The Divine Comedy of Mohamed Ben Soltane: Commentary and Creativity in Tunisia

Image Source: La Maja Descalza

“Before the revolution, I think, the art scene was closed so artists couldn’t make art in public spaces. There was real fear from almost everybody. We can say that it was hell and it is now paradise.”

Image Source: La Maja Descalza. Work by Mohamed Ben Soltane

A few days ago I had the chance to sit down with Mohamed Ben Soltane. As an artist, writer, critic and currently the head curator at the  B’chira Art Center, the first contemporary art center in Tunisia, which opened in November 2011, Mohamed Ben Soltane is a leading force for creativity and social criticism in Tunisia. He has been called a ‘visual sociologist of our most repressed desires.’

He had just returned from a workshop in Cairo organized by Al Mawred Al Thaqafy. They explain on their website that they are a “regional, non-profit organization that seeks to support artistic creativity in the Arab region and to encourage cultural exchanges within this region and the developing world.” It seeks to liberate the imagination and stimulate progress, which it sees as social necessities. In 2007 Al Mawred had planned and organized a meeting in Tunisia to empower local artists but at the last minute the government revoked their permission. Why?

“They were helping young artists to make art projects. There was no link with politics because they knew that they can’t do anything political but in that period thinking is already political. They [the government] preferred not to help people that will make you think.”

He explained that before the revolution we would certainly have been monitored if we spoke together in public. We couldn’t have made our appointment in a public place without considering who would be there, who the waiters were, or who would be sitting next to us. Anyone could be an informant.

We met near the train station in Sidi Bou Said, at the Jasmine Cafe. As the waiter delivered our coffees Ben Soltane leaned in and, with a smile, informed me that before the revolution this cafe used to be called Trabelsi cafe.

Image Source: Visual Arts in Tunisia. Work by Mohamed Ben Soltane

I have been concerned with this issue of naming since I arrived in Tunisia. In the international press the revolution has been referred to as, inter alia, the Jasmine Revolution, the Arab Spring and the Facebook Revolution. Knowing that when Ben Ali came to power in a coup on 7 November 1987 he called it the Jasmine Revolution, I asked Ben Soltane about the perceptions among Tunisians that their revolution is being framed by the international community.

“It is like other people that you don’t know giving the name of your son. It is not normal. It was really bizarre because when Tunisian people were called the Jasmine Revolution I was saying, ‘what the hell?’ Who gave that name? It was really from outside and you feel that some people just took it like that and the first thing that you imagine when you listen to Jasmine Revolution is the people who died, the people that suffered, the people that were for 20 years harassed by the police every day in front of their houses. I don’t think that for them Jasmine is a good name. And even the Arab Spring, I don’t know who invented those words. It was the revolution for freedom and dignity.”

Mohamed Ben Soltane’s artwork is about collaboration and exploration of everyday objects and phenomena, distilling the essence of the banal and insinuating new meaning to previously un-assorted forms. He works with many materials to form his artwork, from video and photography to plastics and paints. His writing on art has pointed out the flaws in the international art system that maintains certain hegemonies in which the voices of Southern countries are not given an equal place. For him art and politics are inextricably linked. He writes that political decision makers and art collectors in the global North prefer to focus on that which comforts their preconceived notions, of the Arab world and the global South.

However, thanks to the revolution in Tunisia, which has spread throughout the Arab world in one way or another, many new voices are finding a place for expression and creation. He is overall optimistic for the future of Tunisia but he is realistic that the transition away from a dictatorship will take time and that there are obstacles that still must be overcome. We spoke about these obstacles and Tunisia’s future, the role of art and social change, and the interstices of international perceptions and local realities.

Image Source: Susan Paiva. Work by Mohamed Ben Soltane

Michael Caster: What role do you see the art community playing in this? In many times, in many countries it is often the artists that push the limits, that encourage or force society to rethink, to look at themselves and their place, socially and politically in a different way.

Mohamed Ben Soltane: I think that we can demand much from the art society. There is a lot of people who also have to do their jobs. The civil society now is very important, in the legal and economic, the artistic. The artistic scene, the thing that they specifically have is to look at things from different angles. The most important thing that artists can do is to show people realities from different angles and that can make dogmatic thinking less important but it is work on the long term. In the short term maybe they can develop critical thinking. Caricature is a very important art. It must find its place.

MC: Willis from Tunis has been a very popular comic. Of course there was no place for this kind of satire before the revolution.

MBS: Yes but we need at least one very good caricaturist in every newspaper. There are too few at the moment but there was an exhibition and books about caricature and that’s really good.

Image Source: Cartooning for Peace

MC: Cartooning for Peace?

MBS: Yes. This kind of art is more related to politics.

There is also art in the public space that can be very important. There are different art projects. There are art projects that make people interested and that make them participate, and art that doesn’t interest the people. I understand that. There is too much art in the public space that is the same kind of painting that you do in your home but you make it on a wall outside. It interests too few people and that is not art in a public space.

If you go to the municipality and take authorization to make street art it’s not street art.

MC: Before the revolution it seems that the only graffiti you might be able to find is reference to a soccer club. Of course this remains but the more politically engaged street art is confined to certain places. Can you elaborate on public and street art, how it is participatory and how it is engaging people.

MBS: I made a project from 2006. I presented it in 2009 and it was about inscription on the walls. I felt that it was really a space of freedom. It was not really street art because the people that were making the writings or drawings were not really established artists or did not present themselves as artists or even street artists but the street art is not really developed.

Ahl Al Kahf are doing a really good job but it is really new. It was not so developed until now.

Dream City are doing a good job. The idea is excellent but the projects selected are not all good. So maybe we need more time to make good projects in the streets.

MC: Dream City II was before the revolution. Is there a plan for Dream City III?

MBS: It will be next year I think. They are selecting artists now. The two organizers are very strong in cultural engineering and…

MC: Selma and Sofiane Ouissi?

MBS: They are very interesting because they present the new profile of cultural managers that we don’t have right now. They are young and I am sure that they will continue doing good projects.

In a conference in Istanbul two months ago I spoke about two experiences that for me are the most important now. These are Dream City and the Festival of Electronic Music…They present also digital art one time a year. It is festivals that have a larger public than the traditional exhibitions. They also help artists producing artworks and that is the most important thing to do for artists now, if you want to develop the artistic scene.

MC: I read about Dream City and it sounds incredible. The whole Medina is opened up to become the gallery and instead of a catalogue the people have a map and compass. What you see is how much energy and effort you put into it. It is a true discovery and an exploration and I spoke with some people who worked with Dream City. Mostly this was safe art, though. No one really put themselves in danger. Was this political art?

MBS: I think it was already political because it was for a large public. It was in the Medina, in a place that was not a priority in the politics but the interesting thing in the festival is that people in the Medina went to see and gave their opinion about the works…

It was really a cultural activity because it made new people discover art, not the same people who go always to the same exhibitions.

MC: It seems that there is a lot of interesting cultural events and art spaces in the Medina, with Centre Culturel Bir Lahjar, Club Culturel Tahar Haddad and Maison des Associations Culturelles. Old madrasahs converted into art centers. There is a lot happening, workshops for children doing silkscreening or photographs from the revolution.

MBS: I think it is a public space. They are state structures. So if they are from the state they can’t be really alternative. They do things. They did things for photography, for music. It was for a small public but interesting. The thing is, we forget too quickly that the state doesn’t do good culture. We think that the state will help us now making, I don’t know what, but it’s not true.

The state makes official culture and official culture is not the good one.

MC: I met a Jordanian artist, Abdel Qwaider, a surrealist, very much like Dali but he did a number of pieces after the revolution that were symbolic of Ben Ali, with the color purple and the chair. He liked the image of a purple snake tongue. You mentioned in your article about Nadia Jelassi who has worked with the image of the chair. Can you speak about these symbols. In semiotics we deconstruct form and meaning. With the meaning of the chair and the color purple, it has a specific Tunisian meaning. Can you elaborate on this?

MBS: In 2002 or 2003 I sent an anonymous letter to a newspaper about the color purple. Saying that ‘I don’t think the president loves the color purple so much so maybe people are doing too much and now all of them, all of us, hate that color. It would be good for the image of the president and for all the country if you make less purple so please…’ But they didn’t want to publish it.

The purple color was like cancer. And up to now we see purple.

If you opened a small store and you have the color purple then when you go to the municipality they will know that you are with the party.

One time I was in Algeria, in a workshop, and every group was presenting his work. There was a group that made a comic. The comic spoke about a king that loved purple flowers and one day he decided that all the country must have only purple flowers and he called everybody and told them that all the other colors had to be put off. Some of them made that. After that he called the army and said it is up to you to make only the purple colors and find people who are not doing this. People started resisting by making other colors in their houses. In the night they would go outside and put the colors. After years of repression the king knew that he had no chance to win so he took back his decision and left the palace. The Turkish guy who made the comic didn’t know that Tunisia is really like that. So I said to him, ‘It’s really political what you did.’ He said he will present it in Tunisia but I told him, ‘well it is up to you but it is not the best thing to do because they will find you.’

This color was really present and I don’t know, I think until now they have big containers of purple that they aren’t using anymore. Maybe they will give it to artists to make artworks. The other symbols, the chair is not specific to Tunisia.

MC: A symbol of Power?

MBS: Especially in the Arab countries.

Image Source: AP, "Tunisian ex-leader convicted in abstentia"

MC: What about the posters? Businesses, restaurants, the police made them hang posters of the president to force people to show support for Ben Ali but on 14, 15 January everyone was tearing them down.

Someone told me this fantastic story about coming back from Avenue Habib Bourguiba on the night of 14 January. He went to his restaurant and tore down the poster. He tore it up and ate it. He said ten minutes later he was shitting.

It has this amazing force. Everyone tearing them down, burning them, driving over them in their cars. How did this feel before the revolution when you were walking around on the street, everywhere you see these pictures of Ben Ali?

MBS: I think we were surprised. We know what is dictatorship. We know what is torture. We know what is authoritarian system but we thought the president of a progressive country couldn’t be so ill with his own image. People were saying, ‘okay it’s a dictatorship. He wants his image to be shown.’

For a lot of people it was a sign of weakness. We didn’t know why…

The authorities didn’t give authorization for a big exhibition about photojournalism. I think it was in 2007. The exhibition was okay; all the artworks were in Tunisia but they prohibited the exhibition because there was a president who was making hello to the people and he was very big and the people were really small and he looked like the president [Ben Ali]. So the authorities said no. ‘It is not only that photo that we will take off but we prohibit all the exhibition.’

They were really afraid about images.

MC: There was the demonstration in La Goulette with the giant poster of Ben Ali before the election, the campaign ‘Beware Dictatorship can return’ to get people to vote. It does have this power, the image of Ben Ali, people reacted so violently. Now it is something that nobody wants to see. It makes you ill.

MBS: Yes but it’s more than that because when, in La Goulette, there was the project of JR (See Daylight Magazine, The Utopianist, Hypebeast and Street Art News), the one hundred people, the photographs, those photos were put in the public space in all Tunisia. They put the photos in that place, in La Goulette, and the people instinctively took off the pictures.

It was in a lot of places. It was in the Port du France, in Habib Bourguiba, it was in La Goulette.

The people don’t want to see any more big images of one person. Even if it is a poor Tunisian, because the project was taking one hundred pictures from all Tunisia, and from all kinds of people: big; small; black; white; and all that. The idea of the project was good but they were not expecting that people would not be okay with a face they did not know.

MC: It was not received as well as the attempt?

MBS: It was not as well received.

And I think also because they didn’t make the work locally but in all the country. If they went to La Goulette and spoke to people, took one hundred photos and put them on the wall it would be okay. But coming in the night and putting the pictures there, very big, people said, ‘No. We don’t want to see no more faces on that wall.’

MC: Something that I have been thinking about is this project of JR’s but also the Zoo Project, with the images of the martyrs. These have received a lot of attention in international press, from Al Jazeera, The Guardian to others, (see also Tunisia Graffiti Project), and also  art magazines. I was quite curious how it was received here. The audience that it should be intended for is the Tunisian audience. Is there a disconnect between the attempt of these artists, the way it was discussed and viewed internationally to how it worked here?

MBS: Yes. It is an interesting question.For most people, they see objects. They don’t see artwork. They don’t have this idea of art as a big thing for intellectual people and all that. They see objects and they react if they like it or if they don’t like it. If you have the idea that art is a big value in the society maybe the artwork is not interesting but you see it and you say wow just because it is art. It is better that you see the thing, you don’t consider it as art or non art and you react.

JR was a very good example. If it was before the revolution people would not be really interested in the project. People interested in art would say it is a great project and it’s okay but it showed that the situation has really changed. In my exhibitions I like very much to present works to people who say ‘I am not interested in art and I don’t know anything about art.’ And normally the reaction is more open to new things than others who say, ‘I know very well art.’… It is normal that there is a lot of attention outside than inside. Maybe there are local small projects that even I don’t know about that are even more interesting than the JR experience.

Photo by Author

MC: What about the Zoo project? With the life size caricatures of the martyrs. One of my favorites is an image of a group of children playing hopscotch to Democracy. How were these projects received?

MBS: I think it was a good project because it was really direct. You see human shape.

I don’t know the reaction. I was not present. I saw them in the gallery so it is really different. I saw pictures of them in Tunis. I feel that it is a project that could have success because it is a human shape you could recognize, speaking about the martyrs. It is a really good project.

MC: The end of Habib Bourguiba, the murals, a number of the artists said it was an important location because so many people passed that area everyday.

MBS: Yes but it was the same thing that I told you some times ago. They were making the paintings that they do in their homes and it’s not street art. I don’t know. They have the authorization of the municipality.

MC: It’s public but not radical street art?

MBS: Yes. For me it is an example of a misunderstanding of art in the public space.

MC: Can you speak about that. What is the role of art in the public space.

MBS: Art in the public space is designated to a large public and especially to a public that is not especially interested in art. You have to pay attention to those conditions. You can do art in the art space for artists or the artistic art scene. It is important that your work touches people with discussions, maybe with collaboration, with interactivity. I think art is designated to make people think and reflect and give their opinion. The role of art in the public space has to give a place to people. That is art in the public space in my opinion.

MC: Is there a big difference between what has been going on between public art and studio art, in terms of engagement and taking advantage of the newly opened public sphere that encourages exchange and discourse? Where does public art and studio art overlap or diverge in Tunisia?

MBS: I think there is good art and bad art.

If you are in your studio doing good art, it’s great. The artwork that we are speaking about is good art in a studio but it is not good art in a public space. There is also a bad understanding from the people toward the art scene or artists in general. For them, artists are privileged. They benefited from the old regime but it is absolutely not true. Two or three of them or a small part benefited but not in plastic arts or visual arts, more in music. The people are a little bit aggressive with artists. We can say that it is not the fault of artists. Maybe they had to do more than they did but I think there is that impression. That makes artwork in a public space difficult.

There are also methodologies and psychological work or how to make those kind of collaborations. For example, if you are not from the Medina and you do artwork in the Medina it is not easy. If you don’t go to speak with people before… Sometimes when I take pictures in the Medina I don’t say I am an artist.

MC: Otherwise you are seen as an intruder?

MBS: Yes. And it is a normal thing. Even when I was taking pictures I take pictures very quickly, without being there. You feel that people are waiting for you, ‘Why are you photographing my wall?’ There is a methodology and also a kind of elite and normal people here… Art must be less specific to a certain part of society.

MC: What is the best way toward that? You mentioned the notion of participation in art. What do you see as the way forward, to both create something that is not specific, that encourages people to participate, to share and grow together?

MBS: I think artists have a key role in that by education, especially.

There are solutions that don’t cost money, that can help artists, that can be very practical. Which is, artists make their books and the Ministry of Culture pay them to go to schools and present their works or make small projects with making children participate. It is really easy to find ten artists with very good projects who can do one school every week. It will be spread. It will be popular and very effective. Also, working with high schools or things like that. I think education is very important to show people that art is not only doing painting in a studio but it can be imagining new collaboration between people or new modes of curating things or finding solution.

I don’t see art as only art. It can be thinking in new ways. Never say it is impossible. Always find a solution. I work a lot with the material I find. For me a good artist is, they put you in a place and you are okay to make art. You don’t need materials or things like that. It is an exercise of creativity and creativity helps you in all fields.

MC: Now with the fear that some people have in Tunisia, and internationally, with Al Nahda, women’s rights is a big issue that a lot of people are concerned about and freedom of expression of course, with protests over Persepolis or other films to counter protests. The Ministry of Culture made a a statue of a naked women to be placed on Avenue Habib Bourguiba, to draw attention to freedom of expression in the days before the election but people reacted so violently that it had to be removed. Do you have concerns that before there was this pressure, this control from the government but that now this control will come from the people?

MBS: Yes, yes. That’s true. The story of that sculpture is more complicated because there were groups on the Avenue that didn’t want people to be together for a manifestation so they are not from the police but they work with the police and they terrorized people. One journalist that was there told me that he knew the faces and it’s not normal people. They work with the police and they decided to stop the event.

But many people, I understand them. For the first time in their life, the street and the walls are their walls. You come with an authorization; it’s like you come in their houses. It is exaggerated but I can understand it. For the other things I think we have a lot of work to do. Especially with young people because with old people it is more difficult. The things will get better I am sure. I don’t think that a dictator will be here again. It will be difficult for several years but we saw that Tunisia, that when it was really, really difficult the people made the right decisions. Like the two days after the 14th of January where it was really organized. The cars were circulating with no problems. There were no policeman. It will take some years but we are in a new process that will be better than before, if we don’t have the third world war.

For the first time in their life the street and the walls are their walls.

MC: Some people have said that with the reclaiming of the Trabelsi family homes, first there was the destruction, windows smashed, furniture stolen but then a number of collectives came in, like Ahl Al Kahf and brought life back into these places with color and words as a reminder. Maybe it is idealistic to say that this will have an effect. Some people might say that it doesn’t mean anything. What are your thoughts in terms of the cars and houses that were painted? Do you see this as a constructive step in that direction or is it just expression tout court?

Photo by Author

MBS: The things that I find very easy is to take one canvas. If you are a painter and you find one canvas you will draw on it. With the same reflex, if you find a car you draw on it, you find a wall you draw on it, a house you draw on it. It doesn’t give a lot of new ideas. I think it is easy. It is okay. It’s good. It’s entertaining but we have to do more elaborative things.

MC: Such as outreach at schools and spreading a message to more places and more participation?

MBS: Yes. And also the democracy in the municipalities that will have a cultural budget for the people that live there, the people that have projects, so the local democracy is also very important. We suffer from centralization like a lot of things that we imported from France. Maybe it is time also to work in other directions, to see other cultures, other languages, to be more open to experiences.

MC: Tell me a bit about Fatin Roussi and her project Art dans la rue, Art dans la quartier (Art in the street, Art in the neighborhood).

MBS: She was the promoter of the cars that were painted but I don’t know the other part of the project.

Image Source: Nafas Art Magazine

MC: Tell me about Ahl Al Kahf. They are elusive, one could say, but what they are doing seems powerful and exciting.

MBS: I think that they were doing a good job. One time in that exhibition with the sculpture they had their name on the invitation as though they were officially participating and I was really upset about that but one day after they published a communique saying that they are not participating and that they never participate in an official or an established manifestation. And I found that the thing to do. I hope that they will continue and there will be other groups that will make good art in the public space.

MC: Often those who become active with public art are more radical politically. There is a connection between anarchist political ideas and street art. Has there been a place for Tunisian anarchists? What has been the connection between politics and art?

MBS: I think that good art is always in relation to politics and with social issues. We couldn’t make that kind of art before. We made a little bit of it but it was closed in the galleries for too few people and now I think that it will develop. The state will not give money for that but I hope that it will develop.

MC: What about internationally? In terms of funding from international galleries, collectors, organizations, have you seen an increase in interest in Tunisia?

MBS: It is clear that there is interest. A lot of people are coming from outside to see what is happening. The Arab associations, three of them, very big, came to Tunisia after the revolution to promote their programs. I think it is normal. Everybody who is giving money is giving money for a purpose. If the purpose goes with your ideas then you can participate in that. So there is money from very different regions.

For me the money that comes from the Arab regions is, it can be coming from the United States but going through these organization, for me it is very important because we are very connected with Europe and we are not connected with Arab countries and the idea we have of Arab countries is very bad. Egypt has bad ideas about Tunisia. Tunisia the same about Egypt but there are good artists and good people in the two sides. Really we have to meet and to work together. I am very interested to do those kinds of exchanges and to participate in those kinds of projects, more than Europe.

MC: Generally speaking, what are your thoughts about the future of Tunisia? Not just in art but in religious, social, political ways?

MBS: It will be hard for several years but we have to work hard, all of us.

MC: What will be the hardest?

MBS: I think the economic crisis will be the hardest. A big part of the revolution was economic and when you have economic problems you have more radicalization in religion and thoughts. We have to make the difference between the two. That will be very hard…

Maybe we have to find new economic solutions. And we are not the only ones responsible for the economic crisis so the solution must be global. It will be a third world war and can be destructive for all humanity or it will be a decision to make the whole system more normal, less injustices.

From Street to Home, the Art of Resistance in Post-Trabelsi Tunisia

Amid rising cries of Degage, get out, the people of Tunisia ousted their despotic President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, who fled the country with his kleptocratic wife Leila Trabelsi. It was 14 January 2011 and for some the Tunisian revolution had succeeded and ended, for others perhaps it had only begun. In the days that followed the myriad houses and businesses once occupied by the ruling dynasty were abandoned, set upon and targeted with the rage and jubilation of a free people.

With rising discord between Tunisians who identify as Islamist and those who identify as secular, concerns of elite coastal and exploited interior dwellers, the discourse on power and identity, keeping a public space, or public sphere, for sounding concerns and free expression is paramount. While some Tunisians may express lament at what they describe as wanton destruction, the burning and looting of homes and businesses associated with the ancien regime, others describe feelings of discomfort, not a fear but an uneasiness, when setting foot inside these structures.

For others, such as the Ahl Al Kahf collective, the opportunity to transform the derelicts of domination into a vivid creature, imbued with creative forces and the potential of re-articulating power and maintaining public spaces, is the raison d’etre. Nafas notes that Ahl Al Kahf’s work “pays homage to global figures of resistance and playfully attacks those dictators remaining in the Arab countries.” However some Tunisians have expressed skepticism about the significance of these acts, known in the language of Chantal Mouffe and others as artistic activism.

Other than often presenting itself as a challenge to the commodification of art, are these public-sometimes anonymous-gestures capable of addressing the abuses of power in corrupt and oppressive regimes, and contributing to their downfall or at least restructuring? Politically motivated public art’s most idealistic often cited purpose, borrowing from the manifestos of past movements, is to present a challenge to accepted norms in an attempt to shatter dominant worldviews and introduce a counter narrative, to jolt people into thinking and acting more freely, or so has the famed Shepard Fairey often claimed. Of course Fairey is something of a commodity himself who has proven in several legal battles that he is more interested in branding his images than the free exchange of images.

In one way public art, as visually stimulating social engagement, could be included in the discourse on social media for social change. When we ask questions about the utility of facebook or twitter in bringing down repressive regimes or challenging power we should include public art as a more material form of that same non-hierarchical mechanism for social change.

As Alva Noe recently mused in a New York Times op-ed piece, the art and neuroscience discussion-admittedly still in its infancy-has produced little new in terms of answering questions on how the brain works, and arrives at aesthetic preferences. The discourse on art and resistance is arguably also somewhat in its infancy but the global collection, particularly that springing from the Arab Spring, offers a wealth of fantastic pieces for examination, appreciation, and possible future analysis.

One can also inquire about possible cultural lessons learned from the form of certain pieces. For example, one stencil below states in Arabic ‘freedom of expression’ with the image of a naked women. One could inquire why the women form is more often associated with the cry for freedom of expression than the male form. Doesn’t a giant penis statue shock the public as much as that of a giant naked women statue? The nude is not the nude, as it turns out. In late October, for example, a female artist constructed a giant white naked women statue and placed it on Tunis’ main pedestrian Avenue Habib Bouguiba. The intent was to call into question the notion of freedom of expression. The artist had planned for the piece to remain through the elections, starting as white it would be painted and added to as the date to the election drew near. However, as Myriam Ben Ghazi explains, the statue caused such an outrage that it had to be removed the same day that it arrived.

Some symbols are universally transferable and turn up in cities across the globe. The A.C.A.B, All Cops Are Bastards, tag is one example that can be found around the globe. Others receive a great deal of their significance in relation to the other symbols and images within their social space. That of the footballer overhead bicycle kicking the head-ball-of Ben Ali is undoubtedly a more powerful image in a culture that becomes transfixed on football, soccer, matches. Or, for many Ben Ali encouraged obsession with football as a distraction from politics. The significance of a football player kicking Ben Ali’s head in this sense is given deeper meaning. Deciphering the hidden messages of certain manifestations of street art, as with much contemporary art, often requires a subtle awareness of history and the artist. That is, one might find no meaning or pleasure in Cy Twombly, read Roland Barthes on Cy Twombly and then suddenly find an intense trove of meaning. In such a way, understanding deeper social and political significance of street art may require something of an awareness of the society that produces it. But this is not necessary, of course. We can still look upon works of graffiti and stencils and appreciate them for pure aesthetic reasons, indeed as many of us do. With this being said, let’s turn to a collection of images.

In the more elite coastal suburb of La Marsa, about 18 kilometers from downtown Tunis, up on a hill overlooking the Gulf of Tunis one can find the house of Imed Trabelsi. Imed is the nephew of Leila Trabelsi, a family name now stained with the connotation of corruption. I had the chance to visit this demolished, reconstructed space today. Here are a series of photographs.

For more related images and some further discussion see Invision Images, and Letsingerwrites.

Words from the Setting of a Cafe

A few nights ago, sometime late after dinner had been prepared and consumed, dishes washed and returned to their perches, I returned to the kitchen, to the stove, to heat water for some tea. As I turned the gas release nozzle to the left a rush of escaping gas began that hissing song, revealing a hidden gas leak. Reflexively I spun the nozzle closed. After several attempts to locate the leak, twisting pipes and checking knobs on the stove, the hiss continued with each return to the nozzle, rising or falling in pitch relative to my manipulations. Needless to say, the next morning’s now honored tradition of rising to a cup of coffee and reading the news would need a surrogate diversion.

After getting up the next day and dealing with some taks I headed into Place Bab Souika and one of its myriad cafes for a few espressos. It was around 2pm.

I wandered into the afternoon temperate Tunisian December sun; my eyes quickly adjusting to the change in light as I stepped out of the dreariness of the stairwell from my apartment into the alleyway. I walked for a few minutes of ambivalent yet fastidious negotiations, half interested and yet resolute for a cafe with that je ne sais quoi we sometimes feel we need even when we cannot pin descriptive words to define it. I was looking for a certain feeling, a certain emotional or material value of cafe to settle upon, somewhere quiet and vibrant, secluded but animated, somewhere rich in contradictions if possible. There are many cafes ringing Place Bab Souika. I settled on an outdoor creature with a red tarp and few patrons.

I sat down at a small table and brought out the book I was reading as I waited to order my coffee. The order was placed and I returned to Jilian Stallabrass’ Art Incorporated: The Story of Contemporary Art. Stallabrass was discussing the first Johannesburg Biennale of 1995, whose organizers attempted to reconnect South Africa with the cultural world after apartheid. He maligned the event for the exclusion of local artists who would have presented a troubled view to the outside world, noting one critic’s astonishment that the event had been boycotted by much of the black community. For those invited, domestic and international, a somewhat dubious picture of South Africa was glorified. In all, Stallabrass concluded that the biennale failed to produce the cultural exchange it had intended.

I couldn’t help but consider the transferability of these observations to the current situation in North Africa. In terms of understanding the meaning of the so called Arab Spring for those whose actions have shaped it and whose lives are being affected by it, outside the lens of media or political bias, opening the pages of Foreign Policy or The Guardian, can be akin to glancing upon the meticulously selected works that made the censor at the 1995 Johannesburg Biennale.

That being said, what do I know? Am I falling victim to some global Northerner’s egotism, a colonialist elitism that presumes to understand? Am I any better for criticizing the selected representations of others? No. But at least I can acknowledge that in crafting a representation in the terms of ratings, readership, or strategic value, depictions of life in other places for the foreign observer is often little better than the somewhat dubious image of South Africa offered up in 1995. With daydreams of a metaphysical ethnography, I decided to close my book and soak in the unfolding theater of space around me called the cafe.

From the perspective of an ethnographer a cafe in a foreign city, whether Beijing, Irkutsk, Budapest, or Tunis is itself a rich canvas of sensory stimulus, an amalgamation of sensory input capable of opening a conceptual window into the working of a given social space. The cafe can become a metaphor of culture and economy, of social custom and preference. It can dispel stereotypes such as to reveal that tea is more popular in Turkey than coffee, despite the strong connotative meaning behind ‘Turkish coffee,’ or that Russian youth tend to drink far less vodka than Westerners might joke, preferring tea or beer. The affluence of certain neighborhoods can be measured by the dress of cafe patrons or the price of drinks. Gender or racial customs can be better understood by observing cafe diversity. It can give impressions of employment figures or during the day particularly reveal what kinds of people work, as who spends all their time in cafes.

In this sense, it can offer a view into society, condensed but concentrated much like the small glasses of strong tea common at Turkish çay evi, tea houses. The cafe can also become itself a massive work of improvisation, a work of lived art sculpted and painted in the carbon of intertwining experiences, to be observed, appreciated, accepted, or contemplated.

Let us go now to images closer to reality but keep in mind this warning from Gaston Bachelard who writes in The Poetics of Space, “…often when we think we are describing we merely imagine (italics mine). We believe that we have achieved a description that is at once instructive and amusing (120).” Bachelard also noted that we can only meditate on the things in our own heads. So I turn now to describe, or imagine, the scenery of a cafe to implant it in my head and others, prepping it as a young Buddhist monk might prepare his cushion as he readies himself for meditation, as we might meditate on the social meaning of a cafe in an arbitrary Tunisian afternoon.

What follows is a textual presentation of a single cafe. My goal is to present as potentially objective a snapshot as might a series of photographs, to be, as Bachelard comments, at once instructive and amusing.

The cafe

Here there are 15 tables with rickety black metal legs and formica wood laminate tops. The plastic corner of my table curls outward like a split end. Around the tables sit those white plastic chairs, the type you buy in bulk, the type that hasn’t changed in decades and can be found all across the globe. Above there is a bright red synthetic tarpaulin with 3 walls and transparent plastic windows. The ceiling of this synthetic yurt is slightly vaulted with pyramidal buttresses that make x shaped shadows in places on the walls.

At this moment three other tables are inhabited. A moustached man in a brown and black striped shirt and dark blue-almost-black jacket sits by himself. He is wearing blue socks inside his white shoes. He is slowly going bald. He strokes his chin with one wedding-ring-less hand and tightly grasps his cell phone in the other. His table is empty. He stares forward, lost in some unknown contemplation that doesn’t translate into the lines of text on his face which speak of some other concerns and memories of past times or expectations. Waiting for a call or killing time after finishing his drink, his story has no narrator and its only audience appears to be my covert glances as I jot notes in a little moleskine. Suddenly he gets up and leaves.

At the back of the tent of the cafe, around a table with a large glass bottle of Safia water, two empty glasses, and a third glass that bears the leaf of what once contained thé menthe, sit two heavyset men in their thirties. The larger of the two sits backward in his chair. His large belly inside a taupe shirt presses into the back slats of his white plastic chair creating an antiquated convicts’ pattern of black and white. He faces out, out of the cave of the cafe. His companion sits into the table, with one leg protruding to his left. As they sit their silent to each other they momentarily greet passing familiar faces with waves, winks, and other gestures, once or twice calling out a name or greeting until one comes up to join them.

In the middle of the stage three older men, one joins as I write the number three to challenge my narration, sit in animated conversation. All four men are slightly balding. Three wear charcoal suits. The chair with its back to me is draped with the raincoat of its inhabitant, who still wears his blazer. There is a cell phone on the table. Two glasses of water remain after the waiter dutifully removed the bottle. One man, the raconteur, leans deep into the middle of the table, almost falling over the opposite side. To accentuate occasional words he grasps his water glass and gently spins it in little circles on the surface of the table. The others are transfixed. On either side of the bald arroyo of his skull dark tufts of shoreline remain. He concludes his monologue and the others take their turns relating. I hear Facebook mentioned. A new arrival joins their table. He has a great round face, equally balding, dark receding eyes beneath thick eyebrows of timberwolf hair. He looks hardly interested in the conversation, sits reading a newspaper either hunting for some specific fact or merely passing time in the middle of the day.

Attention drifts to a new table, a new arrival. Salt and pepper hair sits down facing away from me, he sits down on the edge of his seat, just outside the cover of the red tarpaulin. When he sits down he removes his red framed spectacles. He is wearing a puffy ochre colored leather jacket and grey flat cap. We waves at the proprietor, answers his cell phone and gets up and left.

Across from the cafe there is a police station. People pass back and forth. A man pushes a stroller with a young girl inside. She is encased in twice her size poofy pink and dark red pants. Two women, one with a veil, escort their daughters around the corner and pass the cafe. The sound of a motorscooter is heard in the distance to momentarily drown out the din of conversations. A pot bellied man with black sweatsuit and bright red hat holds a pile of white papers under his arm as he rushes with the countenance of concern; a keychain dangling between his fingers, wrapped around the papers. As he rushes down the street I notice the park van that remains in his wake. It is old and blue. The rear passenger window is boarded up and it is missing the front passenger side paneling over the wheel well. The passenger side window is rolled down. A man in sandy brown corduroy and nearly matching jacket, thick salt and pepper moustache, Chechia, the traditional red Taqiyah or skull-cap of Tunisia, and white sneakers walks past at an extreme pace; he is casting his view around for something, aware of the cafe but less concerned about the young man trotting at his side.

Another man in his sixties, with shining brown shoes and wrinkled grey suit, slumping as he walks, wearing a somewhat faded Chechia, face wrinkled less from age than hardship perhaps, purposefully meanders through the outer aisle of the cafe’s tent. One arm is drooping with the weight of his shoeshine box. How often does he switch carrying arms throughout the day? He moves deliberately, furtively glancing at patron’s shoes, he enters quickly and leaves, never taking his eyes above ground.

As the old man with shoeshine kit exits another man enters and sits down. He is wearing brown shoes with grey socks. His slacks are grey. He has dark gelled hair. He holds his cell phone in his left hand, getting lost in its contents. He orders a café direct, a Tunisian variant of a latte, sips his drink and sets it down, touching the rim of the glass with his thumb as he slightly twists it. He places his cell phone on the table and then his keys. He removes a package of cigarettes from his pocket, slowly unwrapping the plastic wrapper and carelessly dropping it on the ground. Lost in thought he rounds the foil into a ball between his thumb and index finger and drops it once the orb is crafted. He takes out a cigarette and lights it as some Arabesque music comes loudly into focus from the cafe behind us. Occasionally a loud burst of conversation or laughter erupts from a distant, more lively cafe.

On the street next to the cafe a police officer greets a friend with the customary two cheek kiss, exchanges a few quick words before they part in opposite directions.

An older women of thick build wearing a leopard print hijab and sandy dress hobbles into view. She is walking laboriously with the assistance of a cane. A moment later, as the old women has made little progress across the expanse of pavement in front of the cafe a couple rounds the corner. A younger women, quite attractive, with flowing hair and a form fitting business suit, she is walking with purpose. A handsome man in business suit walks next to her, listening as she appears to lead both the conversation and the walk. The young woman is carrying a brown leather binder a shade or two darker than the old women’s dress. The young pair is out of the frame well before the older women has crossed across in front of the cafe. As she moves out of vision another motorcycle sound passes. I have a sudden feeling of deja vu.

At this point I feel that the scene will continue to describe, or imagine, itself without my assistance.

EID al-Adha: A Photo Essay

Eid al-Adha (Festival of the Sacrifice) is among the most significant religious observances of Islam. It is a several day performance imbued with intense symbolic forces, representing God’s test of Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac.

The sacrifice is held to conclude the time of Hajj (The pilgrimage to Mecca), during the Islamic month of Dhu al-Hijjah. Those who make the Hajj are called Hajji. The Hajj is the final of the Five Pillars of Islam, which also includes Shahadah: the recitation of faith in monotheism; Salat: performing ritual prayer five times a day; Zakat: giving charity to the poor and needy; and Sawm: fasting during Ramadan. According to Islamic practice, every able-bodied Muslim man and woman is obliged to make the pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in their lifetime if he or she can afford it. However, some have begun to point out that it has become over-commercialized, Hajj packages being advertised the way luxury holidays may be presented in glossy high end magazines. Outside of advertisements and articles, the Hajj is almost as mysterious to Western audiences as it is holy to Muslims.

In an article earlier this year, The Places In Between, modern travel writer Paul Theroux notes that the pilgrimage was perhaps first made more aware to Western audiences by famed British explorer Sir Richard Burton, who had himself circumcised, learned Arabic, and posed as Afghan dervish Mirza Abdullah to make the holy journey in 1853. He published an account of his experiences in a three volume series Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah and Meccah. The last non-Muslim to reportedly make the Hajj was Arthur John Wavell who made the trip in 1908-1909 and later published his A Modern Pilgrim in Mecca in 1912.

The Hajj concludes with the Stoning of the Devil, Ramy al-Jamarat, where Hajji hurl pebbles at three walls in the city of Mina, east of Mecca. The ritual derives its signification from the Biblical and Quranic story that on his way to sacrifice his son, Abraham was confronted by the Devil three times and three times Abraham was commanded by the angel Gabriel to ‘stone him.’ On the third and final confrontation the Devil withdrew. It is performed to signify the adherents’ defiance of the Devil, and to signify the repudiation of one’s own devils. Ramy al-Jamarat is generally only performed by those on the Hajj. Ramy al-Jamarat is followed by the Sacrifice, which lasts for three days and marks the conclusion of the Hajj. Eid al-Adha, is performed by all Muslims, who can afford the practice, across the globe. The Guardian has a photo series of Eid being practiced around the world.

I traveled to Gabes, in Southern Tunisia, to observe the holiday with a Tunisian friend of mine and his family.

During the last few weeks leading to Eid the streets of Tunis were transformed into a veritable menagerie of bleating, wooly creatures. Corners were converted to sheep pens, hey strewn across asphalt, fluff and horns, children playing, tugging, parents bartering, buying. Many times I witnessed sheep being pulled by red leashes down the narrow alleyways wrapping around my Bab Souika home, the bleating cries of unwilling and unsuspecting sheep echoing up through my open window.

This year Tunisians complained about soaring prices. According to a survey held by the National Institute of Consumption 49% of Tunisians buy their sheep with available money from their salaries, 55% of them are obliged to borrow money, 19% resorted to saving, 4% buy the sheep by installment, and 9% supply themselves. According to an article in Tunisia Live, rising sheep prices are often blamed on greedy middle men trying to increase their profit. While at the height of the conflict in neighboring Libya, sheep were imported and sold cheaply, and despite the fact that sheep production was up by 15% this year, the price is now far higher in both Libyan and Tunisian markets. A second article relates one man’s account, “I can’t afford such prices…we need the government’s intervention to lower them so we can feed our children.” The sheep for my celebration in Gabes were purchased for 350 dinar (about 175 euro) a piece.

Wajdi, my host for Eid, and his brother Sami explained that every Muslim family or couple will get their own sheep. However, Islam does not require the practice of Eid. If you cannot afford to purchase a sheep you are not obliged to do so but around 90% of Muslims perform the sacrifice. Those who live in apartments will slaughter in the bathroom. Wajdi continued, “My mother learned how to carve a lamb and cook from her mother. My father learned how to slaughter by watching his father and I learned by watching him. But this is my first year to participate.” Wajdi is 21 years old and has been living in France for the last several years. While he grew up observing his father and older brothers perform the sacrifice this is his first year to get bloody, so to speak. He went on, “Some people will buy the sheep but don’t know how to slaughter. It has to be done in a certain way you see. They will pay a butcher to come to their home. It costs 10 dinar for the butcher to kill the sheep and another 10 dinar to skin it. Actually we should not say slaughter or kill but sacrifice… In Mecca during the Hajj people also sacrifice camels and cows. A camel is for 7 people, as is a cow. When the sheep is sacrificed we pray for our family members. We ask God for their protection. Afterwards we give 10 per cent and the best part to the poor.”

We woke early on the day of the festival. Wajdi and his father picked us up on their way back from making the morning prayer. We crossed the distances of this town, with its frontier emotional lines carved into the psychogeographic and architectural edifices and structures, dusty corners, errant piles of refuse, meandering youths, chipped paint and unfinished building projects; in Gabes there are few open shops after dark. We crossed from street corners with the names of ancient scholars and military leaders, waited at stop lights with others eager to demonstrate their piety and feast. We sat in the back seat.

In the early morning desert-cold sunlight without the salvation of coffee pulsing through my veins the passing topography morphed into deep poetic sentiments paralleled only by the knowledge of what the day would yet present. We turned off a paved street onto the uneven dirt and callused surface of unfinished country roads, with tufts of grass protruding from the monochrome of earth, the pallid faces of houses hued with the vibrant Tunisian blues on shutters and door frames. We passed a few remaining sheep, confused, calling to their friends in yards, gardens, and tiled rooms. We passed a burnt out, looted, red and stocky skeleton of a creature that might once have been a Volkswagen. A couple boys scrambled through the yards. A few women walked back from a shop. A man might have been grinning from his balcony. We parked in front of a walled home and entered past a massive lemon tree. Grabbing a few bright, young leaves on the way by our host handed us small crumbled, scented nests of citrus leaves to dab our necks, noses, and senses.

Little time was wasted. The prayers had already been made. We were told that the one who cuts the throat must be the one who makes the prayer, the main prayer for the family. The father’s traditional role. The mother seldom takes this role, we were told. The incision was made. The crimson spilled onto the pavement; the sacrifice was made, piety ensured, practice maintained, to strip the animal of its objects of distinction and usher the metamorphosis of living, breathing flesh and blood into morsel of stewed meat and remembrance of mercy.

Only male sheep, and other animals, are used for the sacrifice. One might assume the reason owes to the symbolization of Abraham preparing to sacrifice his son, and then a ram instead, the male, the promotion of the family line. But when I asked Sami why only male animals were used his answer was different. Not because of the above hypothesis but because, “The male is better in animals, like in humans. The female is not as good. But also, you can kill hundreds of male sheep and if you leave the female alive you will have more sheep the next year. However, if you kill female sheep who will have new sheep?” The meanings behind the male sacrifice are multifaceted and beyond the scope of this rambling entry. One might prepare a deep philosophical and historical investigation of the sacrifice. In some customs it is the female virgin which represents the paragon of sacrificial substance while in others it is the male. Throughout history the virgin sacrifice presents a strange conception of purity. What gendered predilections for the object of sacrifice have to reveal about a cultural or religious performance presents an interesting direction for further study.


 

An incision is made and the animal is inflated like a balloon. This makes removing the pelt from the tissue easier. The internal organs are pulled out and hallowed, washed, and prepared. The heads and feet are torched to burn off the hair. The animal is carved and hacked into pieces. The offal is salted and hung to dry.

A Francophone Odyssey

It is a few minutes before 2pm on Tuesday, 11 October. While the plaque on the door to the office is in Arabic, a small water damaged, pixellated print out down the hall tells us this is the département français. We are again in the French Department of Institut Bourguiba des Langues Vivantes. The French Department is a modest room on the third floor of the Bourguiba School, as it is nominally truncated by the locals, appointed with two desks, drowned in papers, a few glass cased bookshelves, and a small table with a single ashtray. The smell of myriad Tunisian tax certified or Algerian black market cigarettes lingers in the air and stains the wood and stacks of loose-leaf. The room is the most crowded it has been in our several trips back and forth over the last few days in our attempt to enroll. We have just come from the United States Embassy with papers to bypass the Carte de Sejour. Today is the last day to register.

Our present trip has been predicated by dead ends, bad information, missing documents, national holidays, cab rides, coffee and pessimism. Each time we have set foot in the Bourguiba school we have been greeted by different information and requirements. Each explanation has produced a new string of destinations, each one producing a new set of explanations that contradict their predecessors. Our first trip, on 28 September, was a foreshadowing of the nature of a task that seemed like it should have been a simple ordeal. After all, we just wanted to register for French lessons.

On Wednesday, 28 September, Brandon and I had set off from our flat with what hindsight would describe as unhealthy optimism. We wrote down the Institute’s address from their website and scratched a quick few notes from google maps into my notebook and headed off toward Rue Habib Bourguiba. We strolled along, stopping occasionally to ask for directions. We kept getting pointed further from the address we had taken the time to record. It has been my experience from China to Turkey that people are always eager to give directions to strangers; such is their hospitality that they refuse to let something as trivial as the fact that they don’t actually know the place you want to go get in the way of pointing you in that direction. Such is the welcoming zeal that I have often ended up acquainting myself with circles that I have traced in the concrete of foreign cities. This Wednesday it was no different. Still, after more than an hour, and blocks past google maps’ x-marked spot, we found the Bourguiba School, next to a large synagogue- wrapped in barbed wire and guarded on both sides- along Avenue de la Liberte. The school was effectively closed. We were given a sheet of paper that explained very little and told to come back another day.

Finding distractions in abundance we postponed our next visit for several days. We attended the 3rd Arab Bloggers Meeting. In that time some unknown cuisine had pulled me into a vertiginous stupor for several days and extended that lethargy that makes excuses more palatable. However, we eventually made our way back and met Mademoiselle Trabelsi, no relation to the former dictator’s wife. This was our first visit to the little office on the third floor.

A large jovial woman with minimal English, Mlle Trabelsi was happy to explain the protocol of registration. For this simple desire we would need: 2 passport photos, photocopies of our passport, a printed and signed version of the school’s code of conduct, the inscription (registration form), and a carte de sejour. She explained that the forms we needed were online. The carte de sejour (residence permit) could be procured from the local police station. We thanked her and headed home. Convinced that we could manage these requirements in a few days time, and easily make the first class a week later, as long as we got the rental contract we had already been waiting two weeks to receive.

A few days later, 10 October, after finally receiving our encoded-in-Arabic contract, we headed to the police station to inquire about the carte de sejour. We had been waiting for a short time in the lobby below, the same lobby we had visited the day before to no avail, when we were finally greeted and led upstairs. Past a young officer in uniform reclining with an automatic rifle on his lap, on the way, the plain-clothed officer assisting us noted that if we spoke better French it would be much easier to explain what was required for the carte de sejour. We noted that we needed the carte de sejour to study French. The obnoxious humor of the situation hadn’t translated well by the time we got to the musty office of étranger services. Here a moustached bureaucrat in a brown pin stripe suit informed us of the requirements for the carte de sejour: 2 copies of our passport, 2 copies of our contract, 4 passport photos, a special stamp that could be purchased for 10 dinar at the post office, a copy of our bank statement, our registration documents from the Bourguiba school and the proof of payment. If the irony has evaded you, we were told that to get the document that was required of us to register for the school we would need proof of registration at the school.

Following the episode at the police station we went back to the Mlle Trabelsi to explain the contradiction.

“The police told us that we need the Inscription before they can give us the cart de sejour.”

“No. That is incorrect.” She replied, “That is just the police being lazy. They don’t want to work. You need to tell them they are wrong. You need the carte de sejour before you can register.”

“Okay. Will you please just write that down so we can show them. It would be easier.”

“No. That is not my job. It is not my job to tell them how to do their work. That is their manager’s job.”

As the conversation continued in this fashion for another minute the women sitting at Trabelsi’s side noted something in Arabic. After some back and forth in Arabic we were brought back into the conversation with new information.

“Okay. If you get a letter from your embassy you don’t need the cart de sejour. Go to your embassy. Go downstairs and speak with Mr. Abdelhamed he will tell you.”

We went down to Mr. Abdelhamed’s spacious office on the first floor. He sat behind a mahogany colored desk, across from two attractive women in hijab, helping him sort through the scattered papers on the glass topped table across the room from his desk. He welcomed us to sit down across from him. We explained the situation quickly and he produced several letters as evidence of what we should bring. The letter just needed to explain what and why we were in Tunisia and that the embassy knew the what and why. He made a special point to note the official embassy heading on each of the examples, one from Libya, another from Yemen. “See, see.” He repeated several times. We told him that we understood and rushed outside to hail a cab.

The United States Embassy in Tunis is located past the airport, in Les Berges du Lac. A five dinar cab ride from Avenue de la Liberte later we were walking up to the embassy window. The guards had a quizzical expression on their faces. We spoke, stooping, through the slot in the bullet proof glass to explain our purpose. They responded, “It’s a national holiday today. The Embassy is closed.” “What holiday is it?” We exchanged the nonplussed words of expats in these situations before deciding, Columbus Day. With nothing else to do we headed home, stopping on the way for lablabi in an ornately blue and white tiled restaurant.

The morning of 11 October, we got up early and took a cab again to du Lac, to the embassy. During the cab ride I noticed a generalizable trend of Tunisian cabs. The headrest on the passenger seats are removed. As we sped along the highway toward the embassy I made a point to look into the passing cabs. They all shared this feature. Had the drivers removed these pieces for resale, a bit of added income out of unregulated auto safety perhaps?

We got out at the same traffic round-about in front of the embassy gate and made our way through the universal security precautions, x-ray and metal detector, reinforced doors, and separated complexes of US embassies. The feel was a scaled down version of the embassy in Beijing, the only other I have been inside. Not really knowing what we needed, more than a letter, but from whom, we were escorted into the main building. Standing in the hollow of the foyer, my vague explanation echoed and bounced back to reinforce my uncertainty and mild concern. We were led to the library and told to wait. I flipped the pages in an old issue of Foreign Affairs not really processing any of the words. Moments later we were repositioned to the consular section, in another building-past palm trees and ashtrays.

Passing the waiting room and bored expressions of Tunisians with number tickets and assigned places, around the corner, we stood at the window marked ‘US Citizens,’ pressed the buzzer and waited. We explained our purpose to the woman who emerged. She disappeared to speak with the consular. When she returned she explained that this is not a service that the embassy provides. I reiterated the situation. She offered we speak directly to the consular. We stated our appreciation. He emerged. He explained that the embassy does not issue student visas. We reiterated that we didn’t need a visa, just a letter. It seems no one had been in this position before. After some exchange, repetition and reiteration the consular finally noted that the best we could do is write the letter ourselves and he would notarize it, for 50 dollars.

Back to the library, to a computer without a word processor-only notepad, we drafted a short piece in our best bureaucratic vernacular, transferred it to google docs for formatting, printed it, signed it, and ran back outside, around the building, past the same palm trees and ashtrays, and to the ‘US Citizens’ window. After a quick inspection the consular agreed to notarize what we had drafted. But the cashier was at lunch and we would have to return an hour later to pay. It was already noon. We weren’t sure what time the classes began, either 2 or 4pm, but we knew we had to make the first class to be admitted. We left the embassy. We ate. We discussed. We returned. We paid. We collected our document. We hailed a cab. We returned to the Bourguiba school. We returned to Mlle Trabelsi feeling almost confident. “We have the letter from our embassy,” we blurted out in a tone of skeptical triumph. “Okay, and the other documents?” We had forgotten. What did we need?

“Write this down. It tires me every time I have to say this. You need the Inscription,the Reglement, 2 passport photos, 2 envelopes and 2 stamps, photocopies of three pages in your passports, a copy of the letter from your embassy, and the receipt that you have paid the 120 dinar course fee. My daughter…” gesturing to the woman processing the other applications, “…leaves at 2:30. You need to turn everything in at 2:30. Vite, vite, quick, quick.”

It is a few minutes before 2pm on Tuesday, 11 October. After revising our list we run downstairs, outside, around the corner and down a side street off Avenue de la Liberte. Here we find an internet cafe, a public phone, two photocopy and stationary stores and a restaurant that sells sandwiches and rotisserie chicken. I glance inside as I rush past, watching the relaxed patrons and taking in a waft of the fragrance. I am hungry. We have split up to speed the process.

Brandon, to the cyber cafe, Graham and I deal with the other items. The small storefront advertises in multicolored text its services. Briefly explaining what we need the young man with stilted English begins to make copies of our passports. There is a large clock at the back of the shop. On the right is an engraved image of the Kaaba in Mecca; on the left golden hands click forward in rhythm. It is 2:05 when he hands me the first copy of Brandon’s passport. He moves on to Graham’s and then mine.

With passport copies in hand I ask for the envelopes and stamps.

“What kind of envelope do you need?” Shit. Luckily the woman working at his side thinks to ask whether the envelopes are for the Bourguiba school. Yes. Ah, she hands us the precise size. Meanwhile the soft spoken youth begins to make copies of our embassy letter. Graham goes next door to see how Brandon is doing. When he returns, “Brandon is still at the counter. I don’t think he has done anything. He is just talking to the woman.” It is 2:10. I have what I can get from the copy shop. I ask about passport photos again and the young man leads me around the corner and points at a large red Tabac sign across the street. Underneath, he explains, is a photo shop.

I return to the computers. Brandon has made headway. He is filling out the first form with the assistance of the woman working at the cyber cafe. She is wearing a lime green hijab. I run out, across the street, into the photo shop, boldly assert my needs, am lead into a back room, sit down on a stool, take off my glasses, force a worried smile, brave the flash, put my glasses back on, wait for a minute while the photo prints, pay the 4 dinar, and run back across the street. I look at my phone as I dart through the halting traffic. It is 2:18.

Graham has started to fill out the forms. Brandon holds his. I send him across the way to make his photos. The cyber cafe is hot and stuffy. The woman in the lime green hijab keeps having to stop what she is doing with us to change the window to log someone out of their computer and accept their money. She hands them their change and returns to us. The time continues its linear progression and my sweat increases. Graham finishes and receives his form. He heads out of the publinet and goes in search of the photo shop. I step up to the computer, wait for a older man with a brown sweatshirt to pay. I hurry through my document. It is 2:25.

With my forms printed and in hand, with Brandon and Grahams’ forms in hand, we head back inside the school. Money. We split up again. I hurry upstairs and they are off to an ATM. I burst back into the third floor office. It is after 2:30.

She is still there. She looks irritated. I hand her the forms and photos. ‘Where are their photos,’ she asks. ‘They are on their way. They will be here now.’ ‘They need to be here now. I am leaving now.’ The words and sentences flow together and I lose track of what I am saying or who is speaking, the mother, the daughter, the student. There are three stacks of documents, envelopes, addresses, no photos. ‘I am leaving.’ Before she finishes, they walk in the door. The pictures are stapled to forms. The daughter hands the forms to the mother. The mother returns them to the students.

Mlle Trabelsi sends us downstairs to our congenial administrator friend Mr. Abdelhamed. He smiles when he greets us. Invites us to sit. We remain standing. He flips through our small packet of forms and halts, concerned, at the copied letter from the consular. “What is this? This will not do,” he explains. Quick, I pull out the original. The colored stamps, the signature, the punched Great Seal of the United States: Eagle, arrows and olive branch, “see, see. This is the original.” I plead. He scrutinizes the text, what we have written. He doesn’t speak English. Does he read English I wonder. “Okay.” He presses his stamp into a small green ink-tray and certifies the stack of documents. Twice more. We hurry back upstairs to Mlle Trabelsi who is waiting for us. She sends us to the caissier, to pay, and bring the final form.

At the end of the hall, in a tiny room, cooled by an oscillating fan, sits an odd little man with no hair. He invites us in, takes our forms, and removes a large carbon receipt book from within his desk. I sit next to the fan, cooling myself, and observing the odd collection of photos mounted under the glass of his desk. They are all images of Habib Bourguiba, the independence fighter and first president of Tunisia. Several pictures are Bourguiba with Kennedy. Several others are Bourguiba with Saddam Hussein. One is Bourguiba with Nixon. It is a strange assortment, a symbolic gesture to a past time, an interesting bit of history captured on film. We pay one by one in this office with Bourguiba, Kennedy, and Saddam. Moments later we return with everything to Mlle Trabelsi. It is 3pm.

“Thank you. See you at 4pm for the first lesson. Don’t be late.”

We drag ourselves and our surreal sense of accomplishment across the street for a coffee. To the sound of Arab MTV we sit down in a small cafe to decompress and caffeinate. The coffee is over-priced and not as good as in Bab Souika but it doesn’t matter. We have managed a herculean task.

Tunisia’s Jackson Pollack

Following a scrawled address in my notebook, a reference from a couchsurfer for a small art space with an exhibition–that we just missed–of photographs from the revolution, we begin the labyrinthine task of searching El Medina. Our little crew of three American men and a Palestinian woman elicit a few odd glances and sotto voce remarks from lingering packs of teenage boys and a few old men as we navigate our way echoing our shared language, English. As we trace the lines of directions extending from the outstretched pointed fingers of several reclining Tunisian men and passing pedestrians we slowly narrow in on the Centre Cultural Bir Lahjar.

We wander through unfamiliar streets, Rue Jemaa Zaytuna, El Blagdjia souk, El Attarine souk, El Djeloud souk, and Rue des Tamis. From one side ventricle at the heart of El Medina, a sign points toward the Auberge de Jeunesse, Tunis Youth Hostel. The weathered sign, stained an impressive range of colors from exposure and neglect, points down Saida Ajoula street. We take a turn, following a hunch. We pass the impressive edifice of this former sultan’s palace turned youth hostel and continue through the black and white painted archways that connect the chalky walls of plaster that house Tunisia’s characteristic azure, cyan doors and window frames.

We stop a moment to examine a large wall painting:

In March and April the Paris based Algerian artist ZOO Project visited Tunis to leave his now iconic life size images of martyrs and revolutionaries across the city in a series of murals (For a great spread see The Guardian; A New Hype; and Share Design). The images represent courage of ordinary people who risk their lives for freedom. Many are modeled directly on some of the 236 people who were killed during the revolution.

Here we see Mohammed Hanchi, a 19 year old shot to death on 25 February during clashes between ongoing protests and the police. Although Ben Ali had been ousted a month earlier many Tunisians remained enraged that so many faces familiar with the corruption and abuse of the former regime still remained. Interim Prime Minister Mohamed Ghannouchi and former Minister of Interior, now Home Office Secretary, Farhat Rajhi were targeted with criticism over the continued use of force by security forces and their apparent lack of concern over such deaths, according to twitter posts at the time.

After a short conversation with a few men sitting nearby we continue around the corner. Not long afterward we stumbled upon another piece, a totem pole of youths, hoisting a Tunisian flag above their heads. The base of the painting is somewhat obscured at the ground by a small, red flatbed, strewn with some waste and a large cardboard with Chinese characters for the food distribution company that had sent it written all over. 

Upon closer inspection the rest of the symbol reveals itself. The tower of children, eager for freedom, democracy, and human rights are in the middle of a hop-scotch course. The end spells out “Democratie.” However, that the path to Democracy is obscured by garbage and the flotsam of Chinese global trade is highly symbolic if we treat this scene in its totality. It goes beyond the somewhat cliché “The road to Democracy is littered with…” but draws the viewer into an examination of global trade, political and economic interest and the inter-connectivity of international structures of power.

China’s principle foreign policy mantra of nonintervention in the domestic matters of other countries is the kind of rhetoric that allows state-sponsored violence to continue. Most recently China and Russia vetoed UN sanctions designed to pressure Syria to end ongoing violence by the Assad regime which has lead to over 2,700 deaths. But the double standards of political and economic actions, based primarily on the logic of what is expedient to the powerful, is an international issue that runs among the global elite. It draws attention to the role of the entire international community in both domination and democracy. The trash is a simple metaphor. It needs no discussion. We linger for a while and move off in search of 40, Rue du Pasha.

Centre Cultural Bir Lahjar is a metaphor of translated space. Once a Madrasa, the space was converted in the 18th century to a dormitory for Zaytuna University, part of the 8th century Zaytuna Mosque. As a dormitory of Zaytuna university the space housed the children of Tunis’ poorest families. The wards, otherwise unprovided for, were watched over by the communitarianism inherent in the teachings of Islam. At the entrance to the courtyard remains 25 ground level cubbyholes whose purpose was to house the secret gifts of food and other items left there by anonymous donation from the neighborhood.

In the 14th century Zaytuna university was attended by Ibn Khaldun, the renowned Muslim historian, philosopher, and-some argue-father of sociology. His statue, between the French Embassy and Tunis’ cathedral, on Rue Habib Bourguiba is currently surrounded by razor wire and armored personal carriers. During Tunisia’s struggle for independence with France in the 1950s, Zaytuna university, as a center of flourishing nationalist thought and activism, was the target of French assaults. In in its most recent manifestation the space has become an arts and culture center.

Here we are greeted by Jemal Abdennacer, who smiles when we note the shared name with anti-imperialist Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser Hussein. Our Abdennacer likes to style himself as the Jackson Pollack of Tunisia.

Educated at l’École du Louvre and l’École des Beaux-Arts, Abdennacer went on to study calligraphy and serve as an art therapist in Canada before returning to his native Tunisia. His art is a full experience. He places a canvas on a small easel, covers the floor with large multicolored, geometrically rich Berber rugs, and launches himself into a shamans trance of liberated color and movement. Wildly flinging his paint on the canvas, the floor, the spectator, as, his art is as much a spectator sport as a personal exploration and expression. I am curious how the power of such unfettered free expression must have felt during the Ben Ali years. After his explosive construction of colors concludes, and the canvas dries, he fillets the material into strips to give away. He always keeps one piece of canvas for himself. One could interpret this as a symbolic thesis that freedom of expression must be shared, to be considered a true freedom.

I am reminded of Paul Klee’s sentiment of his time in Tunisia. In 1914 Klee wrote,“Colour has taken possession of me; no longer do I have to chase after it, I know that it has hold of me for ever.”

As Abdenaccer enthusiastically explains his art and shows us around the space, the melody of a violin lesson resounds, refracting on the arches and columns of this centuries old structure to provide a most alluring soundtrack to our stay.

After some time, Abdenaccer leaves us with parting words of philosophy. In regard to the sensitive transition and difficult task of rebuilding a state ravaged by corruption and political abuse, he simply offers, “Do not politicize the educated. Educate the politicians.” We wander back into the alleyway outside the art space with these thoughts, and of course a small fabric of colorful canvas.

Interim Tunisian Gov to Palestinian bloggers, “Not welcome.”

The 3rd Arab Bloggers Meeting, being held in Tunis from 3 October until 6 October, is a chance for activists from around the world to join together for a chance to share ideas, stories, successes, troubles, and build a solidarity network. The uprisings that have swept across the Arab world were propelled by social media tools that provided a voice to the voiceless. These tools have proven exceedingly useful against tyrants.

A number of years ago when Gayatri Spivak asked “Can the Subaltern Speak?” she decided the answer was still NO. The forces of oppression still held too tight the vocal cords and pens of the world’s oppressed. What chances did they have to speak for themselves, outside of the forums of global power?

When Spivak wrote this essay there was no Twitter, now banned in many repressive countries; there was no facebook, now banned in many repressive countries; there was no Vimeo, Youtube, or any such tools that have become mainstays in the innovative repertoires of resistance. These provided the means for free expression. They proceeded to challenge Spivak’s conclusion. With blogging, with twitter, with such means the subaltern began to speak. The 3rd Arab Bloggers Meeting was called to bring the myriad activists of the Arab world together to engage with each other in order to build new ideas and strategies for maintaining the momentum toward freedom that has been growing. However, one problem. One group was left out. One group was left silent from the physical space.

The interim Tunisian government did not grant travel visas to the Palestinian bloggers who had been invited by the event’s organizers. While the Tunisian government did not appear to issue any concrete reasoning for this decision speculations have mounted. The organizers of the event, co-sponsered by Nawaat.org, Heinrich Boll Stiftung, and Global Voices issued this statement:

“The Heinrich Boell Foundation, Global Voices Online and Nawaat Association strongly condemn the decision by the Tunisian Embassy in Ramallah to deny 11 Palestinian bloggers and journalists visas to enter Tunisia in order to attend the Third Arab Bloggers Meeting from October 3rd until 6th 2011. Participants from more than fifteen Arab countries, as well as participants from countries such as Trinidad and Tobago, and Ghana, were granted visas to Tunisia.”

To read the rest of the statement visit the event’s page.

A petition has been drafted to criticize the government’s decision. By signing the petition, by increasing the number of individuals from different countries who speak out against this silencing of voice, those who have a voice may continue pressuring the existing global power structures to ensure that Spivak’s conclusion is a thing of the past.

Click here to sign the petition.

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