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International Critical Geography Conference (ICCG), Athens, 19-23 April 2019.


Session organisers

Craig Jones, Newcastle University

Rhys Machold, Glasgow University

Derek Gregory, University of British Columbia


New wars and old wars, everywhere and nowhere wars, forever and unending wars. This nomenclature can distract from the immediate and local ways in which war is fought and the intimacies of time and space upon which its prosecution relies (Kinsella, forthcoming). Recent and not-so-recent debates about war take for granted what we mean when we talk about war (and not-war), but through these very debates it has become clear that we are not always talking about the same thing(s).

In this session we re-pose and extend a question asked by Etienne Balibar a decade ago: ‘what’s in a war?’ (Balibar, 2008). Balibar’s question was motivated by a desire to understand the shape, content and changing character of the ‘war on terror’ – a war (or set of wars) that has inspired many critiques across the social sciences and beyond. But the war on terror has also inspired several ways of reconceptualising war and its relation to other forms of violence, so much so that we must extend Balibar’s question about war in ways that allow us to more fully interrogate its spatiotemporal horizons as well as it’s putative exceptionality and relationship to other forms of (re)emergent violence.  

Emerging approaches to war, violence and militarization herald all sorts of possible ways forward for re-thinking the war-violence continuum. Recent feminist scholarship on military and police violence instruct us to see their connections, for instance, via ‘the right to Maim’ (Puar, 2017). Alison Howell has recently implored us to dispense with the concept of militarization altogether in favour of what she calls “martial politics”, signalling both a ‘need to be attentive to war-like relations or technologies and knowledges that are “of war”, and aiding in our understanding of ‘the indivisibility of war and peace, military and civilian, and national and social security’ (Howell, 2018: 118). Extending interrogations of the intersections between war and police power (Neocleous 2014) Micol Seigel’s notion ‘violence work’  develops a slightly different critique of ‘militarization’ calling out the idea of separated military/civilian spheres a liberal “fiction” yet emphasizing that  the “Twin vehicles of state violence, police and military rub up against each other in productive friction” (Seigel 2008: 6). Ann Laura Stoler defines her notion of “duress” as “a relationship of actualized and anticipated violence” (2016: 8), arguing that duress is “increasingly found to be ricocheting back and forth across the imperial world” (64). In different ways, these interventions encourage us to move beyond a critique of entrenched boundaries and binaries – war/peace, military/police, civilian/combatant, etc. – to consider the politics at work within these representations. This emerging work also suggests possible novel ways forward for reclaiming and reframimg these binaries and imagining new modes of resistance to war and war-like violence.

We encourage papers that broadly address the following questions and topics, not limited to:

·      What is war?

·      What, if anything, is exceptional, heightened or exemplary about war and how does it relate to other forms of violence and coercion?

·      ‘Paradigmatic’ wars, warfare ‘laboratories’, war ‘hot-spots’

·      Targeting bodies and populations

·      Killing, injuring, maiming, and disability

·      War power/police power

·      Gendered violence and intimate war

·      Infrastructural warfare

·      Urban warfare/ war in/on cities

·      War, medicine and health care under fire

·      Sensate regimes and corpographies of war

·      The juridification of war

·      War and occupation

·      Locating the everywhere war

·      Algorithmic, electronic, robotic and cyber war

·      More-than-human/other-than-human war

·      War, ruins and historical memory

Please submit abstracts of around 200 words to by 29 September 2018. Please send expressions of interest ASAP given the very short time-frame - our apologies for this.


Ungovernable life in Iraq

EDITORS NOTE: This is the first in a three-post series that engages with Anthropologist Omar Dewachi's book, Ungovernable life: Mandatory medicine and statecraft in Iraq (SUP, 2017). Subsequent posts will be posted in the coming weeks. 




Iraq has long been subject to the brutal war powers of imperialist states. From the “aerial policing” bombings of the British Royal Air Force in the 1920s to successive US-led bombing campaigns – and crippling economic sanctions – since the early 1990s, Iraq is no stranger to military violence and occupation. In Ungovernable Life: Mandatory Medicine and Statecraft in Iraq, Anthropologist and Physician Omar Dewachi traces these imperial legacies of war through the lens of the constitution and decimation of Iraqi medicine. In contrast to isolated and bounded conceptions of medicine, this book understands the making of mandatory medicine in Iraq as a story of “statecraft and infrastructure development” (p.25) across colonial and postcolonial time, implicated in overlapping local, national and transnational histories of people, patronage, expertise and modes of governance.

The formation of Iraqi medicine has been central to Iraqi statecraft, enabling the state to expand its administrative reach through the provision of health and welfare services to its population. In turn, the dismemberment of state healthcare from decades of war and occupation has deformed the state’s capacity to care for its population, resulting in the exodus of doctors and widespread agony, affliction and death. For Dewachi, if we can understand how the engineering of medicine has been important for national statecraft, then we can better understand how the decimation of medical infrastructure and healthcare go hand in hand with the collapse of the state.



The chapters in Ungovernable Life are structured around the role that different dimensions of medicine have had in the development of state infrastructure and governance practices in Iraq. Chapter 1 situates the origins of mandatory medicine in the inception of the British colonial mandate in Iraq after the First World War. The Mandate established the territorial boundaries of Iraq, gave the British ruling classes developmental “tutelage” over the Iraqi state, and crystallized links of unequal power and imperial patronage between the elite British medical establishment and a burgeoning Iraqi medical enterprise. Chapter 2 analyses the experimental expansion and modernization of a public health infrastructure in Iraq, which functioned as a population management strategy designed to avert the dangers that disease epidemics posed to economic productivity.

In Chapters 3 and 4, Dewachi describes the consolidation of Iraqi medical expertise as a formative nation-building project, symbolized in the inauguration of the Baghdad Royal College of Medicine in 1930. Such medical-educational institutions reflected and reinforced the institutionalization of relations of exchange between the British imperial metropole and Iraqi doctors seeking specialized training. The Iraqi state sponsored doctors to receive training at British medical schools in exchange for a stint of rural service upon return to Iraq (often contested by doctors). The state cultivated the figure of the doctor as an emblem of national citizenship “who is cosmopolitan, Western oriented, and loyal to king and country” (p. 103). In this way, the doctor was made responsible for advancing Iraq into medical modernity, extending healthcare to poorer rural populations and extending the reach of the state.



Chapter 6 turns attention to the effects of the Iran-Iraq War (1980-88) on the medical infrastructure in Iraq. As a “terrain for the mobilization of different regimes of population politics,” the war enabled transformations in the “productive” politics of state medicine (p. 130).  To offset human capital loss and heavy financial expenditures, the Iraqi state mobilized its doctors to respond to wartime injury, incorporated women into the diminishing labor force, and fostered pro-natal fertility and reproduction policies which encouraged population replenishment.

In 1991, the US and its allies launched Operation Desert Storm in a nominal bid to challenge Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait. Dewachi explains:

In the main, coalition forces devoted their energies to the strategic destruction of Iraq’s infrastructure. Aerial bombardment and cruise missiles hammered Iraqi cities for forty days, dropping more than 90,000 tons of bombs. In Baghdad, bridges linking the two banks of the Tigris River were demolished, power stations were destroyed, and water sanitation systems across the country were ruined. Decades of infrastructure work had been undone.
— p. 130

Following the US decimation of the infrastructure on which Iraq’s civilian population relied, the UN – led by the US – implemented a crippling sanctions embargo which remained in place right up to the re-invasion of Iraq in 2003. This campaign choked the Iraqi economy by restricting the importation of goods, and thus further assaulted the capacity of civilians to access basic items necessary for survival, including food and medicines. This reversed earlier reductions in infant and child mortality, and resulted in the avoidable death of an estimated half a million Iraqi children, according to the Guardian. As Dewachi writes, the “dismemberment of state infrastructure and the mass exodus of Iraq’s doctors under decades of US-led intervention has been one of the central tragedies of Iraq’s health-care system” (p. 151). 

In the Conclusion, Dewachi brings the analysis of the book to bear on the contemporary social and bodily effects of decades of war and occupation in Iraq. As is now well known, in 2003 a US-led coalition launched “Operation Iraqi Freedom” under false pretenses, reinvigorating a cascade of violence in Iraq and beyond. The US invasion and counterinsurgency occupation, the ravages of the drone- and special operations-based targeted killing apparatus, sectarian civil war and the rise and fall of the Islamic State, and the continuing US-led coalition air war have all coalesced to invade and destroy the everyday lifeworlds of Iraqis.

Dewachi argues that decades of war have exposed the population of Iraq to the harmful toxicological effects of residues of exploded munitions. Multiple generations of Iraqis have absorbed the material residues of weapons ordnance, with devastating consequences for their health. Since the Gulf War, Dewachi writes, “cancer deaths in Iraq have been on the rise,” exacerbated by the deterioration of oncological care (p.179). The US bears a huge responsibility for this regime of toxicity. It deployed tens of thousands of depleted uranium shells – known to be highly carcinogenic – in both the 1991 and 2003 wars in Iraq. In a piece on “toxic war,” historian Toby C. Jones explains:

Lurking in the detritus of war and in shelled-out buildings, coating tons of metallic scrap that line the highways and that are often collected, reused, and sold by hard-scrabble merchants, circulating in the water supply and in the soil, are the radioactive and toxic remnants of America’s technological approach to modern war. Much of the damage will only be realized decades from now, as slow developing cancers and other latent effects take shape, but Iraq already suffers from chronic crises such as alarmingly high rates of congenital birth defects. In a 2012 study, six Iraqi, Iranian, and American scholars argued that birth defects in one Basra hospital had increased seventeen-fold between 2003 and 2011. Much of this is likely the result of the widespread use of depleted uranium (DU) ordinance, thousands of tons of which the U.S. military dropped or fired on Iraq between 1991 and 2010.
— Toby C. Jones, Toxic War

Dewachi’s analysis uncovers the “toxic legacies of war on the Iraqi population,” and shows how the disproportionate exposure to life-destroying toxic materials is a direct consequence of imperial war-making and its decimation of medical infrastructure (p.179). 





Dewachi’s book opens new space for the critical exploration of the uneven effects of militarism on the lives of ordinary people. It extends analysis of the lived experience of toxic warfare, as part of a longer history of deliberate military destruction of life-sustaining environments, of which US chemical warfare during the Vietnam War (1955-1975) is another pertinent example. More broadly, Dewachi foregrounds the unequally distributed exposure to toxicity faced by poorer and marginalised peoples, evident from Iraq to the domestic United States. This suggests a connection between “internal” and “external” forms of toxification, which links the plight of Iraqis affected by the toxicities of US war to the suffering of US populations exposed to toxic substances, both of whom are harmed by the very state obligated to protect them under national and international laws. Although experienced differently and produced through distinct forms of racism and imperialism, vulnerable populations in both Iraq and the United States are subject to the structural violence of environmental contamination and infrastructural deprivation – in one case through expeditionary war and occupation, and in the other through the racialised infrastructural politics of neoliberalism. As we have seen, those negatively affected by toxic structural violence are often deemed by the state as disposable, and unworthy of medical care and social protection. In the United States, for instance, lower-income people of colour are disproportionately segregated in communities near toxic waste sites and other high-pollution areas, causing a range of chronic health problems. The 2014 Flint water crisis revealed how people of colour disproportionately face the toxic effects of contaminated water, whose origins lie not only in inept management but the privatisation of municipal water provision as part of a broader project of neoliberal governance.

In this context, the unequal social distribution of toxicity provides a useful analytical lens through which to map the entanglements of racism, war, imperialism and neoliberalism, and how these social processes collude to produce harmful effects for populations excluded from the sphere of social care and political recognition. Understanding how social toxicity – and the slow violence it sustains – is constructed through a politically generated nexus of racism, imperialism, neoliberalism and war is a critical task for interdisciplinary social science today. Through Ungovernable Life and work like it, patterns of toxification can be understood not as individuated biological phenomena isolated from power and politics, but rather as systemic forms of political violence against poor and working people born from the deep inequalities built into capitalist societies.

What work might the concept of ungovernability do when applied to new problems across different social and geographical contexts? Dewachi’s work challenges dominant state narratives of “ungoverned space” by excavating the historical and political conditions of possibility for a place to be perceived as and made to be ungovernable. This move historicises the category of “ungovernable,” to reveal how it is both socially configured within a larger field of power and instrumentalised for specific political ends. This grates against hegemonic state discourses which frame conflict and instability within “failed states” as endogenous processes disarticulated from histories of imperial intervention. How then can analysts extend this oppositional concept of ungovernability to examine how increasingly authoritarian neoliberal states justify the intensification of war and police powers through the construction of dangerous “ungoverned spaces” in need of “pacification”?

For instance, in his ethnography of police power in French banlieues, anthropologist Didier Fassin examines how police practices of the “war on crime” disproportionately target marginalized urban communities of color. These communities are understood by police as dangerous warzones populated with enemy combatants, revealing the blending of war and police logics in racialized police practices. But, as Fassin suggests, the cultural representation of the banlieues as ungoverned spaces in need of police intervention emerges from a history of racial governance and oppression intimately entwined with the legacy of French colonialism. How, in this vein, can analysts continue to think with ungovernability as a tool for contesting normative understandings of what – and who – counts as ungoverned and ungovernable?

Ungovernable Life is a masterful and timely work in historical medical anthropology, which renders visible the concealed effects of the unraveling of Iraqi medical infrastructure, and situates this unraveling in a thick national historical experience of European colonial domination, draconian sanctions, and imperialist war. It is a remarkable addition to Omar Dewachi’s impressive work on the interaction of health and war, developed in an intellectual field which has largely ignored the transformation and pulverisation of Iraq, and the larger military ecology of US imperialism. Comprehensive in historical reach, analytically powerful, and offering a profound critique of violence, Ungovernable Life opens new ethical and political possibilities for thinking about the critical role that medical infrastructure plays in making, and unmaking, both the power of the state and the lives of the people under its care.

Syria: bombspace

Amber chrome reminiscent of the 'Shock and Awe' bombing of Baghdad in 2003, surface-to-air missiles illuminate the night sky of Damascus.    AP Photo/Hassan Ammar

Amber chrome reminiscent of the 'Shock and Awe' bombing of Baghdad in 2003, surface-to-air missiles illuminate the night sky of Damascus. AP Photo/Hassan Ammar

Last week, the United States, United Kingdom, and France launched sea and air strikes against chemical weapons sites in Damascus and Homs, Syria. The strikes came in response to the Syrian government’s use of chemical weapons in the city of Douma on 7 April 2018.

The Coalition fired around one hundred missiles in total, reportedly destroying key chemical weapons research and production facilities. The reaction around the globe to these strikes has been mixed. Russia and Syria claim that there was no chemical weapons attack in Douma, and that the US-led strikes were a violation of Syria’s sovereignty. The bombing coalition claim that the chemical weapons attack in Douma crossed a ‘red line’ and that the strikes were necessary to prevent Assad using chemical weapons again (a spurious argument I return to below). Meanwhile, in the UK many have expressed concern with the legality of the strikes, and particularly with Prime Ministers Teresa May’s decision to not consult Parliament before dropping bombs on Syria.

But this is not the first time that coalition forces have bombed Syria. Amid the political and media maelstrom over chemical weapons and the recent strikes in Damascus and Homs, it seems to have been forgotten that a broad military coalition has been dropping bombs in Syria since 2014. Domestic and international debates about whether the US, UK, and France should have bombed Syria last week have largely neglected the arguably more important fact that all of these states – and many more – have long been involved in a concerted bombing campaign in Syria.

Location and aerial imagery of Coalition strikes in Syria, 13 April 2018   . US Department of Defense

Location and aerial imagery of Coalition strikes in Syria, 13 April 2018. US Department of Defense

One mission, many nations”, The Combined Joint Task Force – Operation Inherent Resolve.    US Department of Defense

One mission, many nations”, The Combined Joint Task Force – Operation Inherent Resolve. US Department of Defense

In 2012, President Obama told the world that the use of chemical weapons by the Assad regime in Syria would be “a red line for us”. Almost exactly a year later, Syria launched a brutal chemical attack in the eastern Ghouta suburb of Damascus, killing more than 1,500 people. Obama promised a response but opted for Congressional authorization, which was not forthcoming. Meanwhile, the UK Prime Minister David Cameron proposed a government motion to intervene in Syria, but the House of Commons voted against it. The West opted instead to endorse a plan to remove chemical weapons stocks from Syria. According to the US Department of Defense, Syria’s chemical arsenal was fully destroyed within a year. There would be no military intervention, for now.

In June 2014 the so-called Islamic State burst onto the world scene, declaring itself a worldwide caliphate and seizing control of Mosul and other cities in Iraq. The US moved swiftly and by August 2014 began conducting airstrikes against the Islamic State. Most of the initial strikes were focused on the Islamic State in Iraq, but as the terrorist group advanced further and further into territories in Syria, so the bombs soon followed. The wars in Iraq and Syria increasingly became one. What began as a series of ad hoc US airstrikes in Iraq and Syria soon developed into an extensive and formalised coalition of bombing.

In October 2014 the United States established the Combined Joint Task Force – Operation Inherent Resolve (CJTF-OIR), a coalition designed to “degrade and ultimately destroy” the Islamic State. The Coalition mandate covered both Iraq and Syria. At first, the UK’s Royal Air Force was limited to striking targets in Iraq (though it was flying surveillance missions over Syria as early as October 2014). But in December 2015, the UK Parliament that had only one year earlier voted against military action against the Assad regime approved military strikes against the Islamic State in Syria. Operation Inherent Resolve, now well into its fourth year, consists of more than sixty coalition partners, including all NATO members and many local forces on the ground and in the region. Thirteen of these coalition members are bombing in Syria – along with the air forces of Russia, Iran, Iraq, Israel and the Assad regime. The UK plays a key role in the Coalition and is second only to the US in terms of the number of airstrikes it has conducted in Iraq and Syria.

Coalition strikes in Syria and Iraq from August 2014 - June 2017. Due to difficulties in reporting, many strike locations are approximations.     Airwars /Combined Joint Task Force – Operation Inherent Resolve

Coalition strikes in Syria and Iraq from August 2014 - June 2017. Due to difficulties in reporting, many strike locations are approximations. Airwars/Combined Joint Task Force – Operation Inherent Resolve

Making sense of the coalition bombing campaign in Iraq and Syria is not easy. Although the US Department of Defense has periodically released data about US and coalition airstrikes, it is patchy at best and the methods of reporting have been inconsistent and incomplete. Compounding difficulties is the fact that several coalition members also disclose their individual military activities in Iraq and Syria – but each have their own method for doing so, and they disclose and withhold different information. The result is a complex bombing space that is characteristic of modern multinational military operations, but it has meant that extra efforts have had to be made to render even the basics of the battlespace somewhat transparent.

A series of organisations have rushed to fill the information vacuum in terms of counting airstrikes and their casualties., a not-for-profit transparency project aimed “both at tracking and archiving international military actions in conflict zones such as Iraq, Syria and Libya”, has been tracking the coalition bombing campaign since it began in 2014. Its dataset and findings serve as an important reminder that there is an extensive and concerning recent history to the bombing of Syria, not to mention Iraq.

As of August 9, 2017, the coalition had conducted 13,331 strikes in Iraq, and 11,235 strikes in Syria, totalling 24,566 strikes in support of Operation Inherent Resolve. According to the US Air Force, the Coalition has fired over well over 100,000 weapons as part of the operation. This is a lot of bombs by any measure, but what is especially concerning about the ongoing bombing campaign against the Islamic State is that it has caused a high number of civilian casualties.

Coalition airstrikes in Iraq and Syria: Alleged civilian deaths and levels of reporting, August 2014-April 2018 .      Airwars

Coalition airstrikes in Iraq and Syria: Alleged civilian deaths and levels of reporting, August 2014-April 2018. Airwars

Cumulative US and allied airstrikes in Syria, December 2014-June 2017.   Airwars

Cumulative US and allied airstrikes in Syria, December 2014-June 2017. Airwars

Between 8 August 2014 and 31 March 2018, Airwars has found that an overall total of between 17,383 and 25,839 civilian non-combatant fatalities have been locally alleged from 2,493 separate reported coalition incidents, in both Iraq and Syria. Of these, Airwars estimates that a minimum of 6,259 to 9,604 civilians are likely to have been killed in Coalition actions. The organisation urges some caution with these numbers because of the significant challenges posed by casualty verification, but their rigorous methodology classifies these civilian casualties as a combination of “confirmed” and “likely”. The Coalition itself has so far confirmed that 770 civilians have been killed as a result of its operations, but is currently investigating many more incidents.

The US and UK pride themselves on their commitment to minimise civilian casualties, but there is always a high risk to civilians in warfare. The US military uses something called the “Non-Combatant Casualty Cut-off Value”, a term that denotes “a threshold above which the U.S. will hesitate to strike because there is a likelihood that too many civilians will be killed or injured.” In the early days of the bombing of Baghdad in 2003 “the magic number was 30”, according to Marc Garlasco, the Department of Defence’s chief of high-value targeting at the start of the Iraq war. This meant, “if you hit 30 as the anticipated number of civilians killed, the airstrike had to go to Rumsfeld or Bush personally to sign off.” If the expected number of civilian deaths was less than 30, however, neither the president nor the secretary of defense needed to know: the civilians were killed without the need for higher approval. The "magic number" has gone up and down since the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, depending on the political and military circumstance of the day. In 2015, when tolerance for civilian casualties was unprecedentedly low the NCV was lowered to zero. By the US militaries’ own admission, this objective “was not met”. But in early 2016 worrying reports emerged that the US had relaxed its rules of engagement for targeting specific sites where the Islamic State was storing cash. CNN’s Barbara Starr reported, “U.S. commanders had been willing to consider up to 50 civilian casualties from the airstrike due to the importance of the target”, adding that “the U.S. has said it will assess all targets on a case-by-case basis and may be more willing to tolerate civilians casualties for more significant targets."

In light of the vexed issue of civilian casualties, Professor Neta C. Crawford, a Political Scientist at Boston University and Director of the Costs of War Project has asked: “How Many Iraqi and Syrian civilians is it acceptable for the U.S. to put at risk of injury or death in air strikes against ISIS militants?” This is not an easy question to answer, but it points to a painfully inevitable cost of the ongoing bombing campaigns in Syria and beyond – one that is seldom discussed outside of a small group of concerned organisations but which should surely factor into any future decisions about bombing Syria – or anywhere else.

As the latest salvo of bombs rain down on Syria three final points are worth making. First, bombing in Syria nothing new. The people of Syria have endured eight years of aerial assault, a punishing siege regime, and conditions of war unimaginable to ‘us’ in the West. Over 500,000 people have been killed and over half of the Syrian population has been displaced. The Syrian regime is responsible for the overwhelming amount of death and destruction, and so too are Russia and Iran for supporting Assad. Russia’s track record of bombing in Syria is no betterand is likely worse – than that of the US or any Coalition member in terms of civilian casualties (Airwars also tracks Russian airstrikes in Syria, as does the citizen-journalist site Bellingcat). There is a palpable sense in which Syria is now seen simply and narrowly as a space that must be bombed – this is a view shared not just by the Assad regime, but by the many international actors who have done their part to turn Syria into a bombspace. Syria as bombspace bears more than a passing resemblance to the charred rubble and destroyed cities of the second world war; cities like Aleppo, Homs, Hama and, more recently, the suburb of Ghouta are the twenty-first century equivilants of Dresden, Hamburg, and Coventry.

Homs, a city in ruins.  Associated Press

Homs, a city in ruins. Associated Press

Second, the US-led bombing of Syria was not born out of some humanitarian conviction for the people of Syria, even less the desire to prevent the Syrian regime from using a toxic and cruel mix of chemical weapons, barrel and cluster bombs, and a suite of conventional - but no less deadly - weapons. Indeed, as Derek Gregory over at reminds me, the so-called 'red line' over chemical weapons and the military response to chemical warfare tacitly legitimises the many other forms of killing in the Assad repetoir. 'Red lines' on chemical weapons give a green light to all other weapons and methods of killing. The US and Coalition partners began bombing Syria because of their strategic geopolitical interests in the region, and to stamp-out the Islamic State. The latter serves the interests of both the Syrian regime and Russia, because while the Coaltion is busy bombing the Islamic State, they have been able to focus on their war with the Syrian opposition.

The strikes last week have conflated two vastly different strategies, if not entirely different wars – and this brings me to the final point. The International Crisis Group has rightly called the conflict in Syria a “constellation of overlapping crises”, but as far as the international Coalition is concerned there are two wars. The first war is between the Syrian regime and its people, and for the last eight years they have shown very little interest in it. The second war is the one against Islamic State and while the gaze of the Coalition - and global media - has been focused squarely on them,  Assad and Russia have been left to their own devices, pursuing a brutal war not only on the opposion forces, but also the Syrian people and the infrastructures that once sustained them.

Defeating the Islamic State, and not alleviating the “extreme humanitarian suffering of the Syrian people” as the UK Government would have it, is the geopolitical endgame of our contemporary bombing in Syria. If, indeed, there is an endgame at all.

Syria: Irony and the refugee state

Chatty - Syria - Front.jpeg

I've just finished reading Dawn Chatty's Syria: The making and unmaking of a refugee state, published by Hurst (U.K.) and OUP (U.S. and elsewhere) just a few weeks ago. It's an impressive, far-ranging, and devastatingly timely book that intersects in all kinds of ways with my current research on war wounds and the journeys made by the injured and sick within and across borders in the Middle East (see here). I want to offer some initial reflections, but first the description from OUP:

The dispossession and forced migration of nearly 50 per cent of Syria’s population has produced the greatest refugee crisis since World War II. This new book places the current displacement within the context of the widespread migrations that have indelibly marked the region throughout the last 150 years. Syria itself has harbored millions from its neighboring lands, and Syrian society has been shaped by these diasporas.

Dawn Chatty explores how modern Syria came to be a refuge state, focusing first on the major forced migrations into Syria of Circassians, Armenians, Kurds, Palestinians, and Iraqis. Drawing heavily on individual narratives and stories of integration, adaptation, and compromise, she shows that a local cosmopolitanism came to be seen as intrinsic to Syrian society. She examines the current outflow of people from Syria to neighboring states as individuals and families seek survival with dignity, arguing that though the future remains uncertain, the resilience and strength of Syrian society both displaced internally within Syria and externally across borders bodes well for successful return and reintegration. If there is any hope to be found in the Syrian civil war, it is in this history.

Professor Dawn Chatty is a social anthropologist at the Refugee Study Centre at the University of Oxford. Both academic and practitioner, Chatty has spent prolonged periods living and working in Syria and elsewhere in the Middle East and it is immediately clear that the book is the result of many years spent on the ground talking to and living among many of those who she writes about. She draws on a seriously impressive set of interviews that span a decade (2005-2015) and which took her to Aleppo, Amman, Beirut, Damascus, Gaziantep and Istanbul. It's an anthropology that brings Syria and it's displaced to life, even amidst the death and destruction, and offers hope by turning to history and the making of a refugee state. Chatty "strives to illuminate the ethnographic, [and] the individual lived experience" (p.6) in a way that both inspires and reassures. It inspires because I think these kind of accounts are sorely missing from discussions about Syria, which are so often caught up in state- and proxy-war geopolitics, and it reassures me because this is exactly what I want to do in my research on the journeys of the sick and wounded in and out of Syria and Iraq - although I've got a lot of work to do even to come close to something like what Chatty has produced. 

When I first picked up the book, I was most interested in those displaced by the war in Syria since 2011; that is, I was interested less in the making of Syria as a refugee state, and more in its unmaking (and the implications of this unmaking across borders). But Chatty carefully shows how the history of Syria as a destination for refugees over the last 150 years has shaped not only Syrian displacements but also the regional response to those displacements today. Part of the argument is that the Greater Middle East has been marked by migration and displacement - under Ottoman rule, the British Mandate, and successive wars in the twentieth century - and that Syria has long been a place of refuge, and a place that accepts the 'Other' with local conviviality and tolerance toward difference. But Chatty goes further, and argues that if we want to understand the mass movement of Syrians to neighbouring states today (see the map below), we must take a "birds-eye view of the ethnic composition of Syria in the late Ottoman era and in the modern state carved out of the general Ottoman region known as Bilad al-Sham (Greater Syria or the Levant) " (p. 8). Ethnicity, and religious and familial ties spanning decades and centuries have a great impact on who is displaced and where individuals and groups end up - and this, of course, opens up a geography of displacement that is intimately tied to the making and unmaking of Syria as a refugee state.

Syria Regional Refugee Response. Source:  UNHCR Inter-agency Information Sharing Portal

Syria Regional Refugee Response. Source: UNHCR Inter-agency Information Sharing Portal

I have been insisting for some time that the so-called "refugee crisis" that took root in Europe in 2015 was - and still is -  minor compared to what many Middle Eastern states have faced since around 2012-2013, and indeed continue to face. To put things into perspective, in 2015 Europe received around 1 million refugee claims in total. From April 2011 to December 2017, Europe received 1,015,500 asylum applications from Syrians fleeing the violence (over 60% of these were made to only two countries - Germany and Sweden). These are not insignificant, of course, but compare them to the statistics in the following paragraph and see the infographics below produced by Al Jazeera, which help put things into perspective.

There are over 5.5 million registered Syrian refugees (and over 7 million internally displaced persons within Syria). Turkey alone has taken-in 3.5 million Syrian refugees. Lebanon, a state which had a population of around 4.4 million in 2010, has now accepted nearly 1 million Syrian refugees - Chatty claims that the influx of Syrian refugees into Lebanon increased the overall population by around 30%. For it's part, Jordan has resettled over 650,00 Syrian refugees among it's population of around 6.5 million. We must remember, pace Chatty's central argument, that these states were already home to several million refugees before the fighting even started in Syria. But for me one of the most shocking statistics is Iraq: nearly 250,000 Syrians have sought refuge there. Iraq is a state that has been decimated by war in recent decades - not just the U.S.-led invasion in 2003, but also the First Gulf War, a decade of crippling international sanctions, and - before all that - a brutal eight-year war with Iran. Dr. Omar Dewachi has written about the de-development of Iraq in his wonderful new book Ungovernable Life: Mandatory medicine and Statecraft in Iraq (Stanford UP, 2017; review coming soon); war has left what Dewachi calls  'toxic legacies' on the Iraqi population, causing many to flea across borders elsewhere in the Middle East. Iraq is an unattractive destination by many measures - and that's surely and understatement - so the fact that so many Syrian's have made their way to Iraq bears testimony to how bad things are in Syria. Despite the fact that Iraq too is a warzone, many Syrian's prefer it to many European countries because it is closer to home, they may have better connections there and, ultimately, most want to return to Syria when the circumstances permit. All of this flies in the face of the iconography of the opportunity-seeking refugees "flooding" Europe. Indeed, as Chatty suggests: "The majority of Syrians have remained close to home in the neighbouring states of Lebanon, Jordan, and Turkey" (p. 243) and only when these states began to close their borders and tighten the restrictions on movement did any serious number of Syrians begin to look to Europe and elsewhere. For more on these lines of inquiry, see Elena Fiddian-Qasmiyeh's Repressentations of Displacement from the Middle East and North Africa, Public Culture, 28 (3): 457-473 (hereand her other brilliant work. 

Where are the Syrian refugees.png
Where are the refugees - Europe.png

Chatty explains the regional response in the Middle East through the lens of Karam and the gift. In a separate paper and drawing from Andrew Shryock (2004) she explains the first term:

Karam, the Arabic term which can be translated as hospitality or generosity, is ultimately also about security, protection, and respect. The family or lineage’s reputation is in many ways hostage to correct behaviour with a guest/stranger, as inappropriate behaviour might lead to disrespect, danger, and insecurity
— Chatty, 2017 p. 190

It is an interesting concept that connects to Marcel Mauss’ seminal Essay on the Gift and Derrida's notion of hostipalité - more on these in a subsequent post - but there's more to it than a cultural ethics of generosity. One of the fascinating revelations for me in reading the final chapter - and I really should have known this already - is that neither Lebanon nor Jordan has signed the 1951 Convention on the Status of Refugees, and Turkey restricts its interpretation to mean only refugees from Europe (see the wording here). Thus, Chatty underscores:

all three states have no obligations, under international law, to provide protection. Yet in all three, the duty to be generous, to provide sanctuary to the stranger, has manifested itself as the pervasive response to Syrians, whether as kinsmen, business partners, or just fellow humans
— p.243

Contrast this with the European rights-based approach to asylum and refugees, embedded as it is in the 1951 Convention, and we begin to see that perhaps there are alternative ways for thinking about mass displacement and our obligations to distant strangers. My reading of Chatty here is that the regime of rights and the language of law through which it is articulated perhaps obfuscate our moral responsibility and our duty to provide a safe haven for the refugee. Refugee law is new and unfamiliar territory for me but in recent conversations with Christel Querton at Newcastle University, I've been learning about the uneven and inconsistent interpretations among European states of refugee law and it clearly isn't a deus ex machina. There's parallels here with my work on the international and military law of targeting - a focus on process and procedures, on tests of 'necessity' and 'proportionality' over and above a moral and ethical duty to spare and protect civilians (or, in this case, refugees), but Chatty's conclusion sounds a much brighter note:

As we enter the seventh year of the Syrian displacement crisis, it appears that the lessons learned from the late Ottoman reforms with regard to accommodating and integrating of forced migrants continue to hold true in the region once know as Greater Syria, and perhaps offer the West some salutary lessons.
— p.246

I couldn't agree more. Yet the Middle East regional response is not without it's problems - even karam has it's limits, it seems. As the number of Syrian refugees turned from thousands to tens of thousands and from hundreds of thousands into millions, the neighbouring states began to close their borders, making it more difficult for Syrians to seek asylum. Where states had once resisted the construction of settlement camps to house refugees, instead preferring local integration among families and within communities where possible, settlement camps have increasingly become the norm. Where refugees were once met with sympathy and conviviality, they are also now met with outright hostility. I will chart these transformations in a subsequent post, but one key issues is worth highlighting - access to healthcare across borders.


Syrian refugees in Lebanon, Jordan and Turkey are struggling with complex and often compounded health issues and many do not have (adequate) access to healthcare. A series of local and international organisations have been reporting serious issues with healthcare across the region for several years now. In 2014 Amnesty International issued a report on Syrian refugees in need of healthcare in Lebanon entitled Agonizing Choices, in which it claimed:

Many refugees fleeing Syria have serious health care needs due to, amongst other things, pre-existing chronic conditions and injuries suffered during the conflict. However, on arriving in Lebanon they are met with an overstretched system in which the services available to refugees are limited and difficult to access.
— Amnesty International, Agonising Choices, p.6.
Amnesty - Living on the Margins - Front.png
MSF - Misery in Lebanon for Syrians.png

In 2012 Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) identified access to healthcare as one of the most pressing issues facing Syrians in Lebanon. A similar picture emerged in Jordan fairly early on. In 2014 Jordan introduced user-fees for Syrian refugees, who were subsequently made to pay 35-60% higher fees than uninsured Jordanians. The financial barrier alone is too much for many to bear and thus we have accounts like this one, which are not uncommon: 

Mouna, a 33-year-old Syrian refugee from Damascus who delivered her fourth child at the medical NGO Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) maternity hospital in Irbid told Amnesty International that she had not gone for a check-up until her seventh month of pregnancy. She explained: “I live outside of the city and if I come for check-ups, the transport costs 5 JOD (USD $7) and my husband is sick so I cannot leave him at home. I live near a Ministry of Health hospital but if I go there I will have to pay money.”
— Amnesty International, Living on the Margins, p.6

There's a gendered violence here - and not only in relation to pregnancy - and refugee women from Syria in Lebanon (and elsewhere) face "constant sexual harassment and exploration", according to Amnesty. Turkey has passed a series of laws in recent years to secure the rights of Syrian refugees to access healthcare, and has an impressive program - with the World Health Organisation -  to integrate Syrian healthcare professionals into the domestic healthcare system. Yet Jude Alawa from the Yale Global Health Review Blog reports, "issues of implementation, demographics, communication, and institutional gridlock still create instability within Turkey and prevent Syrian refugees from accessing sufficient healthcare.

There's much, much more to say on all of this, but suffice it to say for now that Syria's neighbouring states are struggling under the weight of responsibility and some factions within these states have become more openly hostile. State policy has shifted to curtail in influx of Syrian refugees, and many resources - not to mention permanent settlement itself - have become illusive for many. At the end of summer 2017, Hezbollah began repatriating Syrian refugees across the border and back into Syria and the United Nations signalled concerns that the conditions for safe return may not have been met. The media in Lebanon increasingly report with open hostility toward Syrians in Lebanon, as detailed by a recent Al Jazeera program. In Jordan, Syrians have increasingly become framed as a security problem and since 2014-2015, the government attitude toward refugees has become less welcoming as it is seen as unsustainable (see also why Jordan is is deporting refugees).

Vehicles make their way through Lebanon as part of the repatriation of Syrian refugees in August 2017. Photograph: Anadolu Agency/Getty Images/The Guardian

Vehicles make their way through Lebanon as part of the repatriation of Syrian refugees in August 2017. Photograph: Anadolu Agency/Getty Images/The Guardian

There's a double irony in the story that Chatty tells about Syria, and which I have tried to flesh out here. The first irony is of a state that "provided refuge for so many over a century and more" and which is now "experiencing nearly half of its own population displaced and searching for safety and sanctuary" (p. 10). But the less obvious irony, and one which Chatty works so hard to elucidate, is that some of the very states from which refugees fled to Syria in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, are now turning their backs on the Syrians who once welcomed them with with karam. Or at least this is how one incredibly articulate Yaman Birawi saw it when he took to Facebook in 2015. The last words are his, and we have Chatty to thank for bringing them to life in what is a tragically important and critical intervention: 

Screenshot of Chatty's  Syria: The making and unmaking of a refugee state , p. 219. 

Screenshot of Chatty's Syria: The making and unmaking of a refugee state, p. 219. 


Thanks for tuning in to part I of the Focused Prevention podcast. If you missed it, go here and then come back for part II. And for the academic paper associated with these podcasts, head over to the downloads tab.

Here is part II (I nearly wrote 'enjoy', but that's entirely the wrong word):

The podcast episodes are a collaboration between James Milsom (of The Rule Book Podcast) and I. The episodes draw on a series of interviews with a cast of Israeli characters, including some of Israel's most senior former military lawyers. I'm often asked about how I came to find myself in Israel conducting these interviews and how I managed to negotiate access, so perhaps now is a good time to give some of the back story.   



I first heard about military lawyers in 2009. I was in Vancouver studying for my M.A. in Geography at the University of British Columbia with the wonderful Derek Gregory (of the equally wonderful blog). I was writing about Israeli military violence and would often begin my day by catching up on the latest developments in the Palestine-Israel conflict. On a cold morning in December I opened the pages of Haaretz, a liberal Israeli newspaper (or liberal by Israeli standards, at least). I found an article that gave me the topic that would become the focus of my research for the next six years. Bombs were raining down on Gaza in what the Israeli military called 'Operation Cast-Lead', causing massive civilian casualties and prompting widespread international condemnation. And yet in the pages of Haaretz, the journalists Yotam Feldman and Uri Blau (both of whom I later interviewed for the research) detailed how:

“Prior to the Gaza operation, IDF [Israel Defense Force] officers were receiving legal advice that allowed for large numbers of civilian casualties and the targeting of government buildings. Some legal experts, among them the former head of the army’s international law division, maintain that the IDF harnessed the law in the service of the war effort.” 

I could not reconcile the images of death and destruction with what the Israeli military and its legal experts were apparently claiming: the carnage was legal; military lawyers were behind every targeting decision; the violence had been sanctioned by what is supposed to be one of humanity’s most cherished accomplishments of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries – the architecture of international law that culminated in the Geneva Conventions. Could this be true? Was Operation Cast-Lead legal? If it were legal, what body of law could permit this kind of devastation? If it were not legal then why did Israel go out of its way to say it was? Who were these military lawyers, and what exactly was their role in the war on Gaza? If I wanted answers to these questions, I figured I might start by speaking to the lawyers who signed off on the destruction. And so after a lot of preparation - I had to learn about a military world that was largely foreign to me and a legal language as baffling to me as the Hebrew I didn't speak - I set off to Jerusalem and Tel Aviv in search of military lawyers.

The Kirya. The Israeli military headquarters in central Tel Aviv is home to the International Law Department of the Military Advocate General. It is also one of the key command and control centres used to plan and execute targeting operations. The playful statues in the foreground and the sunny streets belie the violence that is planned and unleashed from military locations like the Kirya. Photo by author.

The Kirya. The Israeli military headquarters in central Tel Aviv is home to the International Law Department of the Military Advocate General. It is also one of the key command and control centres used to plan and execute targeting operations. The playful statues in the foreground and the sunny streets belie the violence that is planned and unleashed from military locations like the Kirya. Photo by author.


Researching military practices is not without its difficulties, especially when the practices concerned are sensitive and involve ongoing combat operations. Military institutions and the personnel that populate them can be wary of outsiders. This is understandable and there are all kinds of reasons why both institutes and individuals within militaries may be reticent to engage with outsiders. It is important to note that military members – uniformed personnel – are under no obligation to speak with 'ordinary' civilians or academics like me. As one UK RAF lawyer made clear: “We have concerns regarding security and have no obligation to discuss our practices with civilians.” [1] Cultural, social and political divisions between civilian and military worlds are still very real despite the talk of new “civil-military relations,” which purportedly blur the traditional civil/military dichotomy. Or at least they are very real for academics who, like me, have no military or defence affiliations. I would not want to overstate the military/civilian dichotomy or suggest that it cannot be partly overcome for the purposes of research, yet at the same time certain strategies (or tools) did help to improve my access to military lawyers.

First, it did help to be an academic. Rightly or wrongly academics are often seen as neutral and impartial. Researchers working in proximate areas and military insiders repeatedly told me that I would have better access to military lawyers if I approached the subject of targeting from an “academic” rather than “political” perspective. This is an obvious point, but one that betrays its own bias – the assumption that the scholarly endeavour is somehow above or outside of politics, which they are not. Academia – and academics – can be extremely political, their work is perhaps inevitably so. When approaching military lawyers I presented my research as a non-partisan investigation into the role that military lawyers play in targeting operations. I also framed my inquiry to make it clear that I was aware of the security and classification issues surrounding targeting and informed the participants that I would not seek to compromise them. In the initial contact phase, it helped to maintain a focus on technical rules and procedures, as these are areas of strength and knowledge for military lawyers; later in the interview process I would ask military lawyers about their personal experiences and the practice of targeting to get at how targeting actually works (as opposed to how it is supposed to work, which is the realm of military doctrine). Military lawyers are more than capable of distinguishing between what they are and are not allowed to disclose and I think that my position as an academic helped to put my interviewees at ease.

Second, as I've already intimated, it helped to know the field, the jargon and the acronyms. There is no better way to show you are an outsider than by showing an interviewee that you have not done your homework or have not bothered to learn the language. In order to prepare for my interviews I took courses on International Humanitarian Law (IHL)/the laws of war and International Human Rights Law (IHRL) at the University of British Columbia, read most of the legal and academic literature around targeting, and kept up to date with targeting doctrine and recent targeting decisions. I would also do background searches on each interviewee before interviewing them to ensure I knew something about their particular career, experience and trajectory. All this, I suspect, is fairly standard research practice but it really did help to win the trust of those whom I interviewed, and several military lawyers commended me for having learnt so much about their area of expertise. Inevitably, however, and much like the military lawyers who I interviewed, I learned a lot “on the job,” sometimes asking for clarification – “what's a TIC?” [troops in contact] – while other times choosing to hide my ignorance, or at least trying to. In an interview with the former Military Advocate General Avichai Mandelblit (the top post in the Israel military legal system), I referred in passing to “IHL” – International Humanitarian Law. What I didn’t realize at the time was that using this term is an absolute faux pas for many military lawyers who instead tend refer to “The Laws of Armed Conflict” or “LOAC.” IHL and LOAC refer to the same body of law but these two names represent two very different schools of thought; those in what Eyal Benvenisti has called the “IHL camp” emphasise the humanitarian and restrictive aspects of the law, whereas those in the “LOAC camp” emphasise the military and permissive aspects of the law. This single acronym put me at firm political odds with my interviewee as far as he was concerned: he sees humanitarians as a threat to and an enemy of the Israeli military (see the dialogue box below with the relevant extract). That interview didn’t go particularly well – he shut down after I dropped the “IHL bomb" – but the example shows how vital it is not only to ‘learn the language’ but also how political and  divisive the language of law can be. 

Mandelblit: [The IDF legal school] teach law to the wider military, especially LOAC or IHL, I don’t know how you call it: which do you prefer?

Me: It depends who I am talking to.

Mandelblit: You call it IHL, right?

Me: I don’t, I call it both

Mandelblit: Very interesting, LOAC is the language of American practitioners and Israeli practitioners; in other places, even in the university in Israel and the US will call it IHL. And militaries in Europe will call it IHL, even the UK Army call it IHL. But  Canada… Ken Watkin [the former Judge Advocate General] called it IHL but Blaise Cathcart who replaced him calls it LOAC. And its not only methodology because you send a message. Its the same rules, I know - the same - but you send a message: do you focus on protecting the civilians or do you focus on achieving the military goals. You send a message to the soldiers so I don’t know... you can call it whatever you want.

Me: Well, the problem of calling it International Humanitarian Law is that it doesn’t seem very humanitarian often.

Mandelblit: It’s okay, we won’t get into it. I can see in your face you prefer to call it IHL so we’ll call it IHL.

Third, persistence pays off. Contacting military personnel through the official channels, which normally means going through an office of public affairs, can be rather like filing an insurance claim: the initial response is either “no, we can’t help you” or a variation of “this is not our area of responsibility; please file your request elsewhere.” More often than not, there is a good chance that the person you initially reach out to is not the person that you need to talk to. This can be frustrating and discouraging but perseverance is essential if you are to reach the right person and obtain the information you need. Militaries – and especially the US military – are vast bureaucratic institutions and they can only be negotiated with patience. Militaries carve out areas, divide up jobs and distribute and disperse responsibilities over an unimaginably large and complex geography; this means that finding the right person – or group of people – responsible for doing the specific job in the specific area at the specific time that you are interested in can be almost impossible. The kill-chain is an especially dispersed part of the military apparatus and so my method in a sense had to mimic the complex and sprawling geographies of the kill-chain. This meant going through but also beyond the offices of public affairs; it meant contacting specific Air Force components and departments, different JAG (Judge Advocate General) departments, and different individuals across many different units and departments in several different locations around the world. Such are the structures of what Derek Gregory calls later modern war. 

Despite my best efforts, access to military lawyers was not unlimited. Furthermore, key legal opinions concerning important targeting decisions remain classified, as do specific rules of engagement (ROE). My access to military lawyers was highly contingent on several factors, some of which I am aware of and others which I will likely never understand. For example, after months of deliberation the Israeli military eventually approved my requests to conduct formal and structured interviews with active-duty lawyers. That was 22 May  2013. I was in the process of setting up interviews with specific individuals (including, for example Brigadier General Danny Effroni who was the Military Advocate General at the time), when, one month later, the Israeli military decided “for a number of reasons, primarily of which related to information security” to rescind the approval and block my access.[2] I never received a satisfactory answer as to why the Israeli military had a change of heart. The “information security” reasons might seem legitimate enough – and no doubt these are sensitive issues – but shortly after the Israeli military tried to block my study they granted Michael Schmitt (a former US military lawyer) and John Merriam (an active duty US military lawyer) “unprecedented access that included a “staff ride” of the Gaza area, inspection of an Israeli operations center responsible for overseeing combat operations, a visit to a Hamas infiltration tunnel, review of IDF doctrine and other targeting guidance and briefings by IDF operations and legal personnel who have participated in targeting. The[se] authors also conducted extensive interviews of senior IDF commanders and key IDF legal advisers.” Of course, one cannot help but be envious of such access but it does come at a price. Part of the cost is that this kind of access provides the researcher with an inevitably one-sided view; another cost is, as these authors concede, “the approach might be perceived as leading to a pro-Israeli bias.”[8]

Again, I come back to how much politics (and in this case identity politics) plays such an important role in the research process. Why was I denied formal access when others were granted it? Did this have anything to do with the fact that the Israeli military perceived my work as partisan or that they provide access only to like-minded military lawyers? Is it incidental that the accounts produced by Michael Schmitt and John Merriam are overwhelmingly positive in their assessment of Israeli targeting practices and the involvement of military lawyers? Could it be that Schmitt and Merriam were effectively working for the US government by “developing” international law in ways that advance both US and Israeli interests? I cannot answer these questions definitively but it is important to reflect on why access is granted to some and not others. Long before the Israeli military rejected my formal request to conduct interviews with their active-duty military lawyers, I had already conducted several interviews with other Israeli military lawyers outside of the official avenues. These were all on the record. Needless to say, it would have been beneficial to also hear the “official” version of military lawyering in Israel, though in this particular instance I was able to benefit from the research done by those who were granted access to the official version, and have no sort of ethical obligation to this official narrative.

There's lots more to this story and, of course, I'm not the only one to have interviewed Israeli military lawyers; there's some other terrific work out there and much has happened in Palestine-Israel since I conducted my interviews, so I'll return to these issues soon.


[1] Email correspondence with Air Commadore Alison Mardell, 9 June 2014.

[2] Email correspondence with IDF MAG Corps, 23 June 2013. 




I'm delighted to receive word from producer, composer (and recovering lawyer) James Milsom over at The Rule Book that after several months in the works he has now released the first of two podcasts about some research I carried out in Israel between 2012 and 2014 on the targeted killing of Palestinians. You can listen to the first part below, or if you want to listen on the move, it's also available on iTunesSpotify and many other podcast services.   

Focused prevention tells the story of how Israel invented and developed a legal framework to  enable, regulate, and legitimise the targeted killing of Palestinians. The story starts in 2000, with the beginning of the second Palestinian Intifada (uprising) and includes interviews with some of Israel's most well-known former military lawyers, most feared - and unfortunately hated - journalists, as well as a devastatingly honest advocate of Palestinian human rights. We meet some of the very men and women who devised new laws that would make it legal - at least in their eyes - to assassinate individual Palestinians who they suspected to be enemies of Israel.

This isn't a 007 fiction: the policy has existed for nearly two decades, has been extensively documented, and has killed well over 500 Palestinians (here + here + here) - many of them civilians. And that was before human rights organisations stopped counting these deaths after 'Operation Protective Edge' in the summer of 2014.  

There's lots more I can and will say in the coming weeks about both the content and the process of working on a podcast - the first of many, I hope -  but I'm wary of giving too many spoilers. So join James and I for Focused prevention part I and stay tuned for part II.