus 198 Daewoo 255 Dai Viet 291 Dalian 22, 143, 147, 179 Dagon (see Yangon) Danzig 189 Daw Moe Moe Lwin 279, 296 De Almeida, Leopoldo 73 Death (street artist) 111-112 Debord, Guy 264 decency 65 decolonization 93, 98, 102-103, 105, 145, 147-9, 152-3 decorum 65 delinquency 18, 38, 40 Deloitte Haskins and Sells 74 democratization 149 Deng Xiaoping 98, 163 Denmark 175, 190-1, 205-207 Danish fleet 190 Danish government 191 Danish Straits 190, 192 Derrida, Jacques 63 design 23, 39, 66, 71, 73-4, 76, 96, 107, 109, 159, 161, 165, 169, 235, 248, 286, 292-3, 300, 305-307, 317-319 design ateliers 302 design standards 171

Asian Cities: Colonial to Global

interior design 99 urban design 77, 273 Dhaka: Agriculture University 230 Architecture Building of the Engineering University 227, 229 Art College 232-3 Assembly Building Complex 228, 293 Azimpur 228 Bangladesh Bank 234 BIRDEM Hospital 235 ‘City of Mosques’ 233 Civil Station 224-6, 232 Club 222, 235 College 223, 225-6 Dhanmondi 228 East Pakistan, High Court 230, 240 Eskaton 228 Government House 225 Home Economics College Dacca 228, 232 Improvement Trust 228, 231 Institute of Post Graduate Medicine and Research 235 Kamalapur National Railway Station 229 Ladies’ Club 235 Liberation War Museum 235-7 Language Martyrs’ Monument 228 Medical College 227, 230 military centre 227 Motijheel commercial centre 228 National Academy for Arts and Culture (see Shilpa Kala Academy) National Eidgah 235 National Fisheries Department 234 National Institute of Public Administration 232 National Mosque 231-2 National Museum 234 National Poet’s Mausoleum 235 Nawabpur 228 New Civil Station 224-5 Old State Bank 223 Osmani Memorial Hall 234 Paltan 225 Presidential Palace 225, 232 Public Works Department 234 Secretariat 220, 225-7, 230-1, 234 Shihsu Park 234 Shilpa Kala Academy 234 State Guest House 234 Suhrawardy Uddyan 234-7 Teacher-Student Centre 228, 232, 234-5, 240 Tejgoan 223, 228 Tennis Club 235 Three Martyrs Mausoleum 235 Tower of Light 235 University 226, 230, 235 University Library 232 University Vice-Chancellor’s residence 234

371

Index

dialectic of antagonism (Stallybrass and White) 34, 50-1 diarrhoea 59 diaspora 161, 307 diasporic linkages 27 301 diasporic origins 308 Dien Bien Phu, battle of 288 Direcção dos Serviços de Solos, Obras Públicas e Transporte dredging 73 disease 20, 59-60, 62-3 dividing practices (Foucault) 34 Doi moi 282 Dom (artist) 108 Dom João (see Hengqin ) Dondi (artist) 103 Dongguan 17, 22, 79, 159-65, 170-1 Dover 200-201, 209 ‘Dowes Folly’ 222 drains 62, drainage 266 ‘Dream City ‘ 247 Dreyer, Jacob 107 Dubai 161, 181, 185, Dutch 149, 188, 190 Dutch East India Company 190 dykes 289 dysentery 59 East India Company 217, 220-1 East Indies 327 eco city 245, 248 École Française d’Extrême-Orient 289 economy: economic competitiveness 65 globalized economy 13 national economies 14 old economy (see industrialism) planned economy 302, 312, 314, 320-1 regional economies (see region) Soviet-style economics 13 Tiger Economies (seeTiger Economies) world economy 17, 177 electricity 15, 54, 63 electricity grids 15 Elements shopping mall 112 elites 34-5, 222-3, 306, 308 Elkins, James 95 Empress Place (Singapore) 268 enterprise cities 245 entrepôt 16, 53, 58, 64, 126, 179, 307 entrepôt economy (see also economy) 58 entrepreneurs 159-60, 163-4, 302, 304, 308-309, 314-315, 317-330 Entstehung 328-9 environment 256, 289 environmental protection 195, `97, 212-213 Environmental Public Health Act (Singapore) 62 Erika disaster 209 Estrada do Istmo (see Isthmus Road)

ethnic/ethnicity 149, 154, 160, 286 ethnic apparel 164 ethnic minorities 279, 286, 199 ethnographic approach 35 data 217 fieldwork 220, 243, 250 Euroconsult 74 Europe: Europe-Asia link 179 European architecture 223 European powers 138, 179, 191 European Union 209, 282 Western Europe 13, 20, 66 exchange: commercial exchange 56 information exchange 127 of goods 57 Exclusive Economic Zone 192, 204, 210 expatriates 303, 307-308, 313, 321 Export Processing Zones 243 extortion 33 factories 40, 161, 163, 170, 179, 221, 243, 246 Fairey, Shepard 116 Far East 127, 308 Far Eastern trading empires 149 farming 256 farmers 13, 47, 256 fashion 98, 161, 164, 310-311 Fengtian (see Shenyang) Ferreira do Amaral, João Maria 71 Ferreira de Loureiro, Adolfo 71 ferry 23, 159-61, 163, 165, 167-70, 258 Fifth Avenue (New York) 66 Filipino 80 film 106 Financial Times, The 249 Finland 206, 335 First Sino-Japanese War (see Sino-Japanese War) First World 20, 53, 64 First World Complex 246 First World Towers 248 flags of convenience 209, 212 flooding 270 Flores, Eduardo José Vicente 73 football 292 foreign direct investment 48, 163, 303 foreign investment zones 245 Forever Flowering Bauhinia 108 Fotan MTR station 99, 101 fortune tellers 272 Foucault, Michel 19, 27, 34, 328-9 Four Dragons (see Tiger Economies) France 189, 200, 205-206, 243, 283, 290 free economic zones 241, 243 free enterprise zones 243 free-market globalization (see globalization) free-passage regime 24, 187, 189-91 free-rider syndrome 198 French Concession (see Shanghai) Fresh Elements 308

372  Friends of Hanoi Trust 283 frustrated mobility 23, 165 Fuck Da Cops/FDC (artists) 104 Fukienese 149, 157 Fuming Road (Shanghai) 314 fun fairs 47 Fushun 147 Futura (artist) 103 Gabinete de Estudos Técnicos 74 Gabinete para o Apoio ao Desenvolvimento dos Aterros Taipa-Coloane 77 gaimushō (see Japan) Galatz 179 Galaxy Entertainment Group 78, 92 Galaxy Macau 78 Gale International 242, 247, 250, 258 Galle 127 gambling: criminalization of 18, 31, 34, 41 gambling dens 43, 47 gambling industry 21, 75, 79 game stalls 42 private clubs 42, 46-7 garbage 63 garment factories 161 garment industry 243 garment traders 164 gastroenteritis 59 gateway function (see ports) GaWC (see global) Geddes, Patrick 226 Geertz, Clifford 57-8, 63 genealogy 161 genealogy (Foucault) 27, 34, 243, 327-8 Gentarō, Kodama 155 geopolitics 16, 126, 131, 144, 148 Germany 198-9, 205-207, 183 Geylang (Singapore) 43 Gezi Café 317 Ghost in the Shell II 158 GHOST 2 (KOSTWO) (artist) 104 global/globalization: free-market globalization 172 global capitalism 13, 17 global cities 14-16, 22, 27, 66, 144-5, 147, 157, 261, 326-7 global hierarchy of cities 292 global investment 26, 279 global metropolis 13, 128 global migration 159, 165 global mobility 22-3, 79, 159, 161 global networks 14, 126, 129, 141, 327 global reputation 67 global tourism (see tourism) global trend quarters 302 globalism 17, 102 Globalization and World Cities (GaWC) Research Group 13, 157 globalizing market forces 25, 261, 264

Asian Cities: Colonial to Global

glocal 157 Goddess of Democracy 113 Goethe 327, 330 Goffman, Erwin 40 Goh Chok Tong 64-5 golf courses 79, 220, 222, 225, 249, 255, 291 Goods of Desire (G.O.D.) 99 Governor General’s Headquarters, Chōsen 153 Governor General’s Headquarters, Taiwan 153 governance 107, 147, 152, 182, 291, 298-9 government 20, 33, 40-1, 55, 60-5, 67, 69, 71, 73-7, 79, 97-8, 106-107, 127-8, 130, 132-6, 138-9, 142, 45-7, 150, 152, 163-4, 190-1, 198, 203-204, 206-209, 211, 221, 224-7, 230-1, 234-5, 238, 241, 243, 245, 249, 266, 268, 273, 280, 283-4, 291-2, 294-6, 298, 310, 312, 314, 316, 322-4 Grand Banks (Newfoundland) 205 Grantham, Lord 190 Great East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere 140, 157 Great Barrier Reef (Australia) 202-203 Great North East Channel (Australia) 203 Great Northern Telegraph Company 127, 129 Greece 23, 174, 199, 206, 212 green city (see eco city) Green Growth Strategy 249 GRIV (artist) 104 Guangdong 23, 159-62, 171 Guangzhou 161-3 Guia Hill 74 gunmen 43 Gwanghwamun 153 Gyeongbokgung 153 HABITAT II (see United Nations) haigui 307-308 Hakka 149-57 Haldia 184 Han Chinese 149 Han River 157 handicrafts 281, 290 Hannerz, Ulf 306 Hanoi: Ancient Quarter 283, 267, 286, 292 Co Loa Citadel 293 French Quarter 267, 290, 297 Golden Hanoi Hotel 290-1 Hanoi People’s Committee 283-4 Hanoi Planning and Development Control Project 283 Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum 293 Hoa Lo prison 291 Hoan Kiem lake 291 Lenin, statue of 291 Master Plan for Year 2020 267 Municipal Theatre 290 National Assembly 293 National School 293 Old Sector 282, 289, 298-9 Opera House (see Municipal Theatre)

373

Index

Presidential Palace 290 Quoc Tu Giam (see National School) Temple of Literature (see Van Mieu) Thang Long-Hanoi citadel 284, 291, 293 Van Mieu 291, 293 Harbin 22, 143, 147 Hassan, Riaz 38 Harvey, David 15 hawkers/hawking: Hawkers Department, Singapore Ministry of Health 55, 61 Hawkers Department’s Special Squad 62 Hawker’s Inquiry Commission 20, 59-60 hawker stalls 62 New Hawkers Code 61-2 He Jingtang 79 health 60, 62, 77 health hazards 41, 62 Hengqin Island 71, 76-7, 79-80 Hengtaishan Village 112 heritage: architectural 25, 261, 265, 271, 273, 276 colonial 261, 270, 275, 287, 330 heritage status 266 intangible 281, 298-9 protection of 26, 281, 291, 296, 322, 324 tangible 26, 281 urban 25-6, 261-6, 271-4, 279, 283-4, 296, 298 World Heritage 281, 284, 288, 292-3, 300 Herkunft 328-9 Hermit Kingdom 146 Hessen, Grand Duchy of 189 Heungnam 147 high-density living 18-19, 37-9, 267 high-rise 19, 37, 39, 45, 246-8, 252, 289-91, 295, 298, 317 highways 301 hinterland 15, 299 Hiroshi, Hashitani 146-7 history, Whiggish interpretation of 328 Ho, Oscar 99, 107 Ho, Stanley 73 Ho Chi Minh City 288 Hoang Dieu Street (Hanoi) 293 Hōchi Shinbun 135 Hoi An 292 Holy Roman Empire 189 homes (see also housing) 39-40, 51, 256-8 Honduras 212 Hong Kong: Anti-High Speed Rail Movement 112 anti-Japanese sentiment 131 Association of Japanese Journalists in Hong Kong 135 boycott of Japanese products 131 Chinese merchants 126 Crown Colony 127 decolonization 102-103 Democratic Alliance for the Betterment and Progress of Hong Kong 116 Democratic Party 116

geopolitical position of 21-2, 125, 127, 130 Great East Emporium 126 Handover 75, 93, 98, 102, 104, 106-7, 118 Hong Kong-PRC divide 171 Hong Kong-Japan Relations 22, 130-1, 142 Hong Kong International Airport 23, 159, 165-9 Hongkong Post Office 129 hongs (see hongs) Hongkongness 103 Japanese Consulate 130 Joint Declaration 93 League of Social Democrats (Hong Kong) 113 Legislative Council 116 mainlandization 21, 93, 106-108, 111, 118, 120-1 One Country, Two Systems 109 visual arts 93, 105 Hong Lim Park (Singapore) 40 hongs 126 Honkon Annai 132 Honkon Nippo 22, 125-6, 131-9, 142 hookworm 59 horse racing 24, 45, 7, 217, 220 hospitals 61, 150, 231 Hossain, Nur 234 hotels 46-7, 69, 73-4, 77, 79, 163, 231, 255, 282, 295 housing (see also homes) 18, 54, 77-8, 80, 235, 243, 252, 256, 267, 270, 302, 314, 319, 320-1 estates 18, 20, 38, 40, 45, 47, 53-4, 228, 269, 289 historic 313 public 19, 31, 36-40, 45-6, 54, 268-9 social 18-19 Housing and Development Board (Singapore) 39 Huaihai Road (Shanghai) 314, 321 Hue 288, 292, 294 Huiguan 324 Hukou 164, 312 Human: habitation 63 resources 144, 307 Humen 160-1, 163-5 Hyde Park (London) 222 hydrographic 72, 200-210 Hyeng Ki Joo 146 hygiene 62, 143, 310 I Club 103 icebergs 205-6 identity 20, 62-3, 102, 105, 170, 239, 263, 266, 270, 290 Bengali 232 cultural 98, 217, 220, 265 global 69 Hong Kong 98-9, 102, 105 indigenous 21, 93

374  Macau 70 Muslim 228, 233 national 31, 93, 98, 232, 239 racial 64 Shanghai 317 urban/city 25, 66, 75, 261-4, 271, 274, 276-7, 299 Ilha Verde 72 illegality 34, 43, 59, 61, 63 illicit activities 20 immorality 40, 43, 47 imperial: buildings 225 compensation 226 domination in Asia 143, 164 family of Japan 152 garden (Dhaka) 221 Hue 294 imperitives 224 intentions 286 networks 27, 142 power 191, 200 Shrine of Chōsen 152 systems 14 Univeristy (Taiwan) (see Taiwan, National University) imperialism 17, 102 Incheon: Free Economic Zone 24, 241 Grand Bridge 251, 257-8 International Airport 251 Metropolitan City 241-2, 258 National University 258 India 13, 24, 143, 146, 172, 179, 182, 185, 190, 198, 222-3, 228, 233, 243, 251 British 286, 293 Indian Ocean 188 Indo-Saracenic style 223, 225 Indonesia 179, 188, 192, 196-8, 271, 273 industry 75, 246 advertising 318 automobile 183 construction 258 electronics 243 fishing 255 gambling 21, 79 garment 243 shipping 197 tourism 65, 270, 274, 295 industrial workers 36-8 industrialism 14 informal settlements 54 information 14-15, 172 and communications technology (ICT) 14-15 control of 183 economy 170 exchange 125, 127, 197 flow 137-8 gathering 130, 135, 138, 142, 206 hub 125, 140

Asian Cities: Colonial to Global

network 128, 133 shipping 128 systems 204 informationalism 14 infrastructure 15-16, 23, 38, 47, 65, 129-30, 152, 163-4, 167, 169-72, 222-3, 230, 246, 248, 258, 264, 266, 273, 275, 280, 295, 303, 313, 319-20, 325, 330 Inner Harbour (Macau) 71 innovation 53, 65-6, 243-5, 304, 310, 314, 318 integrated resort 69 Inter-governmental Maritime Consultative Organization 207 International Association of Independent Tanker Owners198 International Business District 242 International Chamber of Shipping 198, 202 International Commerce Centre (Shanghai) 313 International Conference on the Safety of Life at Sea 205 International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea (SOLAS) 205 International Convention on Civil Liability for Oil Pollution Damage 209 International Ice Patrol 205-206, 211-213 International Institute for Asian Studies17 International Maritime Organization 197-9, 201-204, 209-210, 213 International Monetary Fund 244 international schools 301 International Settlement (Shanghai) 27, 128 International Telecommunication Corporation 140 International Tribunal of the Sea 199 ION Orchard (Singapore) 66 Irrawaddy River 286 Islamic: architecture 238 capital 233 fashion 164 ideology 24, 228 pseudo-Islamic architectural style 232-3 religious practices 240 Islam, Mazharul 229 Isthmus Road (Macau) 76 IT industries (see information) Italy 205-207 J-pop 144 Ja-ap Village 257 Jabal al-Tair Island 206-207 Jagannath College 226 Jakarta: City Hall 266-8, 273, 275 Fatahillah Square 275 History Museum (see Museum Fatahillah) Museum Fatahillah 275 Palace of the Governor-General 273 spatial master plan 267 urban villages 266, 273, 275

375

Index

Jalan Besar (Singapore) 43 Jalan Jurong Kechil (Singapore) 55 Jalan Kayu (Singapore) 55 JAMS (artist) 99, 101 Japan/Japanese: colonial city planning 145 coloniality 22, 145, 155 Consul in Hong Kong 131, 138 culture 144 Empire 22, 125, 130, 133, 135-6, 139, 145-7, 157-8 fleets 175 Gaimushō 132, 137, 139 government 127, 130, 132, 135, 139, 142, 198 industrialization of 178 invasion of China 134 Japanese-style houses, Taiwan 155 Japan-Korea Treaty 1876 145 Japan-Korea Treaty 1905 146 Japanophone generation 154 Meiji government 131, 145-6 Meiji Restoration 129, 133 Meiji period/era 133, 136, 179 military Ministry of Foreign Affairs 132 Navy 133 occupation of Hong Kong 72, 135, 140, 157 occupation of Macau 73 occupation of Seoul 157 occupation of Shanghai 72 occupation of Taipei 157 South Advancement 145 Java 57, 134, 271, 273 Jawaharlal Nehru (port) 184 Jebel Ali container port 182, 185 Jiashan Lu (Shanghai) 310, 312-313 Jiashan Market (Shanghai) 313 Jing’an Villa (Shanghai) 27, 304, 314-321, 325 Jingxian Road (Shanghai) 314 Johore Bahru 56, 59 Joseon dynasty 146 Jutarō, Komura 137-8 Kaesong 147 Kahn, Louis 228 Kampong Glam (Singapore) 268 Kanryū 144 Kaohsiung 147, 182-3 Karachi 179, 184-5 Keating, Paul 283 KDG (artist) 104 Keelung 147, 182 Kennedy Town (Hong Kong) 101 Kinh Viet 286 Kōbe 146, 179 Kolkata 223,226, 335 Konigsberg-Pillau 189 Korea: Korean Federation for Environmental Movement 249 Korean Peninsula 133, 153

Korean War 148, 153 North Korea 156, 243 Kota Green Map 271 Kota Tua (Jakarta) 266-7, 270-5 Kowloon 97, 99-100, 113 King of Kowloon 97 KTV lounges 163 Kuala Lumpur 13, 197-200, 213, 298 Kuomintang 148 Kwong Chi Man 126 Kwun Tong 99 Kyoto 146 labour 14, 162-3, 243-4, 246, 248, 250, 282, 286, 302 Laem Chabang 184 Lamb, Christopher 179, 184, 194 land reclamation 20, 69-71, 74-7, 89, 255, 258 Language Martyrs’ Monument (see Dhaka) 228, 240 Laos 288 Las Vegas 77 Las Vegas Sands Corporation 75, 77-9 Latin America 146, 178 Lausanne Treaty 207 law and order 60, 62 Law of the Sea Convention 191-6, 199, 208, 210 LEED 248-9 Lee Kuan Yew 48, 54, 64 Lefebvre, Henri 93, 96 Legal 24, 31, 34-5, 49-50, 61-2, 79-80, 95, 106, 143, 165, 187, 192, 194-5, 201-202, 205, 249 Leiden 17 Leninist state 195 Leung Chun-ying 116 Leung Kwok-hung 116, 119 Ley, David 313 Liberia 212 lighthouses 200, 208 lilong 17, 27, 313-4, 316-7, 319-20 Lim, Budi 272 Lima Soares, Eduardo 73, 77 Lisboa 73 Grand Lisboa Hotel 74 Lisbon 72 Little India (Singapore) 268 littoral states (see also coastal states, maritime states, and riparian states) 188, 192, 196-7, 199-200, 210 Lloyd’s List 23, 174-6, 185 Lo, Sonny 106 logistics hub 174, 251 London 13-14, 17, 66, 127, 190, 205, 207, 222 lottery 45, 47-9, 151 Lotus Bridge 77 Louis Vuitton 317 Lu Hanchao 317-318 Lui Tai-Lok 128 luxury 77-8, 80, 163, 247-8

376  Ly dynasty 291 Ly Thai To 286, 291 Macau: Macau Science Centre 79 Master Plan for 73-7 Special Administrative Region 20, 69-70 University of Macau 79-80, 160 Macedo e Couto, Carlos 73-5 Macfarlane, P.W. 230 mail 182 Mainland China (see China) MAIS (artist) 99, 101 Mak Lau Fong 36 Malacca Straits 24, 187-92, 196-200, 208-213, 266-7 Malaysia 36, 182, 192, 195-8, 251 malls (see shopping malls) Manchu (see Qing) Manchuria 133, 146-7, 156 Mandalay 288, 296 Mandarin Chinese 154, 307 manga 144 Manhattan 302 Manila 184, 266-8, 274 marinas 79 maritime: flows 174-5 insurance 174 states (see also coastal states, littoral states, and riparian states) 192-3, 211 Marschall, Sabine 289 mainlandization 21, 93, 106-108, 111, 118, 120-1 Mamoru, Ishii 158 Mao 111 mapping 159, 174, 183, 304 Marco Polo Bridge Incident 133 MC Yan (a.k.a. MC仁) (artist) 104 martial law (see military) media 21, 50, 104, 106-107, 109, 113-114, 120, 125-6, 139, 144, 157, 188, 247, 290-2, 295, 302, 321 Mediterranean 182 megacities 66 Meiji government (see Japan) Meiji Shonen ni Okeru Honkon Nihonjin 133 Melco Crown 78 Memel 189 Memorial Hall for Governor General Kodama and Civil Governor Gotō 151 memorials 99 merchant vessels 23, 173, 188 meta-narrative 36 metropole/metropolises 13, 66, 128, 144-7, 150, 156, 237, 290, 307, 312 Meyer, David 127-8 MGM 75, 78 Middle class 18, 23, 164, 172, 256, 298, 316, 321, 324 Middle East 23, 159-60, 164, 179, 182, 185, 187 Mikrorayon (see Soviet Union) Military/martial: military budget reductions 201 military coup d’état (in Myanmar) 288

Asian Cities: Colonial to Global

military junta (in Myanmar) 282, 294-5, 300 military rule 25, 146, 233, 279, 294 martial law 148, 156, 288 Milon, Dr 234 Mina al Ahmadi 181, 185 Ming, Cpak 112-114 Ming dynasty 149 Minnan dialect 154 Minoprio and Spencely 230 Minto Road (Dhaka) 234 Missão de Melhoramento do Porto de Macau (see Office for the Improvement of Macau Harbour) Mitchell, Timothy 63 modernity 19-20, 36, 43-4, 50, 54-6, 63-4, 68, 144, 232, 242, 306, 319-321, 325 sanitary modernity 34, 60, 62-4, 66 Modernism 230 modernist 18-19, 41, 50, 54, 62-3, 228, 232, 235, 238 Mong Kok 99 monsoon 128 Montanha (a.k.a. Da Hengqin) 71 morality 18, 31, 34-5, 37, 40, 42-3, 49, 62 Morocco 57 Moules, Bronte 284 M+ 99 Mughal 24, 217, 220-1, 223, 238 Mukden 138 Mumbai 179, 184-5 murals 94 murder 43 Muslim 223, 228, 233, 235, 237 music 67, 96, 111, 281 Myanmar 25-6, 179, 182, 279-86, 288-9, 294-6, 298, 300 Nagasaki 138 Nagoya 146, 183 Nanjing Road (Shanghai) 66, 316-317 National Taiwan Museum (see Taiwan) National Taiwan University (see Taiwan) nationalism 31, 34-5, 48, 62, 228, 232-3 nationality 21, 93, 96, 103,105, 111, 212-213 nation building 18, 24, 31-2, 39, 50, 232, 238, 279-80, 292, 300 native races 36 natural resources (see resources) navigation 24, 187-203, 206, 208-211 Naypyidaw 194 Naypyitaw (see Naypyidaw) Neo-liberal 53, 66-7, 244-5 Netherlands, the (see also Dutch) 189, 205-207 Netherlands Harbour Works Company 72 networks 15, 17, 23, 27, 127, 135, 292, 301, 304, 318, 325 business 126, 128 cable 15 colonial/imperial 12, 27

Index

ICT 16 Network Society (see social) social 16 telecommunications (see also telecommunications) 142 wireless 140 neoclassical 150, 223 Neutra, Richard 229 Nevada desert 77 Newfoundland 205 New Songdo (International) City 17, 24-5, 241-60 new towns 18, 76, 245, 303, 309 Korea 18, 24, 139, 143-53, 156-7, 178, 183, 198, 241-7, 249-50, 253, 258, 272, 280 Singapore 13, 15-19, 25, 31-4, 36, 39-42, 45, 47-8, 50-1, 53-6, 127, 129, 157, 161, 178-80, 182-4, 187-92, 196-200, 202, 208-13, 241, 259, 261, 266-71, 273-4, 280, 303 New York 13, 25, 66, 95, 97, 103, 111, 187, 247, 251, 254 New York Times 247, 251 newspapers 56, 104, 128, 132-3, 135, 137-9 Ng, Avery 114 Nguyen dynasty 288 Nguyen Vinh Phuc 282, 298 Nietzsche, Friedrich 328 night markets 34, 53-6, 61, 64 Ningbo 306 Nippon Foundation 198-9 non-conformist thinking 65 noise 63, 67 non-governmental organizations 291 non-places 171 Nordske Veritas 175 normalization 36, 38, 41 norms 35, 49, 55, 60-4, 67, 93, 96, 105, 115, 120, 328 Northcote, Geoffrey 129 Northeast Asia Trade Tower 247 Norway 189, 198-9, 201-207 288 nostalgia 154, 156, 325 Nova Cidade de Cotai 76 Novos Aterros da Areia Preta 74 Novos Aterros do Porto Exterior 72, 74 Novas Zonas Urbanas (see New Urban Zones) 78-9 nuclear family 39 Nyiri, Pál 165 Obama, President Barack 288 Oceania 23, 174 Odessa 181 Office for the Improvement of Macau Harbour 72 oil 179, 181, 185, 187-8, 203, 209 Old Town (Jakarta) (see Kota Tua) Olympic Games 292 Open Door economic reforms 16

377 opium 33, 69, 71 Orchard Road (Singapore) 53, 66-7, 328 Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development 293 Oslo Manual 65 ORSEK (artist) 99 Osaka 146 Ottoman 207 Outer Harbour (Macau) 72 Overseas Chinese 23, 126, 159-62, 164, 307, 317 Oxford 16 Oxford English Dictionary 306 Oxford Street (London) 66 Pacific Ocean 327 coast 128 East Pacific 128 islands 146 South Pacific 146, 149, 202 West Pacific 131 Pagan (see Bagan) pagodas 289-90, 294, 296 Pak Won-ju 256 Pakistan 24, 179, 182, 207, 228, 230-3, 237 Palace of Brilliance and Auspiciousness (see Gyeongbokgung) Palmer and Turner 74 Panama 198, 206, 212 Papua New Guinea 202-203 Paramount Movie theme park 256 Paris 14, 17, 25, 186, 189, 290, 198, 306, 331 Park Chung-hee 148 parks 222, 259, 296 pasar malam 19-20, 53-7, 59, 61-5, 67-8, 328 Pasig River 268 Pearl Harbor 140 Pearl River 72, 161 Pearl River Delta 15, 17, 23, 70, 72, 159, 161, 165, 170, 182 pedicab 271 Peking (see also Beijing) 129 Penang 266-7 Pender, John 129 People’s Action Party (see Singapore) 19, 31, 54, 60, 64 People’s Republic of China (see China) 93, 98, 104-112, 115, 118, 120, 165, 170 Phan Huy Le 282 phenomenological 98 Philippines, the 134, 140, 179, 268 Pho co (see Hanoi) Pibg (artist) 121 pinball machines 42, 46 Piraeus 179, 182 pirates 189 place-making 244, 259 places of worship 61 plantation 147 plazas 266

378  Plaza Singapura (Singapore) 66 Poland 189, 206 police 32, 35-6, 38-9, 43-7, 49-51, 60-1, 108, 113, 228, 295 politics 16-17, 26, 50, 102, 106, 116, 126, 130, 138, 148, 281 political activists 113, 120 political parties 33, 120, 234 political reform 116 pollution 50, 120, 187-8, 192-7, 200, 202, 209-211, 213 polo 24, 217, 220, 222, 225 ports 64, 173-5, 179, 181-4, 186, 190, 201, 209, 262 Port Klang 182 Port Rashid 185 Porto Exterior (see Macau) Porto Interior (see Macau) Portugal 70 Portuguese colonial empire 70 Portuguese Macau 21, 69, 71, 75-6 Portuguese Malacca 188, 190 Portuguese neutrality 73 POSCO 242, 247 post-colonial 16-17, 22, 102, 196, 208, 217-218, 220, 238, 279-80, 289 postcoloniality 24, 99, 144-5, 147-51, 155-6, 160, 233 post-socialist 302 Prenzlauerberg (Berlin) 27, 301-301, 318 Prescott, Jon 73, 77 Prince of Wales Channel 202, 204 productivity 14, 24, 65, 173, 266 Probation and Aftercare Service (Singapore) 36 prostitution 33, 50, 69, 71 protectionism 172 protectorates 145-6 Prussia 189 psychiatry 36 Pudong (Shanghai) 16 public housing (see housing) Pulau Sejahat (Singapore) 48 Pusan 147 Pyongyang 147 Pyu 284 Qing (see China) Qingtian 76 Rabinow, Paul 35 racecourse 222-4, 226, 230, 232, 234, 237 racketeers 45 radar 117, 200, 204 Raffles Place (Singapore) 58 Rahman, Sheikh Mujibur 232 railways 15, 112, 143, 223-5, 229, 230, 164 Raj, the 225 Raja Sulayman 266 Ramna (Dhaka) 24, 217-136, 238-40

Asian Cities: Colonial to Global

Rangoon (see Yangon) Rangoon Municipal Act 296 Ras Tanura 181, 185 raw materials 181 REALM (artist) 104 Red River 286, 289, 291 Red Sea 206-208, 211, 213 reefs 202 REEFCENTRE 204 reform 35, 37, 40, 116, 131, 139, 192, 309, 317 religion 24, 152, 228, 232, 328 Republic of China (see China) resettlement 38-9, 269 Revenue Cutter Service 205 Rhine River 189 rice production (in Taiwan) 145-6 Rio de Janeiro 218 riparian states (see also coastal states, littoral states, and maritime states) 189 roads 15, 54, 61, 76-7, 152, 224-7, 230, 264, 266, 322 Rogoff, Iris 96 Rotterdam 209 roundworm 59 RST2 (artist) 116 Rudolph, Paul 229 ruling elites 35 Russia 172, 205 Russian Empire 14 Russian fleet 175 Saigon (see Ho Chi Minh City) saloons 42 San Francisco 48, 161 sanitary modernity (see modernity) sanitation 54, 64 SARS (see Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome) Sassen, Saskia 14, 327 schools 44-6, 61, 150, 301 Schumpeter, Joseph 65 Scott, Ridley 158 Scottish population in Yangon 286 sea turtles (see haigui) Second Sino-Japanese War (see World War II) secret societies 34, 36, 39, 43, 50 Sells, Maunsell Consultants Asia 74 Seoul 22, 143-7, 149-50, 156-7, 241, 244, 247, 257 Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome 77 sewerage 15 Shaheed Minar (see Dhaka, Language Martyrs’ Monument) Shanghai 15-17, 22, 26-7, 66, 72, 108, 125, 127-9, 136, 138-40, 143-4, 176, 179, 182-3, 301-309, 313, 315, 318, 320-1, 323, 325, 329 Shanghai alleyway house 27 Shanghai Concessions 128 Shanghai World Expo 2010 79 Shanghainese historic identity 317

Index

Shanghainese language 307 Shanghainese people 308 312 Shenyang 146-7 Shenzhen 16, 161, 163 Shin Kong Mitsukoshi Culture Hall (Taiwan) 99 Shinbun Seisaku ni Kansuru Shinkeikaku An 139 Shinbun Zasshi Sōjyū Kankei Zassan 132 Shinkyō (see Changchu) Shinpei, Gotō 155 Shintoism 151-2, 154 shipping 17-18, 23, 128, 164, 175-6, 179, 183, 185, 188, 192, 196-200, 202-203, 209, 213, 288 Shiziyang Sea Express 164 shophouses 54, 269, 290 shopkeepers 45-6 shopping malls 20, 34, 53, 66, 256, 271, 301, 317, 328 Shwedagon Pagoda (Yangon) 280, 285-6, 295-6 Siberia 23, 174 sidewalks 61, 73, 312 Siegel, Bugsy 77 Silver Theatre (Hong Kong) 99 Sino-Japanese War (see First Sino-Japanese War or World War II) Singapore 13, 15-19, 25, 31-4, 36, 39-42, 45, 47-8, 50-1, 53-6, 58-9, 127, 129, 157, 161, 178-80, 182-4, 187-92, 196-200, 202, 20-213, 241, 259, 261, 266-71, 273-4, 280, 303 SINIC (artist) 99 Sino-Portuguese Treaty of Amity and Commerce 71 6th Vietnamese Communist Party Congress 282 Siza Viera, Álvaro 74-5 SJM (artist) 75-78 skateboarding 104 SkyPier 23, 79, 165-71 slave trade 69 smuggled goods 20 social: alienation 26 disorder (etiology of) 35-6 environment 36, 41 housing 18-19 networks 16 nuisances 62 problems 18 reconstruction 36, 49 rehabilitation 36 stigmatization 35 socio-economic conditions etc. 36, 131, 171-2, 174 structures 14 work 36 upward mobility 308 Sociedade de Turismo e Diversões de Macau 73 Society 34-6, 40, 44-7, 49, 62, 78, 96, 120, 130, 143, 154, 170, 232, 253, 261-2, 264-5, 273, 279, 291, 307

379 Society of the Spectacle 261, 264 SOS (O crossed by diagonal lines) (artist) 103 souk 57 South Africa 198 South China Sea 127, 131 South Korea (see Korea) Southeast Asian Games 293 sovereignty 69-71, 93, 130, 148, 194, 207 Soviet Union 144, 148 mikrorayon 289 United States-Soviet Union Cold War (see Cold War) Spain 206 Spanish colonies 74, 268 Spanish Manila 266 Spanish Taiwan 149 space: cities as spaces of consumption 302 colonial 102 commercial 56-7, 59, 68 domestic 39, 320 everyday use of 276 ‘global’ 242, 251 hierarchies of 273 hybrid 227 space of disappearance (Abbas) 102 perception of (Lefebvre) 96-7 public 21, 59-60, 63-4, 94, 97-9, 101-103, 107-108, 114, 120-1, 218, 221-2, 317 urban 21-2, 25, 93-5, 103, 107, 156, 172 vacant 45 spatial practices 96-7, 242 Special Economic Zone 16, 18, 24, 78-9, 192-3, 204, 208, 210, 241, 243, 246, 259-60 SPOON (artist) 104 squares 261 squatters 256, 274 Starbucks 99 State Owned Enterprise 164, 302 State University of New York Stony Brook 251 steamers (see steamships) steamships 72 straits 24, 187-201, 203, 208-213 Straits Times, The 55-6, 59, 67 Start From Zero (artist) 108, 112, 116 street art (see graffiti) street hawking (see hawking) street vendors 54, 59, 271-2, 274 subaltern 172 submarines 193 submarine cables 127, 129, 136, 138-40 subway 94, 97, 107 Suez Canal 179, 207-208, 212, 262 sugar plantations in Taiwan 145 Sunshine Policy 149, 312 supertankers (see also tankers) 188 surveillance 40, 43, 47, 49, 204, 206, 250 Sustainable City Award 249 Sweden 205-207, 288 SYAN... (artist) 104, 111-112

380  Sydell, Peter 73 Sydney Opera House 25 Syngman Rhee 148 Ta Kung Pao 134 Tadasu, Hayashi 130 Tainan 145, 147 Taipa 71-2, 76-8 Taipei 22, 143-150, 155-8 Taiwan 17, 22-3, 99, 111, 125, 133-4, 139, 143, 145-57, 159-60, 162-4, 171, 178, 307-8 Takeshi, Hamashita 126 Tang, Henry 116 tankers (see also supertankers) 203-204 Tatsuichirō, Funatsu 131-2 Tatsumaru Incident 131, 135, 137 Tavorá, Fernando 74 tax 59, 69, 139, 170, 243 Taylorized logic 170 Technology (see also informaton) 14-15, 46, 56, 65, 127, 129-30, 144, 245, 247, 249-50 Technical Expert Group 196 Technical University of Delft (see Delft University of Technology) telecommunications 15, 130, 142, 292 telegraph/telegraphy 127-9, 138, 140 tenements 161, 163, 170 terrorist attacks 188 Thang Long 284, 286, 288, 291, 293 Thant Myint-U, Dr 283-4, 296 The Death Squad (TDS) (artist) 103 Thevathasan, Dr 41 Third World 171 3DOM (artist) 104 313@Somerset (Singapore) 66 Tian’anmen Incident 93, 113, 120 Tian’anmen Square 112 Tianjin 138, 180 Tianzifang (Shanghai) 314-2315, 317-320 Tiger Economies (see economy) Tigerman, Stanley 229 ‘tikam tikam’ cards 45 Tiong Bahru (Singapore) 268-70 Titanic, RMS 204 toilets 40 Tokyo 22, 129, 138, 143, 146, 154, 157 tolls 188-90, 192-3, 196, 208 Tomorrow City 250 Tonkin 286, 288 Torii 152 torpor 62 Torres Strait 202-204, 210-211 Toshihiko, Etō 134-5 Total Recall 158 tourism 26, 48, 65-7, 77, 79, 155, 171, 251, 261-3, 268-70, 272, 274, 276, 279, 281-2, 290, 292, 295, 299 towers (see also high-rise) 18-19, 154, 235, 237, 247-8, 301, 313, 321

Asian Cities: Colonial to Global

towns (see also new towns) 13, 18, 147, 161, 222, 245, 303, 309, 327 trade (see also slave trade) 23, 58-9, 61, 69-70, 127-9, 131, 144, 149, 157, 161, 172, 175-6, 178-9, 183, 185, 188, 211, 221, 262, 286, 288-9 traders 57, 128, 159, 164, 170, 286 Traditional Chinese Medicine 272 transit hubs 181 transport 160, 163-4, 170-1, 174, 183, 292 Tratado de Amizade e Comércio SinoPortuguês (see Sino-Portuguese Treaty of Amity and Commerce) Treaty of Shimonoseki 149 Treaty on the Redemption of the Sound Dues between Denmark and other European maritime powers 191 treaty port 127, 306-307 Trinity House 201 tropical colonial style 150 Tsai Jung-fong 131 Tsang Tsou-choi (see King of Kowloon) Tsoi Yiu Lun 126 Turkey 198, 207, 228 incident 148, 151, 223, 228, 276 U-city technologies 250 underground trains 23, 159-60, 167 UNESCO 281-3, 291, 299-300 Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (see Soviet Union) United Arab Emirates 198 United Arab Republic 207 United Kingdom (see also Britain and British) 198, 200-210, 206-209, 211-212, 280 United Nations 187, 191-2, 195, 214, 243, 249, 265, 290, 292 United States 97, 103, 112, 127, 144, 148-9, 162, 190-1, 198-9, 202, 205-207, 210-213, 242, 244, 249, 280, 282-3, 288, 298, 305, 307-308, 327 upward mobility (see social) urban (see also urbanization): urban space (see also space) 22, 25, 93, 95, 107, 156, 172 art images (see also graff iti) 21, 93-7, 99, 102-103, 105-108, 111, 113, 115-116, 118, 120-1 environment 13, 17, 19, 21, 25, 33-5, 96-7 expression 18 heritage 25-6, 261-6, 272-4, 276-7, 279, 283-4, 296, 298 urban-heritage discourse 25 identity (see also identity) 20, 25, 75, 261, 263-4, 271, 274, 276-7 morphology 174, 218, 251, 321, 325 population 320 renewal 31, 37, 44, 302, 312 theorists 170 villages (see Jakarta) Urban Redevelopment Authority (Singapore) 268

381

Index

urbanization 18, 31, 36, 77, 218, 257, 262 Ursprung 328 vandalism 114 Varzin Passage 202 Venice 25 Biennale 98 Venetian Macau, the 78 vernacular 25, 261-5, 271, 273-7 vice 31-3, 41, 44, 46-7, 50, 78 Vicente, Manuel 73 Victoria Concert Hall (Singapore) 268 Victoria Harbour (Hong Kong) 71 Victoria Park (Hong Kong) 113 Victorian taste 223 Vietnam 26, 148, 279-86, 288-91, 293, 295 Vigneron, Frank 97 villages 54, 80, 161-3, 222, 266, 273, 275 violence 31, 43, 49, 62 visas 164-5, 172 Vrooman, Richard 229 Wagas 308 Wan Chai (Hong Kong) 106-107 Wanping 133 warships 193, 204 water 54, 57, 59, 64, 77, 221, 266, 273 waterways 189-90, 193, 200, 209-212, 271, 286 Wayang (see China) Weihai Road (Shanghai) 316, 318-319 Weihai Road 696 318-319 Wenzlhuemer, Roland 130 Western: art 93, 98 colonial domination of Asia 17 corporations 282 furniture 254 influence 157 media 321 powers 129, 149, 152 tastes 306 wet markets 161, 309-310, 313

Whitlam, Gough 283 Williamsburg (New York) 27, 301-302, 318 Wonsan 147 Woodlands (Singapore) 55-6, 59 World Bank 290 world city (see also global city) 327 world economy (see economy) World Heritage (see heritage) World War I 131, 207 World War II 22, 73, 125, 128-9, 133, 140, 142, 145-6, 227, 268 Wong, Kacey 115 wrecks 199-201 Wuyuan Road (Shanghai) 313-314 Wynn Resorts 75, 78 Xi Jinping 110 Xi River 71, 76 Xiao Hengqin (see Hengqin) Xintiandi (Shanghai) 314-315, 317, 319 Yale University 254 Yangon 17, 26, 185, 267, 279-88, 293-9, 329 Yangtze 15, 179, 320 Yangzhou 306 Yedo (see Tokyo) Yemen 208 Yeoungjong Island 241 Yi dynasty 153 Yim, Rocco 76 Yokohama 146, 179 Yomiuri-Hōchi 135 Yongkang Lu (Shanghai) 304-305, 309-314, 317, 319-20, 325 Yonsei University 251 Zenrin Kyōkai 133 ZEPHYR (artist) 103 Zheng Chenggong 149 Zhuhai 78-9 Zona Aterros do Porto Exterior 72