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Abstract
Drawing on fieldwork in 200809, this article focuses on a courtyard (dvor) in a
Soviet-era apartment block in Astana, Kazakhstan. I explore the mundane material
maintenance of the courtyard, in particular the use of scraps, as a way to reflect on the
relationships between material agency, the formation of locality, and the state. Historically, the courtyard was an urban form through which the Soviet state sought to
define its citizenry. In the post-Soviet period the dvor persists as a space in which
citizens subjectivities and relationships to the state are formed. However, infrastructures fall into disrepair and are haphazardly patched up by residents. I argue that scraps
play important roles in the emergence of localities, both enabling and constraining
residents agency. They engender a sense of disconnect between the local community
and the state. Simultaneously, scrappiness also means that locality is unstable and
ephemeral. Scraps, in general, are an underappreciated element of urbanization; yet
they are significant actants in the making and unmaking of social and political
configurations. [Kazakhstan, place, courtyard, materiality, infrastructure]
Introduction
ne July afternoon, several people gathered outside the apartment block at 5 Oktyabrskaya Street1 in Astana, to debate
something agitatedly. A man in his sixties was holding a
crumpled notebook with pages full of columns of handwritten numbers.
A small group of women surrounded him and peeped at the notes. I
recognized my landlady Aleksandra Stepanovna, the owner of two apartments in the building, and the elderly women who had lived in the block
for many years and who chatted on a bench in the courtyard nearly every
day. As I listened to the debate, I soon realized the notes they were
discussing were accounts for the purchase of valves and pipes to repair the
blocks plumbing. The man had bought the valves using funds pooled
from residents contributions, but somehow it was unclear how many
valves were needed, how many had been bought, how many had been
replaced, how much money was spent, and how much was left. The man
fetched two valves from the basement. The group examined them
closely, but they were unable to figure out if those were two of the old
broken valves, or of the new. Aleksandra Stepanovna and the man
descended to the basement together, only to see, in the light of the
flashlight I held for them, that old and new valves and pipes lay heaped
hopelessly together amid waste and small construction debris.
City & Society, Vol. 27, Issue 2, pp. 136159, ISSN 0893-0465, eISSN 1548-744X. 2015 by the American
Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI:10.1111/ciso.12057.
Scraps,
Neighbors, and
Committees
Who were these people to one another? Why were they dealing with
those valves and accounts? What were their relations to the blocks
material infrastructure? Was there a housing department somewhere
that should be involved? I lived at 5 Oktyabrskaya for nine months
in 200809, and in this article I draw on that experience to reflect on
the relationships between residents and the bits and pieces of infrastructure in the apartment block and courtyard. I study how residents everyday practices of material maintenance and the agency of mundane
material things shaped the forms and meanings of locality and defined
the relationships between local subjects and the state, in a context of
wide-ranging, multi-faceted social, political, economic, and legaladministrative transformations. Since the onset of large-scale construction works in a newly-designed part of the city following the selection of
Astana for Kazakhstans new capital in 1997, Astana has attracted considerable attention from international scholars (e.g., Bissenova 2014;
Buchli 2007; Koch 2010; Laszczkowski 2011a, 2011b; Wolfel 2002). In
contrast to the bulk of that work, the present article focuses not on the
spectacular recent developments, but on a mundane Soviet-era residential block. This focus allows me to highlight the entanglements of cityplanning power with other kinds of human and non-human agency
co-involved in place-making.2
I consider place-making as a dynamic, mutually constitutive relation
between human subjects (individuals and groups) and their material
environment (Low and Lawrence-Ziga 2003). Such relations always
occur in connection to other places and are influenced by outside actors.
In a post-Soviet context, the urban neighborhood courtyard, dvor, is a
compelling site to study place-making (see Richardson 2008:119128).
Basic social relations are tied, performed, and reproduced in the dvor. It
is a site of socializing and of childrens socialization under the watchful
eye of the retired elders. People meet, greet, talk, and sometimes trade in
the dvor. Important matters concerning the neighborhood are discussed
in this spacesuch as the interaction just described. In common usage,
the noun dvor also refers to a group of people brought together by shared
use of the courtyard. One can say, for instance, that the whole dvor
celebrated a holiday together (otmechali vsem dvorom). In Arjun
For Soviet
Appadurais terms (1996:178179), the dvor is a focal site for generating
locality as a phenomenological quality which expresses itself in certain urbanists the dvor
kinds of agency, sociality, and reproducibility, and the construction of
neighborhood as a situated community in which locality is realized. By
was the basic
the same token, however, the dvor is the site of ongoing politics which
perpetually produces and challenges community and locality (Creed city-planning unit
2006; Raffles 1999). For Soviet urbanists the dvor was the basic city- through which to
planning unit through which to mold the norms and forms of sociality
(French 1995:6263), while Caroline Humphrey (2005) argues that the
mold the norms
material infrastructures of the dvor both transmitted and diffracted ideoand forms of
logical intent. In the post-Soviet period, I contend, the dvor continues to
be a site where local subjects are formed and relations with the state are
sociality
engendered.
137
I argue that scraps and leftovers such as the above-mentioned reusable and non-reusable valves enabled and constrained residents relationships to one another, the courtyard, and the state. Stephen Collier
(2010) has shown how material infrastructures (heating pipes, in particular) had literally assembled Soviet cities by plugging together populations, apartment blocks, factories, and nation-wide networksand
how more recently the intransigence of those systems constrained
reforms of post-Soviet urban governance. I build on these observations to
argue that at 5 Oktyabrskaya heterogeneous material elements created
place. However, as shall become clear, the heterogeneity and partial
incompatibility of those material things and connections meant that the
place was a creatively improvised but unstable assemblage. Moreover, the
constitutive relations linking the local place to other places and projects,
including the state, were as inconsistent, ambiguous, and unstablein
short, scrappy (Smith 1988)as its material make-up. Thus I highlight
both the aggregative and disaggregative possibilities of scraps.
Scrappy place-making
Scraps,
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Committees
Scraps,
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Committees
he history of 5 Oktyabrskaya is tied with the late-Soviet and postSoviet history of urbanism as a form of place-making state power.
Following Rabinow (1989), by urbanism I mean a form of power
deploying knowledge and bureaucratic techniques to define the norms
and forms of the social environment in citiesthe management of
people and things to produce and maintain places in specific forms. To
Soviet planners, the city was the engine of social progress (Alexander
and Buchli 2007:1). Soviet urbanism undertook the formation of a new
kind of person (Crowley and Reid 2002:15), a new economy, society,
politicsin short, a new culture (Kotkin 1995:34). Every detail of
urban infrastructurefrom a piece of pipe to a family dwelling to a
cluster of apartment blockswas to partake in assembling the Soviet
social (Collier 2010:85). From the late 1950s, Soviet authorities emphasized the extensive construction of standardized four- and five-story (and
later higher) apartment blocks (French 1995:6996), which still dominate the landscape in many cities today. The residential cluster, including apartments, courtyards, shops, and service points, was conceived of as
a whole, designed to induce more collective forms of everyday behavior.
Tselinograd (as Astana used to be known in Soviet times) was redesigned
in 1963, with a new general plan that followed the then-ruling modernist
principles established in the 1920s and 1930s by the architect Nikolai
Milyutin (Alpyspaeva 2008:94; French 1995:3549). The plan entailed
the construction of a new street grid, lined with apartment blocks,
including the area where the building at 5 Oktyabrskaya was later built.
In the post-Soviet period, former Tselinograd followed a unique
trajectory of change. After Kazakhstans independence, the city was first
renamed Aqmola (1992), and, as mentioned, in 1997 the countrys
capital was relocated here from much larger Almaty. The following year
Aqmola was renamed again: AstanaCapital in Kazakh.5 Since then,
half a million people in search for better lives (Laszczkowski 2011a)
moved to the city from all over Kazakhstan, by far outnumbering Sovietera inhabitants.6 Monumental architecture has been used in Astana to
transform the formerly provincial, mid-size industrial town into a futuristic national capital. A new general plan was commissioned from the
world-renowned Japanese architect Kisho Kurokawa (Bissenova 2014).
Every detail of
urban
infrastructure
from a piece of
pipe to a family
dwelling to a
cluster of
apartment
blockswas to
partake in
assembling the
Soviet social
141
To manifest a vision of Kazakhstans future as an independent, technologically advanced state integrated into global markets, an expansive
new district was added beyond Soviet-era city-limits. This space was
filled with an eclectic array of grandiose government buildings, office
skyscrapers, housing estates for the elites and public employees, and
fanciful commercial venues. The Soviet-era city-center was also
renewed, even if renewal did not reach far off the main thoroughfares.
The development of the new capital became the pivot of Kazakhstans
state- and nation-building ideologies (Anacker 2004; Koch 2010;
Laszczkowski 2014; Schatz 2004; Wolfel 2002).
However, as Buchli (2007) points out, the creation of the new capital
evoked profound public questions as to the forms and values of social life.
One set of such questions, in particular, concerned the relationships
between government, city-planning, and the population. The telos of
urbanism changed compared to the Soviet era. Up until the later 2000s,
emphasis in Astana was placed on the construction of new seats of power
and spectacular venues built to impress domestic and transnational audiences. Residential development was treated as secondary, and while new
housing complexes were built, officials paid little attention to the
arrangement of courtyards. Even in the new estates residents commonly
complained about this shortcoming which caused a haunting feel of
emptiness. As a top city-planning official repeatedly assured me, the
Soviet-era aspiration to mold selves and society through hands-on management of neighborhoods was explicitly abandoned. This may be interpreted as the adoption of neoteric liberal views by local planners
(cf. Chikanaev 2008) or as a case of postmodern privileging of surface
appearance at the expense of substance (cf. Jameson 1991), but alsoas
an effect of the post-Soviet crisis of power and knowledge that left
planners hesitant to tamper with urban milieus.
The collapse of the USSR had shaken up most areas of social life
(Humphrey 2002). The situation was described, specifically with regard
to urban Kazakhstan, as chaos (Nazpary 2002). A central element of
change was the privatization of apartments and utility networks. Far from
a simple transfer of ownership, this was a complex process of trying out
and negotiating basic rights, roles, norms, and relations (Alexander
2009a; Struyk 2011). Households were suddenly burdened with the
responsibility for building-maintenance, while heat, light, gas, and water
were commoditized, breaking up previously taken-for-granted material
background ties between residents and the state.
Importantly, uncertainty was felt equally acutely inside municipal
bureaucracies (Alexander 2007a, 2007b; Humphrey 2007). City-building
in the sense of that totalizing, teleological form of governance established
in the Soviet era (gradostroitelstvo), was over (Collier 2010:124). Sovietera city executive committees in Kazakhstan were transformed into city
halls, akimaty (sing. akimat). Their members pondered what their new
roles vis--vis citizens and infrastructures might be while social norms and
values were in turmoil. One thing in particular that became unknown was
who was now responsible for shared spaces within residential units, such as
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n spite of the above-mentioned spectacular architectural developments in recent years, the bulk of Astanas built environment is still
predominantly composed of Soviet-built neighborhoods of apartment
blocks from the 1960s1980s. In terms of style and architectural form,
the building at 5 Oktyabrskaya, dating from the 1970s, is a typical
example of that architecture (see Figure 1). The building is a box of
gray brick, with five stories, four entrances, and seventy apartments. The
monotonous faade with square windows is broken by double vertical
rows of balconies between each pair of staircases. Residents have
glassed-up most of the balconies for protection from wind and frost.
Oktyabrskaya Street is located in the north-central residential part of the
143
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in a departure from the usual pattern, both 5 Oktyabrskaya and the twin
block across the dvor had their own separate KSKs. Long-standing residents explained to me that this was a legacy of the buildings co-operative
past.
The changes associated with the collapse of the Soviet Union had
their resonances for social life in residential neighborhoods and individual apartment blocks. The privatization of housing and the redrawing
of state boundaries triggered mass residential mobility (Struyk
2011:208210). Large numbers of Russians and other non-Kazakhs
moved out from Kazakhstan. After Tselinograd became Astana and tens,
soon hundreds of thousands of migrants from across Kazakhstan started
moving in, Soviet-era residents continued to depart, selling or renting
their property to newcomers. During the 1990s and 2000s, up to threequarters of long-standing inhabitants left 5 Oktyabrskaya and were
replaced by various kinds of newcomers. As a result, the community of
residents was itself, in a sense, scrappy: composed of individuals with
heterogeneous backgrounds, brought into the block by various socioeconomic dynamics and legal regimes at various times, and only partly
integrated, with divergent interests and contrasting relationships to the
place.
Some of the newcomers, having come to settle permanently, soon
were no longer perceived as strangers. By the time of my arrival they had
lived in the block for a good several years, in some cases for over a decade.
Together with the remaining old-time residents they formed a relatively
bounded group connected by everyday forms of neighborly sociality. The
145
members of that group knew each other and their family members by
name, and addressed the elderly with the familial tyot or ded (auntie
and granddad, respectively) added to their first names. They greeted
each other heartily and often chatted in the dvor, where their children
and grandchildren played together. The women exchanged home-made
pickles and vegetables from their suburban garden patches, and the men
helped each other repair their cars. At the time of my fieldwork, members
of that group of neighbors generally aged between their early forties
and mid-seventies. They were all Russian or in any case Slav.8 The eldest
had migrated from various places in European Russia, Siberia, Ukraine,
and Belarus during Khrushchevs Virgin Land (Tselina) campaign, from
the mid-1950s to mid-1960s (Pohl 1999).9 The middle-aged had
been born in Tselinograd or in other towns in north-central Kazakhstan.
They had various educational and professional backgrounds. For
instance, the group included a retired construction-machinery operator,
a truck driver, an accountant, a tailor, an elderly taxi-driver, a retired
food-supply worker, a Soviet-era consumer-trade clerk, and a retired
shop-manager.
Members of this group drew a clear boundary separating them from a
different kind of newcomers to the block: short-term tenants, usually
Kazakh wage-migrants from provincial towns and villages, to whom at
least one-third of all flats at 5 Oktybrskaya were rented. These migrants
tended to live in overcrowded conditions, sometimes several of them
sharing a single bedroom. The more established neighbors accused them
of unruly behavior such as littering and damaging the stairwells and
various items in the courtyard. The migrant tenants generally did not
partake in dvor socializing with other neighbors or in collective initiatives for the maintenance of the block and the courtyard. For these
reasons they were seen as not really belonging to the local community.
ormally speaking, the dvor was municipal property and its maintenance thus a responsibility of the city hall (akimat). However,
as mentioned, following the post-Soviet crisis of knowing
(Alexander and Buchli 2007:3), throughout the 1990s and much of the
2000s municipal authorities lacked capacity or willingness to engage
consistently in the maintenance of residential units. At 5 Oktyabrskaya,
the municipality occasionally provided major elements of dvor infrastructure. At some point in the early 2000s, the akimat had the internal
roadway surrounding the dvor paved and new curbs installed. On
another occasion, a besedka (single-piece table with benches under a
plywood roof) and some ladders and slides for children to play were
placed in the courtyard. However, akimat involvement with the dvor
was inconsistent: for instance, an old fence was once removed, presumably to be replaced with a new one, yet that new fence never materialized. Everyday maintenance of the dvor was left in the residents
hands.
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147
once brought an elegant heavy wrought-iron bench, which he had appropriated in circumstances likewise shrouded in the mists of favor-economy
and forgetting. However, the bench soon disappeared from outside the
block, only to be found in the courtyard of a nearby school. Aleksandra
Stepanovna commented with a self-assured tone entirely disregarding
the benchs unclear provenance: Technically, its ours. We could go and
bring it back anytime.
As outlined above, urban residential areas, especially in former
Soviet settings, are often considered focal sites of statist intervention,
through which governments seek to organize and control social life.11
However, these details show how at 5 Oktyabrskaya place was constituted through the contingent intersection of multiple agenciessome
from within the neighborhood, some from other placeswhile the influence of formal urban governance was limited and intermittent. The
emerging place was a scrappy assemblage in a double sense. First, it was
materially made up of what were mostly scraps: old pieces of pipe, leftover
paint, discarded fences, and other things jerry-rigged, re-used, recycled,
re-appropriated, orin some casessnatched from some other place.
Those heterogeneous items came together through the generally uncoordinated actions of diverse actors, each pursuing their own situated
projects. Aleksandra Stepanovnas coordination was only partial and
contingent on available items and coincidental opportunities. Benches,
fences, and other things appeared and disappeared depending on the
often obscure personal deals and exchanges of favors linking residents,
administrators, entrepreneurs, and outsiders.
The other sense of scrappiness here refers to the emergence of
place as a contingent spatiotemporal entanglement of processes such as
privatization, commercialization of urban space, reform of urban governance, or migration, none of which principally aimed at place-making.
This is not a case of large-scale phenomena impinging on the local,
but rather of translocal flows of action crosscutting locally, bringing in
people and things. Consider, for instance, the pipes used to make the
railing around the playground. They must have been brought to 5
Oktyabrskaya by the akimat or some other municipal organization. But
then they were just left in the basement because that organization,
probably itself undergoing reform, either had no use for them or no
capacity to retrieve them. Finally Aleksandra Stepanovna found new use
for the pipes. The partly undetermined mandate of the KSK, and the
political decisions that had created the KSKs in the first place, allowed
her to gain unofficial but effective control of courtyard maintenance.
Then the actual job of soldering the pipes was carried out thanks to the
shopkeeper who would not have been there if not for the politicaleconomic projects, devised in remote places, which had allowed the
establishment of private shops in neighborhood courtyards and triggered
migration to the new capitalplus, of course, the entrepreneurs
unknown personal motivations. The local place emerged as a continually improvised, scrappy assemblage out of such convergences of actions
widely distributed in space and time.
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indicate how the different material make-up of places produced juxtaposed identities (Tselinograd people versus Astana people). That
further implied a particular relation of this neighborhood and local
subjects to the state: a relation of abandonment, not belonging
together, a latent opposition that resulted from the scrappy constitution
of the local milieu.
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Conclusion
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153
Notes
Acknowledgments. This research was made possible by SocAnthMarie
Curie Early Stage Training networkMEST-CT-2005-020702. I wish
to thank Jutta Turner for drawing the maps used in this article, and
Catherine Alexander, Alima Bissenova, James Carrier, Svetlana
Jacquesson, Soledad Jimnez-Tovar, Natalie Koch, Joe Long, Andr
Thiemann, two anonymous reviewers for City & Society, and editor
Suzanne Scheld for helpful comments on earlier versions of the manuscript. I also wish to thank the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology, Halle, and its director Gnther Schlee for providing me with
an institutional home during the research project from which this
article is drawn.
1
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