Archives for July 2018

Recently, a prominent South African artist, Mohau Modisakeng, who represented South Africa at the 2017 Venice Biennale, was briefly arrested for assaulting his female companion in a boarding area of Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi, Kenya.

He was, according to multiple witness accounts, abusive – both verbally and physically. When Modisakeng’s companion refused to leave the airport with him, he allegedly tore up her passport. Kenyan authorities eventually arrived at the scene and arrested him. A passport is considered the property of the state, and purposefully destroying one is considered a serious crime.

The incident came to be widely known when Simphiwe Dana, a critically acclaimed South African singer, took to social media on June 21 to say that she was sorry to have unwittingly aided an “abuser”. She told her followers that Modisakeng, who is a “family friend”, had contacted her when he was arrested in Kenya, and she helped – through her contacts there – to get him released.

She said she did not fully understand why he was detained at the time and, in hindsight, she regrets her decision to help. Katlego Malatji, a South African passenger who had intervened and helped Modisakeng’s companion get on the flight and get home safely, also took to Twitter on the same day to detail what he had witnessed.

He was upset that Modisakeng was released. Following Dana and Malatji’s tweets, the incident was also covered in the media.

Soon after Modisakeng allegedly assaulted his female companion and damaged her passport, I was scheduled to travel to Australia to be at the opening of a remarkable exhibition at the Cairns Art Gallery in Queensland.

“Continental Drift: Black / Blak Art from South Africa and north Australia” brings together contemporary artwork by indigenous Australian and South African artists, and celebrates and critically examines “global black art and culture”.

I had written one of the two catalogue essays, focusing on the South African artists’ works, and was invited to give talks at opening events. Among the works by South African artists were three large works by Modisakeng.

I wondered about how to proceed, given that Modisakeng’s works, which critically examine the aftereffects of violence on a deeply personal level, were a prominent part of the exhibition. There was never a doubt in my mind that I would disclose what I knew about Modisakeng’s actions to the gallery’s director and the curator, but I assumed they already knew.

Usually, when an incident like this happens, art dealers and galleries move quickly to protect their corporate interests and send PR statements publicly declaring their deep and abiding commitment to women’s rights, while awaiting the processes of justice to proceed.

However, it turned out, I was the first person to inform the Cairns Art Gallery about what happened in Kenya.

Whatiftheworld Gallery, which represents Modisakeng, had decided to remain silent. Even when I personally asked them to provide an explanation, their response came weeks after the incident, on July 20: The gallery was in “discussion with Mohau to hear his side … [and] actively trying to get a response [from] Kenyan airport officials and other witnesses”; and “while we can’t condone we also can’t alienate and seek to make a meaningful behavioral change in a vacuum”.

In his own response, which came after the issue was covered in the media, Modisakeng claimed that he neither “physically assaulted” his fiancee, nor was “detained or arrested”. He added that they are “both undergoing counselling to help us address emotional issues” and “remain committed to each other”. He returned to social media, and posted an image of a boat at sea on his Instagram page, with the caption, “Come hell or high water”.

I commend Modisakeng for finally taking responsibility for his rage. And while I agree with his gallery’s statement, I wonder how “meaningful behavioural change” could happen, given the propensity to silence any discussion about “troubling behaviour” in the art industry.

I didn’t want to be part of the industry of whitewashing – especially not at an exhibition meant to examine the long-term effects of colonial violence on black and indigenous people. At the same time, I didn’t want to spoil the Cairns Art Gallery’s wonderful exhibition.

An opening event is celebratory, a time to recognize deserving and innovative artists’ work. I worried that in my attempt to call on all those present – art professionals, fellow artists, writers, and collectors – to be responsible and take action, I would, instead, focus the spotlight on an undeserving and abusive artist.

Cairns Art Gallery’s director, Andrea Churcher, who only came to know about the incident via my email, welcomed a frank – but private – conversation. She informed me that in the past when there were allegations of unethical or violent behavior against an artist, her institution had waited for a court of law to charge the person before making decisions about removing their work or making any public statements.

Even when I pressed via email for an official statement, I was told that our discussions were based on personal opinions, based on how the gallery’s board had previously responded and that there was no formalized policy.

In the end, it was up to me, alone, to make a statement on the opening night – if I so wished. It was an uncomfortable position to be in – made especially so by the lack of support from the institution.

But I knew I had to say something. I knew the significance of this exhibition, that it was attempting to counter colonial violence and erasures. I also knew that speaking about endemic violence among black artists’ communities in a gallery frequented largely by white patrons would be a complicated matter.

So when it was my turn to speak, I talked about what happened. I clarified why it is imperative that we speak openly about the violent behavior of artists and art practitioners in general. I contextualized why gender-based violence, especially in groups that have experienced centuries of colonial and state violence, remains rarely spoken about in public, especially not with “outsiders”.

We sometimes protect abusers, because we know racist caricatures about our people are furthered through the erroneous belief that “domestic” violence – assault of intimate partners – is a thing that only black men or the “native” do.

Statistics show that gender-based violence happens across class, professional, and racial groups.

Yet, we continue to believe mythologies that were essential to the colonial projects: that “white” societies, being egalitarian and civilized, must act as “saviours” – policing, protecting, and teaching the violent, native-other to be better. For those reasons, I was careful to point out that “white” communities are no strangers to gender-based and other forms of violence.

After all, the long after-effects of centuries of colonial violence towards indigenous and colonized populations – a subject that many artists included in the exhibition, including Modisakeng, were grappling with in their artworks – did not simply disappear.

That violence lives on through continued institutional violence; we see it in educational policies, policing practices, in how art institutions exclude black artists except when it is convenient to tokenize them, and in how judgments made by courts of law show systematic bias towards women and black persons.

After I spoke, several came over immediately after, and over the next few days, and thanked me for saying what I did. They are not foreign to similar issues and equally struggle with community and institutional silencing.

Stories of repetitive, unwanted sexual advances, harassment, and other forms of violence including sexual assault are not uncommon in the art industry – whether from those running the institutions, or from fellow artists, writers, and curators.

The #MeToo movement has forced many abusive, exploitative workplaces to come to a reckoning. That reckoning would have never happened if we continued to support a culture of silencing and the myth that violent “complicated” men produce brilliant work and that if abusers were no longer accepted we would have empty spaces or mediocre work on our walls.

I know that in order to avoid taking action, we often wrap ourselves in comfortable old cloaks. First, we hear a familiar refrain: that cultural institutions defer to decisions made by legal institutions, and avoid rumours and unjust judgments fashioned in courts of public opinion. However, this commitment to the processes and decisions made by institutions of the law shelters abusive “star” artists, curators, and others in positions of power. Institutions – be they courts or art galleries and museums – have been instrumental in violent and exclusionary practices towards women, colonized people, and other vulnerable communities.

Second, we avoid action by referring to how the value of artwork must be separated from the flawed person who creates it. If I show an overlap between the political and aesthetic in my evaluations of artwork, I know that I will be seen as “less sophisticated” than someone who knows how to value art outside of “politics”.

However, when perpetration of violent actions are happening in present time and has on-going effects that are devastating both physically and psychologically on victims, our silence – and celebration – of violent perpetrators become part of how we are complicit in the violence.

By claiming to wait for courts to decide, art institutions and those who are in positions of power at those institutions unwittingly help maintain cultures of abuse. They engage in protecting violent actors within their communities, even when violators are openly abusive towards women and other vulnerable people. Inaction and hand-wringing look good on the surface; we look reasonable, rational, ethical, rather than susceptible to rumour and unjust judgments fashioned in courts of public opinion.

I have no doubt that decision-makers are facing pressure to keep violent artists’ works on the walls. But no artist’s work is so sacred that it exists out of context – outside of their own actions, social conditions, the history, and the present that make us who we are.

We need ongoing conversations that demand accountability and necessary change. Taking work down or including a prominent statement is a start, but that, alone, is not a productive solution that will make violence – particularly intimate partner violence – magically disappear.

How we, as professionals in the art world, decide to react towards the violent people working in our field will have a significant impact. Individuals in influential positions and persons on boards are the guides of institutional policies – they reflect prevailing “norms” and belief systems of dominant cultural groups. And conversely, institutions shape our values and what we accept as “norms”.

As we have seen many times over the years, unjust institutional values can change if and when there is a concentrated effort, willingness, strategy, and support. That gives me great hope for the principles and ethics that I will continue to fight to uphold.

Aljazeera

Narowal and Lahore, Pakistan – Driving through the flooded rice paddies of the eastern Pakistani district of Narowal, the sunlight streaming in through the monsoon clouds, Ahsan Iqbal is in turns confident and concerned.

He steps off his bulletproof pick-up truck and is immediately surrounded by well-wishers showering him with rose petals and placing colourful garlands around his neck.

Armed bodyguards form a ring around him as he walks towards a large tent, where a couple of hundred people have been waiting all day to hear him speak.

Ahead of him, some children lead the way, happily chanting the slogan of Iqbal’s Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N) political party, and dancing to the beat of a dhol.

“Look who’s come, it’s the lion, it’s the lion,” they sing, a reference to the party’s election symbol.

If massive political rallies, attended by tens of thousands and addressed by party chiefs, are the muscles that power electoral campaigning in Pakistan, then “corner meetings” such as this one, under a small tent in a rice field in the middle of nowhere, are its heart and soul.

Pakistan goes to the polls on Wednesday, and if the PML-N is to fight off the challenge from the opposition PTI, the contest will be decided in constituencies such as this one, in the heart of Punjab province, where 141 of the 272 national parliamentary seats that are up for grabs are located.

Iqbal begins his stump speech, one he has repeated dozens of times.

He lists the achievements of his party’s last five years in power, pointing out his opponent’s relative lack of experience, and drawing attention towards his work in the constituency.

“You now sleep in comfort under a fan,” he says, referring to reduced electricity blackouts, “but the leader who gave you this has no comfort in jail.”

Nawaz Sharif, the chief of the PML-N, and his daughter Maryam Nawaz were jailed earlier this month after being convicted by an anti-corruption court.

His party says he received an unfair trial and alleges the country’s powerful military – which has ruled Pakistan for roughly half its 70-year history – pressured the judiciary to convict him. Both institutions deny the charge.

“You have a debt to him, to release him from jail through the power of your vote,” Iqbal continues.

Nearby, a young man on a tractor looks on impassively.

‘Engineering’ and ‘aliens’
Away from the crowds, Iqbal strikes a different note.

This has been no ordinary campaign, with widespread allegations that the military has been “engineering” the electoral process, and encouraging PML-N supporters and candidates to switch loyalties.

Political news coverage has also been tightly controlled, with the country’s two largest news organisations seeing their distribution networks disrupted when they refused to follow the military’s editorial guidelines.

“Our hope is that we get a high turnout on voting day so that we have a margin of victory that is too large to manipulate,” Iqbal told Al Jazeera.

Countrywide, dozens of PML-N candidates switched parties to the opposition Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI), led by cricketer-turned-politician Imran Khan, weeks ahead of the polls.

In Narowal, two key PML-N candidates defected.

Abrar-ul-Haq, a pop star-turned-politician, is hoping to lead the PTI to victory in the Punjab district of Narowal [Asad Hashim/Al Jazeera]
The party’s opponents dismiss allegations of rigging.

“Honestly, I’m still waiting for the aliens,” says Abrar-ul-Haq, the PTI’s candidate against Iqbal in Narowal, using a euphemism for the military popularised by PML-N chief Sharif.

“It has been much better than the last elections,” says ul-Haq, a pop star-turned-politician, about his experience on the campaign trail. “We’ve had huge rallies, boiling with enthusiasm, especially from the youth.”

In 2013, Haq lost the race in this constituency to Iqbal by a margin of more than 27 percent of the 154,637 votes polled.

This time, he is confident that he will win more support, having engaged more heavily with local kinship group leaders, who control thousands of votes in rural constituencies such as Narowal.

“Last time we only concentrated on big political rallies, but this time we have spoken to a lot of the [village and kinship leaders] as well, and many of them have switched their votes to us,” says Naeem Ahmed, an official with Haq’s campaign.

“In local politics, we cannot ignore those blocks of votes, those biraderis [kinship groups], that were with the PML-N last time, they are now with the PTI,” says Haq.

Iqbal, meanwhile, appears to be preaching a post-biraderi brand of politics, campaigning mainly on service delivery rather than engaging with influential locals.

The PML-N has led the government in Punjab for a decade, and socioeconomic indicators have shown improvement during their reign.

“I am going direct to the people,” he says, en route to another corner meeting. “Citizens are now empowered and informed, and they prefer candidates to come to them directly.”

Dangerous games
Narowal may be a sleepy town on the edges of Pakistan’s mainstream, but there is a dangerous edge to the campaign here, one that is being replicated across the country.

In May, Iqbal was shot while at a campaign event, the bullet shattering his elbow and lodging in his stomach.

The attacker accused Iqbal of having committed blasphemy by supporting a minor change to an electoral oath pushed through parliament by the PML-N last year.

That shooting came after supporters of the far-right Tehreek-e-Labbaik Pakistan (TLP) party had blockaded the Pakistani capital for weeks over the issue, finally dispersing only after securing the resignation of a federal minister and legal immunity for damage caused during the rioting.

Haq, Iqbal’s opponent, has frequently repeated the blasphemy allegations at political rallies.

Elections banners for the PML-N and PTI parties fly across Lahore, as the two leading parties in the elections face off for control of the country [Asad Hashim/Al Jazeera]
Blasphemy is a sensitive issue in Pakistan. At least 74 people have been murdered in connection with accusations of the crime since 1990, according to an Al Jazeera tally.

In Pakistan’s largest city of Karachi, Jibran Nasir, an independent candidate, has faced a series of attacks by charged TLP members, also accusing him of blasphemy.

“[Haq’s] main argument is inciting hatred against me on religious grounds,” says Iqbal, gesturing towards a dozen armed guards in two police escort vehicles. “It does restrict you […] but at the same time, you also have to take a risk. Because politics, or public life, cannot be done from behind a curtain.”

Asked if he believes it is dangerous to accuse Iqbal of having committed blasphemy, Haq is nonchalant.

“As far as it being dangerous is concerned, well in Pakistan it is also dangerous to walk down the street,” says the PTI candidate.

The battle for the crown
The streets of Lahore are a couple of hours from Narowal, but the differences are stark.

Sharif may be in jail, but in Lahore, he is everywhere. Banners across the city repeat his rallying cry: “Give honour to the vote.”

In the narrow, congested lanes of Gulshan-e-Ravi, PTI candidate Yasmin Rashid is conducting her own corner meetings, despite the rain.

Her supporters blast the Sharif family and their alleged corruption, as she smiles and waves from underneath an umbrella.

Rashid is attempting to do what many believed, up until a few months ago, to be impossible: to win Lahore’s historic NA-125 seat, in the heart of the provincial capital, from the PML-N.

PTI candidate Yasmin Rashid addressees a corner meeting in the eastern city of Lahore
The incumbent party has never lost this seat, the jewel in its crown of dominance over Punjab province over the last three decades.

“Imran Khan has worked constantly for 22 years … he says that until there is justice in Pakistan, he will not stop,” she says, as the crowd calls out: “The PTI is coming, the PTI is coming.”

Rashid’s message focuses on the corruption convictions against the Sharifs, while she promises honest, efficient government.

“You can feel the pulse is different, and now the majority of them are convinced that Nawaz Sharif has been convicted correctly,” she tells

Rashid’s chances – and those of the PTI across this province – will hinge on how many PML-N voters she is able to convert.

“Ever since we were young, we have always voted for the PML-N,” says Muhammad Rizwan, 32, a participant at the PTI meeting. “But just look at the state of these streets.”

The PML-N “have changed nothing” and he will vote for the PTI, he says.

Others, however, are unmoved by the PTI’s promises to use their electoral symbol, a cricket bat, to strike corruption out of the arena.

“I will vote for the PML-N, as I always have,” says Muhammad Siddiq, a 62-year-old who sells vegetables on a pushcart.

His wife, Nadira, interjects.

“Look, whoever wins, whether it’s the lion or the bat, the truth is that we’re still going to be out on the street, pushing that cart.”

Aljazeera