visAvis no. 13

No. 13

Voices on Asylum and Migration

Indhold / Contents

4 6 10 14 16 20 26 34 36 42 44 50 52 54 60 66

Kærshovedgård cafeteria - Paula Duvå Leder / Editorial / Zibas historie - Solmaz Farnian Hamadani Waiting for Asylum / - Reem Zakzouk Seven deadly sins - InEUmanity Malmö Causes of 
blindness - Lilltrez, Amara and Augustine The Migrating Image - by Florian Stark Det er et jeg der taler - Lone Aburas Mon lieu de vie / My life’s place - Babak Inanlou Cowboy, get stand / Cowboy, lève-toi - Jean Claude Mangomba Mbombo Barriers on the road of 
transformative dialogue - Ali Ali Don’t blame me for not learning Danish - Eden Six bullet holes - Vahid Evazzadeh Stories told and untold - Solomon Amabo and Loke Bisbjerg Nielsen (Up)rooted, in the 
absence of men- Liselot Kattemölle Anbefalinger: Uledsaget - Vibeke Nielsen

visAvis №13

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Kolofon / Colophon

visAvis no. 13 2018 Editors

Ali Ali Hannah Lutz Katrine Møller Hansen Lise Olivarius Mia Mone Johansen Paul Farah Cox Tak til / Thanks to

Danske Grafikeres Hus Foreningen Roskilde Festival Trampoline House YNKB - Ydre Nørrebro Kultur Bureau Elisabeth Olsen Erica Masserano Inge-Merete Hougaard Joanna Leach Jonathan Lutz Lucian Lumperdean Sylvester Roepstorff Thomas Elsted Vibeke Nielsen

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Venner og helte / Friends and heroes

Adoptionspolitisk Forum Bedsteforældre for Asyl Black Lives Matter DK The Bridge Radio CAMP - Center for Art on Migration Politics Crisis Mirror DukOp.dk Friktion Fællesskab for Kritiske Antropologer Goodiepal & Pals Marronage Masq Magazine Mediegruppen for Somaliere i DK No Deportations Without Resistance - Ingen Udvisninger Uden Modstand Respons.community Sabaah Sisters’ Cuisine Welcome to Denmark

Cover

Sigrid Astrup Design & layout

Casper Øbro Print

Specialtrykkeriet Arco Bank info

Bankkonto / Bank account Jyske Bank Reg. Nr.: 7851 Kontonr.: 3285805 CVR-nr.: 33788827 IBAN: DK4978510003285805 SWIFT: JYBADKKK ISSN: 1904-528X Kontakt / Contact

Thoravej 7 2400 Copenhagen NV Denmark www.visavis.dk visavis.contact@gmail. com

№ 13 visAvis

About visAvis

Om visAvis

visAvis is a magazine on asylum and migration, the movement of people across borders and the challenges connected to this. We work to improve the debate on asylum and migration, among other things by publishing texts that people seeking asylum want to share. visAvis is an activist project where people with and without citizenship in Denmark meet to create an alternative public space and debate. visAvis is also a web magazine. See more on www.visavis.dk and follow us on Facebook.

visAvis er et tidsskrift om asyl og migration, menneskers bevægelser over grænser og de udfordringer, der er forbundet med dette. Vi arbejder for at forbedre debatten omkring asyl og migration ved bl.a. at bringe tekster af folk, der søger asyl. visAvis er et aktivistisk projekt, hvor folk med og uden statsborgerskab i Danmark mødes om at skabe en alternativ offentlighed. visAvis er desuden et webmagasin. Se mere på www.visavis.dk og følg os på Facebook.

Support visAvis

visAvis is free. We are happy to receive any donation to our account: Reg. Nr. 7851 Account number. 3285805 IBAN: DK4978510003285805 visAvis №13

Støt visAvis

visAvis er gratis. Vi modtager med glæde donationer på vores konto: Reg. Nr. 7851 Kontonr. 3285805 IBAN: DK4978510003285805

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Kærshovedgård cafeteria photos by Paula Duvå

New York skyline, a Christmas tree and blue trays in Departure Centre Kærshovedgård New York skyline, et juletræ og blå bakker på Udrejsecenter Kærshovedgård

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White plastic cups in Departure Centre Kærshovedgård Hvide plastikkopper på Udrejsecenter Kærshovedgård

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Leder

De to billeder, der indleder nummeret her (side 4-5), er et portræt af asyl og migration i 2018. Et ”udrejsecenter” uden udgange, et tryk på væggen af en destination, ingen er på vej til, og ikke mere barmhjertighed end det, der kan være i en billig plastikkop. Den fernis, der dækker Udrejsecenter Kærshovedgård, er så tynd, at man umuligt kan tro på den, men man kan tolke sandheden, som man vil. For nogen er systemet i stykker, fordi det er grusomt og umenneskeligt, som Solmaz Farnian Hamadani fastslår hinsides enhver tvivl i sit vidnesbyrd. For andre er systemet i stykker, fordi det ikke sender nok mennesker væk; ikke holder nok mennesker ude. I 2018 er vi nået til et punkt, hvor næsten enhver offentlig udtalelse om at ”ordne det system, der er i stykker”, henviser til det system, der skal standse migration, holde folk fast. Et system, der kunne tænkes at acceptere bevægelser, bliver ikke kaldt ødelagt; det bliver slet og ret kaldt umuligt. At fixe systemet bliver lig med fiksering: Med hegnspæle, ultimative krav og jernringe om europæiske privilegier. Det ser måske ud som noget i retning af EU’s planer for et nyt, fælles asylsystem, som dokumenteres af gruppen InEUmanity Malmö i deres rapport, Syv dødssynder. Højst sandsynligt vil sådanne initiativer blive lagt oven på de eksisterende systemer af passivt svigt, som beskrevet af Eden i en tekst om hendes forsøg på at lære sproget, der tales i landet, hvor hun bor. Bureaukrater gør ikke andet end at hvæsse de allerede skarpe kanter på systemets stykker. Tiden strutter af had. Når politikere fejrer stramningen af diskriminerende love, 6

føler de ingen trang til at maskere deres politik bag påstande om påtrængende nødvendighed eller moralsk panik. Lette om hjertet optræder de for offentligheden. Facebookfølgere kan grine af deres eskapader, fordi grusomheden bag dem, frygten, er en fælles værdi, en ny europæisk identitet. Når en værdi bliver så udbredt, kræver det et aktivt valg at afvise den – og det kræver alternativer. Er der rent faktisk eksisterende alternativer til grusomhed? Er der en vej tilbage herfra, denne grufulde endestation for idéen om fælles menneskelighed? visAvis #13 er en del af det andet system, det umulige system. Vi håber, der kan findes spor af svar på siderne her. Kig efter fingerpeg, hvad som helst, der taler til dig og fremstår tro mod dine egne erfaringer og rejser på vores planet. Søg i hver enkelt af teksterne, og også blandt illustrationerne. Det var ikke vores beslutning som redaktører, men vi tror ikke det er tilfældigt, at så stor en del af illustrationerne i nummeret her kredser om den samme form: Den enkeltstående, menneskelige figur. Kunstnerne udtrykker en verden af forskellige tanker og følelser inden for den ramme, men de lader til at være enige om, at det er her, vi nu må se hen: på hinanden som mennesker. Løsningerne er fælles, som altid. Men det er individuelle historier, følelser, forbindelser og heling, der skal få os derhen. Ligesom Reem Zakzouks digte om smerte og venskab, fortællingerne om tapre, ensomme rejser i Blindhedens årsager, Vahid Evazzadehs enakters skitse Seks skudhuller eller historien om en kvindes styrke fortalt til Liselot Kattemölle. Vi blev skyllet ud af menneskelighedens familie i en bølge, men vi finder tilbage drypvis, dråbe for dråbe. Bølgen – eller oversvømmelsen eller tsunamien – var det dominerende billede i 2015. På afstand begynder det at se mere og mere kunstigt ud; fremtidige historikere № 13 visAvis

vil undersøge dette billede, som vi undersøger billeder fra forgangne århundreder. I nummeret her tager Florian Stark og Stefan Kruse hul på det arbejde med en præsentation af filmen The Migrating Image. Den næste opgave bliver at erkende, at billedsprog, kontrol over symboler, ikke er forbeholdt historien eller medierne; det er tilgængeligt for alle. Babak Inanlou viser med fotos fra Calais, hvordan iagttagere omskaber en scene bare ved at se på den. Jean Claude Mangomba demonstrerer, at repræsentation af migranter stadig er allemandseje med sit kampråb Cowboy, rejs dig. Tegneserietegnere og unge flygtninge er gået sammen om at skabe stærk kunst i antologien Uledsaget, som Vibeke Nielsen anmelder i vores sektion med anbefalinger. Og Solomon Amabo og Loke Bisbjerg Nielsen tager medierne i egne hænder for at insistere på, at den krise, camerounske flygtninge gennemlever i Nigeria, er forsidestof. Det virkeligt svære er ikke det, politikere kalder “at ordne det system, der er i stykker”. Det virkeligt svære er ikke at stramme migrationslovene. Det virkeligt svære er ikke at rebrande flere fængsler som ”udrejsecentre”. Transformation er svær – og det er vores opgave. Lone Aburas konfronterer denne virkelighed i et uddrag af sin prisvindende bog Det er et jeg der taler, mens Ali Ali indtrængende opfordrer til en fornyet og ærlig indsats i Hindringer på vejen til transformativ dialog. Som de viser, er det næste skridt efter udformningen af personlige forbindelser og nyt billedsprog skabelsen af fællesskaber, og det er det langt mest komplicerede. Ikke desto mindre er et fællesskab præcis som en forbindelse eller et billede: Noget alle kan skabe. Fragmenterne af det umulige system er overalt omkring os – og til at tage fat i.

Editorial

The pair of images at the start of this issue (pages 4-5) are a portrait of asylum and migration in 2018. A “departure centre” with no departures; a print on the wall of a destination nobody is heading towards; and only enough remnants of mercy to fill a flimsy plastic cup. The veneer of Departure Center Kærshovedgård is so thin that one can’t possibly believe it, but one can interpret the truth however one wants. To some people, the system is broken because it is cruel and inhuman, as Solmaz Farnian Hamadani proves beyond any doubt in her testimony. To others, the system is broken because it doesn’t send enough people away; doesn’t keep enough people out. In 2018, we have reached a point where almost any public official who is talking about “fixing the broken system” is talking about the system to stop migration, to lock people in place. A system that might accept movement is not called broken, it’s simply called impossible. The fix will be something fixed: with fenceposts and ultimata and iron bands of European privilege. It may look something like the EU-wide plans documented by the group InEUmanity Malmö in their bulletin, Seven deadly sins. In all likelihood, such initiatives will be layered over existing systems of passive neglect, as described by Eden in her attempts to learn the language of the country where she lives. Bureaucrats will simply sharpen the jagged edges of the broken system. The season is ripe with spite. When politicians celebrate the tightening of discriminatory laws, they feel no need to mask

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their politics with claims of urgency or moral panic. They perform for the public with light hearts. Facebook followers can laugh at their antics, because the cruelty behind them, the fear, is a shared value, a new European identity. When a value becomes so mainstream it takes a choice to reject it – and it takes alternatives. Are there, in fact, living alternatives to cruelty? Is there a way back from this place, this horrible endpoint of the idea of common humanity? visAvis #13 is part of that other system, the impossible one. We hope that there are some hints at answers in these pages. Look for clues; anything that speaks to you, and rings true to your own experiences and journeys on this planet. Search each of the texts, and the illustrations, too. It was not our decision as editors, but we think it was something more than a coincidence, that so much of the artwork in this issue shares a form. It centers on single human figures. The artists express a world of thoughts and feelings within this frame, but they seem to have a unanimous feeling that this is the place to look now: at one another as people. The solutions will be communal ones, as they always are. But it is individual stories, emotions, connections and healing that will get us there. Like Reem Zakzouk’s poems to pain and friendship; the narratives of brave, lonely travels in Causes of blindness; Vahid Evazzadeh’s oneact sketch, Six bullet holes; or the story of one woman’s strength told to Liselot Kattemölle. We were swept out of the human family in a wave, but find our way back in a trickle, one by one.

Stark and Stefan Kruse make a start on that work. The next task is recognising that imagery, control over symbols, is not something that flows from history or the media; it is available to everyone. Babak Inanlou shows, with photos from Calais, how observers remake a scene just by viewing it. Jean Claude Mangomba demonstrates that migrant representation is still up for grabs with his rallying cry, Cowboy, get stand. Comic artists and young refugees make powerful art together in Uledsaget, reviewed for our Recommendations section by Vibeke Nielsen. And Solomon Amabo and Loke Bisbjerg Nielsen take the media into their own hands to insist that the crisis of Cameroonian refugees in Nigeria is headline news. What politicians call “fixing the broken system” is not truly difficult. Tightening immigration laws is not truly difficult. Rebranding more prisons as “departure centers” is not truly difficult. Transformation is difficult – and it’s our job. Lone Aburas confronts this reality in an excerpt from her award-winning book Det er et jeg der taler, while Ali Ali urges a renewed and honest effort in Barriers on the road of transformative dialogue. As they show, the step beyond forming personal connections, and beyond forming new imagery, is forming community, and this is the most complicated by far. Nevertheless, community is just like a connection or an image: anybody can make it. The fragments of the impossible system are all around you to work with.

The wave – or the flood, or the tsunami – is the imagery of 2015. It will start to look more and more artificial with distance; future historians will examine this imagery as we do the paintings of past centuries. In this issue, with a presentation of the film The Migrating Image, Florian 8

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â„– 13 visAvis

af Solmaz Farnian Hamadani

Dette er historien om min mor Ziba og om kampen vores familie kæmper for at blive genforenet.

English translation page 71

Zibas historie

Jeg fik i 2009 lov til at sende en invitation til min mor i Iran, så hun kunne komme og besøge mig efter mange års savn. Samtidig kunne hun måske være heldig at nå at overvære sit barnebarns fødsel. For at jeg kunne sende et visum, var det påkrævet, at jeg havde et fast arbejde og økonomi til at kunne forsørge min mor i den periode, hun opholdt sig i Danmark. Jeg søgte job mange steder og endte med at blive ansat hos McDonald’s. Min mor fik tilladelse til at komme den 17. september 2009 på et tremåneders visum. To timer efter hun kom, fødte jeg mit barn. Det var en stor oplevelse for os begge efter så mange års adskillelse. På denne måde følte jeg, at jeg havde gjort gengæld for den kærlighed, hun i min barndom havde givet mig. Min mor fik den dag yderligere en dejlig oplevelse, og det var at møde Erik og Birgitte. Erik er med i Bedsteforældre for Asyl, og jeg mødte ham for mange år siden på asylcenter Avnstrup. De er kærlige og troende mennesker, og de er blevet som en familie for mig her i Danmark. Mødet med dem vækkede følelser i min mors hjerte, fordi hun blev overrasket over, hvordan fremmede mennesker kunne behandle hendes datter som deres egen. Derfra begyndte hun at føle, at deres Gud også var den rigtige Gud for hende. Min mor tog tilbage til Iran, men hun fik lov til at komme og besøge os flere gange i de kommende år. I mellemtiden lærte hun Erik og Birgitte bedre at kende. De viste stor kærlighed og omsorg, og fik min mor til at tro på, at Gud ikke var ond. Det er menneskerne, som er onde mod hinanden. I 2012 udløb min mors visum. At besøge os var befriende for hende, for hun var tynget af mange svære oplevelser i sit hjemland. Hun var hos os i nogle måneder, før hun blev nødsaget til at søge om asyl. Jeg tog min mor med til Udlændingestyrelsen i København for at spørge, om man kunne forlænge visummet, så min mor kunne være her hos mig og sine børnebørn i længere tid. Men da svaret var nej, blev jeg nødt til at fortælle, hvad der var sket for min mor i Iran. Hun var blevet udsat for voldtægt. Det var svært for mig at finde ordene og fortælle om noget så grusomt til en fremmed. Jeg fortalte medarbejderen, at dette overgreb var blevet begået af hendes eksmand og hans kollega. Jeg fortalte, at jeg har fundet ud af, at min mors liv er truet i Iran. Jeg havde modtaget en mail fra min mors veninde, som havde nøglen til hendes lejlighed, for at kunne tage sig af hendes blomster og post, mens min mor opholdt sig i Danmark. Det var også denne veninde, som dengang efter voldtægten havde hjulpet min mor på sygehuset i Teheran. I mailen fortalte veninden, at min mor havde fået et brev, hvor der stod, at hun skulle melde visAvis №13

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sig på nærmeste politistation i Teheran på grund af en anklage om utroskab fra hendes eksmand. Da vi hørte om det, forstod vi, at min mors anmeldelse af overgrebet fra sygehuset var modtaget, men var blevet vendt til en anklage mod hende. Politiet havde fået fat i eksmanden, og på politistationen sagde han, at anklagerne mod ham ikke var rigtige. Han påstod, at det var min mor, der havde været utro og derfor var flygtet fra Iran, fordi hun ved hvad konsekvenserne er. Under voldtægten havde eksmanden truet med, at hvis min mor sladrede, ville han gøre noget endnu værre, og det kunne endda ende med, at det var hende, der ville få dødsstraf. Disse voldsomme anklager var ingen af os forberedt på. Det vil være umuligt som ene kvinde i Iran at beskytte sig mod myndighederne efter at man har forladt landet og er blevet stemplet som en utro kvinde. Så forstod vi som familie, hvor alvorlig situationen ville være, hvis hun tog tilbage til Iran. Vi ved, at straffen for utroskab er at blive stenet til døde eller hængt. Vi frygtede alle for min mors liv, også mine danske forældre, Erik og Birgitte. Vi spurgte Udlændingestyrelsen til råds. Da jeg havde fortalt det hele, fik jeg at vide, at min mor har ret til at søge asyl i Danmark. Det skulle gøres i Sandholmlejren. Nogle måneder senere fik jeg endnu en mail fra min mors veninde, som havde modtaget et anklageskrift direkte fra en politibetjent på min mors adresse i Iran. Der stod, at min mor var blevet idømt en straf på 72 piskeslag og 6 års fængsel samt en bøde oveni. Brevet fra de iranske myndigheder sendte jeg derefter til Udlændingestyrelsen sammen med journaludskriften fra undersøgelsen af min mors skader efter voldtægten. Efter min mors første kontakt med Flygtningenævnet fik vi det svar, at dokumenterne var falske, og at min mors historie ikke var troværdig. Derfor fik hun afslag. Flere måneder før min mor fik afslag (december 2014, juletid) sagde hun til Birgitte, at hun gerne ville døbes, da hun følte sig forbundet med den Gud, som Birgitte troede på. Min mor blev døbt den 30. december 2015. Efter det første afslag fra Flygtningenævnet gik der næsten to år, hvor hendes sag var lukket. I starten af 2017 blev min mor indkaldt til en samtale med politiet i Danmark. Hun fik at vide, at hvis hun ikke frivilligt rejste tilbage til Iran, skulle hun opholde sig på udrejsecentret Kærshovedgård i Ikast. Min mor havde ikke noget valg. Hun var nødt til at forlade sin datter og sine børnebørn og tage til Kærshovedgård, fordi hun selvfølgelig ikke ville tilbage til Iran. Jeg fortalte politiet, at min mor ikke kan rejse til Iran, fordi hun nu også vil blive straffet for at have konverteret. Politibetjenten spurgte, hvorfor vi ikke havde givet disse informationer til Udlændingestyrelsen, så sagen kunne blive genoptaget. Jeg svarede, at jeg ikke vidste, at man var nødt til at fortælle om noget så privat som religion for at få genoptaget sin sag. 12

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Derefter gav jeg dåbsattesten til politiet. De fortalte, at jeg kunne opsøge en advokat, som kunne skrive til Flygtningenævnet for at få genoptaget sagen. Syv dage efter denne samtale skulle min mor rejse til Kæshovedgård. Inden da fik hun ondt i brystkassen og blev kørt med ambulance til sygehuset i Holbæk. De fandt ikke noget. Lægen spurgte min mor, om der var noget der bekymrede hende. Vi fortalte, at min mor er meget presset, og at hun ikke har det godt. De snakkede videre sammen, og min mor fortalte, at hun har selvmordstanker, fordi hun har mistet håbet for sit liv. Derfor kontaktede lægen psykiatrisk afdeling. Min mor blev indlagt på Roskilde Psykiatrisk Afdeling i nogle dage, og Udlændingestyrelsen blev informeret. Da hun blev udskrevet, fik hun kortvarigt lov til at komme hjem igen. Da hun var faldet lidt mere til ro herhjemme, valgte jeg selv at køre hende til udrejsecenter Kærshovedgård. Mens min mor opholdt sig på Kærshovedgård, kontaktede jeg en advokat, som præsten og tolken i Hillerød Kirke havde anbefalet mig. Sagen blev åbnet igen efter nogle måneder. Så kom dagen, hvor min mor skulle for retten og hendes asylsag skulle revurderes. Vores gode ven Birgitte, som er præst og har døbt hende, blev spurgt af advokaten, om hun ville vidne. Hun svarede selvfølgelig ja. Min mor endte med at få et afslag igen. Retten stillede spørgsmålstegn ved de datoer, som Birgitte og min mor havde anført for, hvornår min mor først udtrykte ønske om at blive døbt. Det drejede sig bare om en uoverensstemmelse på nogle måneder mellem min mors og Birgittes udtalelser. Yderligere fik min mor afslag på det grundlag, at hun, første gang hun var i kontakt med Flygtningenævnet, burde have nævnt, at hun var begyndt at interessere sig for kristendommen. Min mors svar var, at hun ikke troede, det var relevant for hendes sag, da religion er en privat sag for enhver. De detaljer var nok til at afgøre min mors sag. Retten ville ikke give hende en chance for at bevise, at hun talte sandt. Selvom advokaten spurgte i retten, om man gerne ville afhøre Birgitte også, valgte de af afvise dette. Er det fordi de allerede havde taget en beslutning, inden retssagen gik i gang? Jeg føler, at der er blevet begået et justitsmord mod min mor. Dette er hendes historie. Hun er blevet uretfærdigt behandlet i Iran - det er hende der er offeret. Hun skjuler sin historie, fordi hun føler skam, men bliver nødsaget til at dele sin historie her i Danmark, for at kunne bede om hjælp. Men Danmark afviser hende. Jeg tror ikke på, at det kan være sandt. Jeg passer ældre danske borgere i hjemmeplejen i Roskilde, hvorfor kan jeg så ikke få lov til at passe min egen mor også? Har min mor, mine børn og jeg virkelig fortjent denne behandling?

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Waiting for asylum

by Reem Zakzouk

e impossible between the rock and the wall

between letters and screams

there is a nail in a crack

silence and void

where I hang bits of cotton and snowflakes

falls human language

so a branch of bayleaf might grow

at the human

between now and yesterday there is a gap of a place and I lose my passport and remain without an address

between you and me, there is no distance

and gods become a typhoon when blood becomes paint coloring walls and anguish, a picture

no longer sticking to memory

between you and me, there is a field of barbed wire

what would remain of a human

bleeding me, trying to reach you

to another?

between the world and me

patience is futile

silence the size of a galaxy

not birthing faith

filled with wails with no echo

and prayer is too simple

nothing reverts from me or to me but a choke

for grief

between you and me, there is a soundless song and a wall high with the staleness of death … torn pictures and marred dreams .. . I break a wall ... to hit a wall and choke on the coldness’s smoke paralyzed by a burning silence

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and tears are not enough rain

to wash the earth of crime’s shame of crime

where is the god in you human?

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priceless stamp and I reply to you a hello that covers your cheeks calm down

Letters

isolation is a cup of co ee you sip alone and here we raise our cups to you

oh my forever friend

with every sip a story of a memory

who knows all that I have and what is for me, because of me and against me

still dreaming of the day of your return ... do not mourn too much ... in our arms, for you

whether near or far

there will always be warmth

it ceased to be the issue

everyone here recalls your laughter

even if the address has changed in the passport

and the madness of your thoughts

even if the eras become lost

they tell the stories of your adventures

and dust in layers covered what once was dear

until longing quiets them

running in field of green without watchers

and causes them to cry of worry

tell me stories that give me warmth

our memories without you are a well

when I am the fi h wall in a cold room

water added by tears

let me hear something di erent than these repeated tunes

take it easy

and teach me new habits of singing ( ) (why are sad songs always the most beautiful?)

your home is a dream more beautiful

more than anyone

with every footstep

as home IS home

with every look of disdain

the remembrance and body’s pulse

with every door closed

every day in diaspora

with all those that claim . no! they are not stronger you are not alone, despite your walls’ silence your inner wail is a prayer so walk proud as we have always known you

visAvis №13

for we stand by you in your prayer

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Dansk oversættelse side 73

Seven deadly sins: The blueprints for a Common European Asylum System

The biggest cornerstone in CEAS would remain the Dublin Regulation, the legislation that determines which member state is responsible for an asylum seeker. According to Dublin, an asylum seeker should seek asylum in the first EU country they enter (the so-called “first land principle”). The reform proposal will strengthen this principle, and not allow any exceptions. This will be contingent on checking each asylum seeker’s case against a list of what the EU considers to be “safe by InEUmanity Malmö countries,” with a further amendment illustration by Adam O. threatening case dismissal if individuIt is becoming increasingly dangerous als seek asylum in another EU country and difficult to reach Europe in search (a so-called “secondary movement”). of protection. This development is a consequence of the aggressive migra- Eurodac is Dublin’s database, where tion policies established by the EU and fingerprints from all asylum seekers its member states. The externalization in the EU are registered so that memof EU borders has recently intensi- ber states are able to see which country fied through vigorous appropriation an asylum seeker entered first. In the of the monitoring system and custody new proposal, usage of the database in neighboring countries like Libya is extended to cover the control of soand Turkey, aid funds to countries that called irregular migration, and to make comply with these monitoring rules, deportations more effective. Amongst and informal agreements that assign other things, this allows state members militias the task of border control on to share information from the database the Mediterranean. Occasionally, we with third countries (countries outside catch a glimpse of the price paid; slave the EU) if that facilitates a deportation. auctions, mass drownings, torture, It also proposes a reduced age for finchild labor – even people locked in gerprinting (from 14 to 6 years), and that the data be kept indefinitely. cages on European soil. In addition to this externalizing process, there are ongoing negotiations within the EU about a new common asylum system. Accordingly, those who manage to enter Europe are going to find it significantly harder to stay. In 2016, the reform of the Common European Asylum System (CEAS) was presented by the European Commission, which includes a package of seven draft laws that aim to “update” the asylum system. The consequences will be a severe

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deterioration of asylum rights and a more repressive attitude towards asylum seekers and migrants.

The Qualification Regulation defines on what basis a person can get protection in the EU. The EU countries already have a common directive on qualification (for protection), but now the provision is extended, and is becoming increasingly regulatory in its influence, eventually overruling national legislation. The proposal stipulates that only temporary residence permits can be issued, and thereafter extended in stages. Moreover, even № 13 visAvis

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already-granted residence permits can be withdrawn if the need for protection is re-evaluated. This can happen, for example, when the situation in the country of origin changes. Country information will be updated continuously, and the system will have builtin “triggers” that make these changes noticeable, with possible withdrawal of residence permits as a result. The Asylum Procedure Regulation would determine how the asylum procedure operates. This is also an already existing legislation that is now being updated from a directive to a regulation. Through a new regulation, the asylum procedure will be synchronized on an EU level along with the introduction of an “accelerated border procedure,” meaning one must apply for asylum within 10 working days of entering the EU, with 10 working days to appeal against the decision. During this decision process, the asylum seeker may be kept in custody. The procedure involves verifying whether the asylum seeker has the right to seek asylum, whether they come from a country that the EU has defined as “safe”, and whether they have passed through another “safe” country on the way where they could have sought asylum. It is then decided whether or not the person has the right to seek asylum in the country they named in their application, and only after that does the investigation into the asylum claim start. If there is an indication that the country where the person comes from might be safe in the near future, the asylum procedure is frozen in anticipation of changes. If an asylum seeker is not considered to be cooperating or following the rules (for example, if they do not give their fingerprints, or if they move further into another country on their own) this can cause the asylum procedure to be closed and the person deported. 18

The Reception Directive would regulate the reception conditions for asylum seekers. The main goal of this directive is to stop so-called “secondary movement”. If an asylum seeker moves to another EU country than the first one they entered, they would be punished by the withdrawal of all potential support, such as financial aid, during the asylum procedure. Moreover, it will be easier to detain asylum seekers throughout the entire asylum process. A further proposal among the seven draft laws concerns the opening up of legal pathways to Europe. The Resettlement Regulation aims to start up a European quota refugee system. The current quota refugee system within the EU is conducted on a national basis, and is a collaborative work between different countries and the UN’s refugee body, UNHCR. Quota refugees are the world’s most vulnerable, and in order to be designated as a quota refugee, there should not be any other alternatives than to be resettled in another country. Instead of building on the work of UNHCR, the EU will use resettlement as a political tool the same way it did with Turkey, with quota places dependent on deportation agreements with third countries. An impending risk with this is that the EU can choose quota refugees from countries that sign readmission agreements or other informal agreements that aim to stop migration, instead of choosing refugee countries with the biggest need – bargaining, in other words. We can already see that countries like Libya are favored over countries like Uganda, despite the huge need for resettlement in the latter. Those who attempt to enter the EU by irregular means will also be excluded from quota refugee status, even in cases where there is no other means for them to flee. It is also № 13 visAvis

proposed that the funding for national quota refugees be abolished, and for member states that resettle under the EU program to receive financial support for this. Moreover, resettlement and the qualification regulation will be combined, which means that even quota refugees will only be granted temporary residence permits. Under the proposal, a new European Union Agency for Asylum (EUAA) would replace the existing European Asylum Support Office (EASO). The thought is that EUAA should implement the common asylum system, which includes the monitoring of member states during the process. EUAA will also receive a mandate to work on EU migration policy interests in third countries. Such a role was already explored by EASO when it played an important part in implementing the EU-Turkey agreement, whereby the EU bribed Turkey to stop all migration from Turkey to Greece. The above are merely extracts from the content of each proposal, but are enough to give an image of what is happening. CEAS, in combination with the ongoing externalization of EU’s borders, in practice destroys the right to seek asylum in the EU. All leading NGOs working on asylum issues and asylum rights within the EU and its border areas are warning against this development and its consequences, as well as the UN, its International Organization for Migration (IOM), the Bar Association, data protection organizations, and others. In Sweden, InEUmanity in association with others such as the National Council of Refugees (FARR) and the CONCORD platform work to spread information and create resistance against CEAS negotiations, and the ongoing externalization of EU borders.

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The migration issue within the EU has fallen into the “TINA” discourse: There Is No Alternative. In the same way that aggressive neoliberalism has become the only economic alternative for all governments, regardless of their political orientation, reinforced borders and deportations have become the migration-politics priorities for every member state in the EU. Regardless of the political standpoint of the government, appearing tough on the topic of “migration management” appears to be a must. But we are many who do not agree with these political views. Migration and free movement cannot be something that only those who hold Western passports enjoy. We want to break the racist discourse that poses migration as a threat, because only then can we stop the deadly politics of exclusion. Some are doing this through education and action. Others are doing it by saving lives on the Mediterranean. We may not be able to stop the EU, but we can build an alternative. We can create safe havens. We can protest. We can break the racist depiction of migration as a threat. We can begin to speak with each other and with others about what stands in the way of a free and just society. We can do a lot, but first of all, we have to organize ourselves. Read more about CEAS and InEUmanity at ineumanity.noblogs. org/ceas, and join the fight!

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Causes of blindness

by Lilltrez, Amara and Augustine illustrations by Sigrid Astrup

The authors were participants in Free Home University’s two-week residency, Performing the Struggle, at Ammirato Culture House in Lecce, Italy. At the end of the residency they chose to narrate their stories to some of the other participants, Christina Thomopoulos, Claudia Signoretti, and Alessandra Pomarico, to transcribe and share with visAvis. All three stories involve blindness: sometimes inflicted, sometimes mysterious and sometimes willing. They appear in edited form below. The full texts can be read on ArtsEverywhere at bit.ly/2DIE9VN. Free Home University is a pedagogical experiment grounded in experiencing life and creativity in common. It was formed in and around the city of Lecce in collaboration with a pool of diverse international artists and thinkers as a response to the need for new ways of sharing and creating knowledge. Lilltrez

My name is Lilltrez Art Brocus, which means eyes of the world. I was born in 1991 and I am from Nigeria, Edo State, but I am based in Italy. I am an artist; I love singing, dancing and making videos, and I have been a theatre director. I lived in Nigeria for 21 years and during that period I was not educated because my parents were very poor. My mum gave 20

birth to eleven children and I am the seventh. I could not just stay uneducated, so I searched for a job, and became a watchman for four years. On 11 March 2011, at 11:00 a.m., a gas canister exploded in my eyes in a store. I was rushed to the hospital. Since I had no money when I got there, the doctor did not attend to me immediately, so my eyes got worse: like cooked eggs. I couldn’t see at all. Later, my family finally found some money and they started treatment on me. I had two operations on both eyes but it wasn’t getting better. I was discharged after two months, and still I went to other states, other villages, in search of treatment. I lost all my friends with whom I made music and entertainment. I also lost my girlfriend, who said she could not date a blind person. Even people who did not know me before did not like to come close to me. Finally, I decided to go far away to another place, where even if people would hate me, they would not know who I was or the story of my eyes. I left Nigeria in 2014; I went from Kano to Niger, and from Niger to Sabha, in the Libyan desert. I didn’t know where I was going. Sometimes I felt like killing myself. But death does not come easily, and I always knew inside of me that I would not be like that forever. I dreamt of waking up and seeing clearly with my own two eyes. Sometimes I saw myself on a big stage, singing and dancing, in front of people who appreciated my performances. № 13 visAvis

After a long time in Sabha, I went to Tripoli, where I met friends who took care of me. Sometimes the Libyan Asma Boys, gangs of young armed robbers, would see me and my friends and try to steal money from us. My friends would run away and I would be left alone, unable to see where to go. I wouldn’t have much money, so the Asma Boys would beat me and leave. Because of all that, my eyes grew even worse, until one day I met a man who came to pick me up in the night and took me to a place where I met other people. There was a huge sea there, the Mediterranean. They took me inside a boat going to an island called Lampedusa. visAvis №13

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There were so many people inside. We traveled through the night across the sea, spending eleven hours out there. The next voices I heard were sorrowful and speaking a language I didn’t understand. They were Italian rescuers in the sea. I understood one thing: “You are welcome to Italia”. They brought us to the island of Sicily. From Sicily I was transferred to Brindisi and then Lecce, where I live now. A group of volunteers helped me with my documents and took me to the hospital in Lecce to have my eyes examined. I learned that doctors in Bari could give me a corneal transplant. I went there on 15 December 2015 at 11:35 a.m. I was carried to the theatre and the

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last thing I remember was having a drip inserted and smiling because I was doing it to see again. Meanwhile, after all these days I had spent in Italy, I still didn’t know what it looked like. Sometimes when I was walking in the street I would fall in a hole or hit something. But I had found a new girlfriend, whose name was Rejoice. My mum didn’t like her because she was not from Edo State; my mum believes that people from other states are not to be trusted. But I love Rejoice so much and she was everything to me then. She always told me that I would see again. One morning shortly after the operation, they came back and removed the bandages. I could see – more clearly than I had ever imagined after five years of blindness. The doctor was shocked because they had never expected me to see so clearly so soon. Everyone was happy, including me, and I came back to Lecce. So that is my story but I have to say a big thanks to those who were really helpful to me. Don’t forget we all have stories to tell. Amara

I arrived in Italy by boat – to the island of Lampedusa on 4 August 2014. After my arrival I was transferred to Vicenza in northern Italy. At first the prefecture sent me to a small village, but after six months I returned to the city, where I received support from a cooperative. I started volunteering in the municipality of Vicenza, and eventually I got a three-month job contract to paint all the benches on the playground. A few days after I finished this assignment, I started to suffer from serious headaches. I suffered a lot for three months. I was not able to work, but I did not go to the doctor. I told the cooperative supporting me that when I had this headache problem I was not able to see anything. They replied, “Since you have been here for one year already, we cannot take you to the doctor. You have to go by yourself.” Therefore, I went to the emergency room, where I was told I needed to undergo medical examinations. But my visAvis №13

health insurance had expired and I was not allowed to do anything without it. Despite this, I asked the emergency room doctor, “What did you see? What is the problem?” He said to me, “There are two scars in your eyes which are like two hands in front of your eyes.” I went back home and asked the cooperative how to renew my health insurance. To do that, I had to get a new residence permit. And I had to wait for four months to get my new permit. In all, I spent six months staying at home and waiting to receive documents. I was not able to go to school or do anything. Just wait. Because I did not have a residence permit. At last, after six months, I had my permit and insurance and could receive medical examinations. I asked if I could have an eye operation to solve my problem. They replied that the scars could not be operated on. I continued taking pain medication. I had to pass the Italian language exam, level A2, but I was not able to do that because of pain in my eyes and head. Finally, the doctors told the truth to my cooperative: there were no solutions, no medication, to heal my eyes. There were only medicines to reduce my headache. When I learned that, I said, “I prefer dying rather than living with this problem.” The doctors tried to help and encourage me; they showed me some examples of people who live with this problem, even more serious cases than mine, and explained what they do. The cooperative helped me face the problem, giving me eyedrops and glasses. I have to wear these glasses always. Thanks to them, the situation has improved and I am getting better now. I can read and write. Two months ago, I arrived in Lecce and I have enrolled in a new Italian language course, level A2C. I am studying and I am preparing for the exam.

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Augustine

What really goes on in a Libyan prison? I don’t know if the International Organization for Migration and the World Health Organization are ignorant of what really is going on in a Libyan prison. I was in Libyan prisons. Five, to be precise. While I was in these prisons, the IOM and WHO paid visits. The Libyan police would not allow those of us who would speak up about what is really going on in the prison to do so. Rather, they selected people that would speak about what would benefit the officers. On the days when we were expecting the visits, they would clean the entire prison, the bathrooms, the surroundings, fix up the whole place as if it always looks like that. They would hide the reality: that it’s like a place where animals live. Then the police put fear in the minds of the people that will speak, making it clear that if they said anything bad, as soon as the officials left they would be killed. For this reason, it seems like the IOM and WHO are ignorant of what is going on. But on this point I have to push back now. I feel that the IOM and WHO are not ignorant of what is going on. In the prisons, they see people with many different bruises and injuries. Many are half-dead. And they see this with their own naked eyes. All the organizations and the police want deportations. The police get more money if they deport people. That is why the police in Libya arrest people left and right. Every day they count the prisoners. They tell us, “Today we deport Nigerians,” “Tomorrow those from Gambia.” And they are arresting more people in the streets. When I asked the new people, I would hear the same story: they were coming back from work and the police picked them up. Same story every day. The police even go to houses in which they have heard that black people live, and they throw them in prison. Libya is not safe, and I feel the UN is aware of all this.

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I was transferred from Sara Dine prison to White House prison, from White House to Underground Prison, where almost a thousand people were kept. They had not seen the sun for more than a year. Much pain here. It’s not easy to recall all this. In the prison, two people I knew died. They gave up. I was talking to them every day. People are dying silently in Libya’s prisons for lack of European awareness. People are being taken from one prison to another, one kind of torture into another. With a heavy heart, I recognize that I am lucky not to be among those that are dead now. Twelve hours we were in the Mediterranean Sea coming here to Italy. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I believe Italy may be the worst place. The way we are treated... They stop us on the street... Even if we speak Italian, they won’t listen to us. When we try to tell them what is going on, about the problems, it only brings bigger problems. They tell us, “You were not forced to come here.” Who can we speak to? Who will listen? Who will do anything? Only two times have I felt happy in the year I have been in Italy. The first time was when we did a shadow theater workshop. The second was yesterday evening’s performance at the end of Free Home University’s session. It was really wonderful. All the people were open to understanding. People like that can share your pain and make you understand that all hope is not lost. That we should keep on fighting for the best. Because when there is life there is always hope.

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The Migrating Image: Imaging refugee and migrant trajectories to Europe by Florian Stark

Stefan Kruse’s short film The Migrating Image is an investigation of images produced during the so-called European refugee crisis in 2015. Through Kruse’s inquiry into the production of images portraying humanitarian affairs, and their most often hidden ideological footing, the film engages in a critique of its own kind. The filmmaker has made the film available to visAvis readers at the below link. https://vimeo.com/245224472 Code: Dinero 26

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Kept short (28:05), Kruse’s film discusses the production of “technical images” behind the scenes of the crisis. Instead of explaining what caused the movement of approximately one million refugees towards Europe, Kruse directs the viewer’s attention towards a less explored topic: the technicalities behind the images portraying the crisis. Kruse quotes Vilem Flusser, a Czech-born writer, philosopher and journalist, right at the start of the film to contextualize The Migrating Image’s theoretical footing: “Human beings forgot they created images to orientate themselves in the world.... Imagination has turned into hallucination.” Grounded on Flusser’s hallucinating insight, The Migrating Image re-evaluates the images produced and consumed since the summer of 2015, exposing their hidden ideological substructure. In four acts, Kruse presents the techno-analytical perspective of a filmmaker on the production of images that influenced so many public opinions and political decisions. The Migrating Image’s first act opens with the narrator’s voice telling us: “The production of images begins before the migration takes place.” Kruse’s inquiry begins with a gallery of images posted on Facebook profiles to advertise the services of smugglers and facilitators of flight. The images and profiles Kruse presents are composed of ships, airplanes and passports, as if embarking on the first leads to an obvious attainment of the latter. Additionally, screenshots of Viber messages function as proof of successful arrivals in Italy.

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These images and profiles use imagination as a driving force to advocate the decision to travel to Europe, and thereby produce an aura of simplicity regarding access to the continent. The profiles not only aim to show the seemingly easy way to Europe, but also, in many other images, what Europe is really about: French luxury yachts; Italian and German sports cars; lavish apartments; wealth. The Migrating Image reveals the ironic origins of these images used to sell a path to Europe. Smugglers and other facilitators of flight are compositing images created by European advertising agencies, tourist offices and governments themselves. The images were originally created to export the representation of Europe as a continent of secure jobs, prosperity and security, where highly skilled migrants and experts are welcomed with open arms. However, the images circulate virally and transcend their original purpose of advertising Europe as a Promised Land for businesses and wealthy investors. Images always carry a plurality of meaning; every image has the potential to be rearranged and re-contextualized in a setting where it functions differently. In the case at hand, images exporting a dream of Europe’s wealth are enlisted as promises for the dangerous crossing of the Mediterranean Sea. Yet this export of a superior, imaginary Europe traces right back to European colonialism, which likewise fostered the Eurocentrism of today. The responsibility for the creation and the impact of images we see at the start of Kruse’s film lies not only with the smugglers and facilitators of flight, but is more deeply embedded in Europe’s narcissistic self-conception. The second act of The Migrating Image takes us onto the Mediterranean Sea itself, where Copernicus views the migrant and refugee boats entering European waters. Copernicus is an Earth-monitoring system that cooperates closely with Frontex, the infamous European Border and Coast Guard Agency. Copernicus translates satellite data into images of red and green dots. These data images are used by Frontex to coordinate its first contact with migrants at sea, which takes the form of soundless recordings made by military helicopters.

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The images were recorded by military cameras in helicopters; they are embellished with additional data such as time, bearing and (in the lower left of the first shot) the pilot’s option to “disarm” the target. Hence, the refugees have become a matter of security. The images recorded by the military are stabilized via a superior image stabilization technique that holds the picture steady on its target, while directed by a manual joystick. These images are officially used by the Italian Coast Guard and Frontex to estimate the number and physical condition of the people in arriving boats. Furthermore, the technological equipment of Frontex allows image production that is not limited to European waters. Exemplifying a process that researcher Martin Lemberg-Pedersen has called “the externalization of European borders,” Frontex maps movements of ships, boats and even trawlers long before they enter European waters. Frontex’s allseeing eye is continuously expanding, for example through a recent EU agreement with Libya, which allows Frontex to patrol the entire Libyan coast and enhance their image production. When the silent helicopter images are published, it is beneath the logos of the Italian Navy and Coast Guard. Additionally, GoPro camera shots are added, underlined with piano music and eventually published on the Coast Guard’s YouTube channel with the headline “Angeli di Mare” (“Angels of the Sea”). The professionality with which those videos are edited and published hint at teams of media specialists accompanying the production of military images. Kruse’s inquiry demonstrates that this is, indeed, the case, by portraying the activities of European Commission Audiovisual Services. This department, connected to Frontex and equal in size to a standard broadcaster, supports the Italian Coast Guard and similar bodies in their imaging of migrant trajectories in the Mediterranean Sea. Some of their images are published for free use online, in print and on television, while others are only available with payment. The message transmitted by Frontex and the Italian authorities through these images is that their work is crucial for safeguarding European borders from the apparent existential threat posed by undesired migrants – and saving the visAvis №13

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migrants themselves. The images are contrary to those produced by independent organizations and non-governmental actors which disclose the oftentragic endings of so-called rescue missions operated by Frontex and the Coast Guard. In line with their humanitarian character, the imagery produced by NGOs aims to uncover human rights offences. In any case, rarely do broadcasters make their way onto the Mediterranean Sea to produce their own pictures and images. Therefore, we should be alert and constantly aware that the images European broadcasters edit into their stories of the crisis are coming from a pool of image producers biased in opposing ways. The Migrating Image displays various images composed to advocate for travel to Europe, to control and monitor movements at sea and to document the work of border security organizations and NGOs. In the third act, Kruse’s inquiry leads us to the production of images by volunteers, refugee support movements and photojournalists alongside the arrival of people at the borders of Europe. In 2015, many European countries birthed massive voluntary pro-refugee movements. At train stations, border crossings and the shores of the Mediterranean, volunteers welcomed (and still welcome) refugees and sought to ease their arrival. As with most life events today, this welcoming is visually documented, saved and shared online. The volunteers, deeply shocked by the conditions of refugees after their long, life-threatening travels at sea, aim to capture and transmit the message of the refugees’ suffering to the rest of the world. However, the first traditionally journalistic production of images starts with the migrants’ contact with photojournalists. In 2015 photojournalists were strongly present where volunteers helped the refugees arriving at the shores, and in camps where migrants were stuck between borders. Kruse offers, in his third act, an intense insight into the work of different photojournalists in the summer of 2015. Particularly impressive is the capture of a 360-degree camera placed in a warehouse somewhere in the Balkans. Such cameras are by now a well-established tool in digital media journalism, used to advance the immersion of the observer into the moving image. Immersion here refers to the force of an image to mentally engulf the observer. A 360-degree camera is supposed to immerse the viewer, literally, into the central point of the situation where the camera was 30

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placed. This particular camera succeeds well in that purpose as it records migrants gathering in front of their lodging, an old warehouse, stuck in between borders – bringing the viewer into the iconic imagery used many times to portray the degree of suffering and misery in which migrants find themselves on the way to Europe.

In the fourth and last act, Kruse’s inquiry illustrates another massive imageproducing industry and its methods of imaging refugee trajectories as they reached Middle European borders. All at once in 2015, European broadcasters seemed to directly intercept these trajectories. Kruse brilliantly maps out the different methods broadcasters utilized to capture the migrants’ arrival, and focuses on the popular tool of drone footage. For arguably the first time in history, drone shots of arriving people saturated the coverage of outlets such as Russia Today, Daily Mail and Channel 4. The usage of drones is a contemporary strategy for recording large gatherings of people, whether at demonstrations, election parties or football events. What makes drone-shot images so powerful is the ability to grasp the monumentality of large human gatherings, along with the still-novel feeling of seeing the world from above. In 1818, such monumental astonishment was famously captured by Caspar David Friedrich’s painting Wanderer above the Sea of Fog. This painting depicts a wanderer looking over the infinite fog covering the world below him. For two hundred years Friedrich’s remarkable painting has evoked feelings of singularity, loneliness and simultaneously attraction. Similar feelings and aura inhabit drone-shot images, as well, and when text and voiceover place these into context, they can quickly turn threatening. Kruse invites us to reconsider the drone shots of large groups of refugees walking between fields towards European borders by placing these one by one next to each other, mapping the proliferation of what began as stock footage captured by three drones on 25 October 2015. One can easily imagine how these images can be perceived differently when visAvis №13

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headlined and portrayed as “massive crowds” that are “overflowing European borders.” By offering us this perspective on the usage of drone shots when portraying large human movements, Kruse’s work supplies a timely reflection on the drivers of current anti-immigration sentiments in Europe. Kruse’s short film discusses the danger of images consumed without doubt through its focus on the image production accompanying the “European refugee crisis”. For quite a while now we have witnessed how the production of images can mislead every one of us. Fake news and false information-spread are among our times’ most pressing problems. It can feel as though our eyes and sentiments are lacking the capacity to deflect the reactions that images provoke in our senses. With ever-growing technological progress, media advances in its ability to immerse us in images. Immersion comes with a lack of objectivity, as a strongly immersive image hides its own character as a reproduction of reality, not reality itself. This is the danger of applying advanced media technology to humanitarian issues, where we and others are in danger of being exposed to political despotism. To come back to our starting point, images help us orient in and navigate the world. In his quote Vilem Flusser warns of striving to perfect the image into something ever more “real” – a trap, when it becomes a dangerous production of imagined realities that we fail to reflect on sufficiently. Kruse’s inquiry comes nearly three years after the events of summer 2015, but the impact of the images he examines can be traced right through current political and societal dynamics. European election campaigns since 2015 have, to a large extent, been built on heated debates over immigration and refugee policies. Rightwing populists have made use of political uncertainties and successfully entered European parliaments, where they currently work to freeze discussions on immigration, openly denying the 1951 Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees and striving to further crack the supranational idea of Europe. The Migrating Image is a small but powerful outline and (re)presentation of some of the images made on both sides of the shores and borders of Europe in 2015. Kruse criticizes, with the help of Flusser, the unreflexive way we perceive images, especially those on deeply humanitarian issues such as flight and refuge. Keeping its own criticism in mind, Kruse’s film is also no more nor less than a subjectively curated, at times vividly arresting collection of images, itself aiming to fit the filmmaker’s narrative. Therefore, a critical but open viewing of The Migrating Image lies in the interest of its own creator.

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af Lone Aburas illustration af Mo Maja Moesgaard

Teksten er et uddrag af Lone Aburas’ bog Det er et jeg der taler (regnskabets time), der udkom i 2017 Der er noget perverteret ved at sidde her med sin MacBook Pro og tænke SÅ meget over det poetiske overskud og eksperimenterne, at være et sansende jeg i verdenen, når jeg alligevel ikke kan gøre det politiske poetisk. Hvad ved jeg om at ligge i lastrummet på en varetransport, at gå om bord i en af dødsbådene, at få en håndfuld jord af sin mor, man ikke skal se igen? Vi kunne alle sammen få hjælp af en krisepsykolog efter Kirkerydningen og for at have været tæt på traumatiserede flygtninge, og så gik vi hjem til vores fælleskøkkener og forældrekøb og skrev romaner og søgte ind på videregående uddannelser og kunstakademier og det siger jeg ikke for at hænge nogen ud, men vi har brug for en revolution. I hvert fald skal jeg til at begynde at gå til møder igen og lytte til Bridge Radio og ringe til Marie. Poesien og teorierne kan alligevel ikke redde os, hvis der overhovedet er tale om et os. Vi skal jo nok klare den, selvom vi har svage økonomier og skodjobs, og der endnu en gang bliver skåret i puljen for kunst og kultur, og man ikke kan få dagpenge og betalt barsel, og en emsig A-kassemedarbejder synes, det er hans job at ringe til en kl. 19:30, selvom han har fucking fyraften, bare for at informere om, at jeg skam gerne må skrive til skuffen. Det er alt det andet. Når politikere bruger girafsprog til at konkludere, at lejrene i nærområderne er godt organiserede, selvom de visAvis №13

English translation page 79

Det er et jeg der taler (regnskabets time) Agitprop

udmærket ved, at der løber kloakvand uden for teltene, at tagene er presenninger holdt fast af simple konstruktioner, at folk direkte adspurgt siger, de lever som døde. Alligevel bliver I kaldt velfærdsturister og bekvemmelighedsflygtninge, når I langt om længe når herop fra belejrede og udbombede byer. I er også vores bødler og taler med falske kløvede tunger. Fundamentalister er ikke blot en misvækst på islams træ, men selve rødderne, siges det, ligesom borgerkrigen er en nært forestående realitet. I fritteren legede vi også borgerkrig: mig og Ali, Shahid og Jasmina mod de andre. Måske kaldte man os perkerne, fremmedarbejderne, daddelplukkerne? Jeg husker det ikke. Men jeg husker forvirringen, fortvivlelsen over ikke at vide, hvilken side jeg tilhørte. Jeg lover, at jeg aldrig mere skal være så fuld og sorg og selvhad over at være brun og udøbt. Jeg vil hellere skrive som i Høecks Sorte sonetter. Selvom besyngelsen af palæstinensernes frihedskamp dengang som her i vores årtusind vel blev regnet for at være en lyrisk selvmordsbombe af en digtkreds dér i de apolitiske og selvdøde 80’ere. Terror er terror er terror, men jeg lægger dem alligevel under min hovedpude endnu en nat, sonetterne, så længe Palæstina ikke figurerer på Google Maps, og blokaden fortsat består sammen med tusinder af andre uretfærdigheder og bosættelser.

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Mon lieu de vie

My life’s place

par Babak Inanlou

by Babak Inanlou

“Mon Lieu de Vie” est un projet réalisé par Babak Inanlou avec des photos prises dans un ancien camp de réfugiés à Calais, France. Les photos ont été prises au début de l’année 2016 avant que le camp ne soit démoli par les autorités françaises. Elles illustrent l’environnement où des milliers de personnes ont vécu lors de leur exile, et qui est aujourd’hui communément connu sous le nom de “La Jungle”.

“My life’s place” is a project by Babak Inanlou with photos from the former refugee camp in Calais, France. The photos were taken in the beginning of 2016 before the camp was demolished by French authorities. They display the environment where several thousand people used to live during their exile in what became widely known as “the Jungle”.

Les photos ont été distribuées à des étudiants d’universités européennes, auxquels on a demandé de se projeter dans la situation que la photographie respective illustrait. Un ancien résident de “La Jungle” de Calais a ensuite ajouté ses commentaires basés sur son vécu et son expérience sur place. Babak est originaire d’Iran, il a passé du temps dans ce camp, en tant que réfugié en 2016, et en tant que volontaire par la suite. A travers ce projet il capture un parallèle entre la réalité et la fiction. Son objectif est de challenger les idées des jeunes générations sur le confort de vie et de montrer la manière dont les humains habitent et établissent des liens avec les endroits. Babak est actuellement étudiant à l’Université de Lille en France.

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The photos were shared among European university students who were asked to imagine themselves in the captured situation. A former resident from the Calais “Jungle” then commented on the photo based on their real life experience of the camp and its places. With this project, Babak, who is from Iran and has spent time in the camp, both as a refugee in 2016, and later as a volunteer, portrays imagination and reality in parallel. He aims to challenge a young generation’s idea about life’s comfort and show how humans inhabit and establish relations with places. Babak is currently a student at Lille University in France.

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Je ne peux pas imaginer, ce que l’on peut ressentir de vivre entre deux mondes, celui de l’espoir d’une vie meilleure et celui de la peur de ne jamais atteindre le bonheur. J’ai un très grand respect envers ces être humains qui vivent aujourd’hui avec la peur du lendemain. Il faut avoir une très grande determination et beaucoup d’optimisme. En regardant, cette photo plus plusieurs sentiments se mêlent : La tristesse, la force, l’espoir, la compassion mais aussi la rage. Pourquoi tous ces mots, pourquoi tous ces sentiments?

I cannot imagine what one might feel when living between two worlds; one world of hope of a better life and another world of fear of never finding happiness. I have big respect towards these human beings who live today with fear of tomorrow. One must have great determination and a lot of optimism. When I look at this photo, several feelings mix in my head: sadness, strength, hope, compassion but also rage. Why all of these words, why all of these feelings?

Je me mets à la place de ceux qui vivent das ses conditions et je pense que le seul moyen pour moi de s’en sortir et l’entreaide, l’amour et l’humanité.

I imagine myself in the place of those who live in such conditions and I imagine that the only way for me to get out of that would be mutual help and solidarity, love and humanity.

– Chloé

– Chloé

Le premier jour, je me suis retrouvé dans la tente, j’y ai passé une soirée avec plein de soucis, j’ai écouté le bruit de la pluie et imaginé comment je pourrais trouver une solution.

On the first day, I found myself in the tent. I spent a night there with a lot of worries. I listened to the sound of rain and imagined how I could find a solution.

– Un ex-habitant

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– An ex-resident

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Assis sur une chaise de camping en toile, abrité du soleil par un pan de ma tente de fortune, je vois la journée défiler, comme au ralenti, dans la chaleur estivale. Les gorgées de bière tiède me désaltèrent et il y a comme un semblant de vacances dans l’air. Les rires fusent dans le lointain, mes amis discutent joyeusement à l’intérieur de la tente. L’espace d’un instant, le temps et les soucis se sont arrêtés. – Julianne La tente était petite et dans la journée sans lumière, ça pouvait causer une suffocation. Dès que je me réveillais, je ne pouvais plus rester à l’intérieur, il n’y avait pas de divertissements donc il me restait un choix, s’asseoir sur cette chaise et regarder la vie, avec une bière! – Un ex-habitant

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Seated on a camping chair made of canvas, sheltered from the sun by a makeshift tent, I see the day pass, like in slow motion, in the summer heat. Gulps of lukewarm beer quench my thirst and there is a sense of vacation in the air. Laughs burst in the distance. My friends are talking cheerfully inside the tent. For a moment, time and worries stop. – Julianne The tent was small and without light in the day. This could cause suffocation. As soon as I would wake up, I would find it impossible to stay inside the tent. There was no entertainment. However, I was left with one choice; to sit on this chair and watch life with a beer. – An ex-resident

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Vivre ici, il est impossible pour moi de l’imaginer. Loin de toutes formes de confort, loin de tout ce qui ressemble à un endroit où l’on veut rester. On ne veut même pas y passer quelques secondes.

It is impossible for me to imagine myself living here. Away from all aspects of comfort, away from anything that looks like a place one wants to stay. You can’t even be there for a few seconds.

Devoir vivre ici de force, loin de mon pays, serait comme tout recommencer à zéro. Sans héritage familial, juste quelques souvenirs et des barrières qui m’empêchent d’avancer. Vivre ici serait vivre dans une misère que les autres ne veulent pas voir, être forcée de rester là pour ne pas les déranger. Quitter le pays où j’ai grandi, que j’aime, pour vivre dans cet endroit que je n’aime pas et qui ne veut pas de moi me semble inimaginable. C’est un endroit où seule la survie semble avoir sa place, le collectif semblerait alors nécessaire et l’entre-aide indispensable pour garder espoir.

To be forced to live here, away from my country, would be like starting from zero. Without family heritage, only with my memories and with barriers that prevent me from going ahead. To live here would be like living a misery others do not want to be faced with; forced to live there not to bother them. To leave the country where I grew up, the country that I love, in order to live at this place that I do not like, and that does not want me, seems unimaginable for me. It is a place where only survival seems to have its place. The collective and the collaboration would then seem necessary and the mutual help would be crucial to maintain hope.

– Mathilde C’était plus un lieu de survie . Mais quand même c’était mieux qu’être dans une tente . On a fabriqué une maison en bois avec des amis , grâce à l’aide des bénévoles qui nous ont amené les matériaux. On a couvert les murs avec des couvertures mais il faisait encore froid la nuit. On faisait du feu dans une casserole et on l’amenait à l’intérieur. C’était mieux. – Un ex-habitant

– Mathilde It was more of a place of survival. But still, it was better than living in a tent. My friends and I made a wooden house, thanks to the aid from the volunteers who brought us the materials. We covered the wall with sheets, but it still felt cold at night. We lit fire in a pot and took it inside. It was better. – An ex-resident

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Et si j’étais... là devant cet habitat de fortune en toile verte et blanche. Je n’aurais pas d’autres choix que d’en faire ma maison parce qu’il faut bien vivre quelque part même sur le territoire de l’hostile et de l’inhabitable. Tenter à tout prix de rendre familier le lieu de l’infamie. Le marquer de signes qu’on dit propres à la vie humaine même lorsqu’on semble s’en éloigner.

And if I were there, in front of this settlement of green and white canvas, I wouldn’t have any other choice than to make it my house, because one has to live, even on the territory of the hostile and the inhabitable. To try, at any cost, to make the place of obscenity familiar. To mark it with signs that are said to be suitable of human life, even if we seem to be getting further away from it.

Un cadenas posé suffit-il à séparer le «chez moi», possible espace de convivialité et de partage malgré l’inconfort et la précarité, de cette jungle ?

Is a padlock enough to separate the jungle from home; a place of congeniality and sharing despite the discomfort and precarity?

Je laisse mes sandales à l’entrée, sur l’allée de palettes de bois, juste devant la porte faite de bâche noire. Façonner de l’habitable, de le créer. Survivre.

I leave my sandals at the entrance on the wooden pathway, just in front of the door made of black tarpaulin. To shape the habitable, to create it. To survive.

À l’extérieur, Objets du quotidien d’ici et d’ailleurs éparpillés devant moi. Supports de mon imagination. Vélo jaune sur lequel je vois un enfant, peut-être le mien, le tien, le nôtre, s'en aller loin d'ici. Innocence et légèreté dans l'espoir d'un monde meilleur.

Outside, daily life, objects from here and there are dispersed in front of me. They add to my imagination. A yellow bike on which I see a child, maybe mine, maybe yours, maybe ours; getting away from here. Innocence and lightness lost in the hope of a better world.

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Pot de Winston dont le tabac est parti en fumée devient un saut pour jouer sur cette plage qu’on peut voir à l’horizon, vers laquelle on tend depuis le début. Bout de terre pourtant si difficile à atteindre, qui s’éloigne de nos aspirations encampées. – Noor Regardant les enfants, c’était un signe de l’espoir; ils jouent dans cette situation et c’est une valeur d’existence, ils résistent avec leur jeux. Parfois je me noyais dans leurs vies, c’était mieux que la nôtre. Ils sont les symboles d’espoir. Mais malheureusement on a créé une vie difficile pour eux. Dans la jungle, j’ai pensé que je ne vais jamais avoir un enfant parce que j’ai peur de le voir grandir dans ce monde injuste. – Un ex-habitant

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Tobacco in a can of Winston, it burns into smoke and turns into a dart playing on this beach that one can see in the horizon, to which one reaches out from the beginning. A piece of land that is yet so difficult to reach, and distancing itself from our encamped aspirations. – Noor Watching the children, it was a sign of hope; they play in this situation and that is a value of our existence. They resisted through their games. Sometimes, I would drown in their lives. It was better than ours. They were the symbols of hope. But unfortunately, we have created a difficult life for them. Inside the Jungle, I thought I was never going to have a child, because I was afraid of seeing a child grow up in this unjust world. – An ex-resident

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Roundup scenes on Belle Fouche in 1887. U.S. Library of Congress.

Cowboy, get stand by Jean Claude Mangomba Mbombo

Cowboy, get stand! Cowboy, keep your spirit up! I know that you fled because of inequalities I know that you fled because of war I know that you fled because of injustice I know that you fled because of oppression All of us will pass away Those who are giving you pains will also pass away Cowboy, don’t lose hope Cowboy, one day you will smile Cowboy, get stand! Cowboy, keep your spirit up!

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Cowboy, lève-toi par Jean Claude Mangomba Mbombo

Cowboy, lève-toi! Cowboy, garde ton esprit haut! Je sais que tu as immigré à cause des inégalités. Je sais que tu as immigré à cause de la guerre. Je sais que tu as immigré à cause de l’injustice. Je sais que tu as immigré à cause de l’oppression. Tous nous passerons. Ceux qui te persécutent passeront également. Cowboy, ne désespère jamais. Cowboy, un jour tu vas sourire. Cowboy, lève-toi! Cowboy, garde ton esprit haut!

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Barriers on the road of transformative dialogue: The case of Trampoline House by Ali Ali illustration by Patrick Ravn

In this text, Ali Ali takes a critical look at the refugee and migrant community centre Trampoline House and shows how even a visionary project with the best intentions reproduces a power hierarchy with the West on top, when social transformation and empowerment are downgraded in favor of a focus on charity and emergency. Class oppression, ethnic discrimination and gender inequality are interlinked aspects of contemporary unjust societal structures. Do we want to reproduce an unjust society in the name of survivalism and humanitarian emergency? Are we losing hope in social transformation and claiming that change is hard or even impossible? There is a crucial need to venture into new perspectives; to acknowledge that conventional ways of civilizing the Other are marked by blind inconsideration of the validity of other perspectives. To work honestly towards an egalitarian society requires valuing equality at each stage of the egalitarian struggle. Can there be patrons and subordinates in the struggle for equality? The situation is dire, which makes us great!

Trampoline House is an independent community center located in Copenhagen. It focuses on refugee and migrant issues, with the mission of providing migrants in Denmark with a place of support, community and sense of purpose and belonging within the wider Danish society. It offers a range of services and activities such as legal counselling, educational programs and classes, which aim to break the social isolation experienced by refugees and asylum seekers. It is a venue where regular and irregular migrants as well as Danish citizens create a multicultural space. In theory, the mission of Trampoline House is not only to help forced migrants, but also to challenge the mainstream discourse on asylum and migration, which is characterized by the victimization and marginalization of forced migrants. Trampoline House started out of Asylum Dialogue Tank, a series of workshops held at asylum centres in 2009. Administrator: [...] we wanted to reverse the power dynamics, so we asked the asylum seekers to become experts, so that instead of the white people coming to save the asylum seekers they were the experts who needed to train the Danish participants. Obviously we knew that the Danish participants, they came with a lot of resources, and knowledge about this society (Danish society). [...] So with their knowledge and our sort of practical expertise, maybe we could start up something like the Trampoline House. In this interview from 2017, the words of the administrator still sound uplifting, but looking at the dynamics at the House leaves one in doubt. In reality, the circumstances seem to have favored discounting the social transformative part of the mission that aimed to challenge the power dynamics and change the discourse on migration and asylum. And visAvis â„–13

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the administration that in the beginning aimed at changing reality complied with it. By mainly presenting the House as a break from the terrible life at the asylum centres, members and administrators seem to have reduced the whole project of empowerment into a charity project, something that the founders did insist, from the beginning, it would not be. Apparently, faced with a considerable challenge of having to appeal to a wider segment of society for support, the House chose to endorse itself as a rescue project for forced migrants, and compromised its potential for social transformation. And the administration not only admits this fact, but also uses it to justify the shift in focus. The claim now is that the dire situation of asylum seekers imposes other necessities. Administrator: Because sometimes, if someone arrives from a camp, he or she could be really traumatized and having a hard time contributing much. Instead they need to sort of rest and get sort of stability in life and feel like, “oh I’m actually wanted here, I’m not, like you don’t treat me like dirt,” but that’s all they can do maybe, in the beginning. I am a grateful victim with no agency

The statement of the administrator above reflects the mood at the House, which is rife with reminders of the dire situation and life circumstances of asylum seekers. In a promotional video for Trampoline House, several forced migrants speak about the unpleasant living conditions at the refugee camps, while the House is presented as a solution for their isolation. This narrative seems to chime with the forced migrants’ feelings of insecurity and makes them only grateful for the help they get, or at least feel the burden of the favor, so that they do not imagine themselves disagreeing. Ali: How would you change this center if you were able to? Babek: It is a hard question. I do not know exactly. Maybe add some programs. Ali: Like? Babek: [Changing his mind or retracting] They have everything. I have no imagination about how to change it. Everything is organised and there are good managers. Babek is a Middle Eastern member of the House. Throughout the interview with Babek, it was hard not to notice that he was choosing answers that presented an acceptable image of himself – something he seems to engage in in the face of hostility and mistrust (at least as he perceives it). This was more clear by the end of the interview, when he insisted that the translator make sure I noted his emphasis on the ideals of the rule of civil law, humanity and non-discrimination among religious and ethnic groups. Babek wanted to show that he learned his lesson on Western Modernity well. Babek’s desire for approval in an environment of hostility, and his endeavour to prove that he is neither harmful nor abnormal (in the Danish context), reflects a pattern at the House. In none of the interviews with asylum seekers did I witness an inclination to speak critically of or act proactively at the House. Instead of taking a chance at being critical, the active contributions of forced migrants at the House seem to be mainly limited to shows of victimhood. At the weekly House Meetings, testifying victimhood seems to be the norm for forced migrants. At one of these meetings, one of the asylum seekers tried to invest in his precarious financial situation to demand free transportation tickets to one of the events taking place at the House. 46

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Another asylum seeker took the opportunity to remind other members of the dire situation of people from his country who are suffering in war and poverty. He pointed out the unfairly selective attention to forced migrants depending on their country of origin. In another event at the House, an LGBT refugee member referred to the inhumane treatment asylum seekers are subjected to in the asylum system: “we are treated like animals; animals are better, we are treated like frogs”. Apparently, the role of victim not only traps individuals in an identity of subordination and passivity, but also imposes a simplistic depiction of the structural circumstance that led to the victimization. While the plight of asylum seekers and refugees in the asylum system is definitely not to be downplayed, the struggle to survive does not have to be reduced to shows of powerlessness and marginalization, and stop there. Instead of choosing to navigate away from their victimized status, forced migrants are required to capitalize on it in order to qualify for the support and help to which this status entitles them. In visAvis #8, the scholar Sara Ahmed argued that testifying to injury and suffering, which is required of asylum seekers to prove their eligibility, is a repetition of the injury. It is not the incapacity of forced migrants to participate in a politically significant debate that keeps members trapped in passivity and victimhood. It is the dynamics of suppression that are sometimes too subtle, other times too obvious, that curb the shift to a more constructive dialogue. At one of the Trampoline House discussions termed as Democracy Workshops, one of the asylum seekers contributed by saying, “we asylum seekers come here [to the House] to learn democracy”. The moderator of the discussion, a Danish member who more often than not endorses democracy as an ongoing process of learning and mutual appreciation of claims, nodded in agreement. He failed to realize that the workshop was supposed to be about inclusion, sharing and participation, rather than about one specific group being disciplined and educated. Perhaps the moderator was phasing out because of the insignificance of the whole workshop for him. Or maybe he did not want to bother, because he did not see any consequence or hope in that. In any case, it would have been helpful to tell that grateful and diligent asylum seeker that democracy is learned in a shared process, and that he himself did have something to contribute with, and that there is no danger in knowing that or even acting on it. Us aware and principled, them reactionary and unenlightened

Reduced to an underclass, forced migrants at the House still have to undergo another aspect of demoralization to bolster the identity of the more privileged members; cultural inferiority. These migrants mostly come from societies that are viewed as conservative, reactionary and incompatible with a progressive social transformation. Discourses characterized by Western superiority to Middle Eastern and Islamic societies could result in a sense of estrangement from the dialogical opportunity. In the early days of Trampoline House, so-called gender discussions were held. Those discussions were a lively debate that brought much contribution and also showed much potential. The discussions stopped shortly after they started, because the management decided other issues have priority; Emergency. Now, the management of the fully-fledged organization seem to be content with mindfully reminding its more liberal female members to be decent in their clothes, in order not to attract undue attention from other members. Without having to directly refer to Middle Eastern migrants, the liberal women can easily recognize these thanks to stereotypes and mainstream media. The women keep their guard up, while issues of gender, race and stereotypes (and even discrimination) can wait until further notice, under a mask of good spirit. But issues unravel easily when one looks just a little closer. visAvis №13

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Katarina, one of the ex-interns at the House, is an example of how the congenial interethnic relations could take a funny twist. Katarina, a self-proclaimed “anarchist feminist”, showed stark ethnocentrism in her statements. When asked about the dynamics of dialogue with Middle Eastern men about her polyamorous lifestyle, Katarina seems to idealize her attitude and argument in relation to the attitude of her Middle Eastern male discussants, whom she presents as reactionary, less enlightened and lacking the rational critical pattern of thinking: Katarina: [...] they usually tell me like that it’s interesting, that they didn’t know so much about [polyamory]. Me : But they know about polygyny right? Katarina: Yeah, but they didn’t know for example the reasons for it behind [...] its ideology kind of thing – it’s about – if you are polyamorous you don’t have to have several partners, you can have just two – but you do it because you think that everybody has freedom [...]. Katarina accredits herself with an ideological background and commitment that underpins an attitude and a lifestyle, while denying that to her Middle Eastern peers. Added to that, she shows no significant interest in inspecting their attitude more deeply. Instead, she seems to enjoy setting her image as a progressive woman against a background of ideologically underperforming Middle Eastern men. Her behaviour and attitude – and her depiction of the situation – are not uncommon at the House and they betray a high degree of Orientalism. Especially when the whole project of Trampoline House is reduced to a friendly atmosphere where migrants are not “treated like dirt” – we end up with very little interest in depth or transformation. The historian John McLeod has shown how the status of inequality puts Middle Easterners in a passive position where they need to conform to the perceived higher moral standards upheld in the West. This aspect seems to be reproduced even in organizations that strive to alleviate the marginalization and subordination of migrants and refugees, as one can see from the example of Trampoline House. Again, as much as the House claims or strives to differ from other organizations, it seems to reproduce a well-established tradition. Policy-makers and Western social scientists assume a dichotomy between liberty and Islam, which according to scholars such as Frédéric Volpi denies any transformative potential within Muslim societies. This estrangement of Middle Eastern and Muslim individuals from the gender-egalitarian project – and reformist projects in general – sets them, from the beginning, on an unequal footing with individuals belonging to the host society. Assumptions of cultural superiority subject forced migrants to an assimilation process that could reduce them to passive defendants in their endeavour to achieve basic social acceptance. It pressures them to testify the level they assimilate to the acclaimed ideology and behaviour in the host society with little critical evaluation or genuine identity reconsideration. But social change is not imposed or learned; it is an endeavour that requires collaboration and dialogue. In discordance with the mainstream belief, several scholars challenge the assumed dichotomy between liberty and Islam. They advocate a view that recognizes a degree of flexibility in Islam that allows it to accommodate gender-egalitarian projects and initiatives. Anthropologist Lila Abu-Lughod argues that transformative feminist currents have happened within an Islamic paradigm and within the very structure of Islam. Modern examples also prove the possibility of more liberal currents in Islam. Outspokenly homosexual imams in both the United States and Europe not only present role models with subversive 48

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potential to mainstream perceptions of Muslims, but also showcase the engagement of these imams in a constructive dialogue. Cases of internally critical discourses are crucial in the endeavour to challenge gender inequality, because they bridge the divide between cultures without assuming the superiority of any. Who is right, who is wrong?

It is not a competition. It is an attempt to build a harmonious society. And if there is a way out, it is negotiated; not preached, not dictated. In order for a transformative dialogue to happen there needs to be mutual recognition between different participants. The subordination of Othered individuals and cultures tends to disadvantage them and discredit their views. But most importantly, it fetters their sense of engagement in the endeavour for a just society. With its less formal environment, Trampoline House has managed to make a relative break with the usual behaviour of refugee and asylum NGOs by engaging with asylum seekers and refugees in patterns that transcend mere bureaucratic provision of help and services. Instead of subscribing to a pure charity project, the House makes the relation between ethnic and national groups more personal and less bureaucratic. However, bringing the different groups into contact is only a step towards transformative dialogue. Discourses of care and help can be twisted in an essentialist way that leads to a static multiculturalism, rejecting social change. Oppressive social structures deny the potential of change, endeavouring to sustain themselves by instilling scepticism about social transformation and the possibility of alternatives. Then we sustain discriminatory solutions as momentary succour, just to contribute to the system that creates this very emergency and reproduces it on a higher level later. If we fall into thinking that the circumstances impose timid solutions that stop short of profound social change, we get trapped into reproducing the foundation of these circumstances – a foundation centred on a dogmatic belief in the passive victimhood of the unprivileged and cultural superiority of the West over the rest. Perhaps recognizing the agency of forced migrants, and their ability to engage in a constructive social dialogue, is already a big move against the structures that underpin their plight and victimhood. This is the road of transformative dialogue, and these are its barriers: timidity, victimization and conceit. Together they buttress a static world of inequality, where the privileged flaunt their monopoly over offhand experimentation within empowerment projects, while the disadvantaged slowly wither in admiration. The names used above are pseudonyms. The text is based on Ali Ali’s master’s thesis, Barriers on the Road of Transformative Dialogue (University of Lund, 2017). References

Abu-Lughod, L. (2001) “Orientalism” and Middle East Feminist Studies. Feminist Studies, Vol. 27, Iss. 1, pp. 101-113. Ahmed, S. & Nimand Duvå, L. (2013) Those Who Tend to Cause Trouble. visAvis: Voices on Asylum and Migration, No. 8, pp. 64-67. McLeod, J. (2000) Beginning Postcolonialism. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Volpi, F. (2011) Political Islam Observed. New York: Routledge. visAvis №13

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Dansk oversættelse side 80

Don’t blame me for not learning Danish – blame the system for not wanting to teach me by Eden illustration by Yildiz Arslan

I believe that learning Danish is very important. That is why, ever since I came to Denmark, I have been looking forward to learning Danish. But when I arrived in Center Sandholm, there was no regular Danish language school, only one hour a week taught by volunteers. Even though I joined every week, I only learned very basic things. After some months, I was informed by the job center in Sandholm that they offered Danish classes to people under the age of 23. People older than 23 had to go to English language classes. Why should I learn English, a language I already know, and not Danish when I’m in Denmark? After a few years, it became possible for all asylum seekers to attend Danish classes. I tried to sign up for them, but I was told that there was no more money to pay for transportation from the camp to the schools. I went by myself to a language school in Copenhagen in order to learn Danish, but they asked me to bring a permit from the Red Cross. Then I asked for the papers at the Red Cross job center in Sandholm. But it turned out that the school was only for people without previous education, or with certain problems. But I didn’t give up. I tried to find a private teacher. Someone from the Red Cross helped me find a woman to teach me Danish one or two times a week, but it didn’t work out. Now I’ve been in Denmark for more than six years. When I walk around and speak only English, people sometimes ask me if I’m a tourist. Some Danes also think that I’m lazy because I haven’t learned Danish after six years, but they don’t know how hard I’ve tried. I suggest that all asylum seekers who come to Denmark should be offered the opportunity to attend Danish language school. That would make it possible to communicate with Danish society. On the news, I have sometimes seen Danes blaming refugees for not speaking Danish, even though the refugees have been here for years. Maybe those people have had experiences like mine. There can be so many reasons why people don’t speak Danish. Don’t blame me for not wanting to learn Danish – blame the system for not wanting to teach me. visAvis №13

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Six bullet holes

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by Vahid Evazzadeh illustration by Simon Væth

She sobs and begs them to give her her son. It’s been two hours now that she has been repeating the same sentence. The young guard, who is not trained enough to show no emotions, gives up and goes inside. She turns to the second soldier asking for her son. The soldier looks straight ahead, trying to focus on the tiles of the wall and shadows of the oak leaves that move off-beat to the woman’s spastic cry, now sounding like hiccups. Wind blows through the leaves, but the hiccups make it hard to hear what sound the leaves make; there’s only shadow. The first soldier comes back with a body on his shoulder. He dumps the body in front of the woman. The second soldier looks startled. He hears the leaves of the oak tree now. The woman has stopped crying. She takes the blindfold off of her son’s face. The body is soaked in cold water. There is no blood except for what is filling six little black holes on his chest. He is still in his own clothes, though one shoe is missing, and his hands are still tied behind his back. She loosens the rope. Blue marks show on the wrists. She stands up, taller than when she came to beg for her son with some hope he would be alive. She looks at the soldiers with a gaze that they are not trained to decipher. She wipes the grief off of her face with her big rough hand and breathes in deeply. She has got what she has come here for. She puts her son’s arm over her shoulder and gets him off the ground. She balances the weight and they walk away together. By the road there is a woman with her baby on her lap. Six bullet holes that she has covered with her chador. Cars slow down to look. But they don’t know.

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Stories told and untold: Anglophone Cameroonians at flight in Nigeria photos by Solomon Amabo via IndieFrame • text by Loke Bisbjerg Nielsen

While most have heard about Nigerians fleeing Boko Haram, to Cameroon among other places, fewer know that refugees also cross the border in the opposite direction. In October 2017, an Englishspeaking minority in Cameroon declared the independent state of Ambazonia, resulting in the expulsion of many. These events have largely been ignored by the world press – but journalist Solomon Amabo tells some of the neglected stories with his photos. Their eyes fixed on something outside the picture frame. Heads twisting with nervous looks on their faces. The thin layer of dirt covering their bodies from being forced to lie down in the yellow sand of Southern Cameroon. The crammed conditions in the back of the truck. The police helmet lying at their feet. The police officer with his back turned, hovering above their heads, standing upright, as if he is walking on the detainees. This picture taken by the Nigerian journalist Solomon Amabo is a good example of how even a basic camera, such as the one on a smartphone, can tell the story of a situation by distilling a moment of it. As such technologies are becoming more widespread, more people on the ground can have a role in telling stories through pictures and words. Is the global media ready to democratise by including content which has traditionally had no route to a world audience? The detainees in the truck are students from the University of Buea in Southwest Cameroon, who have been arrested after joining teachers and lawyers in a protest against the Francophonisation of English educational institutions in Cameroon.

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Attention is finite. So where should it be invested? What voices does the global media raise and what stories does it tell? And what gets left out? Getting attention through the global media can be difficult, and stories often do not reach beyond local or national interest until they reach a certain point of extraordinariness or tragedy. People living close to events rarely have input into how or where the stories are reported. Yet independent journalists anywhere in the world can be sources of stories, perspectives and change. One such story is the story of the English-speaking minority in Southern Cameroon, who voiced their demand for an independent state in October 2017. This demand was followed by a hard crackdown by Cameroonian security forces, which has caused thousands of people to flee from Cameroon to Nigeria. This story has hardly reached the international news, and most people outside of the region have not heard about it. However, ongoing violence is reported, and the hardships facing the refugees have not changed, with no prospect of a resolution in the near future. One voice drawing attention to this issue is the Nigerian journalist Solomon Amabo, who is documenting the situation in pictures and in words. In collaboration with the journalistic photo-platform IndieFrame, his story about the Southern Cameroonian refugees in Nigeria is told.

Arrested protesting civilians forced to lie face down. Over 2 million people are still displaced in North East Nigeria following the violent campaign of the insurgent group known as Boko Haram and the accompanying violence following security forces’ on-going attempt to defeat the group. In addition, hundreds of thousands of people have sought refuge in neighbouring regions. One of these countries is Cameroon, which has forcefully repatriated tens of thousands of refugees to Nigeria. In late October 2017, the movement of people across the two countries’ borders was given a new dimension, as thousands of people from Southern Cameroon crossed the border to Nigeria. visAvis №13

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On 1 October 2017, the English-speaking minority in Cameroon declared an independent state: Ambazonia. The territory of modern day Cameroon was colonised by Germany from 1884 to 1916, when it was lost in World War I and divided among France and Britain, who held colonies to the east and west of Cameroon respectively. At Cameroonian independence in 1960, the northern part of what was then called the British Cameroons was included into the new, independent state: the Republic of Cameroon. But the southern part wanted to remain independent, and was not included until a year later, when the Federal Republic of Cameroon was announced. The people of what was already then referred to as Ambazonia – a name derived from a British missionary station at Ambas Bay established before German colonisation – did not agree to being included in the majority Frenchspeaking state of Cameroon. Since then they have felt marginalised, and various legal, political and social claims for independence have been made. This sense of marginalisation seems only to be fuelled by the often heavy-handed responses of Cameroonian state security forces to claims of independence. The recent situation seems to be no different, as documented by Amabo. Refugees tell of Cameroonian security forces’ crackdown on villages and towns. Indiscriminately they ransack people’s houses, beat and arrest people. Some have died as a result, and many have lost valuables and possessions. Farmers are having agricultural equipment confiscated, as security forces fear it can be used as weapons. In the search for supporters of the Republic of Ambazonia, the security forces seem to operate arbitrarily and with impunity. The uncertainty people have to live with as a result seems to be the main motivation for fleeing. Whether you have or have not actively supported the call for independence, or no matter how you supported the call, you can be randomly targeted for beating, ransacking, arrest, or killing.

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Cameroonian security forces confiscating farming tools from English-speaking Cameroonians. The tools are seen as a potential security risk.

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For the Cameroonians leaving for Nigeria only hardship awaits. As they often flee out of immediate fear of soldiers present in their areas, or because they were forcefully evicted from their homes, the refugees bring few possessions with them. The trek lasts days through mountainous forest terrain with little to eat.

Refugees fleeing Cameroon. Hundreds of the women fleeing are pregnant. As reported by Solomon, many of these women flee through the mountains without proper food or clothes. When arriving in Nigeria, makeshift health care clinics have been established to accommodate the basis of their needs, like the Ranch Community Health Centre in Obudu Ranch. In a country where healthcare is often already insufficient, the clinics – who are mostly run by volunteers – report a serious lack of medicine, testing tools for HIV and equipment needed to deliver babies. Another group affected by the lack of basic health care are the predominantly male refugees who have suffered injuries after being brutalised by Cameroonian security forces. The wounds have been left untreated as they fled, and have in some instances developed into infections. Others have developed fungal infections as a result of the poor living conditions in the forests. In addition, sanitation in the camps has created concerns about potential

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spread of diseases like typhoid and dysentery. Open defecation remains the only way of relieving yourself, and water resources remain exposed. Reportedly, UNHCR and Rhema Care are the only international relief agencies operating in the areas hosting refugees from Southern Cameroon. The Nigerian government and local communities are trying to provide for the refugees. But mistrust and the culture of corruption characterising parts of Nigerian society affect relief efforts. Refugees tell of border guards demanding bribes for entrance to Nigeria, and people from the local community have expressed discomfort with the presence of the refugees in their area. But the overwhelming reaction from locals has been to donate food items and allow the Cameroonian refugees sanctuary in Nigeria.

Pregnant refugees receiving warm clothing. According to UNHCR estimates, the world is witnessing an unprecedented refugee situation, with more than 65.6 million people forcibly displaced. The refugees from Southern Cameroon remain but a tiny fragment of this giant number. But they equally have a story worth telling. Such more or less untold stories remain communal and personal tragedies, and have the potential to become much worse stories as they spiral into larger crisis. By then, the global media and the people it serves will perhaps ask the question: why did we not do something?

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Women marching for peace with the Ambazonian flag in Southern Cameroon. For more on the subject, follow Solomon Amabo’s blog at soloamabo.blogspot. com. IndieFrame (www.indieframe.com) is an independent digital distribution platform that brings content, creator and the global media closer together. By supplying user-generated content from around the globe, the media will get stories through photos, video and words from local people.

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(Up)rooted, in the absence of men by Liselot Kattemölle illustrations by Fatima Moallim from Flyktinglandet, flyktinglandet.tumblr.com

“A woman is like a flower and a man is like her roots.” Aisha unfolds her hands and moves a little forward towards the edge of her sister’s couch. Its floral pattern is interrupted by the black fabric of her ankle-length jacket. Elaborating on the difference between men and women, she adds: “As long as he supplies her with water she will thrive, but if he cuts the water she will die. You know… a man can give but also deprive a woman of life.”

grows within us vokser i os

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Aisha was 33 and pregnant when she, her husband and their seven children fled Eastern Ghouta, Damascus. Now, five years later, she reflects on the journey that took her to her sister’s cold concrete apartment in an impoverished suburb of South Beirut. “I had a normal life until I was 33 years old,” she sighs. “Then my struggle started.” Lebanon was a pragmatic destination of refuge. The Syrian regime had tightened its military control and sudden disappearances of adult men had become all too common. And Aisha’s husband was wanted. He therefore travelled 70 kilometers west into Lebanon’s agricultural Beqaa Valley to seek an alternative residence for his family. He encountered a farmer for whom he could work, and was offered a tent to host his family right by the cucumber fields. Taking advantage of the open border between the two countries, Aisha and the children followed a few days later. “See it as a vacation,” her husband had comforted her. “We’re just going to live somewhere calm in nature for a while.” Aisha smiles as she revisits memories of the valley. The people were generous and nature served as the children’s infinite playground. The air was clean and the water fresh – nothing like the polluted air and salty tapwater of noisy South Beirut. One day in winter, her husband drove off onto Damascus Road to collect some documents back in Ghouta. This is when her struggle started. He never returned. She shrugs her shoulders: “Arrested at the border.” Then, for the first time of her life, she had no male relative to turn to for support. She was forced to head the household on her own, which led her to take up roles and responsibilities which were previously reserved for her husband. Instead of her husband it was now herself who planted cucumbers in the field to sustain a living. In his absence, she walked in public unaccompanied, and shouldered the dual role of being a mother and a father for soon-to-be-eight children. “It was imposed on me,” Aisha adds. “I did not have a choice. I was responsible right away.” Aisha is not alone in her endeavors: male absence is a gendered characteristic of war. As it is generally men who are forced to join the battle, have to hide from persecution, or migrate abroad for better economic opportunities, it is up to women to fill the gap that is left by killed, injured, hidden, imprisoned, missing or migrated male relatives. In fact, one out of every five refugee households in Lebanon is headed by a woman alone. Uprooted twice

In popular media, refugees’ narratives of flight are often represented through a discourse centered around loss: of a homeland, of belonging, of relatives, of quality of life, of identity, of capacity. Such a perspective fits with a more general assumption that identities can only be whole when rooted in the nationstate. In this light, refugees are marked by their loss, by their being out of place, or as termed by the anthropologist Liisa Malkki, “outside the national order of things”.

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When she likens a woman to a flower and a man to roots, Aisha implies that when the man is absent, the woman becomes uprooted. This suggests that in Lebanon without a husband, Aisha is not only uprooted from the nation-state as a refugee, but also from her gendered sense of self. Left without a life-giving supply of water, she is uprooted twice. At the same time, there is a difference between this picture of amplified uprootedness and Aisha herself. The wrinkles on her face do suggest that time has been tough on her, but her energy is remarkable, and she speaks almost uninterruptedly with the confidence of a woman who knows what life is. It seems she has found a way to navigate an everyday life in conditions of continuous crisis. She explains that she “could not just stop and weep” when her husband disappeared. Especially after giving birth to her youngest daughter, she “had to be realistic”. She then left the search for her husband to his family, as she now had eight mouths to feed and felt she had done her part.

feels heavy like a mountain / I carry us but mostly you føles tung som et bjerg / Jeg bærer os, men for det meste dig

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Despite her own appreciation for the countryside, she packed their few belongings once again and moved with her children to the suburbs of Beirut. She joined six female relatives who had settled there during the years of war prior and who insisted on her moving to the neighbourhood, as their support and public schools would be just a few minutes away. Four of them had also lost their husbands to the war and were consequently providing for their households on their own. They had found work and while it proved challenging to adjust to such a novel occupation, and the wage was only just enough to get by, it also allowed them to establish a routine of ordinary life. Walking into a man’s world

While Aisha explains how she adapted to the challenges of the suburban everyday – such as meeting many unfamiliar men out in the streets – a door in the background opens slowly. A three-year-old boy peeks his head around the corner. The door’s narrow opening reveals Aisha’s sister shushing a number of small children to be quiet. The boy sneaks out and runs to Aisha’s lap. As he crawls close to his mother’s chest, she raises his arm in an arm-wrestling pose, looks him gently in the eyes and asserts: “Mama is strong, right, very strong!” The boy giggles and mumbles something sounding like “cookie”. Aisha turns her head back and laughs: “This one, I know, he loves me so much!” She then continues her narration as she strokes his head, and elaborates on how her role as a caregiver has extended to include that of a provider, as well: “My role is everything now. I am a mother in terms of housework: cleaning, washing dishes and clothes, helping my children with their homework. But I am also a father now. I am the one responsible for the house. I deal with the landlord and the UNHCR [UN Refugee Agency] administration. I have the authority to say no to my children. I go out of the house to run errands. I work. I have even become the husband of my oldest daughter, who also lost her husband to the war. It feels like I have entered a man’s world.” Entering a man’s world indicates a significant shift in gendered spaces for Aisha, whose responsibilities prior to the war were constrained to what she refers to as “the four walls of the house”. She describes how in her social environment in Eastern Ghouta, people would gossip if they saw a woman walking outside without the company of an adult man. If a woman took up a job outside the house, it was looked down upon as a failure of her husband or other adult male relatives to provide. Now however, in the absence of her hubsand, Aisha was left with no choice but to walk onto uncertain terrain, which she previously naturalized as “a man’s world”. By taking up the male role of providing for her family, Aisha, along-

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side her female relatives, transgresses a moral code of appropriate womanhood which is centered around caregiving. She thus constantly has to negotiate between societal expectations of appropriate womanhood and the wish to be a good mother, sometimes having to sacrifice aspects of the former to achieve the latter. This complex and at times ambiguous process of gender renegotiation has a profound effect on the way Aisha relates to herself and others. Planting seeds

Previously, Aisha was used to being identified as “the wife of”. With no husband to be identified with, Aisha was left with her eight children, and herself. This introduced a significant shift in the gendered framework that shapes her identity. While working her various jobs, she learned how to deal with people in new ways: “I learned to be courageous when I worked. I used to be so shy. Now that I interact with people, I am learning about myself too. I am much more powerful than before.” Relating her own story to her relatives’ similar experiences, she narrates how she “discovered that women are capable of doing what they need to do”, which leads her to conclude that, in general, “in time women will find out that men are not very important”. She affirms that “even though it would be nice to have someone to share responsibilities of the household with, I do not need a husband anymore.” Considering that Aisha’s life is conditioned by a crisis of war and of male absence, such a narration of newfound strength allows her to find rooting in a context where she is otherwise deprived of it. In other words, it allows her to order the disorder of things. While the loss of her husband, homeland and quality of life are certainly present, Aisha’s narration of flight is not centered around a discourse of loss. Rather, the presence of loss in her life has allowed for a new window of social reflexivity and opportunities to imagine her identity in ways she did not envision before. To become uprooted does not necessarily mean to lose a sense of self. As Aisha’s story shows, it can necessitate new interpretations of the self, of others, and of the moral ideals that shape one’s everyday being and acting in the world. Such renegotiation of the self can lead to transformative experiences. As Aisha’s oldest aunt, who joined the floral couch at the end of the conversation, put it: “They used to tell us that women only sit at home. We didn’t know that we can be productive, we didn’t know that we had the ability. But when we came to Lebanon we found out that we can actually produce, we can work. We can plant seeds and grow trees.” The name Aisha is a pseudonym. This story is based on ethnographic research conducted in Lebanon in 2017. The research was part of a Master’s thesis called Gender in Crisis: How single female Syrian refugees in Lebanon negotiate gender and morality in the absence of men (2017), which was co-written with Mikala Due-Christensen.

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English translation page 85

ANBEFALINGER

Uledsaget Halfdan Pisket, Karoline Stjernfelt, Tom Kristensen, Lars Horneman og Adam O.

Svendborg Graphic/Svendborg Bibliotek, 2017 Uledsaget er en tegneserieantologi om flugt og livet som uledsaget ung flygtning i Danmark, som er blevet til i et samarbejde mellem uledsagede drenge og danske tegnere, understøttet og udgivet af Svendborg Bibliotek. To beretter om flugt fra Somalia, to fra Afghanistan og en fra Irak. Flugten er sat i gang af krig, familiefejder eller en blanding. I alle fortællinger er glemsel et centralt tema. Med en udtalt myndighedskritik stiller flere skarpt på grænsevagters og politibetjentes direkte vold og bureaukraters fastholden af flygtninge i en udsat position.

af Vibeke Nielsen

Det er sjældent, at et folkebibliotek udgiver noget, der indeholder holdninger til den store verden. Normen i dag er, at folkebibliotekerne kun udgiver sprogkufferter, arrangementskalendere, lokalpolitiske strategiplaner, lokalhistorie og årsberetninger. Førhen udgav de også bøger af lokalpatriotisk tilsnit om æresborgere og store virksomheder på egnen, samt lokale bogfortegnelser og bibliografier på tryk. Men sjældent med et større perspektiv end et, der kan rummes under overskriften “Herfra min verden går”. I sommeren 2017 bryder Svendborg bibliotek den tradition ved at udgive Uledsaget. Anledningen er tegneseriefestivalen Svendborg Graphic i sommeren 2017. En uge i efteråret 2016 går fem af Asylskolens elever i gang med et samarbejde med fem tegnere: Tom Kristensen, Adam O., Halfdan Pisket, Karoline Stjernfelt og Lars Hornemann. Asylskolen er en skole for nyankomne uledsagede asylansøgende børn og unge, oprettet af lokale på Sydfyn, hvor asylcentret Hundstrup ligger. Træffet mellem tegnere og uledsagede finder sted i Bertolt Brechts hus i Svendborg. Her boede Brecht som flygtning under optakten til 2. verdenskrig. Tegnerne bearbejder drengenes personlige fortællinger. 66

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Solidaritet fra Svendborg til Somalia

Karoline Stjernfelts “Problemet” og Halfdan Piskets “Linien” fortæller begge om en dreng fra Somalia. “Problemet” adresserer samarbejdet mellem tegneren og drengen direkte. Den viser potentiel solidaritet mellem somaliere og danskere, i drengens association mellem en tegneserie, som Karoline Stjernfelt har lavet om 2. verdenskrigs betydning for hendes familie på den ene side og alt det, som han er flygtet fra i Somalia på den anden. “Problemet”s tegninger er som de eneste i samlingen sort/hvide. På poetisk vis udtrykker ord og billeder samlet set noget tredje, som hverken ord eller billeder kan vise alene. Glemsel er gedeflokkens klove, der går over jorden eller teens damp, der fylder billedrammen. “Linien” er på den anden side den mest tekstrige og direkte politiserende serie i antologien. Det visuelle udtryk er prosaisk i et forløb af små tegninger i ens formaterede frames, som i en novellefilm med forklarende undertekster. Brutaliteten er til at tage og føle på i skildringen af kontrol, som den eneste tro følgesvend under flugten. Sorte flader dækker halvt eller helt de fleste ansigter, andre er skjult bag visirer. En blodrød linie er metafor for og konkret mærke efter den begivenhed, der drev hovedpersonen på flugt. Den løber gennem hele historien. De europæiske myndigheders behandling betyder hukommelsessvigt og identitetstab, i en verden hvor alt, man fortæller, kan blive brugt mod en, selv ens egen livshistorie.

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“Problemet” af Karoline Stjernfelt

I krig med bureaukratiet

Også i “Lille Soldat” af Adam O. om drengen Abdel fra Afghanistan er kritikken af europæiske myndigheder fremme i billedet. Det fortælletekniske greb i den novellelignende historie består i at lade begivenhederne udspille sig baglæns, med Abdel som rejseleder for to danske bureaukrater. De ønsker ham velkommen i Sandholmlejren og beder ham redegøre for sit forløb. Derefter følger de ham billedligt talt på hans rejse helt frem til slutningen, der er begyndelsen på hans flugt. Redegørelsen fører Abdel lige i armene på de slægtninge i Taleban, som han flygtede fra. Bureaukraterne forlader ham dér og lader ham vente hos dem til næste samtale. I den afsluttende tegning står han bogstaveligt tilbage alene med en stor gruppe krigere. Historien er fortalt i malerisk sepiabrunt, som i gamle fotografier.

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En anden dreng fra Afghanistan har været med til at lave “Bror”, som er tegnet af Tom Kristensen. Her består billedsiden af metafysisk stemningsmættede malerier. De er dunkelt udtryksfulde og holdt i gyldne og sortblå nuancer. Der er mange ansigter, hænder, der griber, fødder, der løber, tomme rum og små lys i et udflydende mørke. Frygten for myndighedernes magtmisbrug illustreres i det afsluttende billede af drengen og hans bror, som fodboldspillere i plastic, adskilt og spændt fast på en metalstang i et bordfoldbold. Kolde og varme lande

“Splittet” er blevet til i fællesskab mellem Lars Horneman og en dreng fra Irak. Serien er lavet i tusch og holdt i klare farver i større flader med fede sorte tuschkonturer: det triste og fortidige i lilla og turkis, det rare og nutidige i varme farver, men med brudflader af mere konfliktfyldte følelsesudtryk, i billederne hvor varme og kolde farver sættes op mod hinanden. “Splittet” er den stribe, som kommer tættest på en klassisk comic i sin stil. Den har en tendens til at fremstille Irak som det entydigt onde og kolde og Danmark som det evigt gode og varme. Karakteristisk er det, at tegningen af de selvsamme fastspændte plasticspillere i foldboldspillet som i “Bror”, i “Splittet” blot illustrer teksten: “Har fået nye venner”. “Fakta” fra CIA

Hver tegneserie indledes med et faktaark, der beskriver situationen i de lande, som drengene er flygtet fra. Disse fakta er hentet hos CIA, som ikke kan kaldes en neutral bidragyder til informationsstrømmen om om flugt og migration, endsige om interne og eksterne forhold i de dele af verden, som USA har udenrigspolitiske interesser i. Et sigende eksempel er, at den militære tilstedeværelse i Afghanistan konsekvent i stedet kaldes “humanitær tilstedeværelse”. Det er ikke en objektiv faktaorienteret benævnelse. Inddragelsen af eksterne politiske interessenter som “fakta”-leverandører er en irriterende skønhedsfejl på publikationen som kunstværk og personligt politisk udsagn, hvor flygtninge og migranters egne fortællinger i ligeværdigt samarbejde med kunstneres ellers skulle være de vidnesbyrd, der blev bragt. Uanset om fortællingerne er pæne og politisk korrekte i forhold til statsinteresser eller dybt personlige og følelsesladede.

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Indhold / Contents Oversættelser / Translations

†₨Ǻ[\]S ĽAtIØNŞ 71 73 75 77 79 80 81 81 83 85

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Ziba’s story - Solmaz Farnian Hamadani Syv dødssynder - InEUmanity Malmö Blindhedens årsager - Lilltrez, Amara og Augustine The Migrating Image - by Florian Stark It is an I who speaks - Lone Aburas Det er ikke mig, der ikke vil lære dansk - Eden Seks skudhuller - Vahid Evazzadeh Fortalte og ufortalte historier - Loke Bisbjerg Nielsen I mændenes fravær - Liselot Kattemölle Recommendations: Uledsaget - Vibeke Nielsen

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Ziba’s story by Solmaz Farnian Hamadani This is the story of my mother, Ziba, and our helped my mother to the hospital in Tehran. In the E-mail, this friend wrote that my mother had gotfamily’s struggle to be reunited. ten a letter in which it said that she had to report In 2009 I was allowed to send an invitation to to the nearest police station in Tehran, due to an my mother in Iran, so that she might come and visit me after many years apart. At the same time, accusation by her ex-husband – of adultery. Upon reading this, we understood that my mother’s she might be lucky enough to witness the birth of her grandchild. In order for me to send her a visa, complaint from the hospital following the rape I was required to have permanent employment and had been received by the police, but that it had an economy able to support my mother during her been turned into an accusation towards her. The police had contacted the ex-husband, and stay in Denmark. I applied for many jobs, and in at the police station he said that the accusations the end was hired by McDonald’s. My mother was towards him were untrue. Instead, he claimed that allowed to come on September 17, 2009 on a three my mother had been unfaithful, and that this was month visa. Within two hours of her arrival, I gave the reason she had fled from Iran – knowing what birth to my child. This was a great experience for us after so many years of separation. In this way, I the consequences would be. During the rape, the felt that I was able to repay her for the love she had ex-husband had threatened to do something even worse if she ever spoke of it to anyone. In the end, given me throughout my childhood. she might be the one who would receive the death That same day my mother had another lovely penalty. experience, which was meeting Erik and Birgitte. No one could have prepared us for these seErik is part of Grandparents for Asylum, and I met rious accusations. It would be impossible for a him many years ago at asylum center Avnstrup. single woman in Iran to protect herself from the They are loving and faithful people who have authorities after having left the country and being become like a family for me here in Denmark. branded an adulterous woman. Now we underMeeting them rekindled feelings in my mother’s heart, since she was surprised at the way strangers stood as a family just how dangerous the situation would be, if she were to go back to Iran. We know could treat her daughter, as if she were their own. very well that the punishment for adultery would Eventually, she started to feel that their God was be either stoning or hanging to death. We all also the right God for her. feared for my mother’s life – including my Danish My mother returned to Iran, but was allowed parents, Erik and Birgitte. to come and visit us several times during the folWe asked the Immigration Service for advice. lowing years. During this time, she got to know When I had told them everything, they informed Erik and Birgitte better, and they showed great afme that my mother has the right to apply for asyfection and care towards her, and made her believe lum in Denmark. This was to happen in Camp that God is not evil. It is human beings who are Sandholm. cruel towards each other. Some months later I got another E-mail from In 2012 my mother’s visa expired. Visiting my mother’s friend, who had received an alleus was liberating for her, burdened as she was gation letter directly from a police officer at my by many difficult experiences in her homeland. mother’s address in Iran. It said that my mother She stayed with us for some months, before she had been sentenced to 72 lashes and six years in had to apply for asylum. I took my mother to prison, as well as a financial penalty. I then forthe Immigration Service in Copenhagen to ask warded this letter from the Iranian authorities to whether it was possible to extend her visa, so that the Immigration Service, along with a copy of the my mother could remain here with me and her medical report from the investigation of my mothgrandchildren for a longer time. But when the er’s injuries after the rape. answer was no, I had to tell them what had hapAfter my mother’s first contact with the pened to my mother in Iran. She was a victim of Refugee Appeals Board, we received the reply that rape. It was hard for me to find the words and tell a stranger something so horrifying. I told the case the documents were false and that my mother’s worker that this violation had been perpetrated by story was not credible. Therefore, her case was reher ex-husband and a colleague of his. I told them jected. Several months before my mother got the rethat I had come to learn that my mother’s life is in jection (December 2014, around Christmas) she danger in Iran. explained to Birgitte that she would like to become I had received an E-mail from my mother’s baptized, since she felt connected to the God in friend who kept the key to her apartment in orwhich Birgitte believed. My mother was baptized der to take care of her flowers and mail during on December 30, 2015. my mother’s stay in Denmark. It was the same After the first rejection from the Refugee friend who, at the time following the rape, had

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Appeals Board, her case was closed and nearly two years passed. In early 2017, my mother was called to an interview with the Danish police. She was informed that if she did not voluntarily return to Iran, she would have to live in Departure Center Kærshovedgård in Ikast. My mother did not have a choice. She had to leave her daughter and grandchildren behind and go to Kærshovedgård, since clearly she would not go back to Iran. I told the police that my mother cannot return to Iran, since she would now also be punished for having converted. The police officer asked me why we had not presented this information to Immigration Service so that the case might be reopened. I answered that I was not aware that you had to tell them about something as private as religion in order to have your case reopened. Then I gave the certificate of baptism to the police. They told me that I should seek out a lawyer who could write to the Refugee Appeals Board about reopening the case. Seven days after this interview, my mother was supposed to travel to Kærshovedgård. Leading up to this, my mother started getting chest pains and was taken by ambulance to the hospital in Holbæk. They did not find anything. The doctor asked my mother whether something was troubling her. We explained that my mother was undergoing a lot of pressure and that she was not feeling well. They talked for a while, and my mother told us that she was having suicidal thoughts, because she has lost all hope for her life. Thereupon, the doctor contacted the psychiatric ward. My mother was admitted to Roskilde Hospital’s psychiatric ward for a few days, and the Immigration Service was notified. Upon discharge from the hospital she was briefly allowed to come back home. Once she had further calmed down at home, I chose to drive her myself to Departure Center Kærshovedgård. During my mother’s stay at Kærshovedgård, I got in touch with a lawyer who had been recommended to us by the priest and the interpreter at

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Hillerød Church. The case was reopened after a few months. Then came the day of my mother’s court case and the reconsideration of her claim for asylum. Our good friend Birgitte, who is a priest and who carried out my mother’s baptism, was asked by the lawyer if she would testify. Of course she agreed. My mother ended up with another rejection. The court called into question the dates presented by Birgitte and my mother for when my mother first expressed her desire to become baptized. It was merely a matter of a difference of a few months between my mother’s and Birgitte’s statements. Furthermore, my mother was rejected on the grounds that she, upon first contacting the Refugee Appeals Board, should have mentioned the fact that she was becoming interested in Christianity. My mother’s answer was that she had not considered it relevant for her case, since religion is a private issue. Those details were enough to doom my mother’s case. The court would not give her a chance to prove that she was telling the truth. Even when the lawyer asked the court whether they wanted to question Birgitte as well, they chose to decline. Is this because they had already decided on the case before the trial even began? I feel my mother is the victim of a miscarriage of justice. This is her story. She was unjustly treated in Iran – she was the victim. She hides her story because she feels ashamed, but she must share her story here in Denmark in order to ask for help. But Denmark is rejecting her. I cannot believe this is really happening. I take care of elderly Danish citizens in home care in Roskilde – why can’t I be allowed to take care of my own mother? Do my mother, my children and I really deserve this treatment?

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Syv dødssynder: Grundrids af et fælles europæisk asylsystem af InEUmanity Malmö Det bliver stadig farligere og sværere at nå til Europa for at søge om beskyttelse. Denne udvikling er en konsekvens af EU’s og de enkelte medlemslandes aggressive migrationspolitik. Eksternaliseringen af EU’s grænser er for nylig blevet intensiveret ved hjælp af kraftigt øgede bevillinger til overvågningssystemer og forvaring i nabolande som Libyen og Tyrkiet, bistandsmidler til lande, der efterkommer disse overvågningsregler og uformelle aftaler, der giver militser til opgave at agere grænsevagter på Middelhavet. Til tider får vi et glimt af prisen: Slavemarkeder, massedrukneulykker, tortur, børnearbejde – endog mennesker lukket inde i bure på europæisk jord. Ud over denne eksternaliseringsproces pågår forhandlinger inden for EU om et nyt fælles asylsystem. Følgelig vil dem, der har held til at komme til Europa, finde det betydeligt sværere at få lov til at blive. I 2016 præsenterede EU-kommissionen en række reformer af Common European Asylum System (CEAS), der indeholder en pakke af syv lovforslag, hvis mål er at ”opdatere” systemet. Konsekvensen bliver en alvorlig forværring af asylretten og en mere repressiv holdning til asylansøgere og migranter. Den største hjørnesten i CEAS forbliver Dublinforordningen, den lov der bestemmer hvilket medlemsland, der er ansvarlig for en asylansøger. Ifølge Dublin skal en asylansøger søge asyl i det første EU-land, hen ankommer til (det såkaldte ”førstelandsprincip”). Reformforslaget vil forstærke dette princip og ikke tillade nogen undtagelser. Hver asylansøgers sag ville blive holdt op imod en liste over det, EU betragter som ”sikre lande” - med en yderligere tilføjelse, der truer med afvisning af sagen, hvis individer søger asyl i et andet EU-land (en såkaldt ”seconday movement”). Eurodac er Dublins database, hvor fingeraftryk fra alle asylansøgere i EU registreres, så medlemsstater kan se, hvilket land en asylansøger først ankom til. I det nye forslag udvides brugen af databasen til også at omfatte kontrol af såkaldt irregulær migration og til at effektivisere deportationer. Det indebærer blandt andet, at medlemsstater kan dele information fra databasen med tredjelande (lande uden for EU), hvis det kan fremskynde en deportation. Det foreslås også at sænke alderen for afgivelse af fingeraftryk (fra fjorten til seks år), og at al data beholdes i en længere periode. Beskyttelsesforordningen regulerer på hvilket grundlag en person kan få beskyttelse i EU. EU-landene har allerede et fælles direktiv om beskyttelsesgrund, men nu udvides bestemmelsen og bliver en forordning frem for et direktiv. Den kommer dermed til at gælde i alle medlemslande og stå over national lovgivning. Forslaget indebærer, at kun midlertidige opholdstilladelser kan udstedes og derefter forlænges i perioder. Desuden kan selv allerede bevilligede opholdstilladelser trækkes

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tilbage, hvis behovet for beskyttelse revurderes. Det kan for eksempel ske, hvis situationen i et oprindelsesland ændrer sig. Information om forskellige lande opdateres løbende, og systemet vil have indbyggede ”triggers”, der gør opmærksom på disse ændringer med mulig tilbagetrækning af opholdstilladelser som følge. Asylprocedureforordningen regulerer, hvordan asylproceduren foregår. Det er ligeledes en allerede eksisterende bestemmelse, der nu opdateres fra direktiv til forordning. Ved hjælp af en ny forordning bliver asylproceduren synkroniseret på EU-niveau samtidig med indførslen af en ”accelereret grænseprocedure”, der kræver at man søger om asyl inden for ti arbejdsdage efter ankomst til EU og har ti arbejdsdage til at anke afgørelsen. Under sagsbehandlingen kan asylansøgeren holdes i forvaring. Proceduren indebærer kontrol af, hvorvidt asylansøgeren har ret til at søge asyl, om hen kommer fra et land, som EU har defineret som ”sikkert”, og om hen er rejst gennem et andet ”sikkert” land, hvor hen kunne have søgt asyl. Det bestemmes derefter, om personen har ret til at søge asyl i det land, hen har nævnt i sin ansøgning – og først derefter begynder udredningen af asylansøgningen. Hvis noget tyder på, at landet personen kommer fra kunne blive sikkert inden for en nær fremtid, kan asylproceduren fastfryses, mens der ventes på ændringer. Hvis en asylansøger ikke betragtes som villig til at samarbejde eller følge reglerne (hvis man for eksempel ikke vil afgive sine fingeraftryk, eller hvis man bevæger sig videre til et andet land på egen hånd), kan det føre til, at asylproceduren lukkes og personen deporteres. Modtagelsesdirektivet regulerer modtagelsesvilkårene for asylansøgere. Hovedformålet med direktivet er at standse såkaldt ”secondary movement”. Hvis man som asylansøger flytter til et andet EU-land end det, man først ankom til, straffes man ved at al potentiel støtte, som økonomisk bistand under asylproceduren, inddrages. Desuden vil det blive lettere at internere asylansøgere under hele asylprocessen.

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Et andet af de syv lovforslag handler om åbningen af lovlige veje til Europa.

forhandlingerne og den fortsatte eksternalisering af EU’s grænser.

Genbosættelsesforordningen sigter mod at indføre et europæisk kvoteflygtningesystem. Det nuværende kvoteflygtningesystem inden for EU foregår på national basis og er et samarbejde mellem forskellige lande og EU’s flygtningeagentur UNHCR.

Migrationsspørgsmålet i EU er faldet ind under “TINA”-diskursen: There Is No Alternative. På samme måde som aggressiv neoliberalisme er blevet det eneste økonomiske alternativ for alle regeringer uanset farve, har forstærkede grænser og deportationer fået højeste migrationspolitiske prioritet for alle medlemslande i EU. Uanset regeringens politiske overbevisning er det et must at fremstå hård, når det kommer til ”migrationsmanagement”.

Kvoteflygtninge er verdens mest udsatte flygtninge, og for at blive udpeget til kvoteflygtning kan man ikke have andre muligheder end at blive genbosat i et andet land. I stedet for at bygge på UNHCR’s arbejde bruger EU genbosættelse som et politisk værktøj, på samme måde som man gjorde i aftalen med Tyrkiet om kvotepladser for deportationsaftaler med tredjelande. En overhængende fare er her, at EU kan vælge kvoteflygtninge fra lande, der underskriver tilbagesendelsesaftaler eller andre uformelle aftaler, som har til formål at standse migration, i stedet for at vælge flygtninge fra de lande, med det største behov – studehandler, med andre ord. Vi kan allerede se, at lande som Libyen foretrækkes frem for lande som Uganda til trods for det enorme behov for genbosættelse af flygtninge fra sidstnævnte. Dem der forsøger at komme til EU på irregulære måder vil også blive udelukket fra at få kvoteflygtningestatus, selv i sager, hvor de ikke har haft andre muligheder for at flygte. Det foreslås også, at finansieringen af nationale kvoteflygtninge afskaffes, og at alene de medlemslande, der genbosætter under EU-programmet, modtager økonomisk støtte til formålet. Desuden bliver genbosættelse og beskyttelsesforordningen kombineret, hvilket betyder, at selv kvoteflygtninge kun vil modtage midlertidige opholdstilladelser.

Men vi er mange, som er uenige i disse politiske visioner. Migration og fri bevægelse kan ikke kun være forbeholdt mennesker med vestlige pas. Vi vil bryde med den racistiske diskurs, der fremstiller migration som en trussel, for først da kan vi sætte en stopper for den politik, som lukker ude og slår ihjel. Nogle gør det gennem oplysning og aktioner. Andre gør det ved at redde liv på Middelhavet. Vi kan måske ikke stoppe EU, men vi kan bygge et alternativ. Vi kan skabe fristeder. Vi kan protestere. Vi kan bryde med den racistiske fremstilling af migration som en trussel. Vi kan begynde at tale med hinanden og andre om, hvad der står i vejen for et frit og retfærdigt samfund. Vi kan så meget, men frem for alt må vi organisere os. Læs mere om CEAS og InEUmanity på ineumanity. noblogs.org/ceas og bliv en del af kampen!

Som del af oplægget vil et nyt EU-Agentur for Asyl (EUAA) erstatte det eksisterende Europæiske Asylstøttekontor (EASO, European Asylum Support Office). Tanken er, at EUAA skal implementere det fælles asylsystem, hvilket indbefatter at kontrollere medlemslande under processen. EUAA vil også få mandat til at arbejde for EU’s migrationspolitiske interesser i tredjelande. En sådan rolle blev allerede afprøvet af EASO, da organet var en væsentlig spiller i implementeringen af EU-Tyrkiet-aftalen, hvori EU bestak Tyrkiet til at standse al migration fra Tyrkiet til Grækenland. Ovenstående er kun uddrag af hvert lovforslag, men det er nok til at tegne et billede af, hvad der sker. I forening med den fortsatte eksternalisering af EU’s grænser ophæver CEAS i praksis retten til at søge asyl i EU. Alle ledende NGO’er, der arbejder med asylspørgsmål og asylrettigheder i EU og EU’s grænseområder, advarer mod denne udvikling og dens konsekvenser, i lighed med FN, Den Internationale Organisation for Migration (IOM), advokatsamfund, databeskyttelsesorganisationer og andre. I Sverige arbejder ud over InEUmanity blandt andre FARR (Flyktinggruppernas riksråd) og paraplyorganisationen CONCORD med at udbrede viden og rejse modstand mod CEAS-

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№ 13 visAvis

Blindhedens årsager Af Lilltrez, Amara og Augustine Forfatterne har deltaget i Free Home Universitys to uger lange residency Performing the Struggle (At fremføre eller performe kampen) på Ammirato Kulturhus i den italienske by Lecce. Ved workshoppens afslutning valgte de at fortælle deres historier til et par andre deltagere, Christina Thomopoulos, Claudia Signoretti og Alessandra Pomarico, som transskriberede og delte dem med visAvis. Alle tre historier kredser om blindhed: Somme tider påført, somme tider gådefuld og somme tider selvvalgt. En redigeret version kan læses her. Teksterne ligger i deres helhed på ArtsEverywheres hjemmeside. Free Home University er et pædagogisk eksperiment, der bygger på den fælles erfaring af liv og kreativitet. Det opstod i og omkring byen Lecce i samarbejde med en gruppe af forskellige, internationale kunstnere og tænkere som et svar på behovet for nye måder at dele og skabe viden på. Lilltrez Jeg hedder Lilltrez Art Brocus, og det betyder verdens øjne. Jeg blev født i 1991, og jeg er fra Nigeria, delstaten Edo, men jeg bor i Italien. Jeg er kunstner; jeg elsker at synge, danse og lave videoer, og engang var jeg instruktør på et teater. Jeg boede i Nigeria i 21 år, og i al den tid fik jeg ikke nogen uddannelse, for mine forældre var meget fattige. Min mor fik elleve børn, og jeg er den syvende. Jeg kunne ikke bare forblive uuddannet, så jeg søgte job og arbejdede som vagtmand i fire år. Den 11. marts 2011 kl. 11 om formiddagen eksploderede en gasbeholder i øjnene på mig i en butik. Jeg blev kørt til hospitalet i en fart. Men da jeg ikke havde nogen penge ved ankomsten, tog lægen sig ikke af mig med det samme, så det blev værre med mine øjne; de var som spejlæg. Jeg kunne ikke se overhovedet. Senere fandt min fami-

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lie nogen penge, og de begyndte at behandle mig. Jeg fik to operationer på begge øje, men det blev ikke bedre. Jeg blev udskrevet efter to måneder, og derefter søgte jeg behandling i andre byer, andre delstater. Jeg mistede alle mine venner, som jeg havde lavet musik og underholdning sammen med. Jeg mistede også min kæreste, som sagde, at hun ikke kunne være sammen med en der var blind. Selv folk, der ikke havde kendt mig før, ville ikke i kontakt med mig. Til sidst besluttede jeg at rejse langt væk til et andet sted, hvor folk, selv hvis de hadede mig, i hvert fald ikke ville kende mig eller historien om mine øjne. Jeg forlod Nigeria i 2014; jeg tog fra Kano til Niger, og fra Niger til Sabha i den libyske ørken. Jeg vidste ikke, hvor jeg var på vej hen. Nogen gange havde jeg lyst til at begå selvmord. Men døden kommer ikke let til én, og inderst inde vidste jeg altid, at jeg ikke ville forblive sådan for evigt. Jeg drømte om at vågne op og se klart med mine egne øjne. Somme tider så jeg mig selv på en stor scene, hvor jeg sang og dansede foran folk, som nød min optræden. Efter lang tid i Sabha tog jeg til Tripoli, hvor jeg mødte nogle venner, som passede på mig. Somme tider prøvede de libyske Asma Boys, bander af unge, bevæbnede røvere, at stjæle penge fra os. Mine venner løb væk, og jeg blev efterladt alene uden at kunne se, hvor jeg skulle løbe hen. Men jeg havde ikke ret mange penge, så de bankede mig bare og gik. På grund af alt det blev det endnu værre med mine øjne, indtil jeg en dag mødte en mand, som kom for at tage mig med til et mødested. Der var et kæmpestort hav – Middelhavet. De førte mig ind i en båd, der skulle sejle til en ø ved navn Lampedusa. Der var så mange mennesker derinde. Vi rejste gennem natten over havet i elleve timer. De næste stemmer jeg hørte var sørgmodige og talte et sprog, jeg ikke forstod. Det var italienske redningsfolk.

til Lecce, hvor jeg bor nu. Frivillige hjalp mig med mine dokumenter og tog mig med til hospitalet i Lecce for at få mine øjne undersøgt. Jeg fandt ud af, at læger i Bari kunne give mig en hornhindetransplantation. Jeg tog derhen den 15. december 2015 kl. 11:35. Jeg blev båret ind på operationsstuen, og det sidste jeg husker er at få droppet sat ind, mens jeg smilede, fordi jeg gjorde det for igen at kunne se. Selv om jeg havde været al den tid i Italien, vidste jeg stadig ikke, hvordan der så ud. Når jeg gik på gaden, faldt jeg nogen gange i et hul eller gik ind i noget. Men jeg havde fundet en ny kæreste, som hed Rejoice. Min mor kunne ikke lide hende, fordi hun ikke var fra Edo – min mor tror, at folk fra andre delstater ikke er til at stole på. Men jeg elsker Rejoice højt, og dengang betød hun alt for mig. Hun sagde altid, at jeg ville komme til at se igen. En morgen kort tid efter operationen kom de tilbage og fjernede forbindingerne. Jeg kunne se – bedre end jeg nogensinde havde forestillet mig efter fem års blindhed. Lægen var chokeret, fordi de aldrig havde ventet, at jeg ville kunne se så klart så hurtigt. Alle var glade, også mig, og jeg tog tilbage til Lecce. Så det er min historie, men jeg bliver også nødt til at sige mange tak til alle, som virkelig har hjulpet mig. Glem ikke, at vi alle har historier at fortælle. Amara

Jeg forstod én ting: “Velkommen til Italien. ”

Jeg kom til Italien med båd – til øen Lampedusa den 4. august 2014. Efter min ankomst blev jeg overført til Vicenza i det nordlige Italien. Først sendte kommunen mig til en lille landsby, men efter seks måneder vendte jeg tilbage til byen, hvor jeg modtog støtte fra et kooperativ. Jeg begyndte at lave frivilligt arbejde i Vicenza Kommune, og til sidst fik jeg en tremåneders arbejdskontrakt for at kunne male alle bænkene på legepladsen. Et par dage efter jeg blev færdig med det, begyndte jeg at lide af alvorlig hovedpine.

De sejlede os til Sicilien. Fra Sicilien blev jeg overført til Brindisi og så

I tre måneder led jeg meget. Jeg kunne ikke arbejde, men jeg gik

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ikke til lægen. Jeg fortalte kooperativet, som støttede mig, at når jeg havde hovedpine, kunne jeg ikke se noget. De svarede, ”Da du allerede har været i Italien i et år, kan vi ikke tage med dig til lægen. Du må selv tage derhen.” Derfor tog jeg på skadestuen, hvor jeg fik at vide, at jeg skulle gennem nogle undersøgelser. Men min sygesikring var udløbet, og jeg kunne ikke gøre noget uden. På trods af det spurgte jeg lægen på skadestuen, “Hvad så du? Hvad er problemet?” Han sagde, ”Der er to ar i dine øjne, som er ligesom to hænder foran dine øjne.” Jeg tog hjem og spurgte kooperativet, hvordan jeg kunne forny min sygesikring. For at gøre det, havde jeg brug for en ny opholdstilladelse. Og det blev jeg nødt til at vente fire måneder på. I alt tilbragte jeg seks måneder derhjemme med at vente på at modtage dokumenter. Jeg kunne ikke gå i skole eller noget andet. Bare vente. Fordi jeg ikke havde nogen opholdstilladelse. Til sidst, efter seks måneder, fik jeg min opholdstilladelse og sygesikring og kunne blive undersøgt af en læge. Jeg spurgte, om jeg kunne få en øjenoperation for at løse mit problem. De svarede, at der ikke kunne opereres på arrene. Jeg blev ved med at tage smertestillende medicin. Egentlig skulle jeg bestå den italienske sprogtest, niveau A2, men det kunne jeg ikke på grund af smerterne i øjnene og hovedet. Til sidst fortalte lægerne sandheden til mit kooperativ: Der var ingen løsninger, ingen lægemidler, der kunne helbrede mine øjne. Der var kun medicin, der kunne lindre min hovedpine. Da jeg fik det at vide, sagde jeg, ”Jeg vil hellere dø end leve med det problem.” Lægerne forsøgte at hjælpe og opmuntre mig; de viste mig eksempler på mennesker, som levede med den samme lidelse, også endnu mere alvorlige tilfælde end mit, og forklarede, hvad de gør. Kooperativet hjalp mig med at forholde mig til problemet og gav mig øjendråber og briller. Jeg skal altid have brillerne på. Takket være dem har jeg det bedre nu. Jeg kan læse

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og skrive. For to måneder siden ankom jeg til Lecce, og jeg har tilmeldt mig et nyt italiensk sprogkursus, niveau AC2. Jeg studerer og forbereder mig til eksamen.

Politiet tager endda hen til huse, hvor de bare har hørt, at der bor sorte mennesker, og smider dem så i fængsel. Libyen er ikke sikkert, og jeg tror, at FN er klar over det.

Augustine

Jeg blev overført fra Sara Dinefængslet til White House-fængslet og derfra til Det Underjordiske Fængsel, hvor næsten tusind mennesker sad fængslet. De havde ikke set solen i over et år. Der er så meget smerte her. Det er ikke let at tænke tilbage på. I fængslet døde to mennesker, jeg kendte. De gav op. Jeg talte med dem hver dag.

Hvad foregår der egentlig i et libysk fængsel? Jeg ved ikke, om den Internationale Organisation for Migration (IOM) og Verdenssundhedsorganisationen (WHO) er uvidende om, hvad der egentlig foregår i et libysk fængsel. Jeg har været i fængsel i Libyen. Fem forskellige, for at være præcis. Mens jeg var i de forskellige fængsler, oplevede jeg både IOM og WHO komme på besøg. Det libyske politi lod ikke dem af os, der talte åbent om hvad der foregik i fængslet, at komme til orde. Tværtimod udvalgte de folk, der sagde ting, som kunne gavne dem selv. På de dage, hvor de forventede at få besøg, gjorde de rent i hele fængslet, badeværelserne, omgivelserne; de ordnede hele stedet som om det altid så sådan ud. De ville skjule virkeligheden: At det er et sted, hvor dyr kunne bo. Så satte politiet en skræk i livet på dem, der havde tænkt sig at tale, og gjorde det klart, at hvis de sagde noget kritisk, ville de blive slået ihjel, så snart repræsentanterne var gået. Af den grund kunne man tro, at IOM og WHO er uvidende om, hvad der foregår. Men det bliver jeg nødt til at sætte spørgsmålstegn ved. Jeg føler, at IOM og WHO ikke er uvidende om, hvad der foregår. I fængslerne ser de folk med mange forskellige skrammer og skader. Mange er halvdøde. Og det ser de med deres egne øjne. Både organisationerne og politiet er interesseret i deportationer. Politiet får flere penge, hvis de deporterer folk. Det er derfor, politiet i Libyen arresterer folk til højre og venstre. Hver dag tæller de fangerne. De siger, ”I dag deporterer vi nigerianere”, ”I morgen er det dem fra Gambia.” Og de arresterer endnu flere på gaden. Når jeg spurgte nye fanger, hørte jeg den samme historie: De var kommet tilbage fra arbejde, og politiet havde taget dem. Samme historie hver dag.

Folk dør stille i Libyens fængsler på grund af manglende opmærksomhed fra Europa. Folk bliver ført fra ét fængsel til det næste, fra en slags tortur til en anden. Med hjertet fuld af sorg erkender jeg, at jeg er heldig ikke at være blandt de døde. Tolv timer var vi på Middelhavet for at komme her til Italien. Jeg vidste ikke, hvad der skulle ske. Jeg tror måske, Italien er det værste sted. Sådan som vi bliver behandlet… De standser os på gaden… Selv hvis vi taler italiensk, vil de ikke lytte til os. Når vi forsøger at fortælle dem, hvad der foregår, om problemerne, skaber det kun større problemer. De siger, ”I er ikke tvunget til at komme her.” Hvem kan vi tale med? Hvem vil lytte? Hvem vil gøre noget? Kun to gange har jeg været lykkelig i det år, jeg har tilbragt i Italien. Første gang var, da vi lavede en skyggeteaterworkshop. Anden gang var i går aftes, da vi afsluttede Free Home Universitys session med en performance. Det var virkelig vidunderligt. Alle var villige til at forstå. Den slags mennesker kan dele ens smerte og få én til forstå, at alt håb ikke er tabt. At vi bør blive ved med at kæmpe for det bedste. For så længe der er liv, er der altid håb.

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The Migrating Image: Afbildning af flygtninge- og migrantveje til Europa af Florian Stark Stefan Kruses kortfilm The Migrating Image er en udforskning af billeder produceret under den såkaldte europæiske flygtningekrise i 2015. Gennem Kruses undersøgelse af billedproduktionen af humanitært arbejde, og deres ofte skjulte ideologiske grundlag, rejser filmen sin egen kritik. Filmskaberen har gjort filmen tilgængelig for visAvis’ læsere. Find linket på side 26. Brug venligst kodeordet Dinero for at se den. På kort tid (28:05) fortæller Kruses film om produktionen af ”tekniske billeder” bagved krisens scener. I stedet for at forklare årsagerne bag en million flygtninges rejse mod Europa, retter Kruse seerens opmærksomhed mod et mindre udforsket emne: teknikaliteterne bag de billeder der viser krisen. I starten af filmen sætter Kruse The Migrating Image’s teoretiske baggrund i scene ved at citere Vilem Flusser, en tjekkiskfødt forfatter, filosof og journalist: ”Vi har glemt at vi skaber billeder for at orientere os selv i verden… Vores forestillingsevne er blevet en hallucination.” Baseret på Flussers hallucinerende indsigt genevaluerer The Migrating Image de billeder, der er produceret og blevet brugt siden sommeren 2015 og udstiller derved deres underliggende ideologiske base. I fire dele præsenterer Kruse en filmskabers teknisk-analytiske perspektiv på den billedproduktion, der har påvirket så mange offentlige meninger og politiske beslutninger. The Migrating Image’s første del åbner med en stemme, der fortæller at: ”Produktionen af billeder begynder før migrationen starter.” Kruses undersøgelse begynder med et galleri af billeder delt på Facebook-profiler for at reklamere for menneskesmuglere og flugt-facilitatorers services. De billeder og profiler som Kruse præsenterer består af skibe, fly og pas, som om det ene åbenlyst leder til opnåelsen af det andet. Oveni dette virker skærmbilleder af Viber-beskeder som bevis på en succesfuld ankomst til Italien. Med disse billeder og profiler bruges forestillingsevnen som en drivkraft for folks beslutning om at rejse til Europa, og adgang til kontinentet omgives af en aura af enkelthed. Profilerne forsøger ikke kun at vise den nemme vej til Europa, men også, på mange andre billeder, hvad Europa egentlig handler om: franske luksusyachts; italienske og tyske sportsbiler; overdådige lejligheder; velstand. The Migrating Image afslører den ironiske oprindelse for disse billeder, der bruges til at sælge en vej til Europa. Smuglere og andre flugtfacilitatorer sammensætter billeder skabt af europæiske reklamebureauer, turistkontorer og regeringer. Billederne

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var oprindeligt skabt for at sælge forestillingen om Europa som et sted med sikre jobs, fremgang og sikkerhed, hvor højtuddannede migranter og eksperter bliver budt velkommen med åbne arme. Men billederne cirkulerer viralt og transcenderer deres oprindelige formål at sælge Europa som det forjættede land for forretningsdrivende og velhavende investorer. Billeder har altid haft en mangfoldighed af betydninger; hvert billeder har potentiale for at blive omarrangeret og genskabt i en kontekst, hvor virkningen er anderledes. I dette tilfælde bliver billeder, der eksporterer en drøm om Europas rigdom, brugt som løfter om den farlige passage over Middelhavet. Denne eksport af et overlegent, forestillet Europa leder ikke desto mindre lige tilbage til den europæiske kolonialisme, der ligeledes har frembragt nutidens eurocentrisme. Ansvaret for skabelsen og effekten af de billeder, vi ser i starten af Kruses film, ligger ikke kun hos smuglerne og flugtfacilitatorerne, men er dybere indlejret i Europas narcissistiske selvopfattelse. Andel del af The Migrating Image tager os med ud på Middelhavet, hvor Copernicus ser migrantog flygtningebåde sejle ind i europæiske farvande. Copernicus er et landovervågningssystem, der samarbejder tæt med Frontex, det berygtede europæiske grænse- og kystvagtsagentur. Copernicus oversætter satellitdata til billeder med røde og grønne prikker. Disse billeddata bliver brugt af Frontex til at koordinere deres første kontakt med migranter til havs i form af lydløse optagelser foretaget af militærhelikoptere. Billederne blev taget med militærkameraer i helikoptere; de er forskønnet med yderligere data såsom tidspunkt, position og (i det nederste venstre hjørne på første billede) pilotens mulighed for at ”afvæbne” målet. Således er flygtninge blevet et sikkerhedsspørgsmål. Billederne taget af militæret er stabiliserede via en højteknisk billedstabilisatorteknik, der holder billedet fast på målet, mens det er styret af et manuelt joystick. Disse billeder bliver officielt brugt af den italienske kystvagt og Frontex til at vurdere antallet af mennesker, der ankommer i både samt deres fysiske tilstand. Herudover tillader Frontex’ teknologiske udstyr en billedproduktion, der ikke er begrænset til europæiske farvande. Som et eksempel på den proces, som forsker Martin Lemberg-Pedersen har kaldt ”eksternaliseringen af europæiske grænser”, kortlægger Frontex skibes, bådes og selv trawlers’ bevægelser inden de

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sejler ind i europæiske farvande. Frontex’s altseende øje er under konstant udvidelse, for eksempel via en nylig EU-aftale med Libyen, hvilket tillader Frontex at patruljere hele den libyske kyst og dermed udvide deres billedproduktion. Når de lydløse helikopterbilleder bliver offentliggjort, er det i den italienske flåde og kystvagts navn. Herudover er GoPro-kamerabilleder tilføjet, fremhævet med klavermusik og sidenhen offentliggjort på kystvagtens YouTube-kanal med overskriften ”Angeli di Mare” (”Havets Engle”). Den professionalisme med hvilken disse videoer er redigeret og publiceret antyder, at der er mediespecialister med på holdet i produktionen af militærbillederne. Kruses undersøgelse viser at det netop er tilfældet ved at vise Europakommissionens Audiovisuelle Tjenesters aktiviteter. Denne afdeling, med tilknytning til Frontex og med samme størrelse som en standard tv-station, støtter den italienske kystvagt og lignende organer i deres portrættering af migrantveje på Middelhavet. Nogle af deres billeder er udgivet til fri afbenyttelse online, på print og på tv, mens andre kun er tilgængelige mod betaling. Den besked, som Frontex og de italienske myndigheder afsender gennem disse billeder, er at deres arbejde er afgørende for at sikre de europæiske grænser mod den tilsyneladende eksistentielle trussel, som uønskede migranter udgør – og for at redde migranterne selv. Billederne står i modsætning til de billeder, som uafhængige organisationer og ikke-statslige aktører producerer, og som afslører den ofte tragiske slutning på såkaldte redningsaktioner foretaget af Frontex og kystvagten. I overensstemmelse med deres humanitære karakter søger de billeder der er produceret af NGO’er at afsløre menneskerettighedskrænkelser. Under alle omstændigheder når tv-stationerne sjældent ud på Middelhavet for at producere deres egne billeder. Derfor bør vi være på vagt og konstant opmærksomme på, at de billeder, som europæiske tv-stationer klipper ind i deres historier om krisen, kommer fra forskellige billedproducenter med modstridende interesser. The Migrating Image viser forskellige billeder komponeret til at opfordre til rejser til Europa, til kontrol og overvågning af bevægelse på havet og til at dokumentere grænsekontrollernes og NGO’ers arbejde. I den tredje del leder Kruses undersøgelser os til frivilliges, flygtningestøttebevægelsers og fotojournalisters billedproduktion i takt med folks ankomst til Europas grænser. I 2015 så mange flygtningevenlige frivillige organisationer lyset i adskillige europæiske lande. På togstationer, grænsekrydsninger og på Middelhavets kyster stod frivillige klar og modtog (og modtager stadig) flygtninge, for at give dem en lettere ankomst. Som de fleste livsbegivenheder i dag er denne velkomst dokumenteret visuelt, gemt og delt online. De frivillige, dybt chokerede over flygtningenes tilstand

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efter deres lange, livstruende rejse på havet, forsøger at fange og viderebringe beskeden om flygtningenes lidelser til resten af verden. Dog starter den første traditionelt journalistiske billedproduktion med migranternes kontakt med fotojournalister. I 2015 var fotojournalister stærkt repræsenterede både der, hvor frivilligere tog imod flygtninge på kysten, og i lejre, hvor migranter var strandet mellem grænser. Kruse giver i denne tredje del en intens indsigt i forskellige fotojournalisters arbejde i sommeren 2015. Særligt opsigtsvækkende er billederne taget af et 360-graders kamera placeret på et lager et sted i Balkanlandene. Sådanne kameraer er nu et veletableret værktøj i digital mediejournalistik, brugt til at give beskueren en følelse af at stå midt i det billedet i bevægelse. Med denne teknik kan et billede nærmest opsluge beskueren. Et 360-graders kamera skal omkranse, omfavne og opsluge betragteren på det centrale punkt i situationen, hvor kameraet er placeret. Det pågældende kamera lykkes med dette, idet det optager migranter der samles foran deres logi, en gammel lagerbygning, strandet mellem grænser – det bringer beskueren ind i det ikoniske billede, der er brugt mange gange til at portrættere graden af lidelse og elendighed, som mange migranter finder sig selv i på vej til Europa. I den fjerde og sidste del illustrerer Kruses undersøgelse en anden enorm billedproducerende industri og dens metode til at portrættere flygtningeveje, da de når til de centraleuropæiske grænser. På en og samme tid synes de europæiske tv-stationer at opfange disse veje i 2015. Kruse kortlægger på genial vis de forskellige metoder, som tv-stationer har brugt til at fange migranters ankomst og fokuserer på det populære værktøj droneoptagelser. For nok den første gang i historien fyldte droneoptagelser dækningen af ankommende mennesker på kanaler som Russia Today, Daily Mail og Channel 4. Brugen af droner er en ny, men ofte brugt strategi til at dække store folkesamlinger, om det er til demonstrationer, valgkampe eller fodboldevents. Det, der gør droneoptagelser så effektfulde, er evnen til at forstå det monumentale omfang af store menneskesamlinger sammen med den stadig nye oplevelse af at se verden oppefra. I 1818 blev sådan en monumental forbløffelse fanget af Caspar David Friedrichs kendte billede Vandreren over Tågehavet. Dette billede viser en vandrer, der ser ud over den uendelige tåge, der dækker verden under ham. I tohundrede år har Friedrichs bemærkelsesværdige billede fremkaldt følelser af enlighed, ensomhed og samtidig tiltrækning. Droneoptagede billeder fremkalder lignende følelser og aura, og når tekst og voiceover sætter disse to i kontekst, kan de hurtigt blive truende. Kruse inviterer os til at genoverveje droneoptagelserne af store flygtningegrupper, der går mellem marker mod europæiske grænser ved at placere dem en for en ved siden af hinanden og

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derved kortlægge spredningen af, hvad der startede som stock-optagelser skabt af tre droner d. 25. oktober 2015. Man kan nemt forestille sig, hvordan disse billeder kan opfattes anderledes, når der tilføjes overskrifter og de bliver beskrevet som ”enorme skarer,” der ”overrender de europæiske grænser”. Ved at give os dette perspektiv på brugen af droneoptagelser, når store menneskemængder bliver portrætteret, tilføjer Kruses arbejde en rettidig refleksion over drivkræfterne bag de nuværende anti-indvandringsfølelser i Europa. Kruses kortfilm diskuterer faren ved det ubevidste forbrug af billeder gennem dets fokus på den billedproduktion, der fulgte i kølvandet på ”den europæiske flygtningekrise”. Vi har i nogen tid været vidne til, hvordan billedproduktionen kan vildlede os alle. Falske nyheder og spredningen af falsk information er nogle af vores tids mest presserende problemer. Det kan føles som om vores øjne og følelser mangler evnen til at aflede de reaktioner, som billeder skaber i vores sanser. Med stadig voksende teknologisk fremgang avancerer medier i deres evne til at opsluge os i billeder. Opslugning bliver fulgt op af en mangel på objektivitet, eftersom vi i stærkt opslugende billeder glemmer at de er en reproduktion af virkeligheden, ikke virkeligheden selv. Dette er faren ved at bruge avanceret medieteknologi i humanitære situationer, hvor vi og andre er i fare for at blive udsat for politisk tyranni. Billeder hjælper os med at navigere i verden for at vende tilbage til starten. I sit citat advarer Vilem Flusser om

It is an I who speaks (The hour of reckoning)

Agitprop by Lone Aburas An excerpt from Lone Aburas's book Det er et jeg der taler (Regnskabets time) published in 2017 There is something perverted in sitting here in front of a MacBook Pro and thinking SO much about the surplus energy for poetry and experiments, about being a sentient ’I’ in the world, when I can’t make the political poetic anyway. What do I know about lying in the back of a truck, climbing on board a boat of death, getting a handful of dirt from your mother you won’t see again? We could all get help from a crisis therapist after the Iraqi asylum seekers were kicked out of Brorsons Church, where they had sought refuge; we got help because we’d been near traumatized refugees and then we went back to our community kitchens and flats our parents

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at stræbe efter at gøre billedet mere perfekt, noget stadig mere ”virkeligt” – en fælde, når det bliver en farlig produktion af forestillede virkeligheder, som vi ikke formår at reflekterer tilstrækkeligt over. Kruses undersøgelser kommer næsten tre år efter begivenhederne i sommeren 2015, men effekten af de billeder han undersøger kan spores op til nuværende politiske og samfundsmæssige dynamikker. Europæiske valgkampe har siden 2015 i høj grad været bygget på ophedede debatter over indvandrings- og flygtningepolitikker. Højrefløjspopulister har brugt politiske usikkerheder og har haft succes med at indtræde i europæiske parlamenter, hvor de nu arbejder for at fastfryse diskussionerne om indvandring ved åbenlyst at benægte FNs Flygtningekonvention fra 1951 og stræbe efter at knække den overstatslige ide om Europa yderligere. The Migrating Image er en lille, men virkningsfuld skitse og (re)præsentation af nogle af billederne frembragt på begge sider af kysterne og grænserne i Europa i 2015. Kruse kritiserer, med hjælp fra Flusser, den ureflekterede måde hvorpå vi opfatter billeder, specielt dem om dybt humanitære temaer, såsom flugt og flygtninge. Ved at have sin egen kritik i baghovedet er Kruses film også en subjektivt kurateret, til tider provokerende, samling billeder, som selv søger at passe ind i filmskaberens fortælling. Derfor ligger en kritisk, men åben læsning af The Migrating Image i skaberens egen interesse.

bought us for uni and wrote novels and applied for degrees and art academies, and I’m not saying this to call anyone out, but we need a revolution. In any case, I have to start going to meetings again and listen to Bridge Radio and call Marie. Poetry and theories can’t save us anyhow, if there even is an us we can talk about. We shall overcome, even if our finances are precarious and we work dead end jobs, and once again the arts and culture budget is being cut, and you can’t get benefits or maternity, and there’s an overzealous social security guy who thinks his job is to call at 7.30pm even if he’s supposed to be on fucking vacation, just to inform me that they’ll still pay my unemployment check, as long as I don’t write for the public. That’s nothing compared to when politicians use Nonviolent Communication techniques to conclude that the refugee camps in the vicinities are well-organized, although they know perfectly well that there are open-air sewers running just outside the tents, that the roofs are tarps held up by simple frames, that if you ask people directly they will say they live as if they were dead. And you still get called benefit tourists and economic migrants, when you finally manage to get up here from besieged, bombed cities. You’re also our executioners, and talk with false, forked tongues. They say that fundamental-

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ists are not only a malignant growth on the tree of Islam, but its very roots, just as civil war is real and just around the corner. We played civil war in after-school, too: Ali, Shahid, Jasmina and I against the others. Maybe they called us ragheads, foreign workers, date pickers? I don’t remember. But I remember the confusion, the doubt of not knowing which side I belonged to. I swear that I will never again be so full of sorrow and self-hatred because I’m brown-skinned and was never baptized. I’d

rather write like Høeck in his Black Sonnets, even if singing the struggle for freedom of Palestinians is seen as a lyrical suicide bomb in poetry circles, in the apolitical and anodyne ’80s as now. Terrorism is terrorism is terrorism, but I’ll still keep them under my pillow for one more night, these sonnets, for as long as Palestine is missing from Google Maps and the blockade continues, together with thousands of other injustices and occupations.

Det er ikke mig, der ikke vil lære dansk – det er systemet, der ikke vil lære mig det af Eden Jeg mener, det er meget vigtigt at lære dansk. Det er derfor, jeg siden jeg kom til Danmark har glædet mig til at lære dansk. Men da jeg kom til Center Sandholm, var der ingen regelmæssig sprogundervisning, kun én time om ugen med frivillige undervisere. Selv om jeg var med hver uge, lærte jeg kun det allermest grundlæggende. Efter et par måneder fik jeg at vide af jobcentret i Sandholm, at de kun tilbød danskundervisning til personer under 23 år. Folk over 23 kunne modtage engelskundervisning. Men hvorfor skulle jeg lære engelsk, et sprog jeg allerede kunne, og ikke dansk, når jeg er i Danmark? Efter et par år blev det muligt for alle asylansøgere at modtage danskundervisning. Jeg forsøgte at melde mig til, men fik at vide, at der ikke var penge til at betale for transport fra lejren til skolen. Jeg tog selv ind til en sprogskole i København, men de bad mig om at medbringe en tilladelse fra Røde Kors. Så bad jeg om papirerne hos Røde Kors i Sandholms jobcenter. Men det viste sig, at skolen kun var for personer uden tidligere uddannelse eller med særlige problemer.

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Men jeg gav ikke op. Jeg prøvede at finde en privatlærer. En fra Røde Kors hjalp mig med at finde en kvinde, der kunne undervise i dansk en eller to gange om ugen, men det lykkedes ikke. Nu har jeg været i Danmark i mere end seks år. Når jeg går rundt og kun taler engelsk, spørger folk mig somme tider, om jeg er turist. Nogle danskere tror også, at jeg er doven, fordi jeg ikke har lært dansk efter seks år, men de ved ikke, hvor meget jeg har prøvet. Jeg foreslår, at alle asylansøgere, der kommer til Danmark, bliver tilbudt danskundervisning. Det ville gøre det muligt at kommunikere med det danske samfund. I nyhederne har jeg set danskere bebrejde flygtninge, at de ikke taler dansk, selv om de har været her i årevis. Måske har de mennesker erfaringer, der ligner mine. Der kan være så mange grunde til, at folk ikke taler dansk. Skyd ikke skylden på mig for ikke at ville lære dansk – skyd skylden på systemet for ikke at ville lære mig det.

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Seks skudhuller af Vahid Evazzadeh Hun hulker og tigger dem om at give hende sin søn. I to timer har hun nu gentaget den samme sætning. Den unge vagt, som ikke er trænet godt nok til ikke at vise følelser, giver op og går indenfor. Hun vender sig mod den anden soldat og spørger efter sin søn. Soldaten stirrer lige ud i luften. Han prøver at fokusere på fliserne i muren og skyggerne fra egetræets blade, der bevæger sig ude af takt med kvindens spastiske gråd, der nu lyder som hikke. Vinden rusker i bladene, men hendes hikken gør det svært at høre det; der er kun skygge. Den første soldat kommer tilbage med et lig over skulderen. Han læsser kroppen af foran kvinden. Den anden soldat ser forskrækket ud. Nu kan han høre egetræets blade. Kvinden er holdt op med at

Fortalte og ufortalte historier: Engelsktalende camerounere på flugt i Nigeria af Loke Bisbjerg Nielsen Mens de fleste har hørt om dem, der flygter fra Boko Haram i Nigeria, blandt andet til Cameroun, ved færre at flygtninge også krydser grænsen i den modsatte retning. I oktober 2017 udråbte den engelsktalende minoritet i Cameroun den selvstændige stat Ambazonia, hvad der resulterede i fordrivelsen af mange. Udviklingen er i store træk blevet ignoreret af verdenspressen – men journalist Solomon Amabo fortæller nogle af de oversete historier med sine fotos. Opmærksomhed er en begrænset ressource. Så hvor skal man investere den? Hvilke stemmer rejser de globale medier, og hvilke historier bliver fortalt? Og hvad bliver udeladt? Det kan være svært at få opmærksomhed gennem de globale medier, og der skal en vis grad af sensation eller tragedie til, før historier når længere ud end lokalt eller nationalt. Folk, der lever tæt på begivenhederne, har sjældent noget at skulle have sagt i forhold til, hvordan historierne bliver rapporteret. Men uafhængige journalister hvor som helst i verden kan være kilder til historier, perspektiver og forandring. En sådan historie er historien om den engelsktalende minoritet i det sydlige Cameroun, som udtrykte deres krav om en uafhængig stat i oktober 2017.

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græde. Hun fjerner bindet fra sin søns ansigt. Liget er gennemblødt af koldt vand. Der er ikke noget blod ud over det, der fylder seks små sorte huller i hans bryst. Han er stadig i sit eget tøj, selv om han mangler en sko, og hans hænder stadig er bundet på ryggen. Hun løsner rebet. Der er blå mærker på håndleddene. Hun rejser sig op, højere end da hun kom for at tigge om sin søn med et håb om, at han ville være i live. Hun ser på soldaterne med et blik, de ikke er trænet til at tyde. Hun tørrer sorgen af sit ansigt med sin store, grove hånd og tager en dyb indånding. Hun har fået, hvad hun kom efter. Hun lægger sin søns arm over sin skulder og løfter ham. Hun balancerer vægten, og de går væk sammen. Ved vejen sidder en kvinde med sit barn på skødet. Seks skudhuller, som hun har dækket med sin chador. Biler sætter farten ned for at kigge. Men de ved ikke besked.

Det blev slået hårdt ned på af de camerounske sikkerhedsstyrker, og tusinder har måttet flygte fra Cameroun til Nigeria. Historien har knapt nok nået de internationale nyheder, og de fleste uden for regionen har ikke hørt om det. Men der rapporteres fortsat om vold, og uden udsigt til en snarlig løsning har strabadserne, der venter flygtningene, ikke ændret sig til det bedre. En stemme, der gør opmærksom på sagen, er den camerounske journalist Solomon Amabo, som dokumenterer situationen gennem billeder og ord. I samarbejde med den journalistiske fotoplatform IndieFrame bliver hans historie om de sydcamerounske flygtninge i Nigeria fortalt. Over to millioner mennesker er stadig fordrevet i det nordøstlige Nigeria som følge af oprørsgruppen kendt som Boko Harams voldelige felttog og den følgende vold i kølvandet på sikkerhedsstyrkernes fortsatte forsøg på at bekæmpe gruppen. Ud over det har hundrede tusinder af mennesker søgt tilflugt i de tilstødende regioner. Et af disse lande er Cameroun, som har tvangsudvist titusinder af flygtninge til Nigeria. Sent i oktober 2017 fik bevægelsen af mennesker over de to landes grænser en ny dimension, da tusinder fra det sydlige Cameroun krydsede grænsen til Nigeria. 1. oktober 2017 erklærede den engelsktalende minoritet i Cameroun en uafhængig stat: Ambazonia. Det område, der i dag er Cameroun, blev koloniseret af Tyskland fra 1884 til 1916, da det blev tabt i Første Verdenskrig og delt mellem Frankrig og Storbritannien, som havde kolonier henholdsvis øst og vest for Cameroun. Da Cameroun blev selvstændigt i 1960, blev den nordlige del af det, der dengang hed Britisk Cameroun, inkluderet i den nye, uafhængige stat: Republikken Cameroun. Men den

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sydlige del ønskede at forblive selvstændig og blev ikke indlemmet før et år senere, da Den Føderale Republik Cameroun blev udråbt. Folk fra det område, da allerede dengang blev kaldt Ambazonia – et navn der stammede fra en britisk missionærstation i Ambas Bay grundlagt inden den tyske besættelse – ønskede ikke at blive indlemmet i en camerounsk stat, hvor flertallet talte fransk. Siden da har de følt sig marginaliserede, og adskillige juridiske, politiske og sociale krav om uafhængighed er blevet fremsat. Følelsen af marginalisering får kun yderligere næring af de ofte hårdhændede svar fra Camerouns statslige sikkerhedsstyrker på kravene om uafhængighed. Den aktuelle situation er ingen undtagelse, som Amabo dokumenterer. Flygtninge fortæller, hvordan Camerouns sikkerhedsstyrker slår ned på landsbyer. De ransager, slår og arresterer vilkårligt. Nogen er døde som følge, og mange har mistet værdier og ejendele. Bønder får konfiskeret deres landbrugsudstyr, da sikkerhedsstyrkerne frygter, det kan bruges som våben. I deres søgen efter tilhængere af Republikken Ambazonia lader sikkerhedsstyrkerne til at operere tilfældigt og straffrit. Den usikkerhed, som folk må leve med som resultat, synes at være den primære grund til at flygte. Lige meget om man aktivt har støttet kravet om uafhængighed eller ej, og lige gyldigt hvordan man har støttet det, kan man tilfældigt blive mål for vold, ransagelse, anholdelse eller drab. For de camerounere, der rejser mod Nigeria, venter kun modgang. Da de ofte flygter af øjeblikkelig frygt for soldater i området, eller fordi de med magt er blevet sat ud af deres hjem, medbringer flygtningene kun få ejendele. Vandreturen varer dagevis gennem bjergrigt terræn uden meget mad. Hundredvis af de flygtende kvinder er gravide. Som Solomon rapporterer, flygter mange af disse kvinder gennem bjergene uden ordentlig proviant eller påklædning. Når de ankommer til Nigeria, er interimistiske sundhedsklinikker blevet etableret for at imødegå basale behov, som Ranch Community Health Centre i Obudu Ranch. I et land, hvor sundhedspleje ofte allerede er mangelfuld, rapporterer klinikkerne – som hovedsageligt drives af frivillige – om alvorlig mangel på medicin samt udstyr til HIV-tests og fødsler. En anden gruppe, der rammes af manglen på basale sundhedsydelser, er de overvejende mandlige flygtninge, som er sårede efter mishandling fra de camerounske sikkerhedsstyrkers side. Sårene er ikke blevet behandlet under flugten og har i nogen tilfælde udviklet infektioner. Andre har fået svampeinfektioner som følge af de dårlige levevilkår i skovene. Desuden har kloakeringen i lejrene skabt bekymringer for potentiel spredning af sygdomme som tyfus og dysenteri. Den eneste mulighed for at forrette sin nødtørft er i det fri, og vandressourcer er ubeskyttede.

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Efter forlydende er UNHCR og Rhema Care de eneste internationale nødhjælpsorganisationer, der opererer i områderne, som huser flygtninge fra det sydlige Cameroun. Den nigerianske regering og lokalsamfundene forsøger at tage sig af flygtningene. Men mistillid og den korruptionskultur, der kendetegner dele af det nigerianske samfund, påvirker nødhjælpsindsatsen. Flygtninge fortæller om grænsevagter, der kræver bestikkelse for at lukke dem ind i Nigeria, og folk fra lokalsamfundene har udtrykt ubehag over tilstedeværelsen af flygtningene i deres område. Men den altovervejende reaktion fra de lokale har været at donere mad og give de camerounske flygtninge et tilflugtssted i Nigeria. Ifølge UNHCRs skøn er verden vidne til en flygtningesituation uden fortilfælde med mere end 65.6 millioner mennesker tvangsmæssigt fordrevet. Flygtningene fra det sydlige Cameroun er kun et lille fragment af dette enorme tal. Men de har også en historie, der er værd at fortælle. Sådanne mere eller mindre ufortalte historier er kollektive og personlige tragedier, og de har potentialet til at eskalere til større kriser. På det tidspunkt vil de globale medier og deres publikum måske spørge sig selv, hvorfor de ikke gjorde noget? IndieFrame er en uafhængig digital distributionsplatform, der bringer indhold, skaber og globale medier tættere sammen. Gennem brugergenereret indhold fra hele verden får medierne adgang til historier gennem fotos, videoer og ord fra lokale. Øjnene rettet mod noget uden for billedets ramme. Hovederne drejet med nervøse ansigtsudtryk. Det tynde lag af støv, der dækker deres kroppe efter at være blevet tvunget til at ligge ned i Sydcamerouns gule sand. Måden, de er stuvet sammen på ladet af lastbilen på. Politihjelmen ved deres fødder. Den bortvendte betjent, der tårner sig over dem med ret ryg, nærmest som om han træder på de frihedsberøvede. Billedet her taget af den camerounske journalist Solomon Amabo er et godt eksempel på, hvordan selv et simpelt kamera, som det i en smartphone, kan fortælle historien om en situation ved at destillere et øjeblik af den. I takt med at disse teknologier bliver mere udbredte, kan flere spille en rolle i udbredelsen af historier gennem billeder og ord derfra, hvor det foregår. Er de globale medier klar til at demokratisere ved at inkludere indhold, som traditionelt ikke har haft adgang til et verdenspublikum? De frihedsberøvede i lastbilen er studerende fra Buea Universitet i det sydvestlige Cameroun, og de er anholdt efter sammen med undervisere og advokater at have deltaget i en protest mod frankofoniseringen af de engelske uddannelsesinstitutioner i Cameroun.

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I mændenes fravær: Rodløs, løsrevet, rodfæstet af Liselot Kattemölle Aisha er ikke alene med sine anstrengelser. Fraværet af mænd er generelt et kønnet kendetegn ved krig. Da det typisk er mænd, der bliver tvunget til at kæmpe, må gå under jorden på grund af forfølgelse eller migrerer til udlandet for at finde bedre økonomiske muligheder, er det op til kvinder at udfylde tomrummet, der efterlades af dræbte, sårede, skjulte, fængslede, forsvundne eller migrerede mandlige slægtninge. Faktisk har én ud af fem flygtningehusAisha var 33 og gravid, da hun, hendes mand og stande i Libanon en enlig kvinde som overhoved. deres syv børn flygtede fra det østlige Ghouta nær Damaskus. Nu, fem år senere, reflekterer hun over Revet dobbelt op rejsen, der bragte hende til søsterens kolde beton- med rode lejlighed i en fattig forstad i det sydlige Beirut. ”Jeg havde et almindeligt liv, indtil jeg blev 33”, sukker I mainstreammedierne bliver flygtninges narrativer om flugt ofte repræsenteret gennem en diskurs, hun. ”Så begyndte mine kvaler.” der kredser om tab: af hjemland, af tilhørsforhold, Libanon var en pragmatisk destination at flygte af slægtninge, af livskvalitet, af identitet, af formåtil. Det syriske regime havde strammet sin milien. Sådan et perspektiv passer ind i en mere generel tære kontrol, og voksne mænds pludselige forsvinantagelse om, at identiteter kun kan være hele, når dinger var blevet hverdagskost. Og Aishas mand de er rodfæstet i nationalstaten. I det lys er flygtninvar eftersøgt. Derfor rejste han 70 kilometer vestge mærket af deres tab, af ikke at høre til, eller som på ind i Libanons landbrugsdal Bekaa for et finde antropologen Liisa Malkki har udtrykt det, at være en alternativ bopæl til sin familie. Han mødte en ”uden for tingenes naturlige orden”. landmand, han kunne arbejde for, og blev tilbudt et telt til at huse sin familie lige ved agurkemarker- Når hun sammenligner en kvinde med en blomst ne. Aisha og børnene udnyttede de åbne grænser og en mand med dens rødder, lader Aisha forstå, mellem de to lande og fulgte et par dage senere. ”Se at når en mand er fraværende, rives kvinden op det som en ferie,” havde hendes mand trøstet hen- med rode. Det peger på, at Aisha i Libanon uden en de. ”Vi skal bare bo et fredeligt sted i naturen i et mand ikke bare er løsrevet fra nationalstaten som flygtning; hun er også løsrevet fra sin kønnede selvstykke tid.” opfattelse. Uden en livgivende kilde til vand er hun Aisha smiler ved mindet om dalen. Folk var gæstfri, revet dobbelt op med rode. og naturen tjente som børnenes grænseløse legeplads. Luften var ren og vandet friskt – slet ikke som På samme tid er der en uoverensstemmelse melden forurenede luft og det salte postevand i det lar- lem billedet af den forstærkede rodløshed og så mende Sydbeirut. En vinterdag kørte hendes mand Aisha selv. Rynkerne i hendes ansigt antyder ganafsted mod Damaskus for at hente nogle dokumen- ske vist, hun har været gennem hårde tider, men ter tilbage i Ghouta. Det var her, kvalerne begyndte. hendes energi er bemærkelsesværdig, og hun taler Han vendte aldrig tilbage. Hun trækker på skuldre- næsten uafbrudt med en selvtillid som en kvinde, der ved hvad livet er. Det lader til, at hun har funne: ”Arresteret ved grænsen.” det en måde at navigere i den konstante krise på, og For første gang i sit liv havde hun ingen mandliunder de vilkår har hun fået en hverdag til at funge slægtninge at støtte sig til. Hun blev tvunget til gere. Hun forklarer, at hun ”ikke bare kunne stopselv at stå i spidsen for husholdningen, hvad der pe op og græde”, da hendes mand forsvandt. Især fik hende til at påtage sig roller og ansvar, der før efter hun fødte sin yngste datter, blev hun ”nødt til havde været forbeholdt hendes mand. I stedet for at være realistisk”. Hun overlod det derefter til sin hendes mand var det nu hende selv, der plantede mands familie af lede efter ham, da hun nu havde agurker på markerne for at tjene til livets ophold. I otte munde at mætte og følte, at hun havde gjort hans fravær bevægede hun sig offentligt uledsaget sin del. rundt og påtog sig dobbeltrollen som mor og far for de snart otte børn. ”Det blev pålagt mig,” tilføjer Selv om hun selv var glad for at bo på landet, pakAisha. ”Jeg havde ikke noget valg. Jeg fik ansvaret kede hun endnu en gang deres få ejendele sammen og flyttede med sine børn til Beiruts forstæder. Hun med det samme.” “En kvinde er som en blomst, og en mand er ligesom hendes rødder.” Aisha løsner de foldede hænder og rykker lidt frem på sin søsters sofa. Dens blomstermønster afbrydes af hendes ankellange frakkes sorte stof. Hun uddyber forskellen mellem mænd og kvinder ved at tilføje: ”Så længe han forsyner hende med vand, trives hun, men hvis han lukker for vandet, dør hun. Du ved… En mand kan give, men også fratage en kvinde livet.”

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sluttede sig til seks kvindelige slægtninge, der havde slået sig ned der gennem de seneste år under krigen og havde insisteret på, at hun skulle flytte til kvarteret, fordi hun der ville have både deres støtte og offentlige skoler kun få minutter væk. Fire af dem havde også mistet deres mænd i krigen og forsørgede derfor selv deres familier. De havde fundet arbejde, og selv om det havde vist sig at være udfordrende at skulle vænne sig til så ny en form for beskæftigelse, og selv om lønnen kun akkurat var nok til at klare sig, tillod det dem også at etablere et hverdagsliv og en daglig rutine.

At træde ind i en mandeverden Mens Aisha forklarer, hvordan hun tilpassede sig udfordringerne ved hverdagen i forstæderne – såsom at møde mange fremmede mænd på gaden – åbnes langsomt en dør bag os. En dreng på tre år stikker hovedet om hjørnet. Sprækken afslører Aishas søster, der tysser på en flok små børn. Drengen lister ud og løber hen til Aishas skød. Da han putter sig ind til sin mors bryst, løfter hun hans ene arm i vægtløftningspositur, ser ham blidt ind i øjnene og forsikrer ham: ”Mor er stærk, ikke, meget stærk!”. Drengen fniser og mumler noget, der lyder som ”småkage”. Aisha drejer hovedet og siger med en latter: ”Ham her, ved jeg, han elsker mig så højt!” Så genoptager hun sin fortælling, mens hun stryger ham over håret og uddyber, hvordan hendes rolle som omsorgsperson har udvidet sig til også at omfatte forsørgerrollen. “Min rolle er alt nu. Jeg er mor, når det kommer til husarbejde: rengøring, opvask og tøjvask, hjælpe børnene med lektier. Men jeg er også far nu. Det er mig, der er ansvarlig for huset. Jeg tager mig af kontakten til udlejeren og det administrative med UNHCR (FN’s flygtningeagentur). Jeg har autoriteten til at sige nej til mine børn. Jeg går ud af huset for at løbe ærinder. Jeg arbejder. Jeg er endda blevet ægtemand for min ældste datter, som også mistede sin mand i krigen. Det føles som om, jeg er trådt ind i en mandeverden”. For Aisha har hendes indtræden i mændenes verden betydet et signifikant skift i måden, rum er kønnede på. Før krigen var hendes ansvarsområder begrænset til det, hun kalder ”husets fire vægge”. Hun beskriver, hvordan folk i hendes omgangskreds i Østghouta sladrede, hvis de så en kvinde gå på gaden uden at være ledsaget af en voksen mand. Hvis en kvinde havde arbejde uden for huset, blev det set ned på som en fiasko for hendes mand eller andre mandlige slægtninge, fordi de åbenbart ikke evnede at forsørge hende.

overskrider Aisha, ligesom sine kvindelige slægtninge, et moralsk kodeks for passende kvindelighed, der har pleje og omsorg i fokus. Sådan bliver hun konstant nødt til at forhandle mellem samfundets forventninger til passende kvindelighed og ønsket om at være en god mor, og hun bliver somme tider nødt til at ofre aspekter af førstnævnte for at opfylde sidstnævnte. Denne komplekse og til tider dobbelttydige forhandlingsproces om køn har vidtrækkende konsekvenser for Aishas måde at relatere sig til sig selv og andre på.

Så frø og plante træer Tidligere var Aisha vant til at blive identificeret som ”hustruen til”. Uden en mand at blive identificeret med var Aisha efterladt med otte børn og sig selv. Det var skelsættende for de kønnede rammer, der former hendes identitet. Gennem sine adskillige jobs har hun lært at forholde sig til mennesker på nye måder: ”Jeg lærte at være modig, når jeg arbejdede. Engang var jeg så genert. Nu hvor jeg interagerer med folk, lærer jeg også ting om mig selv. Jeg er meget stærkere end før.” Hun relaterer sin egen historie til sine slægtninges lignende oplevelser og fortæller, hvordan hun “opdagede, at kvinder er i stand til at gøre, hvad de er nødt til”, hvad der får hende til at konkludere, at generelt “vil kvinder med tiden finde ud af, at mænd ikke er særlig vigtige”. Hun bekræfter, at ”selv om det var rart at have en at dele ansvaret for husstanden med, har jeg ikke længere brug for en mand”. Aishas liv er betinget af kriser som krig og fravær af mænd. Men en sådan fortælling om nyfunden styrke lader hende slå nye rødder i en situation, hvor hun ellers er afskåret fra sine rødder. Med andre ord giver det hende mulighed for at skabe orden i en større uorden. Selv om tabet af mand, hjemland og livskvalitet absolut er nærværende, handler Aishas flugthistorie ikke primært om tab. Tværtimod har de store tab, hun har lidt, åbnet et nyt vindue til social selvindsigt og refleksion og gjort det muligt for hende at forestille sig sin identitet på måder, hun ikke før havde overvejet.

At blive rykket op med rode er ikke nødvendigvis ensbetydende med at miste sig selv. Som Aishas historie viser, kan det bane vejen for nye fortolkninger af en selv, af andre og af de moralske idealer, der former ens hverdagsliv og ageren i verden. Sådanne forhandlinger af selvet kan føre til transformative erfaringer. Som Aishas ældste tante, der også slog sig ned i den blomstrede sofa til sidst i samtalen, formulerede det: ”Engang fortalte de os altid, at kvinder kun sidder derhjemme. Vi vidste ikke, at vi kan være produktive, vi vidste ikke, at vi havde Men uden sin mand havde Aisha ikke andet valg evner. Men da vi kom til Libanon, fandt vi ud af, at end at bevæge sig ud på det usikre terræn, som hun vi faktisk kan skabe noget, vi kan arbejde. Vi kan så tidligere omtalte som “en mandeverden”. Ved at frø og plante træer”. påtage sig den mandlige rolle at forsørge sin familie

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Navnet Aisha er et pseudonym. Historien er baseret krise: Hvordan enlige kvindelige syriske flygtninge på etnografisk forskning gennemført i Libanon i 2017 forhandler køn og moral i mændenes fravær) skresom en del af specialet Gender in Crisis: How single vet i samarbejde med Mikala Due-Christensen. female Syrian refugees in Lebanon negotiate gender and morality in the absence of men (2017) (Køn i

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Uledsaget Halfdan Pisket, Karoline Stjernfelt, Tom Kristensen, Lars Horneman and Adam O. Svendborg Graphic/Svendborg Bibliotek, 2017 by Vibeke Nielsen Uledsaget (Unaccompanied) is a comic book anthology about taking flight, and about life as an unaccompanied young refugee in Denmark. The anthology is the outcome of a collaboration between unaccompanied boys and Danish comic artists, supported and published by Svendborg library. Two of the stories recount flights from Somalia, another two from Afghanistan, and one from Iraq. The flights are either initiated by war, family feuds or a combination of the two, and oblivion is a central theme in all of the stories. The stories offer a pronounced critique of authorities, focusing on the use of direct violence by border guards and police officers, and the detention of refugees in a vulnerable position by bureaucrats. It is rare that a public library in Denmark publishes anything containing opinions about the world at large. The code of practice today is that public libraries only publish so-called “language suitcases” (packages with texts, audio material, games, etc. for learning a foreign language, primarily oriented towards children), event calendars, local political strategy plans, local history, and annual reports. In the past they also used to publish books of local patriotic character about honorary citizens and large enterprises in the region, as well as local bibliographies on print. Rarely anything with a larger perspective than what can be contained under the old line, “From here my world goes”. In the summer of 2017, Svendborg Library broke with this tradition when they published Uledsaget in relation to the comic festival Svendborg Graphic. One week in the fall of 2016, five pupils at a local school for asylum seekers started a collaboration with five comic artists: Tom Kristensen, Adam O., Halfdan Pisket, Karoline Stjernefelt and Lars Hornemann. The charity school (Asylskolen) is a school for newly arrived unaccompanied asylum seeking children and youths. The school was established by local inhabitants on South Funen where Hundstrup asylum centre is located. The encoun-

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ter between the comic artists and the unaccompanied youths happened in a house in Svendborg that was once famously home to the German playwright Bertolt Brecht. This is where Brecht lived as a refugee during the prelude to the Second World War. The comic artists worked with the personal stories of these five boys.

Solidarity from Svendborg to Somalia Karoline Stjernfelt’s “The Problem,” and Halfdan Pisket’s “The Line,” both tell a story about a boy from Somalia. “The Problem” directly addresses the collaboration between the comic artist and the boy. It indicates the potential for solidarity between Somalis and Danes, through the boy’s association between a comic by Karoline Stjernefelt about the influence that the Second World War had on her family on the one hand, and everything in Somalia that the boy himself escaped from on the other. The illustrations in “The Problem” are the only ones in the collection that are in black and white. In combination, the words and images poetically express a third meaning which neither words nor images alone can articulate. Oblivion is the goatherd’s hooves which walk on the ground, or the tea’s steam which fills the picture frame. “The Line,” on the other hand, is the most textually dense and directly politicising comic in the anthology. The visual expression is a prosaic sequence of small drawings in similarly formatted frames, like a short feature film with explanatory subtitles. The brutality is made palpable in the description of control as the only true companion during the flight. Black surfaces partially or completely cover most of the characters’ faces, while others’ are hidden behind face shields. A blood-red line appears as a metaphor and a concrete mark after the event that drove the main character to flee. It runs through the whole story. The European authorities’ treatment leads to memory failure and loss of identity

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in a world where everything you say can be used against you, even your own life story.

To war with bureaucracy In “Little Soldier” by Adamo O. about the boy Abdel from Afghanistan, the critique of European authorities also stands out. The narrative style in the story is to let the events play out backwards, with Abdel as a tour guide for two Danish bureaucrats. They welcome him to Center Sandholm and ask him to explain the course of events that he has been through. After this they follow him figuratively on his travels until the end, which is the start of his flight. Abdel’s narrative leads him straight into the arms of the relatives in Taliban, which he escaped from. The bureaucrats leave him there and let him wait there until his next consultation. In the final drawing he is literally left behind, alone with a large group of warriors. The story is narrated in picturesque sepia-brown, resembling old photographs. Another boy from Afghanistan participated in the making of “Brother” which is illustrated by Tom Kristensen. Here the visuals consist of metaphysically moving pictures. They are obscurely expressive and kept in golden and black-blue nuances. There are many faces, hands that grip, feet that run, empty rooms and small lights in blurry darkness. The fear of the authorities’ abuse of power is illustrated in the final picture of the boy and his brother as football players in plastic, separated and fixed to a metal bar on a table football.

Cold and warm lands “Divided” is the outcome of a collaboration between Lars Horneman and a boy from Iraq. The comic is made in Indian ink and kept in clear colours on

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large surfaces with bold black contours: the sad and the past in purple and turquoise, the pleasant and contemporary in warm colours, but with fractures of more conflict-ridden emotional expressions in the pictures where warm and cold colours are contrasted. “Divided” is the comic whose style is closest to a classic comic. It has a tendency to represent Iraq as unequivocally evil and cold, and Denmark as eternally good and warm. Something that stands out is that in contrast to the drawing of the fixed plastic players in the football game in “Brother”, the conclusion in “Divided” is illustrated with the text: “Have found new friends”.

“Facts” from CIA Each comic is introduced with a fact-sheet that describes the situation in the countries that the boys have escaped from. These facts have been obtained from the CIA, which cannot be considered a neutral contributor to the flow of information on flight and migration, let alone on internal and external relations in those parts of the world where the United States has foreign policy interests. A telling example is that the military presence in Afghanistan is consistently termed a “humanitarian presence”. This is not an objective factual designation. This involvement of external political stakeholders as “fact” providers is a disturbing blemish on the publication – as a work of art and as a personal political statement. The testimonies to be brought forward were supposed to be the outcome of an equal collaboration between the refugees and the migrants’ own stories on the one hand, and the comic artists on the other, regardless of whether the narratives were pleasant and politically correct in relation to state interests, or deeply personal and emotionally charged.

№ 13 visAvis

visAvis â„–13

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