A Memorial to Bad Urbanism on Derech Beit Lechem

Derech Beit Lechem, or Bethlehem Road, is a long street that runs through Jerusalem's Baka and Talpiot neighborhoods, parallel to the thunderous traffic artery of Derech Hevron. Derech Beit Lechem, though itself a busy thoroughfare in parts, would not normally be called "thunderous" (a car word) but rather "bustling" (a people word). When one talks about Derech Beit Lechem one tends to draw on a lexicon of chicness and boutiques, cafes and gentrification.

This vocabulary mainly describes the section of Derech Beit Lechem that extends between Rivka Street (near "Tsomet HaBankim") and Yiftah Street. There is considerable urbanist consciousness in that part of town; Baka activists have garnered media attention by protesting planned changes in traffic patterns that would, in the words of architect and Baka resident David Guggenheim, "have destroyed the delicate urban fabric" of Derech Beit Lechem.

There is, however, another Derech Beit Lechem -- one whose urban fabric is not so delicate: the Talpiot Industrial Area end of the street, between HaTenufa and Derech Baram. On this stretch of Derech Beit Lechem, one side of the street features old industrial buildings ...

... flanking a forlorn, vacant lot where the infamous Versailles wedding hall disaster occurred eleven years ago yesterday, on May 24, 2001. No one, apparently, wants to build something new here:

Site where the Versailles wedding hall once stood, now offering a direct view of the ubiquitous Holyland project.



The opposite side of the street, on this stretch of Derech Beit Lechem, houses some of Jerusalem's poorer residents, in a compound of decrepit shikun buildings (1950s-era mass housing for immigrants) currently slated for urban renewal:



And it is on this side of the street, directly across from the now-desolate space where the Versailles disaster occurred, that a "memorial garden" has been created in honor of the disaster's victims:

Is it just me, or does this "garden" seem wholly inappropriate, whether as a memorial to the casualties of a collapsed dance floor, or as a feature of a street where, after all, human beings continue to live and go about their business? Well, I guess if I thought it was just me, I wouldn't be writing this post, would I?

Here's what I think is wrong with the Versailles memorial site:

1) It has a distinctly military-cemetery feel, as though the designer (architect David Guggenheim -- the Baka activist mentioned above) thought the site was meant to commemorate a battle where heroic warriors fell, rather than a civil disaster. Those tall, straight-arrow cypress trees standing at attention under the brutal midday Mediterranean sun, surrounded by a stark grey concrete wall bearing the names of the fallen ... This military ambience is all wrong, given the civil nature of the incident.

2) The site is unsuited to an area where, as I noted above, people live, play, work, and pursue everyday activities. Basically, a large chunk of public space was hijacked and turned into something that no one can use. This isn't a cemetery, it's a street. Would David Guggenheim want something like this on his end of Derech Beit Lechem?

To be more specific about why the memorial is unsuited to an area where people live and "do stuff" (as opposed to a military cemetery or some kind of national battlefield park):

-- The "garden" is shadeless, meaning that no one can spend time there during normal daytime hours. Wouldn't it have been more meaningful, a more fitting remembrance of the departed, to have planted some shade trees, and arranged them in an inviting way, with some benches under them, creating what we refer to in Hebrew as a pinat hemed -- a "cosy corner" that would have elicited gratitude from local residents and passersby, and, perhaps, have stimulated actual contemplation of the names of the disaster victims -- rather than concealing them?

-- The overall layout is such that one can't be in the site; one is forced to
walk around it. As I said: a hijacking of public space. One can speculate that Guggenheim intended something deep by this: perhaps the set-up of trees-mounted-on-a-platform, upon which we gaze as outside observers, was meant to evoke the moment just before the dance floor collapsed beneath the wedding revellers -- a moment that was captured for posterity on video, and viewed by many thousands of people.

Whatever visual metaphor Guggenheim had in mind, it does not, in my view, justify the removal of a public space from public use. The local residents didn't cause the disaster. Why should they not have the use of their street in its entirety, and in aesthetically pleasing form?

And if the site of the catastrophe itself -- directly across the street from where the memorial "garden" was installed -- has lain desolate for the past decade, wouldn't that have been the logical venue for a monument of some kind?

-- Also, what's with the grey, blank wall on the outside of the memorial? 

Not that it was necessary or desirable to have this grey starkness on the interior walls, either -- but how can one justify putting a blank wall directly across from what is, essentially, a nice, modest, pleasantly dense and human-scaled stretch of multifamily dwellings:

The Versailles disaster, in which 23 people perished and 350 or more were injured due to "quick and dirty" construction methods and owner negligence, demonstrated one kind of price that society pays when the needs of actual human beings are treated with cavalier disregard by those responsible for our built environment.

The Versailles disaster "memorial garden" demonstrates another cost that we incur, as a society, when those responsible for our built environment disregard the needs of actual human beings. No, no deaths are likely to be directly caused by an ugly and unusable memorial garden. But I would argue that negative urban features such as these have a cumulative effect. They make it seem okay to do inappropriate things with the street; to design and build inappropriately. They alienate us from the street, with devastating effects on our quality of life and long-term health. Twenty-three fatalities in one shot is indeed a terrible tragedy. But when, as a society, we adhere to a lifestyle in which the street is a place to be avoided, we suffer health consequences that, though more insidious, reach much farther.

Walls and values

My basic assumption is that architecture and neighborhood design reflect values.

What values are embodied in the buildings pictured at left -- a residential project in one of Jerusalem's newer, peripheral neighborhoods?

More precisely, what prominent feature of the project reflects values that are skewed -- from an urbanist point of view, at least?

Imagine that the wall surrounding the project weren't there. I'm not a real estate marketer, so I don't have simulation software handy. But let's try to envision what the project -- or rather, the semi-public area fronting the project -- would look like in the absence of that wall.

What you would end up with is something not too dissimilar to this older building in Jerusalem's prestigious Katamon area:

Both buildings, the one in the newer neighborhood and the older Katamon one, have parking at ground level. But in Katamon a passerby can see the cars. This may not be an attractive sight in and of itself; however, that is not the whole picture. The area in front of the Katamon building is open; one has an unobstructed view of the building entrance, as well as of human traffic into and out of the building. (Of course I don't mean this in a voyeuristic sense, but rather in the sense of a passerby's peripheral awareness -- at once reassuring and stimulating -- of human activity in and around the building.) An ambience of sociability prevails; the building communicates with the street. This sense of human activity goes a long way toward mitigating the aesthetic "blemish" of the cars parked under and around the building.

Moreover, the communication is two-way: anyone exiting the building (whether to get into their car or to continue on foot) will have an immediate view of the street scene before them. They can greet neighbors, assess the weather and the overall mood of the street; they will be influenced, in the most natural way, by the street atmosphere as they encounter it on their emergence from the building. Perhaps a group of laughing schoolchildren will raise a smile on their lips; maybe they'll see someone trip over a section of broken pavement and make a mental note to call the municipality about it. Whatever they see or hear, they will have interacted in some way with the street.

By contrast, the wall fronting the project in the newer neighborhood simply hides all signs of life, both from passersby and from the building residents. What could be more depressing than to walk out of one's building and be confronted by a sterile stone wall? And what could be more alienating to a passerby on the sidewalk, than a wall such as the one pictured at right?

The buildings in this project are by no means unattractive. When we leave the external wall out of the equation, they even compare favorably with the one in Katamon pictured above. What a pity that the project designers felt the need to deface their own handiwork with this nonsensical wall -- a wall that serves no structural purpose, whose sole raison d'etre is to ensure that the building residents see as little as possible of their neighbors, and vice versa.

Superfluous walls are a recurring motif in this newer Jerusalem neighborhood. The neighborhood's name has the Hebrew word for "wall" in it, and one feels as though the metaphor has been taken to an insane extreme. In my last post I described the crypt-like atmosphere of a playground surrounded by a wall (where a simple metal railing ought to have sufficed). There are many other examples. Here, for instance, one finds a wall placed directly in front of a building entrance, for no apparent purpose other than that of concealing the entrance from passersby:



This is the view from behind the wall (the mailboxes could, obviously, have been placed elsewhere, e.g., next to the building door):

Apparently, the project architect felt that only the building residents should be entitled to see the tiny patch of shrubbery near the entrance. Should a passerby on the sidewalk happen to catch a glimpse of it, that would be tantamount to an invasion of the residents' privacy.

The architect also seems to have felt that the building residents would prefer to see a wall as they exit the building, rather than the sidewalk, as in most normal Jerusalem architecture of the previous century.

This architectural style constitutes a clear departure from the past -- aesthetically and morally.

Why this fear of seeing one's neighbors? Of being seen? Why the obsession with privacy, at the expense of any normal, natural concern for the public sphere? From where did we get the idea that it is okay to dishonor the street?

I get it that Israelis want more luxurious living conditions than those offered by the typical apartment building of 30 or 40 years ago. The exposure to Western standards -- to the glimpses of suburban home decor that abound on American television -- has likely changed everyone's outlook, and driven demand for larger apartments and for a "mifrat techni ashir" -- the "high-caliber" specifications that are always being touted by new residential projects and which are supposed to make buyers feel that they are getting something exceptional.

I can understand that Israelis want a reprieve from the tiny apartments and modest conditions of past decades. But I fail to understand why one's privacy and quality of life are "hurt" when a passerby gets to see the outside of one's building. Why do we have to feel that our standard of living in the private sphere can be ensured only by showing contempt for the public sphere, or by doing away with it entirely?

A tomb with a view

The main impetus behind this blog is a nagging feeling that common sense is being increasingly abandoned in current Jerusalem construction practice. Basically, time-honored rules for building pleasant and attractive edifices, streets and facilities have been forgotten, and a new set of rules, as rigid as they are illogical, has been adopted.

What makes a playground a fun and happy place to spend time in?

Visibility, for starters.

People like to see their friends and neighbors. When I pass by a playground, I want to see who's in it. Maybe I'll join them! When I'm sitting in a playground with my kids, I want to see who's passing by on the sidewalk. Maybe I'll call to them and they'll join me! Young children in general love to stand by park fences and peer between the bars at the world around them. They enjoy watching people, cars, motorcycles, strollers with other young children, garbage trucks, police cars, etc., pass by.

But the folks who design playgrounds these days in Jerusalem have other priorities.
Here is a "top-secret" playground in one of Jerusalem's newer, peripheral neighborhoods:




The play-crypt ... What's on the other side of the stone wall? Why, the sidewalk, of course. Wouldn't want to expose anyone in the playground to that, would we?




My, that bench looks inviting, doesn't it?




What's really weird is that from the other side of the playground you can see out to the far reaches of the neighborhood, and beyond:
A tomb with a view!



The new construction rules in Jerusalem seem to be:
1)If you can build a wall, do it.
2)If you can block people's view of the street in front of them, do it.
3)Force people to look out at what's far away from them. Call it "nof" ("a view"). They'll think they're getting something good, and won't miss the human-scaled view they're being deprived of.
4)Make sure to keep trees out of children's play areas. Don't just delay planting them: leave no space in which to plant them. That way you can ensure permanent shadelessness, and consequent non-use of the playground during most daytime hours.