visAvis no. 8

No. 8 - 2013

Voices on Asylum and Migration

Indhold / Content

6 9 16 20 24 26 32 33 34 36 40 44 47 48 50 53 54 64 68

Report from a visAvis workshop – visAvis Comics from the Refugee Protest Camp in Berlin Momentum of the disobedient – Adam Qvist The structures that made people isolate themselves – Turgay Ulu Refugee Demands – Jordan Worley Report from the refugee protest in Vienna – Shahjahan Khan Byens anatomi – Patrick Hey Man – Patrick Tekstkollage – Liv Nimand Duvå Creating home behind the walls - Karen Ravn Vestergaard Asylcenter Avnstrup Infomap – Tora A. Schultz Larsen og Paula Nimand Duvå First question – Nimish Gautam A comic – Jimmy Kollage – Lars Buchardt We are third class people – Andreas Schmaltz I Thyborøn bølger havet – Sine Bang Nielsen The year of the hunger strike – Lise Olivarius Those who tend to cause trouble – Sara Ahmed and Liv Nimand Duvå Discussing gender structures in the camps - Liv Nimand Duvå

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Kolofon / Colophon:

visAvis er / visAvis is: Anders Abildgaard Andreas Schmaltz Birte Wedel-Brandt Bonnie Fortune Brett Bloom Christina Marie Jespersen Christina Wendelboe Ismael Suleiman Jimmy Karen Ravn Vestergaard Katja Lund Thomsen Katrine Skovgaard Kipanga Kirstine Nordentoft Mose Kristjan Wager Lars Buchardt Line Høeg Skov Lise Olivarius Mahmoud Ahmad Maya Degn Litrup Marie Northroup Mette Johnsen Mia Isabel Edelgart Mira Kellermann Mohammad Shoja Tajik Morten Buchardt Nimmish Gautam Noura Bittar Søborg Patrik Paula Bulling Ramy Mofaddy Rikke Nørgaard Andersen Sif Bruun Sylvester Roepstorff Thomas Elsted Tora A. Schultz Larsen

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Redaktion / Editorial Board: Ann Sofie Brink Pedersen Carolyn Amrein Casper Øbro (design & layout) Ina Serdarević Jeppe Wedel-Brandt Liv Nimand Duvå (ansvarshavende/editor in chief) Nicoline Sylvest Simonsen Paula Nimand Duvå Rasmus Brink Pedersen Taniele Gofers Print: Specialtrykkeriet Viborg Types: Minion Pro Sofia Pro Cover illustration: Casper Øbro Bank Info Bank account/Bankkonto Jyske Bank Reg. Nr. 7851 Kontonr. 3285805 CVR-nr. 33788827 IBAN: DK4978510003285805 SWIFT: JYBADKKK ISSN: 1904-528X Kontakt / Contact Skyttegade 3, 2200 Copenhagen N www.visavis.dk visavis.contact@gmail.com Thanks to: The Trampoline House YNKB (Ydre Nørrebro Kultur Bureau) Makvärket Roskilde Festival (economic support) №8 visAvis • 2013

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

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upport visAvis visAvis is free of charge.

We are happy to receive any donation on our account.: Reg. Nr. 7851 Account number. 3285805 IBAN: DK4978510003285805

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

Se www.visavis.dk og følg os på Facebook.

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tøt visAvis visAvis er gratis. Vi modtager med glæde donationer på: Reg. Nr. 7851 Kontonr. 3285805

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Leder #8 Kære læser

Hvem er du mon?

Det er et spørgsmål vi ofte, og med en hel del nysgerrighed, stiller os selv. Når en ny udgave af visAvis forlader vores redaktionshænder, ved vi ikke altid, hvor den ender. Med beslutningen om at distribuere gratis, ønskede og håbede vi, at vi ville nå en større og bredere læserskare; at vi både ville blive ved med at interessere jer, der allerede kender visAvis, jer der oplever mange af problematikkerne omkring asyl og migration på egen krop eller gennem aktivistisk engagement, men også jer, der ganske simpelt har en interesse for feltet. Svaret på, hvem du er, forbliver derfor åbent. Vi ved dog, at vi gerne vil møde dig, og håber, at vi gennem disse møder sammen kan ændre den måde hvorpå vi taler om asyl og migration i offentligheden.

Som de protestmarcher, vi beskriver i dette nummer, kan også vores ønske om at indtage en plads i offentligheden, betragtes som en langsom march i protest mod et migrationsregime, der kriminaliserer og undertrykker en del af os; og dermed berører os alle. Hvor de mange protesterende migranter, flygtninge og aktivister marcherer og opbygger deres egne teltlejre rundt omkring i verden, for at bryde med flygtningelejrens isolation, forsøger vi med visAvis at marchere ud i offentligheden gennem skriften, sproget og det visuelle udtryk. Vi er ikke lige så larmende og synlige i gadebilledet, men vi håber, at du opdager os, hvor end du finder os. Og hvem er så dette vi? Vi er folk med og uden opholdstilladelse bosat i Danmark. Vi er folk der søger asyl, asylaktivister, migranter, kunstnere, akademikere og andre med trang til at udtrykke os.

Denne udgave af visAvis er præget af vores internationale netværk. Vi følger op på sidste nummers dækning af protesten på Oranienplatz i Berlin. Adam Qvist møder de forskellige aktivister, der har trodset asyllejrenes isolation, har marcheret til Berlin og slået lejr på Oranienplatz for at udleve friheden til at eksistere side om side

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med andre mennesker. Vi bringer også resultaterne af en række tegne-workshops, der blev afholdt på pladsen. Her blev bl.a. udarbejdelsen af tegneserier brugt til at fortælle historien om rejsen fra oprindelseslandene til Berlin.

Og så har vores lejrgruppe søgt at give en beskrivelse af livet i asyllejrene. Vi har sat særligt fokus på Avnstrup, hvor beboere viser, hvordan de forsøger at skabe sig hjemlige forhold i det prekære lejrliv. Nimish Gautam tager os med indenfor i det forhenværende Jægerspris Asylcenter for børn og unge under atten, hvorfra han funderer over, hvordan man på absurd vis præges af historiske tilfældigheder. Med en rapport fra et besøg i en tysk asyllejr, giver Andreas Schmaltz et indblik i de forhold folk, der søger asyl, her lever under.

Vi behandler også kønsdiskrimineringen i lejrene, idet vi sammen med Trampolinhusets kvindegruppe bl.a. taler om, hvordan man som kvinde i lejrene dobbeltminoriseres.

Vi er også glade for at kunne præsentere et interview med queer- og affektforsker Sara Ahmed. Ahmed og Liv Nimand Duvå taler bl.a. om at se potentialet i at ødelægge den gode stemning, i familiens såvel som i nationens orden, men også om hvad der sker, når en gruppe beskyldes for at stå i vejen for nationens lykke.

Og så analyserer Lise Olivarius de sultestrejker, som asylansøgere sidste år udførte i Danmark.

Vi håber, at vi med denne udgave af visAvis kan træde forstyrrende ind i en offentlighed, hvor nogle mennesker beskyldes for at stå i vejen for den nationale lykke. Vi håber, at vi med det her nummer også får dig, vores ukendte læser, med på vores langsomme march ud i offentligheden.

God læselyst, Redaktionen.

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Editorial #8 Dear reader,

Who are you, we wonder?

This is a question we often - and with lots of curiosity - ask ourselves. When a new issue of visAvis leaves our editorial hands, we don’t always know where it will end up. When we decided to distribute the magazine for free, we intended and hoped that we would reach a bigger and broader audience; that we would both continue to interest those of you who already know visAvis, those that know the many problems around asylum and migration first-hand or through activist activities, but also those of you who simply have an interest in the field. So the answer to who you are, therefore, remains open. We know, however, that we want to meet you and hope that through these meetings, together we can change the way we talk about asylum and migration in public. L Like the protests we have written about in this issue, our wish to have a place in public can also be considered a slow march in protest against a migration regime that criminalizes and oppresses a small fraction of us, and thereby affects us all.

Where the many protesting migrants, refugees and activists march and raise their own camps all around the world to break the refugee camps’ isolation, we try, with visAvis, to march out in public via the written word, language, and visual expressions. We are not as noisy or visible in the streets, but we hope that you notice us wherever you find us. And who are we? We are people with and without residency permits residing in Denmark. We are people seeking asylum, asylum activists, migrants, artists, academics, and others with an urge to express ourselves.

This issue of visAvis features our international network. We follow up on the last issue’s coverage of the protest at Oranienplatz in Berlin. Adam Qvist meets the various activists who have defied the isolation of the asylum camp, have marched to Berlin and camped at Oranienplatz to live out the freedom of existing side-by-side with other people. In this issue, we

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also bring you the results of a series of drawing workshops that were held on the square. At one of the the workshops, the compilation of drawings amongst other things, was used as a way to tell the story of the journey from the countries of origin and to Berlin.

Our camp group has sought to give you a description of life in the asylum camps. We have focused on Avnstrup, where the residents demonstrate how they try to create a home life for themselves inside the precarious camp life. Nimish Gautam takes us into the former Jægerspris asylum center for children and youth under 18, and from there he ponders over how absurdly one is affected by historical accidents.

With a report from a German asylum camp, Andreas Schmaltz gives insight into the conditions that people who are seeking asylum live under.

We also address gender discrimination in the camps, as we, together with the Trampoline House’s women’s group, talk about how women in the camps are dually minoritized. We are also glad to present an interview with Sarah Ahmed, who is both a queer and affect researcher. Ahmed and Liv Nimand Duvå, among other things, talk about seeing the potential in destroying the good atmosphere within the order of the family as well as the nation, and also about what happens when a group is accused of standing in the way of the happiness of the nation. Finally, Lise Olivarius analyzes the hunger strikes performed by asylum seekers last year in Denmark.

We hope that with this issue of visAvis, we can disrupt the public sphere, where some people are accused of standing in the way of the national happiness. We hope that with this issue we also bring you, our unknown reader, with us on our long march out into the public.

Enjoy the reading, The Editors

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Report from a visAvis workshop

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by visAvis • photos by Paula Nimand Duvå & kipanga

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akvärket During the summer 2011, I went to Makvärket for the first time. This was also the first time I got the chance to be in a community with people who are not in the same situation as me, and by that I mean people who are not living in an asylum camp. For me, who live in an asylum camp where everything is controlled, it was a big moment to come to Makvärket. Here, I learned how to work with people, learn about things that I could not do in the camp, and met people from different places in the world.

This year, I went back to Makvärket with visAvis. It was a nice weekend, and some of my friends from the asylum camps also joined. We did different things to strengthen our group, for instance different workshops, debates and had good conversations.

Some of us also worked together during the Roskilde festival last summer, and the trip to Makvärket was a very good opportunity to spend more time together again.

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e Remember I remember looking at the watch which told me it was early morning, and how I didn't care because all I had those days were time, and therefore time didn't matter at all.

Jeg kan huske, at vi kiggede på månen og den vendte på hovedet. Jeg kan huske, at vi ikke turde at gå ud på gaderne, fordi vi følte os så anderledes, og hvordan vi alligevel bevægede os ud på gaden og gik tilbage til hotelværelset efter kun ti skridt.

I remember having to eat breakfast at some friends' place, trying to adopt myself to this family's morning habits.

Jeg kan huske, at jeg følte mig nødsaget til at spise gedetarmene, selvom jeg ikke havde lyst.

I remember talking to my father's friends trying to imitate their jokes, and wishing I was their age, so that I could be a part of the group.

Jeg husker, da jeg som lille på en bar i Spanien så ofrene for bombeattentater på et fjernsyn, og troede, at de var malede med teaterfarve, indtil jeg fandt ud af, at det var rigtig blod.

I remember never understanding why it was so rude to point at people.

I remember our house in the country side that day when I finished my elementary school and was starting intermediate school. I had to leave my lovely village and leave my parents when I was thirteen years old. I went to Aleppo for the first time. I was sad because I had to leave my parents and my childhood place, but on the other hand, I was happy to see such a big city and start a new experience.

Jeg husker at blive overrasket over at kalde et nyt sted for 'hjem' og komme tilbage til Århus, hvor jeg er født og opvokset, og pludselig føle mig fremmed.

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This spring visAvis went to the cultural and environmental collective Makvärket situated in Holbæk. The activists from Makvärket took us around in the 2.000 sqm old ceramic factory, conducted alternative forms of debates and meetings and took part in our acitivities. Here, we bring Kipanga's personal introduction to Makvärket and a polyphonic text collage which is the result of a creative writing workshop conducted by Liv from visAvis.

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I remember I thought that the education in Sudan was the best. But when I came to Europe I realized that the education there is better than in Sudan. I remember that only in Africa I thought that it was easy to travel around the world.

Jeg kan huske, at jeg i protest mod, at man skulle betale for den efterfølgende lancierfest, boycottede de gymnastiktimer, der var afsat til at lære dansetrinene. For ikke at få fravær, var jeg tvunget til at møde op. Jeg sad i udkanten af salen og læste tegneserier, mens mine kammerater dansede rundt, stødte ind i hinanden og grinte.

I remember walking home from school just to save the money for the bus and spending them all on candy and comic books.

Jeg kan huske dengang en voksen sagde, at der ville gro vandmeloner ud af ørene på mig, fordi jeg havde spist vandmeloner. Jeg kan huske, at jeg troede på hende. Jeg kan huske frygten for vandmelonstræer ud af mine ører. Jeg kan huske farven på vandmelon.

Jeg husker vandmelon på en sommerdag. Jeg husker en veninde på hospitalet, hvor hun havde fået den kosmetiske operation, som jeg ikke syntes var en god ide, kun ville spise vandmelon. Jeg kan huske, at hun alligevel kastede vandmelonen op igen.

I remember how the tv sometimes seemed to say that it was sunny outside, but looking out the window I could only see snow.

I remember digging a hole in the tv, aiming to enter during my favorite cartoon show Jeg kan huske en TV-avis fuld af lig, folk var slået ihjel i Golfen med våben og på vejen ved uheld. Til sidst i udsendelsen viste de et klip med en pony der headbangede til Smoke on the Water af Deep Purple. En anden gang, efter en lige så morbid omgang nyheder, kunne værten ikke lade være med at fnise, da han annoncerede et nyt tiltag fra en kommune, der ville aktivere nogle overvægtige borgere. Da de klippede væk fra den fnisende vært, tonede en række tykke mennesker frem på skærmen. De dansede en slags appelsindans, men med store grønne pilatesbolde i stedet for appelsiner mellem de store kroppe. Det så forfærdelig komisk ud.

I remember the early teens – starting to get female shapes – wearing oversized clothes to cover them.

Jeg husker de store støvler, der fik mig til at føle mig så akavet og forkert, og hvordan det i virkeligheden handlede om noget helt andet end støvlerne.

I remember wearing a slightly damaged t-shirt, because to me it made no difference.

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Oversættelse side 95

Comics from the Refugee Protest Camp in Berlin During the drawing workshops, comics are used as a way for the refugees to document their situations and share their stories. Some authors use the comics to tell the story of their journey from their country of origin to Berlin, while others focus on their present situation, living in the tents of the Refugee Protest Camp, or in the nearby school building that was occupied by refugees in December 2012. The workshop takes place in the Refugee Protest Camp twice a week in the afternoon, inside a large circus tent. There is a group of regular participants who work continuously on their comics, and others who drop by occasionally. Most participants are in their twenties, and come from places as varied as Libya, Mali, Sudan, Pakistan and Germany. Because of all the different languages spoken, translating has become a crucial part of our work.

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Besides drawing, there are several other artistic activities in the camp: theatre, photography, and painting workshops run by artists from Arts Vagabonds Rezo Afrik Benin and Arts Vagabonds Deutschland. The project “Migration und ich - über die Brücke der Künste zur gemeinsamen Heimat Erde" started in March 2013, and will continue to run at least until this fall and hopefully longer. In June, an art week was organised in the camp with music, theatre, movie screenings, and an exhibition with comics, paintings, and photographs.

Following some negative media coverage of the Refugee Protest Camp, the festival also became an opportunity for visitors to come along and meet us, and witness all of the productive initiatives that are happening at the camp. Neighbours, friends, and anyone who was curious were invited to come to Oranienplatz for the festival, and it was encouraging to see that many came along and joined in.

The comics printed on the following pages are examples of the work of Mahmoud Fozi, Keita, Paula Bulling, Yahya Hamdan and a drawing from Aruna Diakite's extensive sketchbook is included as well.

Before arriving in Berlin, Mahmoud Fozi passed through Italy. His contribution takes us onboard a ship from Libya on its way to the island of Lampedusa, to an asylum camp in Manduria, Italy. Currently, Mahmoud is working on a comic strip about the situation of the Tuareg people in his country of origin, Libya, and neighbouring countries.

Keita is from Mali. In his comic, he describes the day when he first arrived at the Refugee Protest Camp at

Oranienplatz, and his first night in the occupied school. His story also suggests that institutions like Caritas, a religious relief organisation, are sending people who ask for their support to the Protest Camp, indicating that they do not have the capacity to help.

Yahya Hamdan's contribution is part of an ongoing series about his everyday life in the Refugee Protest Camp and the occupied school building. In this work, we learn about the way he is received when he tries to find a place to sleep in the school. In other strips, he captures the way people relate to each other in the street, and takes us into the waiting line at the kitchen tent, or, occasionally, to his country of origin, Sudan.

Aruna Diakite is an incredibly productive young artist from Mali. His vision of a Berlin street scene is among many beautiful drawings he created during his stay in Berlin. Sadly, he has left the Oranienplatz to work in Italy.

We miss him a lot, and though we hope that he joins us again, we wish him all the best in his work.

Paula Bulling is from Berlin. Together with Jan Bachmann and Rodrigue Towanou, she is responsible for the drawing workshops. Her strip captures just one of the many small moments that makes working together so much fun.

Lampedusa / Police in Italy 1 This is the arrival center for migrants in Lampedusa. Here you get inspected and your fingerprints are taken.

2 The ship that crossed the

Mediterranean Sea, starting from Libya, had 1300 people on board.

3 This is the camp in the village

of Manduria in southern Italy.

It is for refugees coming from Libya. Shown are the camp and info point.

1 I took a plane from Italy to Frankfurt.

2 The Caritas told us about the Oranienplatz.(small, in the house): -"We don't have space here."

-"Okay."

3 We met an old lady.

- "You can go to the info point."

-"Okay."

4 She showed us the school. *

5 This was in January. I was tired from the cold.

*The school is located on OhlauerstraĂ&#x;e. It was occupied by refugees last autumn and about 200 people slept there.

1 Reception center 2 School building

3 When I arrived at the school I

met four people who all lived there. I said: "Hello, I would like to sleep here."

- "Hello my friend. The school is fully occupied."

- "There's no room here man, go away."

- "Go away."

- "Let him in, the poor guy."

4 (big panel, center) Football field

1 "Let me see, Keita."

4 Mountains

6 "Hum…no!"

2 "But, Keita!"

5 - "Rodrigue! The desert between Mauretania and Algeria…"

- "Have you been there?"

7 - "So…"

3 - "The mountains you made here…"

- ”Those aren't mountains!”

- "How do you know what mountains there look like?"

8 "Bravo, Keita!"

Momentum of the disobedient

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Last year on October 6th, Refugee Tent Action set up shop at Oranienplatz in Berlin, physically claiming a space for asylum politics, which were at the time marginalized in Germany. One year onwards visAvis visits the camp to follow up on developments.

By Adam Qvist

As described in the article ‘The Refugee Protest March’: “Let’s walk and see where it takes us”’ in visAvis issue 7, the movement originated in the beginning of 2012, as a reaction to the suicide of Mohammad Rahsepar, who was an Iranian asylum seeker living in Würtsburg. This incident triggered a spontaneous protest march a month-long, 600 kilometer northward march of refugees towards Berlin. The demands of the protesters focused on the right to employment and education, an end to deportations and a revoking of the Residenzpflicht - an arbitrary rule that restricts asylum seekers movement to the one region where they have been placed. On route, the protesters mobilized local support as they passed through German towns, and when they were not occupied with having to fight off nationalists they visited asylum camps, inviting the inhabitants to defy their Residenzpflicht and join the protest march.

Now, back at Oranienplatz, we stand with Yvette, an activist, among eight large green and white tents on the southern part of the square. We are opposite a tent which serves as the plenary pavilion and an information point. When asked about the size of the camp, Yvette reckons there is a constant presence of a couple of dozen people and about twice as many active in total on a daily basis. The majority of the active refugees at Oranienplatz are men. And the majority of them are civil-disobediently in violation of their Residenzpflicht – and thus the law in general merely by being here.

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visAvis: Does the camp provide accommodation here for refugees who turn up, defying their Residenzpflicht?

Yvette: Yes. Somehow, in addition to this camp we’ve squatted a nearby vacant school, both to create space to organize, but also to use it for accommodation. And this is where people stay, live and organize. visAvis: Given the recent raid on the Votiv-church (the police-raid of a Vienna church housing refugee protesters), is the camp taking any special measures - enforcing the tents with razor wire, guard-duty or digging advanced tunnel systems?

Yvette: Far from it! The situation is dramatically different although we are part of the same movement. Plus, with our situation there is no need to nurture that kind of paranoia. As it looks now we have permission from the mayor of the city (Frank Schulz), it’s even that official. The unwritten agreement was that we could occupy Oranienplatz for three months, but at this point we’ve just been extended. The mayor has taken a solidary stance, and so has the general neighborhood, which includes different local businesses in this part of Kreuzberg. They support the project however they see fit, most importantly by making us feel welcome here.

Refugee Tent Action is a largely refugee-led movement and just as civildisobedient and self-organized as they declare in their radical manifestos. With the conversion from a protest march into a static camp after arriving in Berlin, there is a need for new plans of action. Over the past year activists from Oranienplatz have broken through to the media, organized anti-Frontex demonstrations, squatted consulates and been a catalyst for refugee politics in Germany. However, during the past months their actions and Refugee Tent events in the city have been met with force, including violent assaults during initial custody and sentencing for non-citiAction is a largely zens and citizens alike.

Here, on the second day of our visit to Oranienplatz, the network Asyl Strike Berlin has arranged demonstrations to mark the one-year anniversary of the arrival to Berlin. Whilst attending the demonstrations together with around five thousand people, we speak to Napuli who also herself participated in the protest march last year.

visAvis: What has been the experience, so far, of having to settle down last year in one spot here in Berlin?

refugee-led movement and as civil-disobedient and selforganized as they propagate in their radical manifestos

Napuli: This is our new and more static existence, what can we do? We are not from here, so we’re making our own livelihood possible, making it on our own. We’re up against a complete system, and this is most of all about putting things into practice. This is our one year anniversary, which goes to show that there’s no way we’re going to stop fighting the system.

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visAvis: Are demos and actions also used as a way of ensuring visibility, locally and politically, in order to keep the movement and camp alive?

Napuli: Not mainly. They’re the ones that had made us illegal, so this is our right, also this is how we effectively can fight back - the whole population of the world is being organized and controlled in the name of democracy, so here we see this as our right to take back the freedom that is ours. The movement is alive only to the extent that it is active. visAvis: Do you feel that the movement is achieving its goals by also focusing on the German asylum context?

Napuli: Neither the problems nor the resistance is limited to here. It’s very essential for us to show solidarity internationally with refugees, like in the Netherlands, Austria and in Italy, where they are leading by showing how to put up a fight. We inspire each other.

Napuli disappears into a forest of banners in the crowd, followed by a cameracrew. The mere size of the demo gives a glimpse into the reach and momentum of the German asylum movement.

The camp at Oranienplatz is leading by example with an independent effort of organizing and a “do it yourself” attitude. This new take on asylum politics is seemingly what fuels the momentum of the activist movement as the camp itself is providing an opportunity for asylum-seekers to meet with local activists. The visibility of the Refugee Tent Action has also helped to get the media’s attention, and in the wake of actions and efforts of activists, even traditional media have become interested.

Asylum politics are not traditionally rooted in German left wing politics, but in the wake of more explicit political discourses on migration, assimilation and national identity in Germany over the past decade, this may change. The radical and traditional left is slowly shifting focus towards asylum politics. This development comes in conjunction with a general conservative wave throughout German politics. In this political environment the coffin of German multiculturalism has been nailed shut, and it would be foolish to assume asylum activism to automatically build more momentum. Rather, it is the level of civil disobedience and space for direct action in asylum-political platforms that sustain the momentum of the radical asylum-political movement. Likewise, it is also keeping the media and public interested. Currently there are Refugee Action Camps in nine different German cities, where they coexist with the more general No Borders organizing and movements against gentrification. All are radical developments that strengthen a much-needed radical breakthrough in asylum politics in Germany and abroad.

<-- Framegrabs from video BY The VOICE Refugee Forum Network of protest on ocober 6th 2012 – http://vimeo.com/50978581

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The structures that made p e o p l e i s o l a t e themselves In the fall of 2012, visAvis visited the Refugee Protest March in their tent camp on Oranienplatz in Berlin to conduct interviews, reports and to tell the protesters about their opportunity to express themselves through visAvis. A while ago we were contacted by one of the protestors who had written a piece about the experience of seeking asylum in Germany before and after the 2012 Refugee Protest Movement began. This version is translated from Turkish by Yildiz Aygün and edited by visAvis.

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by Turgay Ulu • illustration by Rasmus brink pedersen

Sitting on the bench next to the door, a big-eyed young man had his head between his hands. He was constantly staring at the ground. Haydar had just been transferred to this place, surrounded by barbed wire, and whenever he went out, he found this man sitting on the same bench, looking thoughtfully at the same place. His head was shaved and he had thick and dark eyebrows and big eyes. The man avoided talking with other people, but Haydar attempted to establish a dialog with him a few times. His answers were short and negative. Haydar asked other people about him. They all had the same view on him, called him ‘insane’ and didn’t want to be seen with him. Going to the dining hall, Haydar walked beside him and asked him questions such as, “do you like the meals here?” He answered, “no. We have to eat. What can we do?” He talked and moved slowly; his eyes were sluggish and didn’t look back at Haydar’s. At the dining hall he sat alone at the table next to the windows. He was always eating his dinner fast.

Haydar began to sit next to him, and eventually learned that his name was Cihan and that he was from Elazig [a town in Eastern Turkey]. Cihan had been living in Germany for four years. Before he came to this camp, he lived in Braunschweig [a German city in Niedersachsen] in a peasant’s house. Here, he looked after the animals and worked at the farm. During this time, he was isolated which had a negative effect on his mental health.

Haydar had been in prison for political reasons and continuously wrote and read. The other people in the camp didn’t understand why he wanted to spend his time on that.

Only Cihan did. Haydar knew that they also called him ‘crazy’. He didn’t mind. Since he was a child he had been a rebel.

He learnt that Cihan had close relatives in Germany who didn’t accept him in their houses.

Cihan didn’t want to visit them either. He didn’t want to be exposed to their discriminating and accusing attitudes. Cihan and Haydar started to talk together in Cihan’s room, and from then on, they began to understand and respect each other.

Cihan’s room was opposite Haydar’s. On each door the numbers were written with black oil paint. All rooms had bunk beds worse than the ones in the asylum prisons where Haydar had been for years. A person who has been in isolation in these prisons always

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stands out. This refugee camp had a similar system, you always remained in a limited area.

Sometimes it affected Cihan, he missed meals and Haydar knew how he felt. He brought him food and bread and Cihan realized that Haydar didn’t accuse or abuse him and he began to trust him. Cihan began to read books and newspapers for Haydar. Haydar had rules for the people who came into his room. Every person who wanted to spend time there had to read an article and join the discussion about politics, because people who live in refugee camps are already seperated from community and most of them lack class consciousness, only talking about football and playing cards. Cihan called himself ‘revolutionary’. One day at lunch time he got angry with the security workers in the camp and broke a plate. When people asked him why he broke it, he replied that the place made him angry. His attitude began to change. He began to look into people’s eyes, stood up for his beliefs and ignored the people who treated him as a crazy person. The man who didn’t have any hopes was gone and a man who was dynamic and could struggle came. From then on Cihan joined the protest activities in the camp.

The silence in the refugee camp that had made Cihan isolated and lose hope was broken by a year of street occupations, invasions, resistance and fights. Films were made, articles were written, people were arrested, others were injured. They struggled against the structures that made people isolate themselves, they abandoned the refugee camps and built a common life instead of obeying the laws and rules which limited their freedom. These rebellions had different languages and colors. They fought against racist parliamentarian and opposition movements by shutting down highways, fighting the police and breaking the rules. They danced in the streets and set-up tents in public squares. They cared about other people’s sorrows, wars and exploitation.

Then one morning, when refugees had started their actions for freedom, a couple of uniformed police officers came into Cihan’s room and took him away. They forced him to go back to Turkey. His life in Germany had been isolated. Maybe it’s better now. Maybe he has started a new life, gained revolutionary ideas and is struggling for freedom.

Haydar witnessed too many tragic life stories. Everyone asks him why he didn’t get tired even though he had been in prison for years and struggled in the streets. They ask him why he hasn’t built a life for himself. But he thinks that living without feeling other people’s pain is not a real life. If anyone else isn’t free, he isn’t free. So he dedicated his life to bring freedom to everyone. He wrote diaries in prison. One day he would like to print these diaries as a book. He has a very colorful life and finds himself lucky to live among people at the bottom. At night he dreams that the people at the bottom overthrow all exploitation.

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Jordan Worley

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Oversættelse side 78

Report from the Refugee Protest in Vienna Shahjahan Khan is a refugee from Pakistan and has been taking part in the Refugee Protest in Vienna for months.

He is currently living in the Serviten Monastery in Vienna – fighting for his rights, day by day.

By Shahjahan Khan

W

hy we started The Refugee Protest

Say this city has eight million souls, Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no place for us.

We are refugees who have arrived in Austria to seek asylum to build a new life here. Our countries are devastated by war, military aggression, social backwardness and poverty because of colonialist politics. We have come from Pakistan, Afghanistan, Somalia, Nigeria, Gambia, Syria, Kurdistan, Iran, Chechnya, etc., and now we are stuck here in the refugee camp, Traiskirchen. We expected to get help and support in this camp, but the Austrian state showed us that we are not welcome here. We stay in refugee camps and face bad conditions.

We, the Refugee Protest, demand basic rights from the Austrian government and the European Union for all refugees worldwide. We call on the Austrian government to fulfill its responsibilities towards the refugees. We will continue our actions until our voices are heard and our demands met.

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Once we had a country and we thought it fair, Look in the atlas and you’ll find it there: We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

On the 24th of November 2012, 700 persons, including 400 persons from civil society, demonstrated against the bad conditions of the refugees – not only in Traiskirchen, but also in other camps and accommodations in Austria.

"W

hat we need? Our rights. What we demand? Our rights."

This was the slogan of the first demonstration, and until now, it is the guideline for the protest. It was a cold season, and still a group of refugees preferred to live in the open air in Sigmund-Freud-Park 2 instead of the camps provided by the government. Sometimes it was raining, sometimes snowing, but these things never crushed the hopes of the refugees. When we got up in the morning our tents and our beds were soaking wet. Local citizens brought warm clothes and warm blankets for us, and gave us free vegetables and other food too. The media made it their business to cover the protests for a little while, but this did not help the refugees. People could see the refugee camp in SigmundFreud-Park, and they sometimes came to us and asked us why we were out in the open air. We told them the story of our protest. Some racist people did not like our camp and tried to create problems. For example, one person came to a public meeting and said, “If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread.”

He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me

In December, the temperature dropped below zero and, for the first time, we worried about our health. Somehow, on the 18th of December we managed to take shelter in the Votiv Church3. Some homeless people had already done the same thing. But when we entered the church, politicians, especially the rightwingers and racist people, spoke of an occupation: Refugees occupy the Votiv Church. The priest of this church was never friendly with us. He kicked our beds in the morning, but we could not say anything, because, after all, we are refugees. On the 22nd of December, when we were fed up and had no other option, we started a hunger strike that lasted for 30 days. At that time, we had two demands: 1 Legal status in Austria 2 Access to the labour market It was a new experience for us. For the hunger-striking refugees, it was the first time in their lives that they did this. They were fighting with hunger and the cold temperature inside the church. After ten days, the hunger-striking refu-

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gees’ condition was miserable, and some of them had to be admitted to hospitals. Each person lost five to ten kilos, and their faces became pale. They were not able to walk, and they spent all their time in bed, because they had no power left in their bodies. Some people developed mental problems, some had problems with their kidneys, and some were suffering from the flu. No one took pity on the refugees. Even the UNHCR refused to meet us, although they claim responsibility for all refugees in Europe. A delegation of four of us made an appointment with them, but when we were on the way to UNHCR, they canceled the meeting. They said that they did not have a meeting room for us, and that we could meet outside, in a coffee shop or in a park. UNHCR has a big building in the center of Vienna, but they have no room to meet with refugees, because they don’t want to involve themselves in this protest. They refuse to help these refugees, because these refugees are not seen as human beings.

Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors, A thousand windows and a thousand doors; Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

Then, Mr. Schönborn [Archbishop of Vienna, cardinal of the Catholic Church] came to visit the refugees. He brought us an offer. If we gave up the hunger strike, he would “take one step” and try to make negotiations with the government, in order to evacuate us from this church and take us to his private property, the Serviten Monastery. “There you can start your protest, and I will support you politically, but first you have to give up the hunger strike,” he said.

At that time, we gave up the hunger strike and gave the authorities ten days.

During this pause of the hunger strike we received only one offer: that they would reopen our cases and provide us with the best lawyers of Austria to fight for our cases. Was that the result of our 30 days of hunger strike? To reopen the cases? We knew that reopening the cases would not help us. It was just a drama enacted by the interior ministry. So we resumed the hunger strike.

I wrote a letter to Mr. President, Dr. Heinz Fischer, and told him about the whole situation and the miserable conditions of the hunger-strikers. Unexpectedly, he replied to my letter, and published his answer in a newspaper, showing sympathy with the refugees. However, there was no hope in his letter, and he emphasized that we should leave the church and give up the hunger strike. Again, we gave up the hunger strike and tried to negotiate with the government, but then had to face arrests of the refugees who were in the church.

Stood on a great plain in the falling snow; Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro: Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

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The police did not enter the church in uniform. Plain-clothes police constantly came inside. They arrested refugees outside the church and took them to deportation centers. The refugees began a hunger and thirst strike in Schubhaft [a detention and deportation center]. The police had to release the refugees, because if one of the refugees died inside the jail, it would be a problem for them.

At the same time, some right-winged, racist persons came inside the church and demanded that the remaining refugees should be kicked out. Otherwise, they would also begin a hunger strike. We gave too much respect to these people, offered them tea and coffee, and tried to talk to them. However, they did not want to talk to us. In the evening, they had to leave the church, because it was too cold for them, and they were not as brave as the refugees inside.

Then, we received another letter from Mr. Schönborn, saying that we should change location and start our new political struggle in Serviten Monastery.

We started making negotiations, and on the 2nd of March 2013, we moved to Serviten Monastery. When we saw the conditions in which we were going to live, we were shocked. It was a basement, and it looked like a stable for animals.

There were no windows or ventilation. When we refused to live in the basement, they opened some rooms on the second floor. There were still no bathrooms or kitchens. For the first 18 days, nobody took care of us. No food was provided by Caritas4 or by the representatives of the church. The refugees had to buy food with money from their own pockets. Before leaving the Votiv Church, we had had a meeting with representatives of the Catholic Church. They had told us that we would be their guests in Serviten Monastery. At this meeting, we had agreed on the following points: 1 Refugees will be provided with legal assistance by the church 2 Police will not enter the monastery, and they will not arrest any refugee who is registered at Serviten Monastery 3 The monastery will be a place where we can re-start our protest 4 This place will not be managed like the camps But these were only broken promises. Eight days before receiving any legal assistance, 29 refugees started getting ‘love letters’ from the Fremdenpolizei [aliens´police]. Refugees who went there for an interview had to sign a kind of deportation letter.

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Once, we were visited by a delegation from the interior ministry, and they brought forward a ‘mega-project’ [EU project for refugees’ voluntarily returning to their countries of origin] for the refugees: “If you return voluntarily to your country, we will pay you 7000 Euros.”

So, although the media reported that every government warned its citizens against traveling to Pakistan, because it is not safe for them, it is safe for the Pakistani refugees. The refugees only replied with a simple answer: “We will pay for a journey to Pakistan for your minister of the interior and she goes there without security. If she comes back, we will voluntarily return to our country.”

It took the delegation from the interior ministry only two minutes to escape from there.

Went to a committee; they offered me a chair; Asked me politely to return next year: But where shall we go today, my dear, but where shall we go today?

UNHCR also visited us in Serviten Monastery and told us that we are the responsibility of the Austrian state – not of UNHCR. Now, we are still struggling and fighting for our rights, and we are in negotiations with the authorities. But the people who convinced us to move to the Serviten Monastery, and who are responsible for our future, have currently disappeared, or do not want to confront us. Two weeks ago, one refugee had a mental breakdown. It was serious and he became aggressive, so doctors sent him to the Otto Wagner Hospital, and he is still admitted there. Yesterday, a refugee from our protest was attacked by unknown persons. They stabbed him with knives, and he is also still in the hospital. I hope that days will come when we gain something from our struggle and that those days are not far away.

Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay, Saw the fish swimming as if they were free: Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees; They had no politicians and sang at their ease: They weren’t the human race, my dear, they weren’t the human race.

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N

otes on the text The quotes in italics are taken from the poem ‘Refugee Blues’ by W. H. Auden.

An earlier version of this article has been printed in “progress das Magazin der österreichischen HochschülerInnenschaft”, 03/2013.

Since the first publication of the article in May 2013, many things happened. The protesting refugees have been authorized to stay in the monastery until the end of October. Currently, 20 persons of the group are in direct threat of deportation. A self-organized refugee protest house in Vienna is being sought to continue the struggle for human rights collectively. Various actions, events, projects and campaigns continue to be organized.

Explanations in brackets and end notes are added by Katarzyna Winiecka who is a supporter of the Refugee Protest in Vienna.

Follow the protest on: http://refugeecampvienna.noblogs.org

1 Erstaufnahmestelle Traiskirchen is Austria´s largest refugee camp and one of the three reception centers for refugees in Austria. The camp has been criticized by refugees for many years because of its unbearable living conditions.

2 After the 35km-long refugee protest march from Traiskirchen to Vienna on the 24th Nov, 2012, the protesters set up the Refugee Protest Camp in the SigmundFreud-Park and stayed there for more than one month, until the camp was brutally evicted by the police.

3 After the eviction of the Refugee Protest Camp, the Votiv Church located behind the Sigmund-Freud-Park became the new site of the protest during the following two months.

4 Caritas Austria is a Catholic social aid organization that is in charge of primary care/basic services like health insurance, food supply and pocket money for the refugees in the monastery. Caritas’ policies and actions are criticized for depoliticizing and dividing the protest, and for separating the protest from its supporters and from civil society.

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translation page 81

Byens Anatomi af Patrick

Byen – et koncentrat af lyde og lugte en levende organisme med egen anatomi, fysiologi og psykologi sin unikke atmosfære.

Byen – med alle vores oplevelser ikke kun tingene omkring os men glimt af lugte og lyde lys og dufte – vores barndoms aura.

Byen koncentrerer symbolsk betydning om huse og penge, skilte og biler, strøgets støj og metroernes nye stationer kvidrende fugle og de mange dialekter.

Alt dette smertelige velkendte det vi ønsker at undslippe men vi ikke kan leve uden det vil altid være i morgen.

Selv i den værste psykedeliske drøm hvor magtfulde kræfter lover at opfylde vores inderste ønsker vågner vi altid, vi kommer tilbage til byen.

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Oversættelse side 81

Hey Man af Patrick

Hey man, you look at the world highly arrogantly, as though you were the best of the existing creatures, so hard for you to choose between creed and infidelity – always influenced by craze without questions.

Hey man, throw off the fetters of false religion, lose your regal posture and look around; is somebody following your opinion do you want to win the world with poor Mammon.

Hey man, what do you want to leave behind, blooming gardens or dead empty space, even though you have a strong faith – the only victim is your child.

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Tekster sammensat af avisoverskrifter genereret af de ti første resultater ved søgninger på ordet 'asyl' i ti online nyheds-sites. Søgningen fandt sted torsdag d. 21. marts 2013 mellem klokken 10.46 og 11.18.

Texts composed by news headlines, generated by the first ten results from searches on the word 'asylum' in ten online news sites. The search took place on the 21st of march 2013, between 10.46 and 11.18

Oversættelse side 94

Creating home behind the walls – a look into the rooms in Avnstrup asylum camp

by Karen RAVN VESTERGAARD

Ismail’s room:

I got them from The Islamic Society [Det Islamske Trossamfund i Danmark].

Every year during Ramadan you can get this calendar for free. I got the photo for free as well, although sometimes you have to pay. When you look at the photo, you keep it in your mind all the time. You think about Mecca and the prayer, you see the crowd of people, and using the calendar you can schedule the prayers. Sometimes when I look at the photo I feel a little bit better. Not only because I want to go there but because sometimes I get a different feeling, thinking about the praying. Some Christian people have Jesus on their wall. Maybe it’s the same feeling. There are a lot of people in the photo but they are all looking at the Kaaba [Muslims are expected to face the Kaaba during prayers]. So when I pray, I pray like this [showing a specific direction]. All Muslims pray like this. I think you could find this picture in any Muslim room – not only in this center but outside in other countries. If you enter a room and you see this photo, you know that these people are Muslims, otherwise they won’t have this photo.

I don’t have it just to be recognized, I like the photo. I’m happy to have it here.

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Ali and Lisa’s room:

Ali: Three months ago I went on hunger strike for ten days. I didn’t eat. And the last three days I didn’t even talk. During the first days, I wrote this on the wall: “Palestine will be free. I don’t ask you to be in your country, I ask for my country back.”

Lisa: First he wrote it on the corridor wall, and the Red Cross staff cleaned it away. They said that it’s not allowed to write anything political outside on the walls. When I look at this wall, I think of Palestine.

Ali: We wanted to work for peace in Palestine. The Israeli soldiers told me that we’re dangerous for them, because we were peace fighters. I said to them, I’m not a peace fighter, I’m a peace maker. We’re making peace.

Lisa: This text on the wall was a part of the hunger strike, and we wrote it because it is also a part of our personal struggle.

Ali: In Palestine I’ve been in jail many times. After I got out of the jail we got arrested together. I got arrested because of her as well. Every time they saw us together they pointed the gun at me, because she’s Israeli and I’m Palestinian.

The Israeli soldier pointed at her and put a gun on me, like this, and said, “Do you love her?”

Lisa: They said to me, “It’s not your business; you don’t have the right to talk.”

Ali: And they said, “If we see you together again, we will not tell you what will happen,” but it would be jail or death. I was in jail three times and then I fled, and after eight months I came here to Lisa.

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Yousef’s room:

I got the flowers two weeks ago. Some of the kids threw them and I took them.

I like them so much. The flowers are beautiful. They remind me of outside and the good feeling of nature. Often, I’m in my room by myself. Every day when I wake up I look at them and they make me happy. I clean them to keep them nice. I want them to be nice because I’m alone in my room a lot, and when I look at them, I smile.

They remind me of my youth, when I played as a child, and played with other kids. It reminds me of being a child when I didn’t have that much, and I walked around and played. It was very nice to be young. It was another time, where I thought in another way.

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Amran’s room:

I got this drawing in Sweden, which was the first country I arrived in. It was the first place I became settled in Europe, the first place I got a place to stay. I had these three really young Somali kids and their mother as my neighbours. It was the first time after I travelled all the way from my country that I got to speak to some people I was comfortable with, some people like me, with the same language. One morning, one of the children, a 12 year old girl, went to the school in the camp. She said to me, “I like you, I love you,” and I really liked her too.

She was so cute. She knew that my name starts with “A” so she drew this heart with an “A” in it. She gave it to me as a present. Every time I see this drawing, I remember this time and the life in Sweden and the four months I was with these people. When I came to this camp, I put it on the wall to remember that young girl. It makes me think of the life I had together with them. So, I put it here to remember the life in Sweden. It makes me remember that she loves me. I don’t have anything else on the walls. On this wall we mostly put up things we have to remember, appointments with the doctor, interviews, or papers about our internship. But the heart is always there.

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Asylcenter Avnstrup

Avnstrupvej 1, 4330 Hvalsø, Lejre 7 1

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11 9

Modtage- og udrejsecenter Bygningens tidligere funktion: Tuberkulosesanatorium, Plejehospital for personer med psykiske lidelser Afstand til nærmeste by: 9 km - Hvalsø Afstand til nærmeste større by: 19,9 km - Roskilde Kapacitet: 684 Mænd: 474 Kvinder: 122 Børn: 88

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Afstande Asylcenter Avnstrup – København Billetpris med offentlig transport : 108 kr.

Tid: 1:01 time (i dagtimerne) km: 49 Avnstrup Bus 214 - mod Viby Sjælland st.

Kører i tidsrummet: 07:04 til 21:14 - hver 60. minut (24 minutter, 19 stop) Viby Sjælland st. (bus) Gå til Viby Sj. st. (ca. 5 min, 25 minutter til omstigning) Viby Sjælland st.

RE Tog mod Østerport st.

(37 minutter, 6 stop) Københavns Hovedbanegård

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Hovedhus:

Familieværelser, 4-personersværelser, få enkeltværelser Pavilioner: 2-personersværelser

2

6 5 4 10

Kortbeskrivelser 1. Hovedhus • Fitnesslokale - Åbningstider: Alle dage. Torsdag kl. 20.00 - 22.00: Kun for kvinder. Mandag, onsdag og torsdag kl. 15.00 - 17.00. Kun for personale • Gymnastiksal (kvindefodbold, herrefodbold, badminton, volleyball) • Systue (multiværksted) • Musiklokale - Åbningstider: Mandag kl. 19.00 - 22.00 og torsdag kl. 18.00 - 21.00 • Kvindecafé • Club21 - Åbningstider: tirsdag, onsdag og torsdag 17:30 - 20:00. Kun for voksne.

• Bibliotek - 4 computere. Bøger findes på dansk, engelsk og arabisk.

• Genbrugsbutik - Åbningstider: onsdag 14.30 - 15.30 • Jobcenter - Åbningstider: kl. 9.00 - 11.00 og 13.30 - 15.30 • Netværkskontor • Undervisningslokale • Vaskeri - Antal vaskerum: 3. Antal vaskemaskiner: 24 • Reception - sofaer, 4 computere, 1 TV, infotavler • Beboelse 2. Pavilloner - i alt 76 stk.

3. Sygeplejerske - Åbningstider: kl. 9.00 - 11.00 4. Fritidsklub (miniklub og maxiklub) - Åbningstider: tirsdag - fredag kl. 13.30 - 16.30 5. Børnehave - Åbningstider: Mandag, tirsdag og torsdag kl. 8.15 - 14.15 6. Kommunal børnehave 7. Legeplads 8. Privat beboelse 9. Forsvarets Bygnings Etablissement 10. Politi 11. Beboelse for asylansøgere med særlige behov 12. Beboelse

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Asylcenter Avnstrup

Køkken

Pavilloner

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Multisal

Værested for unge og voksne 2013 • visAvis №8

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oversættelse side 81

First Questions

by Nimish Gautam

Hvor kommer du fra? That’s the first question people ask a person here. It’s just an ice-breaker. Where are you from? Jeg kommer fra USA. I’m from the United States of America.

My parents came to the US from Nepal back in the 80s. I’m not totally sure why.

It was probably some cultural expectations, some desire to see something new... maybe the US just had a very well-executed public relations campaign during the Cold War. At any rate, they came and had three kids who spoke disappointingly little Nepali, the eldest of whom decided to come to Scandinavia after doing some nominal research on the lifestyle.

Hvorfor Danmark? That’s the second question, usually asked with some curiosity and a hint of confusion. Why Denmark? This answer is a little longer.

?

Every day I wander around the streets and think “this is different.”

On the surface, this country seems more like the US than, say, North Korea, but still, it’s a little different. All of the major aspects of life are the same (or better); there’s freedom of speech, due process, representative government, more social services. All of the minor aspects, though, are different. For instance, I still don’t really know how to run my washing machine. I’m not sure where to go to buy peanut butter. I’m still not sure whether smiling at people on the street is seen as an annoyance or a welcomed sign of warmth, or a little of each. Could I find that combination of the foreign and familiar elsewhere? Probably. The exact right mix, though, the one that keeps me appreciative of everything I do on a daily basis? Probably not.

So, here I am.

Hvad synes du om Danmark? This is the third question. What do you think of Denmark? People always seem to expect something profound here, but the real answer is, “it’s ok.” I mean, what else can I say? It’s not like skydiving, and it’s not like drinking battery acid. It’s mild, calm, and peaceful. The response we learn in Danish class is: Jeg har vænnet mig til det. I’ve gotten used to it. At least, the parts I’ve experienced.

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But, experiences can be narrow. Being in one neighborhood of San Francisco is not the same as seeing the city, let alone the state of California, or even having a view of the whole culture. If I really wanted a solid, informed opinion and feeling about this culture, I would have to see a wider spectrum of Danish society. I wanted to know what life was like for those seeking asylum in the various camps across Denmark.

One day I went to the castle at Jægerspris with a group from visAvis. At the time, they had a camp exclusively for children, with about 40 asylum seekers and a regular staff of around four.

I met a 14-year-old. He asked me the first question, and I responded accordingly. Jeg kommer fra USA. I saw the same hint of curiosity and confusion that I had seen before, so I knew what was coming. I had the beginning of the second answer ready and was trying to figure out how to explain my esoteric hippie ideals of “being in the moment” to a 14-year-old.

Then something unexpected happened: he asked a new second question.

Hvor ligger det? Where is that? Where, geographically, is the USA? I had to stop and think for a minute. More importantly, I had to stop and think about the way the world was like for this person standing in front of me.

?

Hvor kommer han fra? He came from Afghanistan. His parents had managed to get him somewhere where he could seek asylum, but on his own. It’s uncertain whether his parents are still there now. He’s waiting to be processed, and will continue to wait until he is 18, after which time he will be put in to the adult asylum system. Until then, and possibly afterwards, he gets the ‘privilege’ of experiencing Denmark from the inside of various camps. His daily life will consist of meeting people from other refugee countries and a handful of teachers and social workers. He speaks Dari and has been in the country long enough to speak Danish. Despite his parents’ ostensible reasons for sending him away, he had never met anyone from the USA, nor did he know where in the world it might be.

Hvad synes han om Danmark? One of the members of our group decided to ask him, and he answered based on the parts he’s experienced: “Det er et fucking fængsel.” It’s a fucking prison. He didn’t choose to come to Denmark, choose to be separated from his family, nor did he choose to live in a refugee camp. These choices were made for him, and as a result, he now has far fewer freedoms in this society than his peers.

Being trapped in such a situation, it’s only natural to want to escape. In fact, children from these camps have escaped to other EU nations, making money on the black market and living underground, and they’ve done so on multiple

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occasions. Like so many others, they’ve chosen physical danger in a place where they can be free than live in a country where children have their freedoms taken away and have no ability to decide their own future. And that country is Denmark. The same one I’m living in. My brain could hardly wrap itself around this idea. It still can’t. Not fully.

?

When my parents left Nepal, the country was a monarchy that had switched from a multiparty elected system to a party-less representative system, and was relatively stable. Around 1996, an extreme militant group started to rise in power in Nepal, which resulted in a civil war that lasted for ten years.

During that time, many Nepali people fled and sought asylum in countries around the world, including Denmark. If my family had been part of that original group that fled, I would’ve been 14 at that time.

Historical accidents beyond my control could have led me to the same country, the same physical location, but with a completely different perspective. With that in mind, let me try to answer the same questions again.

Hvad synes du om Danmark? A land with amazing people and amazing potential, but with a sometimes frighteningly blind eye towards the members of its society who have the least amount of freedom and self-determination.

Hvorfor Danmark? Esoteric reasons aside, why move? Maybe some cultural expectations, some desire to see something new... possibly a well-executed public relations campaign claiming it to be the happiest nation in the world. It’s really the same story for anyone that wants to travel.

?

Hvor kommer du fra? I come from a particular point on the globe, the same as everyone else. It turns out it doesn’t matter where that point is; what matters is that I’m here now. The difference is, through a series of random events that I didn’t control, I’m able to experience this country in a way that other members of this society never will be able to.

I feel that a person’s experience in the world should be determined by the kind of person they strive to be and how they live, not based on the accidents of history that they’ve found themselves in. Really, we’re all just accidents of history, and in the end, it doesn’t matter how we got here, just that we’re here now, we all have the same capacity and desire to feel a sense of control in our lives, a drive which should be honored no matter where we started our journeys from. [note: The camp at Jægerspris has been shut down. At the time of this writing, most of the children have been moved to a camp in Vipperød.]

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"We are third-class people" - a visit to the home for asylum seekers in Constance, Germany

by Andreas Schmaltz

Constance is a small town of 80,000 people in southwest Germany. It is situated on the shores of Lake Constance in plain view of the Alps. Bordering on Switzerland, Constance is a popular destination for tourists from all over the world. One of the two homes for asylum seekers of the county is in this city. It is located in an area with industrial buildings, apartments and former military barracks. There is a sign of the German Red Cross next to the entrance of the old, rose-colored building. Above it is a brass sign with the emblem of BadenWürttemberg which says, Common Housing for Refugees County Constance. A fenced playground is in front of the house. The blinds in the back still have an industrial charm.

“Type C: barracks” “Do you see how we live here?” says a man in his twenties. He is Serbian and Romanian and will be deported one month from now. Inside the house, wide stairs lead to the second floor. The walls are painted in yellow and grey. The corridor has rooms to the left and to the right. The tiles on the floor are worn and dirty. There is one kitchen. The showers are in the basement. Four to five people share one room. They have to buy their own furniture. The total number of occupants is around 150 people. The refugee organization Pro Asyl calls this kind of accommodation “Type C: barracks”. The Refugee Council recommends their immediate closing. Currently, there are 29 institutions of this kind in Germany.

But it is the uncertainty that gets to people, here in the Type C: barracks.

Sometimes they have to wait for months for a reply from the authorities. Six men from Pakistan are sitting in a room on the first floor. They offer me tea.

They are friendly and very hospitable. They say that not many people are interested in their situation. For most of them, their first application for asylum has already been denied. The authorities do not believe their reasons for fleeing their

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home-countries, or dismiss them as insufficient. To stand a chance, they save their allowance to pay for a lawyer. Housemates with a place to work sometimes help out, if someone does not have enough money. The men tell me that they try to stick together.

Third-class Asylum seekers are only allowed to apply for permission to work after staying for one year in Germany. They get permission if they can find a job that is not claimed by a German, an EU-citizen, or someone, who already has been granted asylum. “We are third-class people,” they say.

When asked if someone told them about their rights, or helped them with the paperwork, they responded, “no.” Nobody seems to help them. One man talks about the constant headaches he suffers from. He cannot stand the waiting any more. “One can only sleep and watch television for so long before you go crazy.” He holds several kinds of painkillers in his hand that were prescribed for him by a doctor.

Living together Back on the second floor in the kitchen, a man from Algeria is just preparing his meal: one chicken wing, two eggs, and some partially baked rolls. He buys his food with coupons. He came to Germany alone. It has been three years since he arrived. There were no prospects in Algeria, just prisons; that is why he came to Germany. He traveled to Europe by boat. Like so many refugees, he paid smugglers for the dangerous journey. He says: You come, or you will be dead, and then they want to deport you just like that. You risk your life to come here and they say ‘go home’.

He nearly forgot his rolls in the oven because of our conversation. He brings the slightly burned rolls to his room.

There are two stoves in the kitchen. They have been there for a few months.

The left one does not work properly any more. The wall next to it is dirty. There are cockroaches. On both sides of the kitchen are worktops made from stainless steel. A few single hot plates are placed on top of them with most of the knobs missing; they can only be used The smell of urine with pliers. In the middle of the room stands a single rubbish bin, which is actually a large cooking pot, filled to the wafts into the cortop with garbage. Packaging and pieces of food are lying ridor. When asked next to it. The city pays a cleaning company, which only comes on Mondays. It is Saturday. about the toilets, the Further down the hall are the toilets. Some of the man from Algeria tiles around the toilet bowl are missing. There are no toilet seats. The smell of urine wafts into the corridor. When says: "The people asked about the toilets, the man from Algeria says: ”The here are not anipeople here are not animals. Not even dogs would go to the toilet in a place like this. If someone wants to go to the mals. Not even dogs toilet, we go outside at the mall. Wherever - but not here.”

The mall is located about 500 meters away. For the would go to the families living in the house there are no alternatives. If toilet in a place like they complain, they are threatened with deportation.

That is what everybody is afraid of. And for the young this." man from Serbia this has now become a sad reality.

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translation page 84

I Thyborøn bølger havet Af sine Bang nielsen • illustration af casper øbro

I Thyborøn bølger havet ned i kældre og lagres indtil fremtidens spande skal tømme dem som man tømmer havet for månen.

Hvis gud blander sig har mennesket intet at gøre og vi gør fra og til og vi skubber troen på at essensen er en flade. Himlen er uden en kerne der kan rulle et mirakel.

Vandet, fladerne, himmel og hav er truende. Tiden er truende. Det er essensen der ude efter os. Vi er i tomme tomme tider. Vi er mandmænd uden klister.

Er det gud der blander sig som trykbølge og skubber os tilbage i havet? Nej det er os der gør til og gør fra og mere. Og hopper fordi det er koldt? Nej fordi jorden brænder som dén gør.

I tønder i tønder i tømmerflåder kommer de til Europa. Olie og gas, olie og gas, rytmen af død i bølger. Tilbage til havet, til dåben er en tærskel, synden vaskes af, hjernen vaskes i, Jordanfloden, Nilen, Gibraltar, som om frelse der drypper, ikke er tortur. Olie på hud brænder og brænder, ørkenen er mørk og fuld af ild.

Moderjord har mange grænser, grænserne er vand og kan tømmes som man tømmer den døbte for dåben. Gibraltarstrædet markerer en grænse.

Stillehavet dækker en tredjedel af jordens overflade, Stillehavet rummer 25.000 øer, 25.000 øer der skal oversvømmes når Stillehavet stiger, har øboerne kun havet at bebo.

Jeg taler helt tæt på en mur med munden mod en mursten. Vi lever sammen som om vi ikke så hinanden, med vores europæiske øjne er der ingen mennesker i miles omkreds, indtil sneen kommer og farver os hvide og hvirvler os sammen om en følelse, som om vi ville cirkle et træ hele året. Det klister harpiks, det er gran. Og vi danser os sammen til et endnu større ubehag for ubehag er kærlighed og det er en bevægelse og bevægelsen er det ubehagelige i cirklerne der genføder os ens år for år er de efterfølgende der følger de efterfølgende. Således rundtosset omringer jeg et træ i skoven og rører så meget ved det at jeg vokser mine arme ind i en bevægelse passerer jeg barken og oplever lysets rigdom indefra med arme helt ude i grene.

Hvor er skovene. Ved Limfjorden ved Thyborøn tager jeg toget til Thisted og mærker vinden kan bruges til noget, foruden træerne i skoven er vendt mod øst, er vinden i konstant forandring. På havene ved man hvad vind er. Jeg syer mig et sejl, til når jeg som træ, hugges ud til kajak, vil se Europa fra vandsiden. Der kommer en tid hvor selv jeg flyder over. Selv jeg vil.

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The year of the hunger strikes

Oversættelse side 84

When people no longer are in power of their own lives, they can resist by mastering their own deaths. In 2012 the hunger strike was deployed as a mode of resistance among migrants in Danish asylum camps and a political prisoner in Bahrain. This text analyzes the representation of the two hunger strikes in the Danish media.

For the background of the analysis, see table of facts at page 62

by Lise Olivarius • illustration by mia edelgart

If 2011 was the year of the revolutions – from Tahrir Square to Wall Street – 2012 was the year of the hunger strikes. Pussy Riot did it in Russia. Julia Timoshenko did it in Ukraine. Political prisoners did it en masse in the Middle East. And migrants did it in asylum camps in Denmark. In terms of the amount of space that hunger strikes took up in the Danish media landscape, it is fair to talk about a momentum for this form of resistance. Although often vehemently condemned, the hunger strikes were there, represented in the media, and that is a point in itself. A hunger strike is a performative mode of resistance, and the representation and the audience are at least as important as the act of "I can’t do anything. starving. This text will zoom in on the asylum seekers’ hunstrike in Denmark, while comparing it to the hunger Only hungerstrike. ger strike of one specific political prisoner in Bahrain, asking Maybe someone why the latter hunger strike was widely considered more and portrayed more sympathetically than the will hear me and do legitimate former. When, for whom and against what does the hegemonic discourse consider it legitimate to hunger strike? something."

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low death: Necropolitics ”It is a slow death to be an asylum seeker for years” (Nielsen 2012), the eleven hunger-striking Iranian asylum seekers living in Danish asylum camps write in a joint statement. This is more than mere polemics. Death is not metaphorical here; it is literal. And death is a recurrent theme in the media discourse on the asylum hunger strikes. On several occasions, the hunger strikers are quoted for stating that death is their only option. Thus, Farhad Talebi, one of the eleven hunger-striking Iranians, states: “We will hunger strike as long as we live […] No matter what, I will die. Either here or in Iran” (Larsen 2012a).

The hunger strikers’ most recurrent argument – filtered through the hegemonic discourse of the media representation – is that death is unavoidable, and that taking death into their own hands is their last and only option: “Hunger

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Necropolitics does not only operate through the bomb, the gun, the drone, the spectacular death, and the singular death of the individual body.

Necropolitics also operates through the control of populations by keeping them only barely alive in death worlds, as Mbembe calls it, on the border between life and death as so-called living dead.

strike is my only way out” (Larsen 2012c). “I can’t do anything. Only hunger strike. Maybe someone will hear me and do something” (Krøl 2012). According to these quotes, asylum seekers turn to hunger striking when they are deprived of other kinds of political agency. Desperation is another key word throughout the media coverage. Does that make the deliberate self-starvation the ultimate expression of powerlessness? Not necessarily. For the philosopher Achille Mbembe, dying can be an expression of agency. In his essay “Necropolitics” from 2003, Mbembe argues that death – in the very concrete and literal sense – plays a central role for present-day political power structures. Mbembe introduces the concept of necropolitics, politics of death, as a corrective to Michel Foucault’s influential concept of biopolitics, politics of life. Biopolitics or biopower is the contemporary, decentralized power to control and cultivate life in all its aspects, as opposed to the power of the sovereign to take the life of his subjects, i.e. the power of death. Foucault’s mistake, Mbembe argues, is to relegate death to an irrelevant appendix of the biopolitical system, where death, according to Mbembe, still has a central function. Therefore, the Foucauldian notion of a (however seemingly) “benevolent” power mainly operating through the cultivation of life is inadequate. But necropolitics is not an alternative to biopolitics; rather, necropolitical death is a precondition for biopolitical cultivation of life. Think about the legitimization, for instance, of war with security arguments. Or, more abstractly, of the way in which the maintenance of the living standards of a dominant, Western class have fatal costs in other parts of the world, and other layers of society. Some people must die so that others may live.

Necropolitics does not only operate through the bomb, the gun, the drone, the spectacular death, and the singular death of the individual body. Necropolitics also operates through the control of populations by keeping them only barely alive in death worlds, as Mbembe calls it, on the border between life and death as so-called living dead. The point is that none of the necropolitical death worlds listed by Mbembe, not even the Holocaust, are exceptions from history; on the contrary, the death worlds are the foundation of the current world order. Not the rupture, but the rule. Or, as Giorgo Agamben would put it: The state of exception has become constant. One of Agamben’s most famous points is that society depends on whom it excludes.

With Mbembe, we could take it a little further and venture to suggest that society depends on whom it kills.

There is reason for suggesting that the migrants caught in the Danish asylum system are incarnations of Mbembe’s “living dead”, and that the asylum camp, or the state of being an “asylum seeker”, is a Mbembian “death world,” a necropolitical topos, seemingly abject and exceptional, but actually normal and necessary for the course of history and the maintenance of the system. Slow

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death, as the hunger strikers from the church call their life as asylum seekers, when they manage to make their voice heard in the media.

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acism: The distribution of degrees of life and 'Danishness' Could another name for slow death simply be racism? For Foucault, racism is the instance dividing people into those who must die and those who can live – or those who must die so that others can live. Racism is a means of distributing degrees of life. Mbembe adds that racism serves the purpose of justifying the death function of biopolitics. Racism is the vessel that transports the death power of the sovereign into the biopolitical system. In this homicidal, biopolitical realm – which is what Mbembe calls necropolitics – death is presented as having the function of saving lives. It is the security logic of the war, the state of emergency which with racism has become constant, common, and mundane.

Thus, it is an expression of racism when the hunger strikes are repeatedly condemned as “un-Danish” or “unchristian” by several media, politicians, and opinion-formers (e.g. Heick 2012). The distribution of privileges – such as the privilege to participate in political life, e.g. by protesting – in accordance to nationality, culture, and religion is a function of structural racism.

A central point of the hegemonic discourse is that the hunger strike as a form of resistance doesn’t belong in Denmark. As the manager of Jelling Asylum Camp puts it: “No Danish caseworker is going to feel pressured, and in Denmark, there is no tradition for that kind of action being succesful […] In their part of the world, they have a tradition for making their point somewhat more vigorously than we have here” (Baun 2012). The camp manager disavows the hunger strikers as non-Western or un-Danish. Their lack of ‘Danishness,’ certified by their exclusion from the Danish nation-state when they were denied asylum, is further emphasized by their protest against this exclusion, as the camp manager culturally disassociates herself from their protest taking the abject and alien form of a hunger strike. Similar cultural-national disavowals abound in the media-represented denouncements of the asylum hunger strikes, and the discourse functions through very frequent use of the words “Denmark” and “Danish”.

"I hope that they Interestingly, there is a consensus about denouncing the asylum hunger strikes all across the parliamentary eventually reapolitical spectrum (Larsen 2012d). Regardless of which lize that this fight stance they otherwise take on asylum issues or migration policies, the politicians agree to condemn the fact that should be fought asylum seekers hunger strike. Most of the opinion formwith other means ers outside of parliament who make their voices heard in the press adopt the same attitude (e.g. Heick 2012).

– and not at the Even the network Grandparents for Asylum, a pro-asyrisk of their lives" lum support network identifying as “humanitarian”, agrees to denounce the hunger strikes as misplaced in (Dagbladet Køge 2012a) Denmark. Spokesperson Mogens Hilden appears in several media with statements such as: ”Nobody in Danish society thinks that a hunger strike is a good thing” (Lindqvist 2012), or ”I hope that they eventually realize that this fight should be fought with other means – and not at the risk of their lives (Dagbladet Køge 2012a). Here, Hilden completely ignores the hunger strikers’ message, as it has been presented in the media

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– that they are already risking their lives. Furthermore, Hilden practices both victim-blaming: ”I don’t know how much we managed to emphasize the gravity of the situation that the hunger strikers have brought themselves in” (Dagbladet Køge 2012b, emphasis added) , and victimization, when he responds to the journalist’s question about what the asylum seekers should do instead: ”But they can’t do anything, those poor things. They can’t do anything but endure it” (Lindqvist 2012). Similar condescending victimization is present in much of the media discourse (e.g. Politiken 2012e, Wolfhagen 2012).

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ational disavowal versus national appropriation Compared to the asylum hunger strikes, Al-Khawaja’s "I don’t know how hunger strike receives broad support in the Danish much we manpress. He is presented with titles such as ”advocate of democracy” (Politiken 2012c) and ”human rights activist” aged to empha(Jyllands-Posten 2012). The words democracy and freesize the gravity of dom constitute a leitmotif throughout the media coverage of his case. the situation that If the discourse about the asylum hunger strikers is characterized by a national disavowal, the Al-Khawaja the hunger stridiscourse is conversely characterized by national approkers have brought priation, as his Danish citizenship is repeatedly emphasized. Or rather, his Danishness. The recurrent keywords themselves in" freedom and democracy serve the purpose of creating a discourse of cultural affiliation with Denmark and the (Dagbladet Køge 2012b, West beyond his legal status of citizenship. He is introemphasis added) duced as Danish-Bahraini, or pure and simple, as Danish.

Furthermore, several media reported that it was Danish society that taught AlKhawaja about human rights (Politiken 2012a, Jørgenssen 2012a).

Thus, the newspaper Politiken even awards him a “Freedom Prize” (Politiken 2012b). And, although the same paper in an editorial calls his decision to end his hunger strike ”wise” (Ibid), his method of resistance is never condemned nearly as strongly as the asylum seekers’. For Al-Khawaja, hunger striking is presented as both legitimate and potentially efficient.

Compared to this, one of the most characteristic and recurrent features of the media coverage of the asylum hunger strike is assertions of its uselessness.

The words useless, pointless, and purposeless form a common thread throughout the media discourse. As mentioned, a hunger strike is a performative form of resistance depending on its representation. When media in editorials and op-eds call a hunger strike useless, or quote politicians and other sources for the same point of view, it is a speech act. Calling a hunger strike useless is rendering it useless.

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he religious factor Despite the relatively broad support Al-Khawaja enjoys in the media, the representation of his hunger strike still oscillates on an axis between legitimate/“Danish”/“pro-democratic” and illegitimate/ “un-Danish”/“Muslim” /“Islamist”. Thus, in an editorial, the newspaper Jyllands-Posten asks: “Martyr for democracy or for Islam?” (Willum 2012). Also in the coverage of the asylum

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hunger strike, religion is an issue to an astounding degree. This is, of course partly due to the Iranian hunger strikers’ choice of battlefield: the church in Copenhagen. Moreover, some of the hunger strikers are reportedly Christian, and their degree of ‘Christianness’ functions as a more or less legitimizing factor of their hunger strike, much like Al-Khawaja’s varying degrees of Danishness (while the asylum seekers are undisputedly un-Danish). However, Kristeligt Dagblad warns that “it is a more religiously mixed bunch of hungerstriking Iranians who have moved inside Stefanskirken at Nørrebro, than it appeared in the media coverage to begin with. Unlike what several media, including Kristeligt Dagblad, have reported so far only a minority of the asylum seekers are Christian” (Dale & Hagemeister 2012). Thus, the cultural and religious distance created by the hunger strikers’s disappointingly low degree of Christanness is another factor in the discursive distribution of Danishness – which is also the distribution of rights, legitimacy, and life.

Also hunger striking as a phenomenon also undergoes religious-philosophical analysis when hunger striking is called “unchristian” (Heick 2012, Kristeligt Dagblad 2012). In an editorial, the newspaper Berlingske elaborates: ”instead of placing the responsibility for their future with the church and the Danish public, the asylum seekers must take responsibility themselves. That is actually also one of the most important Christian messages” (Berlingske 2012).

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laying the game of democracy Thus, the most oft-repeated argument against the asylum hunger strikes is that this form of expression doesn’t belong in a democracy. One of many examples is an editorial in Kristeligt Dagblad: ”A hunger strike might make sense in dictatorships, where parliamentary solutions cannot be sought. On the other hand, it is hard to justify such means of pressure in a democracy that offers the injured party other ways of seeking their right” (Madsen 2012). This argument, however, disregards the fact that the migrants are not fully included in the state they are subject to. Asylum seekers don’t have status as political agents, and they don’t enjoy democratic rights. The distinction between those who are political beings or citizens, and those who are not, those who are granted political agency and those who are not, is essential to the hunger striking discourse.

The Danish citizen Al-Khawaja is often referred to with the epithet “political prisoner” and is thereby already, discursively, granted political agency.

Several spokespeople of the asylum hunger strikes attempt to frame their fight as resembling the exceptional Al-Khawaja’s – the fight against an undemocratic, non-Western state. Thus, Dariush Mokhtari from the Iranian group asks: “the Danish government denounced Bahrain. Why won’t they denounce Iran, when we demonstrate?” (Heick 2012).

Others appeal to the narrative about the Danish state as democratic: “We thought that life in a democratic country would bring us new hope and new life” (Hussing 2012).

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But perhaps more interesting than these attempts to speak the language of the hegemonic discourse – and we shouldn’t forget that here, we only have access to these statements filtered through the hegemonic discourse of the media– is the insistent presence of the protesting migrants. Some of them protest in the camps, while eleven Iranians make themselves visible by taking their fight to the center of Copenhagen. Here, they are in sequence thrown out of their refuges: first the church and later, almost too ironically symbolic to be true, a community center called The Democracy House. When the eleven hunger strikers obtrusively move their struggle to the Danish power centre by camping in front of the parliament, it is perhaps not as much in order to appeal to the democratic channels, as it is to point to the inadequacy of this system. This is strongly performative, even theatrical, if not outright tragic: a play displaying the so-called democratic society as a mere society of the spectacle. Interestingly, some of the most historically acclaimed hunger strikes have also been fights for the expansion the political sphere, and for the recognition as political agents. For example, the suffragettes who brought the hunger strikes onto the political stage of the 20th century in the first place (Ellmann 1993:12).

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tarving as a necropolitical mode of resistance "I don’t think The power of the hunger strike, Patrick Anderson suggests in his analysis of the great hunger strike among about my own prisoners in Turkey in the early 2000’s, consists of its case, I think challenge of the state monopoly on violence. The hunger striker makes hirself the subject of the violence that s/he about the collective is already the object of. The violence might not change responsibility." degree or even character, but its agent is displaced from the state to the hunger striker (Anderson 2004:830). This (Brobjerg 2012) is unacceptable for the sovereign state whose power is based on its monopoly on violence.

Perhaps this makes it clearer why Al-Khawaja and the migrants in Denmark chose to deliberately speed up their inevitable slow deaths. These hunger strikes are performances staged in necropolitical spaces where subjects are no longer in power over their own lives and therefore only can master their own deaths. This is the power of the hunger strike – to challenge the privilege of the sovereign to control its subjects’ deaths. This is what makes hunger strikes so provocative: any act of violence committed by any other actor than the state, even against oneself, is traditionally condemned as illegitimate by the hegemonic, western discourse (here represented by the Danish media).

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aking the violence visible The hunger strikers perform and make visible the structural violence of necropolitical (that is, at once sovereign and biopolitical) systems such as totalitarian states and deportation regimes rather than attempt to attain political liberties through the rights of the citizen. Every individual, hunger striking, dying or dead body, as real and material as it is, represents something outside of itself, a community as a whole. This is necropolitical resistance. And solidarity.

As when Ramin Molavi, spokesperson for the eleven Iranians in Copenhagen, responds to the journalist’s leading question about whether he thinks hunger striking has benefitted his asylum case legally: ”I don’t think about my own

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case, I think about the collective responsibility.” (Brobjerg 2012). Following this line of thought, it is possible to consider the hunger strike in more than pure negative terms of desperation, self-harm, and purposelessness bordering on insanity. Hunger strikes might succeed in challenging the system, while immediately losing struggles for particular rights within that system. The hunger strike not only represents, but also reverses the relations of violence the sovereign is founded on, when it takes the weapon of death from the sovereign’s hand.

Thus, it is worth noting that while the Danish media, in keeping with the general “uselessness discourse”, are quick to deem the asylum hunger strike a failure (“Hunger strike is over: Politicians did not yield” (Brobjerg 2012), as a headline smugly reads), some of the Syrian-Kurdish hunger strikers release a statement focusing on their achievement: “We have made our voices known and shown our suffering to the Danish and European public; while aware of the fact that this is not an end in itself, but a means of attaining the recognition and freedom, we demand.” (Jørgenssen 2012b).

Two hunger strikes The wave of asylum hunger strikes began around 7th of May 2012 in Sigerslev Asylum Camp, when approx 20 rejected Syrian-Kurdish asylum seekers initiated a hunger strike demanding the reopening of their cases. The following weeks Syrian Kurds in the camps of Brovst, Jelling, Holmegaard and Hanstholm, and a group of Iranians in Sandholm joined.

By the 24th of May more than 80 asylum seekers were hunger striking. On the 23d, eleven migrants from Iran began a hunger strike in Stefanskirken in Copenhagen. The group was forced to leave the church on the 29th of May. The protests continued in the municipal facility ‘The Democracy House’, where they were kicked out a few days later. After this they continued their hunger strike in front of the parliament.

Meanwhile, the different hunger strikes ended, and around the 12th of June, the asylum hunger strikes were over.

Parallel, the hunger strike of the prominent human rights activist Abdulhadi Al-Khawaja, holding Danish citizenship, took up space in the media. Al-Khawaja had been imprisoned in Bahrain since June 2011 for arranging pro-democracy protest as a part of the so-called Arab Spring.

In February 2012, he began a hunger strike demanding his release. AlKhawaja, who is one of the internationally acknowledged heroes of the Arab Spring, is still in prison.

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Litteratur: Agamben, G 1998, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, Stanford University Press Stanford, California.

Anderson, P 2004, ‘‘To lie down to death for days’: The Turkish hunger strike, 2000-2003’, Cultural Studies, vol. 18 no.6, pp. 816-846, DOI: 10.1080/0950238042000306882 .

Baun, L 2012, ’Centerleder: De bestemmer selv, om de vil spise eller sultestrejke’,Vejle Amts Folkeblad, 22 May, viewed 29 January, Infomedia database.

Berlingske 2012: ’Berlingske mener’, 26 May, viewed 11 February 2013, Infomedia database.

Brobjerg, MB 2012,’Sultestrejke stopper i dag – politikere bøjede sig ikke’, Jyllands-Posten, 12 June, viewed 11 February 2013, http://www.jyllands-posten.dk/protected/premium/indland/ECE4718496/sultestrejke-stopper-i-dagpolitikere-boejede-sig-ikke/ Dagbladet Køge 2012a: ’Demonstranter vil stoppe sultestrejke’ , 21 May, viewed 2 February 2013, Infomedia database.

Dagblaget Køge 2012b: ’Sultestrejke fortsætter trods demonstration’ , 21 May, viewed 10 February 2013, Infomedia database Dale, I & Hagemeister, ML 2012, ’De sultestrejkende iranere er en religiøst blandet flok’, Kristeligt Dagblad, 26 May, viewed 10 February 2013, http://www.kristeligt-dagblad.dk/artikel/463761:Danmark--De-sultestrejkende-iranere-eren-religioest-blandet-flok Ellmann, M 1993, The Hunger Artists. Starving, Writing, and Imprisonment, Harvard University Press.

Foucault, M 2003, ‘17 March 1976: Society Must Be Defended’ in Lectures at the Collège de France 1975–76, ed M Bertani et al., Picador, New York, pp. 239-265.

Heick, KK 2012, ’Sultestrejker er blevet en farlig trend i Danmark’, MetroXpress, 5 June, viewed 3 February 2013, 5/6, Infomedia database.

Hussing, M 2012,’16 iranere sultestrejker ved Sandholm’, Allerød Nyt, 23 May, viewed 2 February 2013, http://alleroed.lokalavisen.dk/16-iranere-sultestrejker-ved-sandholm-/20120523/artikler/120529645/1008 Jyllands-Posten 2012: ’To danskere er blandt verdens førende tænkere’ 2012, 27 November, viewed 3 February 2013, Infomedia database.

Jørgenssen, SA 2012a, ’Frygt for sultestrejkende danskers liv’, Berlingske, 1 March, viewed 30 January 2013, http:// www.bt.dk/udland/frygt-for-sultestrejkende-danskers-liv Jørgenssen, SA 2012b,’ Syrere indstiller sultestrejke over hele landet’, Jydske Vestkysten, 31 May, viewed 10 February, Infomedia database.

Kristeligt Dagblad 2012: ’Ledende artikel: Sultestrejke giver andre skylden’, 1. juni, set 10. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Krøl, AS 2012,’‘Måske er der nogen, der hører mig’’, TV2 Nyhederne Online, 24 May, viewed 10 February 2013, Infomedia database.

Larsen, JB 2012a, ’Politikere: Sultestrejke nytter ikke’, BT, 25 May, viewed 30 January, Infomedia database.

Larsen, JB 2012b, ’Iranere frygter tortur og død i hjemlandet’, Århus Stiftstidende, 24 May, viewed 31 January 2013, Infomedia database.

Larsen, JB 2012c, ’Sultestrejkende iraner: Jeg er bange for at blive henrettet’, Politiken, 23 May, viewed 2 February 2013, http://politiken.dk/indland/ECE1634530/sultestrejkende-iraner-jeg-er-bange-for-at-blive-henrettet/ Larsen, JB 2012d, ’Politikere opfordrer til at droppe ”formålsløs” sultestrejke’, Århus Stiftstidende, 24 May, viewed 11 February 2013, Infomedia database.

Lindqvist, A 2012,’ Bedsteforældre for asyl: Hold så op med at sultestrejke’, Politiken, 23 May, viewed 31 January 2013, http://politiken.dk/indland/ECE1634261/bedsteforaeldre-for-asyl-hold-saa-op-med-at-sultestrejke/ Madsen, AE 2012,’Sultestrejke giver andre skylden’, Kristeligt Dagblad, 1 June, viewed 10 February 2013, http://www. kristeligt-dagblad.dk/artikel/464486:Leder--Sultestrejke-giver-andre-skylden Mbembe, A 2003, ‘Necropolitics’, Public Culture, vol.15(1), no.1, pp.11–40, Duke University Press.

Nielsen, G 2012, ’’Det er en langsom død’’, Berlingske, 29 May, viewed 31 January 2013, http://www.b.dk/nationalt/ det-er-en-langsom-doed Politiken 2012a: ’Portræt: Ikke til at kue’ 10 April, viewed 3 February 2013, Infomedia database .

Politiken 2012b: ’Pris til Al-Khawaja’ 29 October, viewed 3 February 2013, Infomedia database.

Politiken 2012c: ’Al-Khawaja for retten i Bahrain’, 1 December, viewed 10 February 2013, Infomedia database.

Politiken 2012d: ’Al-Khawaja for retten i Bahrain’, 1 December, viewed 10 February 2013, Infomedia database.

Politiken 2012e: ’Bedsteforældre for Asyl: Hold så op med at sultestrejke’ 23 May, viewed 10 February 2012, Infomedia database.

Willum, G 2012, ’Martyr for demokratiet eller for islam?’, Jyllands-Posten 11 April, viewed 31 January 2013, http:// www.jyllands-posten.dk/protected/premium/international/article2746127.ece Wolfhagen, R 2012: ’“Jeg kan ikke se nogen løsning på jeres problem”’, Information 4 June 2012, viewed 10 April 2012, http://www.information.dk/302554 The list of literature includes only newspaper articles that are directly quoted in the text. The analysis is based on approximately 150 news articles, editorials, and op-eds from a wide variety of Danish, written media.

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Those who tend to cause trouble A

ffective outcomes of the politics of differences, otherness, and strange- ness and how these shape bodies over time are some of the main concerns in Sara Ahmed’s writings. As a professor in Race and Cultural Studies at Goldsmith University of London, she touches upon various theories concerning notions of ‘otherness’ such as postcolonialism, queer theory, and transnational studies. Central to most of her work is the view of how emotions register the proximity of others, how these emotions are attributed to objects and their valuation. visAvis has asked her to elaborate on specific aspects of her work in order to use it in relation to asylum and queer activism. We begin with the figure of the feminist killjoy, with whom Ahmed addresses the potentials in disturbing the good atmosphere.

by Sara Ahmed and Liv Nimand Duvå • illustration by casper øbro

O

ne of the key concepts in your work on affect is the figure of the feminist killjoy. I find this concept useful as a way of approaching and understanding activism. Could you introduce the feminist killjoy as a tool to understand the feelings surrounding activism?

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I have certainly found this figure of the feminist killjoy full of potential! And that is in itself interesting because some of my own early experiences of being the feminist killjoy were difficult, even painful. You are assumed to be saying this or that, being against this or that, because you are a feminist, intent on ruining the enjoyment of others. You don’t even have to say anything; once you are identified as a feminist, they expect you to be difficult! And it can be difficult to be expected to be difficult! I think that to find an experience of difficulty the site of potential is how the figure of the feminist killjoy can become a political tool.

If it gets in the way of happiness to point out racism, or xenophobia, then we need to get in the way; we need to do exactly what they “accuse” us of doing. Think of how often immigrants and asylum seekers are seen as getting in the way of national happiness, as stealing the nation that belongs to “us,” as taking “our” jobs, benefits, or making “us” feel estranged from “our” culture and history. If strangers and migrants are viewed as causing unhappiness, no wonder that unhappiness can become a political cause. The feminist killjoy is the one who is willing to get in the way of happiness if that happiness is unjust, if that happiness is given to some at the expense of others.

Y

ou have described activism as a matter of seats, of being unseated by the table of happiness.

Could you elaborate on the perception of the seats in relation to our work on asylum and migration?

I guess to answer that question I have to go back one more step: why tables, why seats?

My early experiences of being a killjoy are really about the family table. My family was quite conservative politically. I don’t know how it happened but since I can remember I was conscious of injustice, whether it was about differences between what girls and boys could do, or whether it was about how poverty and disadvantage were judged as the fault of the poor and disadvantaged

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(one of my early memories of politicization was the constant use in the Australian media of the figure of the “dole bludger”, as if those who claim employment benefits were just lazy and undeserving), or of racism (the insults I would be called at school for my “funny name” and so on, the graffiti at the local bus stop that said “Asians Out”). Being conscious of injustice, and speaking about it, can be an unseating. Because actually to be seated at the family table (and the family is often assumed as happy) means not to bring these things up. Oh, how many dinners I have been accused of ruining because I objected if a member of my family said something sexist, or racist, or homophobic!

To object to violence is to be judged as the one who brings violence into the room. As activists, we of course have our own tables: our meetings and events. We take up seats in an actual, as well as symbolic, sense. It might be consciousness of injustice and violence that brings us to these tables. But even then, we don’t all agree; we know this, this is the case even with our closest allies.

There are some very recent cases in socialist parties, when women have been treated as killjoys, as getting in the way of the solidarity of the party, because they have brought up sexual violence occurring within the party. And the party defends itself by making these women into the problem. And people of colour often become killjoys in feminist and queer tables when we bring up the question of racism. I think activism is a very particular kind of setting: people can have an idea of themselves as radical or p r o gressive, so if you challenge t h a t

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idea, you get a very defensive reaction. And what follows a defensive reaction can often be an unseating: you lose your place at the table so they can keep theirs.

In any activist setting there are going to be certain issues that are not allowed on the table, not necessarily officially, but affectively (so that when so and so mentions such and such, eyes roll even if nothing is said). When we assemble our own tables we need not only to think about process and procedure (the rules we might collectively come up with to enable us to converse as well as we can, arrive at decisions as well as we can), but also become attuned to how atmospheres can create their own inclusions and exclusions. If a cozy warm feeling is disrupted when someone mentions the word “racism”, then the person who mentions that word becomes the one who has caused the loss of a cozy warm feeling!

We need to think about how we too can treat others as killjoys, if we assume that what they say gets in the way of what we do.

Being on the side of those struggling for legitimacy within the nation does not mean that we are right.

T

he personal stories of people who have migrated and are situated in camps are often expressed by sadness, anger, and hopelessness. If we understand acts of solidarity as the willingness to share these feelings, it becomes important to look at what kind of changes the feelings undergo when they wander between subjects that are differently positioned. What is your perception of the mutation of feelings in a solidarity perspective?

Solidarity is what we achieve, not what we assume: this I learnt from Audre Lorde, who taught me so much. Solidarity is probably not best understood as a feeling (which is not what you are asking but it is still worth saying). You can feel solidarity with someone and act in ways that fall

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short of solidarity (indeed the tendency in activism to “speak for others” often relates to the problem to “feel for others”). If anything, I would say that feeling versions of solidarity can be part of the problem. In the Australian case, I have often felt this: that empathy or compassion towards indigenous Australians or refugees can just be another way those with privilege can feel good about themselves. And it is really important to establish that we do not have to share in the suffering of others to recognize this suffering has something to do with us (otherwise I could say, “if I do not feel your pain, your situation has nothing to do with mine”). We also have to be careful not to reduce others to their suffering, or to expect others to testify to their suffering (the requirement to testify is what makes claiming asylum so traumatic and difficult, to testify to an injury can be a repetition of the injury). We know that the law does not tend to listen; it can hear only what is already admitted as evidence, such that to claim asylum often means having to translate one’s own traumatic experience into something admissible to the law; whilst having in this process one’s own testimony constantly doubted and disputed.

Supporting people through the trauma of this process is and will remain hugely important. Given this, to be willing to listen otherwise is an important starting point for asylum activism. This means being willing to be affected by others, however you will be affected (feelings, if they travel, rarely travel smoothly). For many, being able to share a traumatic story with others, for that experience to be recognized and validated, for that experience to affect and move others, will be important. For others, not having to put feelings into words can be a relief, not having to share the experience.

We don’t always know how people find the resources to survive. But being willing to listen if speaking is what works means being prepared to be undone by what is said.

You have to work to have an open ear, as so much of our life training has taught us to

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close our ears to whatever gets in the way of our own right to occupy space.

I

n your research into how emotions work by sticking figures together, you are concerned with figures such as the asylum seeker and the international terrorist. How are these figures sticking together in a narrative structure of feelings?

I have used the idea of stickiness to get at how racism operates. The figure of the “bogus asylum seeker,” circulates in the press as well as politics to create a narrative: that many of those who seek asylum are illegitimate, that they are using the claim to asylum to gain entry into the nation and receive its benefits. So the word “asylum seeker” can convey “bogus.” You don’t even need that word to convey the sense; it has become stuck. And figures can get stuck together; so having a ”soft touch” about asylum and migration in general is often treated as making the nation more vulnerable to terrorism, such that asylum seekers become treated as if they are terrorists. Or think of the use of the expression “Islamic terrorists” which when repeated can stick those two words together, such that “Islamic” evokes terror on its own. Danger and terror is projected onto the bodies of those seen as outsiders, as “not us”, and this “not” sticks to some bodies. There is nothing more dangerous than being perceived as a danger to the nation!

vious. And sometimes it is. But actually, I think describing the mechanisms remains an important part of political work because often these mechanisms are reproduced by not coming into view. I also think it is important to note that racism is not something we find over “there”. It is all around us, and can take much more polite and subtle forms than the forms I have described.

S

hould we be cautious about transferring the theory of the feminist killjoy into the field of asylum and migration?

I think we should be cautious about not assuming the feminist killjoy is a theory or a position that we can occupy. What we learn from the feminist killjoy is that those who expose violence often become the origin of that violence. When we do this kind of work, work that challenges who gets to belong within the nation and who does not, we come up against the very structures we are working against. For example, if you are working against racism, you come up against racism; racism can become directed towards those who expose racism. That is why political work can be so exhausting and so necessary at the same time. I think if I find in this figure some instruction, it would simply be this: if this fight is exhausting, we can be energized by sharing that exhaustion with others. Those who tend to cause trouble often find those who share this tendency!

H

ow does the killjoy respond to such narratives?

I am not sure it is about responding as a killjoy, because I am not sure we can be sure if we are always the killjoys! If we assumed that, it might give us too much safety. We too can be part of the problem; those working as activists in these fields are not necessarily unaffected by the racism that structures so much of national discourse. In terms of the narratives themselves, I think we need to work out what is going on. It might seem simple and ob-

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Discussing gender structures in the camps: "People shouldn't be afraid of leaving their rooms at night because of their gender" Each Monday, women with and without Danish citizenship meet in the user-driven culture house, The Trampoline House, to discuss women’s conditions and strategies for survival across the globe. On Monday the 3rd of June 2013, the discussion was about gender structures in Danish asylum camps and the surrounding society as such. The following conversation excerpts are from the discussion, where eight women participated. The excerpts illustrate the core themes of the gender structure discussion, male dominance and the women’s experience of being unsafe and unprotected. Especially in the camps.

by Liv Nimand Duvå • illustration by marie northroup

A: There are differences between men and women, but there are differences between everybody and people’s cases are different. Some people get crazy because they have been in the asylum camps for eight or ten years. If I had been there that long, I would get crazy too. It’s sad to see things like this. But this is camp life.

B: But we should figure out some ways to support women especially. People shouldn’t be afraid of leaving their rooms at night because of their gender. Last Monday there was a woman here who said that it was hard for her to leave her room, because all the time men asked to have sex with her for money.

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A: Yes, this happens all the time. That is why we should be careful and take care of ourselves. If a woman has relationships with many men in the camp, all the men would jump on her. So, if you have one man you should stay with him and be nice. Otherwise, you will get problems.

B: But in Denmark, at least officially, men have no right to touch women. No matter how they dress and behave.

C: In the old days in Denmark, if something happened to a woman, everybody would also say: “it’s her own fault.”

D: There are still many cases like this in the camps. And because the Red Cross can’t protect the women they give them closed rooms. At least in Sandholm.

So, instead of protecting the women, the Red Cross isolates them even more.

If you are afraid, you will just be more isolated and on your own. In this way it becomes your own problem, not a common one.

E: Sometimes in the camp, when I have problems with men and call the police, I don’t get support. So, how about you women in Denmark - if you have problems with your boyfriend or husband or other men, will you get support?

F: It’s in our system that we can get support. There are these support centers for women where you can get asylum if you have problems. So, by law there is a possibility of getting support; you can get a lawyer, a restraining order.

E: Okay, but I would like to know what happens if you go to the police. Do they need witnesses or do they instantly believe you?

B: If you call the police and say that a man has beaten you or raped you they

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will take it seriously. But the problem is what happens after. There are a lot of procedures you have to go through. You have to tell your story over and over again. And they don’t believe you immediately.

E: I ask because when I was in my country I knew a girl who told me that they took good care of women in Europe. But now that I am here, I see how many men are beating women and I have also had problems myself and I didn’t get support. I called the police and told them that I had problems with this man, and they didn’t do anything. Today a woman visited me in my room.

Three years ago, when she was together with her husband in the camp, he beat her and strangled her. And when you hear these kinds of stories, you don’t have safety in your life. So, for all the things I heard about gender equality in Europe, I don’t see it here.

A: Everywhere around the globe, women are molested by men, and especially in the camps.

G: It’s also a problem that there are hidden communities in the camps. If the same tribe moves from the same country to the camp it’s like moving the rules and the norms and all the traditions with them. I felt it myself. If I’m from a certain country, I have to be protected by the men from that country, and protected by the name of these national belongings. This is what makes it difficult for the law to do anything, because you will live with these people. You are forced to be there and get used to daily life.

H: It’s a way for the men to keep control in this precarious situation, where you have a lot of superiors in your life. The last thing they can lose is the control over women. It’s naturally created in the camp.

C: There are also more men than women in the camps, which means that women are double minoritized. So, maybe there should be more segregation.

And at least the women who come here should know their rights.

H: But this doesn’t remove the problem about having to prove everything.

When women have fled from Afghanistan for instance, they cannot get any help in Denmark unless they are able to prove that they are in danger. And how is it possible to prove suppression?

E: You are right. When I asked the police woman in the center about what they can do for women who have been raped, she said, “if there is enough evidence, we can help.” A lot of women in the camp who have problems with rape and violence, if they don’t have evidence, their case will be closed.

The Trampoline House, Skyttegade 3, Copenhagen N 2200 www.trampolinhuset.dk

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Writers, Painters, Photographers, Creatives – with or without citizenship.

Get your words, thoughts & stories out!

Contact us at visavis.contact@gmail.com is a magazine on asylum and migration, the movement of people across borders and the challenges connected to this. We work to improve the debate on asylum and migration, among other things by publishing texts that people seeking asylum want to share. visAvis is an activist project where people with and without citizenship in Denmark meet to create an alternative public space and debate.

Skyttegade 3 · DK-2200 · København N · Danmark 72

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Indhold / Content Oversættelser / Translations

†₨Ǻ[\]S ĽAtIØNŞ 74 75 77 78 81 81 81 83 84 84 90 92 94 95

Rapport fra en visAvis-workshop - visAvis De ulydiges momentum - Adam Qvist Strukturerne der fik folk til at isolere sig - Turgay Ulu Rapport fra The Refugee Protest i Wien – Shahjahan Khan The Anatomy of the City – Patrick Hey Mand – Patrick Første spørgsmål - Nimish Gautam Vi er tredjeklassesmennesker – Andreas Schmaltz In Thyborøn the sea waves – Sine Bang Nielsen Sultestrejkens år – Lise Olivarius Dem der har det med at lave ballade – Sara Ahmed og Liv Nimand Duvå En diskussion om kønsstrukturer i lejrene - Liv Nimand Duvå At skabe hjem bag murene – et indblik i værelserne i Asylcenter Avnstrup - Karen Ravn Vestergaard Tegneserier fra Refugee Protest Camp i Berlin

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Rapport fra en visAvis-workshop

I foråret var visAvis på en tur til kultur- og miljøkollektivet Makvärket i Holbæk. Aktivisterne fra Makvärket viste os rundt i den 2.000 m2, gamle keramikfabrik, afholdte alternative former for debatter og møder og tog del i vores aktiviteter. Vi bringer her Kipangas personlige introduktion til Makvärket og en polyfonisk tekstcollage, som er resultatet af en kreativ skriveworkshop afholdt af Liv fra visAvis. af visAvis • photos by Paula Nimand Duvå & kipanga Makvärket af Kipanga

I løbet af sommeren 2011 tog jeg for første gang til Makvärket. Det var også første gang, jeg fik chancen for at være i en gruppe af mennesker, som ikke er i samme situation som jeg, og her mener jeg folk, der ikke lever i en asyllejr. For mig, der lever i en asyllejr, hvor alt er kontrolleret, var det et stort øjeblik at komme til Makvärket. Her lærte jeg at samarbejde med andre, lærte om ting jeg ikke kunne lære om i lejren og mødte folk fra forskellige steder i verden.

I år vendte jeg tilbage til Makvärket sammen med visAvis. Det var en god weekend, og en del af mine venner fra asyllejrene var også med. Vi lavede forskellige ting, der skulle styrke vores gruppe, bl.a. workshops, debatter og gode samtaler.

En del af os arbejdede også sammen under Roskilde Festival sidste sommer, og turen til Makvärket var en rigtig god mulighed for igen at være mere sammen.

We Remember

Jeg kan huske at kigge på uret, der fortalte mig, at det var tidlig morgen, og hvordan jeg ikke tog mig af det, for dengang havde jeg ikke andet end tid, og tiden betød derfor ingenting.

I remember we looked at the moon and that it was upside down. I remember not daring to go out on the streets because we felt so different, and how we went out anyway and returned to the hotel room after only ten steps.

Jeg kan huske, at jeg forsøgte at tilpasse mig mine venners families morgenvaner, da jeg skulle spise morgenmad med dem.

I remember the feeling of having to eat the goat’s intestines even though I did not want to.

Jeg kan huske, at jeg forsøgte at imitere min fars venners vittigheder og ønskede, at jeg var på deres alder, så jeg kunne være en del af gruppen.

I remember seeing the victims of a bomb attack on television when I was little at a bar in Spain, thinking that they were painted with theatre blood

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until I discovered that it was real blood.

Jeg kan huske, at jeg aldrig forstod, hvorfor det var uhøfligt at pege på andre.

Jeg kan huske vores hus på landet den dag, jeg blev færdig med folkeskolen og skulle starte på gymnasiet. Jeg blev nødt til at forlade min dejlige landsby og mine forældre, da jeg var tretten år gammel. Jeg tog til Aleppo for første gang. Jeg var ked af det, fordi jeg skulle forlade mine forældre og mit barndomshjem, men på den anden side glad for at se en storby og opleve noget nyt.

I remember being surprised about calling a new place ‘home’, and coming back to Århus where I was born and raised, and all of a sudden feeling like a stranger.

Jeg kan huske, at jeg troede, at uddannelsessystemet i Sudan var det bedste. Men da jeg kom til Europa, fandt jeg ud af, at uddannelsessystemet her er bedre end i Sudan. Jeg kan huske, at det kun var da jeg var i Afrika, at jeg troede, at man let kunne rejse rundt i verden.

I remember that I would boycott the gym lessons set aside for learning the Les Lanciers dance steps, to protest having to pay for the dance party that would follow. But, in order not to be noted as absent, I had to make an appearance. I would sit in the fringe of the gym reading cartoons while my classmates would dance around, bump into each other and laugh.

Jeg kan huske, at jeg gik hjem fra skole til fods bare for at spare pengene til bussen, og at jeg brugte alle pengene på slik og tegneserier.

I remember that time a grown-up told me that watermelons would grow out of my ears because I had eaten watermelon seeds. I remember that I believed her. I remember the fear of watermelon trees growing out of my ears. I remember the color of watermelon. I remember watermelon on a summer’s day. I remember that a friend at the hospital, where she had the cosmetic surgery that I didn’t think was a good idea, would only eat watermelon. I remember that she threw the watermelon up anyway.

Jeg kan huske, hvordan fjernsynet engang i mellem lod til at sige, at det var solskin udenfor, men når jeg så ud ad vinduet, kunne jeg kun se sne.

Jeg kan huske, at jeg lavede et hul i fjernsynet i et

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forsøg på at komme ind i min yndlingstegnefilm.

I remember a newscast on tele-vision full of bodies, people were killed in the Gulf by weapons, and on the road by accident. At the end of the program they would show a clip of a pony head-banging to Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple. Another time, after an equally morbid round of news, the news anchor almost couldn’t help giggling when he announced a new initiative from a municipality aiming at mobilizing some overweight citizens. When they cut away from the smirking news anchor, a number of fat people appeared on the screen. They

would dance a kind of dance with big, green exercise balls between the large bodies. It looked awfully comical.

Jeg kan huske mine tidlige teenageår, da jeg begyndte at få kvindelige former og gik med for stort tøj for at skjule dem.

I remember the big boots which made me feel so awkward and wrong, and how it was really about something completely different than the boots.

Jeg kan huske at være iført en lidt slidt T-shirt, fordi det ikke gjorde nogen forskel for mig.

De ulydiges momentum Sidste år, d. 6. oktober, etablerede Refugee Tent Action sig på Oranienplatz i Berlin, hvor de på fysisk vis krævede plads til asylpolitik, som på det tidspunkt var marginaliseret i Tyskland. Et år efter besøger visAvis lejren for at følge op på udviklingen. af Adam Qvist

Som beskrevet i artiklen ‘Flygtningenes protestmarch: “Lad os gå og se, hvor vi ender”’ i visAvis nummer 7, opstod bevægelsen i begyndelsen af år 2012 som en reaktion på, at Mohammad Rahsepar, som var en iransk asylansøger, der boede i Würtsburg, begik selvmord. Denne hændelse udløste en spontan protestmarch, en månedlang, 600 kilometer march af flygtninge nordpå i retning mod Berlin. De protesterendes krav fokuserede på retten til beskæftigelse og uddannelse, stop for deportationer og tilbagekaldelse af Residenzpflicht – en vilkårlig regel, der begrænser asylansøgeres bevægelse til den region, hvor de er blevet placeret.

Undervejs mobiliserede demonstranterne lokal støtte, når de passerede igennem tyske byer, og, når de ikke var optaget af at kæmpe sig væk fra nationalister, besøgte de asyllejre og inviterede beboerne til at trodse deres Residenzpflicht og slutte sig til protestmarchen.

Nu, tilbage på Oranienplatz i aktivisten Yvettes selskab, står vi blandt otte store grønne og hvide telte på den sydlige del af pladsen. Modsat os er placeret et telt, der fungerer som mødepavillon og informationssted. Når Yvette bliver spurgt om lejrens størrelse, anslår hun, at der er en konstant tilstedeværelse af et par dusin folk, og dagligt omkring dobbelt så mange aktive totalt set. Majoriteten af de aktive flygtninge på Oranienplatz er mænd. Og majoriteten af dem er civilt ulydige i overtrædelsen af deres Residenzplicht – og altså loven generelt blot ved at være her.

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visAvis: Tilbyder lejren logi her for flygtninge, der dukker op og trodser deres Residenzpflicht?

Yvette: Ja. På en måde, udover denne lejr har vi besat en nærliggende tom skole, både for at skabe rum for at organisere os, men også for at bruge den som logi. Og det er her folk bor, lever og organiserer. visAvis: I lyset af den nylige ransagning af Votivkirken [politiransagningen af en wiensk kirke, der husede flygtningedemonstranter, red.], tager lejren nogen særlige forbehold – forstærkelse af telte med pigtråd, vagttjeneste eller udgravning af avancerede tunnelsystemer?

Yvette: Langt fra! Situationen er væsensforskellig, selvom vi er del af den samme bevægelse. Plus, med vores situation er der ingen grund til at fostre den slags paranoia. Som det ser ud nu, har vi tilladelse fra byens borgmester [Frank Schulz, red.], ja, så officielt er det. Den uskrevne aftale var, at vi kan være på Oranienplatz i tre måneder, men på nuværende tidspunkt er vi bare blevet forlænget. Borgmesteren er solidarisk med os, og ligeledes er det generelle nabolag, der inkluderer forskellige lokale forretninger i denne del af Kreuzberg. De støtter projektet som de nu synes, vigtigst af alt ved at få os til at føle os velkomne her.

Refugee Tent Action er en stor, flygtningeledet bevægelse og lige så civil ulydig og selvorganiseret, som de formidler i deres radikale manifester. Med konverteringen fra protestmarch til statisk lejr efter ankomsten til Berlin, har der været behov for nye

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planer for handling. I løbet af det forgangne år har aktivister fra Oranienplatz brudt igennem til medierne, organiseret anti-Frontex demoer, besat konsulater og været katalysatorer for flygtningepolitik i Tyskland. Men gennem de seneste par måneder er deres aktioner og begivenheder i byen blevet mødt med magt, herunder voldelige overfald under varetægtsfængsling og strafudmåling for både ikkestatsborgere og statsborgere.

Her på andendagen af vores besøg på Oranienplatz, har netværket Asyl Strike Berlin arrangeret en demo for at markere etårs jubilæet for ankomsten til Berlin. Imens vi deltager i demoen sammen med omkring fem tusinde mennesker, taler vi med Napuli, der selv deltog i protestmarchen sidste år. visAvis: Hvad har oplevelsen indtil nu været af at skulle slå sig ned sidste år på et sted her i Berlin?

Napuli: Dette er vores nye og mere statiske eksistens, hvad kan vi gøre? Vi er ikke herfra, så vi muliggør vores eksistensgrundlag, gør det til vores eget. Vi er oppe imod et komplet system, og det her handler især om at føre ting ud i praksis. Dette er vores etårs jubilæum som vi bruger til at vise, at vi på ingen måde vil stoppe med at bekæmpe systemet. visAvis: Bliver demoer og aktioner også brugt som en måde at sikre synlighed, lokalt og politisk, for at holde bevægelsen og lejren i live?

Napuli: Ikke hovedsageligt. Det er dem, der har gjort os illegale, så det her er vores ret, og det her er også måden, hvorpå vi effektivt kan kæmpe imod – hele verdens befolkning bliver organiseret og kontrolleret i demokratiets navn, så her ser vi det som vores ret at tage den frihed, der er vores, tilbage. Bevægelsen er kun i live, så længe den er aktiv. visAvis: Føler du, at bevægelsen opnår sine mål ved at fokusere på den tyske asylkontekst?

Napuli forsvinder ind i en sand skov af bannere i menneskemængden, efterfulgt af et kamerahold.

Den blotte størrelse af demoen giver et glimt af den tyske asylbevægelses omfang og momentum.

Oranienplatz fører an som et godt eksempel med en autonom organiseringsindsats og en “gør det selv”-attitude. Dette nye greb om asylpolitik er tilsyneladende, hvad der sætter fut i aktivistbevægelsens momentum, i og med at lejren i sig selv giver asylansøgere muligheden for at mødes med lokale aktivister. Refugee Tent Actions blotte synlighed har også hjulpet til at få mediernes opmærksomhed, og efter direkte aktioner og andre manifestationer, har selv de traditionelle medier bidt på krogen.

Asylpolitik er ikke traditionelt set rodfæstet i den tyske venstrefløj, men dette ændrer sig måske i kølvandet på en mere eksplicit politisk diskurs om migration, assimilation og national identitet i Tyskland igennem det sidste årti. Det radikale og traditionelle venstre skifter langsomt fokus i retning mod asylpolitik. Samtidig falder denne udvikling sammen med det, der konstituerer en generel konservativ bølge i al tysk politik. I dette politiske miljø er den begravede tyske multikulturalisme blevet diskursivt lukket, og det ville være tåbeligt at forvente, at asylaktivisme automatisk opbygger mere momentum. I stedet er det niveauet af civil ulydighed og rummet for mere direkte aktion på asylpolitiske platforme, der opretholder den radikale asylpolitiske bevægelses momentum.

Ligeledes er det det, der holder medierne og offentligheden interesseret. På nuværende tidspunkt er der Refugee Action Camps i ni forskellige tyske byer, hvor de sameksisterer med den mere generelle No-Borders organisering og bevægelser imod gentrificering. Alle er radikale udviklinger, som styrker et meget tiltrængt gennembrud i asylpolitikken i Tyskland og i udlandet.

Napuli: Hverken problemerne eller modstanden er begrænset hertil. Det er meget essentielt for os at vise solidaritet med flygtninge internationalt, som i Holland, Østrig og Italien, hvor de fører an ved at vise, hvordan man sætter en kamp i gang. Vi inspirerer hinanden.

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visAvis № 8 • 2013

Strukturerne der fik folk til at isolere sig I efteråret 2012 besøgte visAvis The Refugee Protest March i deres telte på Oranienplatz i Berlin for at lave interviews, rapportere og fortælle de protesterende om deres mulighed for at udtrykke sig gennem visAvis. For et stykke tid siden blev vi kontaktet af en af de protesterende, som havde skrevet en tekst om oplevelserne med at søge asyl i Tyskland før og efter bevægelsen startede i 2012. Denne version er oversat fra tyrkisk af Yildiz Aygün og bearbejdet af redaktionen i visAvis. af Turgay Ulu En storøjet ung mand, der sad på bænken ved siden af døren, havde sit hoved mellem hænderne.

Han stirrede konstant ned i jorden. Haydar var lige blevet overflyttet til dette sted, der var omringet af pigtråd, og hver gang han gik udenfor, så han denne mand, der sad på den samme bænk og tankefuldt stirrede på det samme sted. Hans hoved var barberet skaldet, han havde tykke, mørke øjenbryn og store øjne. Manden undgik at tale med andre, men Haydar forsøgte et par gange at etablere en dialog med ham. Hans svar var korte og negative.

Haydar forhørte sig om ham hos andre. Alle havde de det samme syn på ham; de kaldte ham sindssyg og ville ikke ses sammen med ham. På vej til kantinen gik Haydar ved siden af ham og stillede ham spørgsmål som ”kan du lide måltiderne her?” Han svarede ”Nej. Vi skal spise. Hvad kan vi gøre?” Han talte og bevægede sig langsomt, hans øjne var sløve og kiggede ikke ind i Haydars. I kantinen sad han alene ved siden af vinduerne. Han spiste altid sin mad hurtigt.

Haydar begyndte at sætte sig ved siden af ham, og med tiden fandt han ud af, at hans navn var Cihan, og at han var fra Elazig [by i Østtyrkiet]. Cihan havde boet i Tyskland i fire år. Før han var kommet til denne lejr, havde han boet i Braunschweig [tysk by i Niedersachsen] hos en bonde. Her havde han passet på dyrene og arbejdet på gården. I den periode var han isoleret og blev psykisk skadet. Haydar havde selv været i fængsel som politisk fange. Han skrev og læste konstant. De andre folk i lejren kunne ikke forstå, hvorfor han ville bruge sin tid på det. Kun Cihan forstod. Haydar var klar over, at de også kaldte ham selv for skør. Han var ligeglad.

Han havde været rebel siden han var barn. Han fandt ud af, at Cihan havde nær familie i Tyskland.

De lukkede ham ikke ind i deres hjem. Cihan ville heller ikke se dem. Han ville ikke udsættes for deres diskrimination og bebrejdende attitude. Cihan og Haydar begyndte at tale sammen inde på Cihans

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værelse og begyndte fra da af at forstå og respektere hinanden.

Cihans værelse lå over for Haydars. På hver dør var tallene skrevet med sort oliemaling. På alle værelserne var der køjesenge, der var værre end dem, der var i de asylfængsler, hvor Haydar havde været i årevis. Man kan altid genkende en person, der har været i isolation i disse fængsler. Denne asyllejr havde et lignende system, hvor man altid opholdt sig indenfor et begrænset område. Somme tider gik det Cihan på, han dukkede ikke op til måltiderne, og Haydar vidste, hvordan han havde det. Han kom med mad og brød til Cihan, og det gik op for Cihan, at Haydar hverken udnyttede eller beskyldte ham, og han begyndte at stole på ham. Cihan begyndte at læse aviser og bøger højt for Haydar. Haydar havde regler for dem, der kom ind på hans værelse. Alle, der ville være der, skulle læse en artikel og indgå i den politiske diskussion, da folk i asyllejre allerede er afskåret fra samfundet. De fleste af dem mangler klassebevidsthed. De taler kun om fodbold og spiller kort. Cihan kaldte sig for ’revolutionær’. En dag til frokost blev han sur på the security workers [dem, der varetager de opgaver som Røde Kors varetager i Danmark, red.] og smadrede en tallerken.

Da folk spurgte ham, hvorfor han havde gjort det, svarede han, at det var stedet, der gjorde ham vred.

Hans attitude begyndte at ændre sig. Han begyndte at se folk i øjnene, forsvarede det han troede på og ignorerede de folk, der behandlede ham som en skør person. En mand uden håb forsvandt, en dynamisk mand, der kunne kæmpe, viste sig, og Cihan sluttede sig til protestaktiviteterne i lejren.

Stilheden i asyllejren, der havde isoleret Cihan og taget håbet fra ham, blev brudt af et år med gadebesættelser, invasioner, modstand og kampe overalt.

Film blev skabt, artikler skrevet, folk blev arresteret, andre skadet. De kæmpede mod de strukturer, der fik folk til at isolere sig, de forlod asyllejrene og opbyggede et fælles liv i stedet for at underlægge sig love og regler, der begrænsede deres frihed.

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De protesterende havde forskellige sprog og farver. De kæmpede mod racistiske, parlamentariske og modarbejdende bevægelser ved at lukke veje, kæmpe mod politiet og bryde normale regler. De dansede i gaderne og satte telte op. De bekymrede sig om andre folks smerte, krig og udnyttelse.

Så en morgen, da flygtninge havde igangsat aktionerne for frihed, kom et par uniformerede politibetjente ind på Cihans værelse og tog ham. De tvang ham til at rejse tilbage til Tyrkiet. Hans liv i Tyskland havde været isoleret. Måske er det blevet bedre nu. Måske har han startet et nyt liv, fået revolutionære ideer og kæmper for frihed.

Haydar bevidnede alt for mange tragiske skæbner. Alle spurgte ham, hvorfor han ikke blev træt, selvom han havde været fængslet i årevis og kæmpet i gaderne. De spurgte ham, hvorfor han ikke havde opbygget et liv for sig selv. Men for ham er det at leve uden at føle andres smerte ikke et rigtigt liv. Hvis andre ikke er frie, er han ikke fri. Derfor dedikerede han sit liv til at kæmpe for alles frihed.

Han skrev dagbøger i fængslet. Han ønsker at få dem udgivet som en bog en dag. Han har et farverigt liv og føler sig heldig, fordi han lever med folk på bunden. Om natten drømmer han om, at folk på bunden omstyrter al udnyttelse.

Rapport fra The Refugee Protest i Wien Shahjahan Khan er flygtning fra Pakistan og har deltaget i The Refugee Protest i Wien i flere måneder. Han bor i øjeblikket i Serviten Klosteret i Wien og kæmper for sine rettigheder hver eneste dag.

Af Shahjahan Khan (Uddrag fra digtet Refugee Blues af W. H. Auden)

Hvorfor vi begyndte. The Refugee Protest

Vi er flygtninge, som er ankommet til Østrig for at søge asyl og skabe et nyt liv her. Vores lande er ødelagte af krig, militær aggression, social tilbageståenhed og fattigdom forårsaget af kolonialistisk politik. Vi kommer fra Pakistan, Afghanistan, Somalia, Nigeria, Gambia, Syrien, Kurdistan, Iran, Tjetjenien etc., og nu sidder vi fast her i flygtningelejren Traiskirchen1. Vi forventede, at vi ville modtage hjælp og støtte i denne lejr, men den østrigske stat har vist os, at vi ikke er velkomne her. Vi bor i flygtningelejre og oplever dårlige forhold.

Vi, The Refugee Protest, kræver, at den østrigske regering og den Europæiske Union giver alle flygtninge i verden basale rettigheder. Vi opfordrer den østrigske regering til at opfylde sine forpligtigelser overfor flygtningene. Vi vil fortsætte med at aktionere indtil, vores stemmer bliver hørt og vores krav bliver efterkommet.

imod flygtningenes dårlige forhold – ikke kun i Traiskirchen, men også i andre lejre og indlogeringssteder i Østrig.

“Hvad har vi brug for? Vores rettigheder. Hvad vi kræver? Vores rettigheder.”

Den 24. november 2012 demonstrerede 700 personer, heriblandt 400 fra civilsamfundet,

Dette var slagordet ved den første demonstration, og indtil nu er det også protestens rettesnor. Det var en kold årstid og alligevel foretrak en gruppe flygtninge at bo ude i det fri i Sigmund-FreudParken2 fremfor i de lejre, regeringen stillede til rådighed. Nogen gange regnede det, og nogen gange sneede det, men dette knuste aldrig flygtningenes håb. Når vi stod op om morgenen, var vores senge og telte drivvåde. Lokale beboere gav os varmt tøj og varme tæpper, og de gav os gratis grøntsager og anden mad. Medierne gjorde det til deres sag, og dækkede protesterne i et stykke tid, men dette hjalp ikke flygtningene. Folk kunne se flygtningelejren i Sigmund-Freud-Parken og kom nogen gange forbi for at spørge os, hvorfor vi boede under åben himmel. Vi fortalte dem historien om vores protest.

Nogle racistiske personer kunne ikke lide vores lejr og prøvede at skabe problemer. For eksempel kom en person til et offentligt møde og sagde: ”Hvis vi lukker dem ind, stjæler de vort daglige brød.”

1 Erstaufnahmestelle Traiskirchen er Østrigs største lejr for flygtninge og en af tre modtagelsescentre for flygtninge i Østrig.

Lejren er blevet kritiseret af flygtninge i årevis på grund af dårlige levevilkår.

2 Efter den 35 kilometer lange Refugee Protest March fra Traiskirchen oprettede de protesterende en Refugee Protest Camp i Sigmund-Freud-Parken og der blev de i mere end en måned, indtil lejren blev brutalt ryddet af politiet.

(Uddrag fra digtet Refugee Blues af W. H. Auden)

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№8 visAvis • 2013

(Uddrag fra digtet Refugee Blues af W. H. Auden) I december faldt temperaturen til under frysepunktet og for den første gang var vi bekymrede for vores helbred. På en eller anden måde lykkedes det os at søge ly i Votivkirken3.

Nogle hjemløse havde allerede gjort det samme. Da vi flyttede ind i kirken talte politikerne – især de højreorienterede og racisterne – om en besættelse: Flygtninge besætter Votiv Kirken. Præsten i kirken var aldrig venlig mod os. Han sparkede sine fødder imod vores senge om morgenen, men vi kunne ikke sige noget til det, fordi vi, når alt kommer til alt, er flygtninge. Den 22. december, da vi havde fået nok og ikke havde andre muligheder, begyndte vi en sultestrejke, der varede i 30 dage. På det tidspunkt havde vi to krav: 1) Juridisk status i Østrig 2) Adgang til arbejdsmarkedet Det var en ny oplevelse for os. For de sultestrejkende flygtninge, var det første gang, at de gjorde dette.

De kæmpede med sult og lave temperaturer inde i kirken. Efter 10 dage var de sultestrejkende flygtninges tilstand miserabel og nogle af dem var nødt til at blive indlagt på hospitalet. Hver person tabte fem til ti kilo og deres ansigter blev blege. De var ikke i stand til at gå og brugte al deres tid i sengen, fordi de ikke havde nogle kræfter tilbage i kroppen.

Nogle fik psykiske problemer, nogle havde problemer med nyrerne og nogle led af influenza eller forkølelse. Ingen forbarmede sig over flygtningene.

Selv UNHCR nægtede at møde os, til trods for at de hævder, at de er ansvarlige for alle flygtninge i Europa. En delegation på fire af os lavede en aftale med dem, men da vi var på vej til UNHCR, aflyste de mødet, De sagde, at de ikke havde et mødelokale til os og at vi kunne mødes udenfor, på en café eller i en park. UNHCR har en stor bygning i Wiens centrum, men de har ikke plads til at mødes med flygtninge fordi de ikke vil involveres i denne protest.

De nægter at hjælpe disse flygtninge, fordi disse flygtninge ikke bliver anset for at være mennesker.

(Uddrag fra digtet Refugee Blues af W. H. Auden) Så kom Hr Schönborn [ærkebiskop i Wien og kardinal i den katolske kirke] for at besøge flygtningene. Han havde et forslag med til os. Hvis vi opgav sultestrejken, ville han ”tage et skridt” og forsøge at iværksætte forhandlinger med regeringen om at evakuere os fra kirken og få os bragt til sin private ejendom, Servitenklosteret. ”Der kan I begynde jeres protester og jeg vil støtte jer politisk, men først må I opgive sultestrejken”, sagde han. På det tidspunkt opgav vi sultestrejken og gav myn3 Efter at Refugee Protest Camp var ryddet blev Votiv Kirken, der ligger bag Sigmund-Freud-Parken protestens hjemsted i de følgende to måneder.

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dighederne ti dage. I denne pause i sultestrejken blev vi kun tilbudt en ting: at de ville genåbne vores sager og give os de bedste advokater i Østrig til at slås for vores sager. Var det resultatet af 30 dages sultestrejke? At genåbne sagerne? Vi vidste, at en genåbning af sagerne ikke ville hjælpe os. Det var kun et teaterstykke, der blev opført af indenrigsministeriet. Så vi genoptog sultestrejken.

Jeg skrev et brev til Hr. Præsident Dr. Heinz Fischer og fortalte ham om hele situationen og de sultestrejkendes elendige tilstand. Helt uventet svarede han på mit brev og offentliggjorde sit svar, hvori han udtrykte sympati for flygtningene, i en avis. Der var dog intet håb i dette brev og han sagde udtrykkeligt, at vi skulle forlade kirken og opgive sultestrejken.

Igen opgav vi sultestrejken og forsøgte at forhandle med regeringen, men blev så konfronteret med anholdelser af flygtninge, der var i kirken.

(Uddrag fra digtet Refugee Blues af W. H. Auden) Politiet gik ikke ind i kirken iført uniform, men civilklædte betjente kom konstant derind. De anholdt flygtninge udenfor kirken og tog dem med til udsendelsescentre. Flygtningene iværksatte en sulte- og tørstestrejke i Schubhaft [et detentions- og udsendelsescenter]. Politiet var nødt til at løslade flygtningene, fordi, hvis en af flygtningene døde i fængslet, ville det være et stort problem for dem.

På den samme tid kom nogle højreorienterede racister ind i kirken og krævede, at de tilbageværende flygtninge blev sparket ud. Ellers ville de også påbegynde en sultestrejke. Vi viste de mennesker for meget respekt, bød dem på te og kaffe og prøvede at tale med dem. De ønskede dog ikke at tale med os. Samme aften var de nødt til at forlade kirken fordi der var for koldt for dem og de ikke var ligeså modige som flygtningene indenfor.

Så modtog vi endnu et brev fra Hr. Schönborn, hvori der stod, at vi skulle flytte og begynde vores nye politiske kamp i Servitenklosteret. Vi indgik i forhandlinger og den 2. marts 2013 flyttede vi til Servitenklosteret. Da vi så de forhold, vi skulle leve under, fik vi et chok. Det var en kælder og det lignede en stald til dyr. Der var hverken vinduer eller ventilation. Da vi nægtede at bo i kælderen, åbnede de nogle rum på anden sal. Der var stadig ingen badeværelser eller køkkener. I de første 18 dage var der ingen til at tage sig af os. Hverken Caritas4 eller kirkens repræsentanter skaffede mad.

Flygtningene var nødt til at købe mad med penge 4 Caritas Østrig er en katolsk hjælpeorganisation der er ansvarlig for den primære omsorg for- og basale ydelser som sygeforsikring, fødevareforsyning og lommepenge til flygtningene i klosteret. Caritas retningslinier og handlinger bliver kritiseret for at afpolitisere og splitte protesten og for at afskære protesten fra dens støtter og fra civilsamfundet generelt.

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fra deres egne lommer. Før vi forlod Votivkirken, havde vi haft et møde med repræsentanter for den katolske kirke. De havde fortalt os, at vi ville være deres gæster i Servitenklosteret. På dette møde aftalte vi følgende: 1 Flygtningene vil blive anvist juridisk bistand af den katolske kirke 2 Politiet vil ikke gå ind i klosteret og de vil ikke arrestere flygtninge, som er registreret i Servitenklosteret 3 Klosteret vil være et sted, hvor protesten kan genoptages 4 Dette sted vil ikke blive forvaltet på samme vis som lejrene Men alt dette var kun brudte løfter. Otte dage før de fik juridisk bistand, begyndte 29 flygtninge at modtage ’kærestebreve’ fra Fremdenpolizei [fremmedpolitiet]. Flygtninge, som tog derhen til en samtale, måtte underskrive en art udsendelsesdokument.

En gang fik vi besøg af en delegation fra indenrigsministeriet og de fremlagde et ’megaprojekt’ [EU projekt for flygtninges frivillige tilbagevenden til deres oprindelseslande] for flygtningene: ”Hvis I rejser hjem til jeres eget land frivilligt, vil vi give jer 700 Euro.”

Så selvom medierne fortalte, at alle regeringer advarede deres borgere mod at rejse til Pakistan, fordi det ikke er sikkert for dem, er det sikkert for pakistanske flygtninge? Flygtningenes svar var meget simpelt: ”Vi vil betale for en rejse til Pakistan for jeres indenrigsminister og hun skal tage dertil uden sikkerhedsfolk. Hvis hun kommer tilbage, vil vi frivilligt tage tilbage til vores land.” Det tog kun delegationen fra indenrigsministeriet to minutter at flygte derfra.

Men de personer, der overtalte os til at flytte til Servitenklosteret og dermed har ansvar for vores fremtid, er nu forsvundet eller vil ikke konfronteres med os. For to uger siden fik en flygtning et psykisk sammenbrud. Det var alvorligt og han blev aggressiv, så lægerne sendte ham til Otto Wagner Hospitalet og han er stadig indlagt der. Igår blev en af flygtningene fra protesten overfaldet af ukendte personer. De stak ham med knive og han er også stadig på hospitalet. Jeg håber, at der kommer en dag, hvor vi får noget ud af vores kamp og at den dag ikke er for langt væk.

(Uddrag fra digtet Refugee Blues af W. H. Auden)

Kommentarer til teksten

En tidligere version af denne artikel har været bragt i progress- Magazin der österreichischen HochschülerInnenschaft, 03/2013.

Siden artiklen blev bragt første gang i maj 2013, er meget sket. De protesterende flygtninge har fået tilladelse til at blive i klosteret indtil udgangen af oktober. På nuværende tidspunkt er 20 personer fra gruppen udvisningstruede. Mulighederne for at oprette et selvorganiseret hus for flygtninge undersøges for at man her kollektivt kan fortsætte kampen for menneskerettigheder. Forskellige aktioner, begivenheder, projekter og kampagner bliver stadig organiseret.

Forklaringer i klammer og fodnoter er tilføjet af Katarzyna Winiecka som støtter Refugee Protest i Wien.

Følg protesten på: http://refugeecampvienna. noblogs.org

(Uddrag fra digtet Refugee Blues af W. H. Auden) UNHCR besøgte os også i Servitenklosteret og fortalte os, at den østrigske stat har ansvaret for os – ikke UNHCR. Nu, er vi fortsat i gang med at kæmpe og slås for vores rettigheder og vi er i fortsatte forhandlinger med myndighederne.

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№8 visAvis • 2013

The Anatomy of the City

Hey Mand

by patrick

by patrick

The city – with all our experiences not only the things around us but glimpses of smells and sounds light and scents – our childhood’s aura.

ey mand, kast den falske religions fjer af dig giv afkald på din fine positur og se dig lidt omkring følger nogen din anskuelse vil du vinde verdenen med sølle Mammon.

The city concentrates symbolic meaning about houses and money, signs and cars, the noise of the street and the subways’ new stations chirping birds and the many dialects.

Hey mand, hvad ønsker du at efterlade blomstrende haver eller dødt tomrum selvom du har en stærk tro er dit barn det eneste offer.

The city – a concentration of sounds and smells a living organism with its own anatomy, physiology and psychology its unique atmosphere.

Hey mand, du ser så arrogant på verden som var du det bedste af alle eksisterende væsner så svært for dig at vælge mellem tro og synd altid uden stillingstagen, influeret af mode.

All this, painfully familiar that which we want to escape but we cannot live without it will always be tomorrow.

Even in the worst psychedelic dream where powerful forces promise to satisfy our innermost desires we always wake up, we come back to the city.

Første spørgsmål af Nimish Gautam Where are you from? Det er det første spørgsmål, folk stiller én her. Det er bare for at bryde isen. Hvor kommer du fra? I’m from US. Jeg kommer fra De Forenede Stater.

Mine forældre kom til USA fra Nepal i 80’erne.

Jeg er ikke helt sikker på hvorfor. Det var sandsynligvis nogle kulturelle forventninger, et ønske om at se noget nyt... Måske havde USA bare en meget veleksekveret pr-kampagne under Den Kolde Krig.

Under alle omstændigheder, de kom og tre børn, der talte skuffende lidt nepali, hvoraf den ældste besluttede sig for at tage til Skandinavien efter en ikke så omfangsrig research på den skandinaviske livstil.

Why Denmark? Det er det andet spørgsmål, det bliver normalt stillet med en vis nysgerrighed og en smule forvirring. Hvorfor Danmark? Dette svar er lidt længere.

Hver dag går jeg rundt i gaderne og tænker ”det her er anderledes”. På overfladen minder dette land

2013 • visAvis №8

mere om USA end, lad os sige Nordkorea, men stadig, det er lidt anderledes. Alle livets store aspekter er de samme (eller bedre); der er ytringsfrihed, retfærdig rettergang, repræsentativt demokrati, flere sociale ydelser. De mindre aspekter er dog anderledes. Fx ved jeg stadig ikke, hvordan jeg skal bruge min vaskemaskine. Jeg er ikke sikker på, hvor jeg kan købe peanut butter. Jeg er endnu ikke sikker på, om det at smile til folk på gaden bliver opfattet som en irritation eller et velkomment tegn på varme eller en smule af begge dele. Kunne jeg finde den kombination af fremmed og velkendt andre steder? Sandsynligvis. Dog, den nøjagtigt rigtige kombination, den, der får mig til at sætte pris på alt, jeg gør, på daglig basis? Sandsynligvis ikke. Så her er jeg.

What do you think of Denmark? Dette er det tredje spørgsmål. Hvad synes du om Danmark?

Folk lader altid til at forvente noget dybsindigt her, men svaret er, ”det er okay.” – Jeg mener, hvad skal jeg sige? Det er ikke som faldskærmsudspring, og det er ikke som at drikke batterisyre. Det er mildt,

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roligt og fredfyldt. Svaret, vi lærer til dansk, er: I’ve gotten used to it. Jeg har vænnet mig til det. I det mindste de dele, jeg har oplevet.

Men erfaringer kan være begrænsede. At være i et kvarter i San Francisco er ikke det samme som at se byen, for slet ikke at tale om staten, eller endda at have et billede af hele kulturen. Hvis jeg virkelig ønskede en god, solid og kvalificeret mening om og fornemmelse af denne kultur, måtte jeg se et videre spektrum af det danske samfund. Jeg ville vide, hvordan livet var for de asylsøgende i det forskellige lejre i Danmark.

En dag tog jeg til slottet i Jægerspris med en gruppe fra visAvis. På det tidspunkt husede det en lejr udelukkende for børn med omkring 40 asylsøgere og et fast personale på omkring fire personer.

Jeg mødte en på 14. Han stillede mig det første spørgsmål, og jeg svarede følgelig. I’m from the US. Jeg så den samme antydning af nysgerrighed og forvirring, jeg havde set før, så jeg vidste, hvad der var på vej. Jeg havde begyndelsen af det andet svar klar og forsøgte at finde ud af, hvordan jeg skulle forklare mine esoteriske hippieidealer om ”at være i øjeblikket” til en 14-årig. Så skete der noget uventet: Han stillede et nyt andet spørgsmål.

Where is that? Hvor ligger det? Hvor, geografisk, ligger USA? Jeg måtte tænke mig lidt om. Vigtigere endnu: Jeg måtte tænke på, hvordan verden så ud for denne person, der stod over for mig.

Where did he come from? Han kom fra Afghanistan. Det var lykkedes for hans forældre at få ham til et sted, hvor han kunne søge asyl, men på egen hånd. Det er usikkert om hans forældre stadig er der nu. Han venter på at få sin sag behandlet og vil blive ved med at vente, indtil han er 18, hvorefter han vil blive sat ind i det voksne asylsystem. Indtil da, og sandsynligvis efter, får han ’privilegiet’ af at opleve Danmark inde fra de forskellige lejre. Hans daglige liv vil bestå af at møde folk fra andre flygtningelande og en håndfuld lærere og offentlige ansatte. Han taler dari og har været i landet længe nok til at tale dansk på dette tidspunkt. Til trods for hans forældres angivne grunde til at sende ham væk, havde han aldrig mødt nogle fra USA, ligesom han ikke vidste, hvor i verden det ligger.

What does he think of Denmark? Et af medlemmerne fra vores gruppe besluttede at spørge ham, og han svarede ud fra de dele, han har oplevet: ”It’s a fucking prison.” Det er et fucking fængsel. Han valgte ikke at komme til Danmark, at blive skilt fra sin familie, ligesom han ikke valgte at bo i en flygtningelejr. Disse valg blev truffet for ham, og som et resultat deraf har han nu langt færre privilegier i dette samfund end hans ligemænd.

Fanget i sådan en situation er det kun naturligt at ville flygte. Børn fra disse lejre er faktisk flygtet til andre EU-lande, de tjener penge på det sorte

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marked og lever under jorden, og de har gjort det ved adskillige lejligheder. Ligesom så mange andre har de valgt fysisk fare et sted, hvor de kan være frie, fremfor at leve i et land, hvor børn får deres friheder taget fra dem og ikke har nogen mulighed for at bestemme deres egen fremtid. Og det land er Danmark. Det samme som jeg bor i. Jeg kunne næsten ikke forstå dette. Det kan jeg stadig ikke.

Ikke helt.

Da mine forældre forlod Nepal, var landet et monarki, der havde skiftet fra flerpartisystem til et partiløst repræsentativt system og var forholdsvist stabilt. Omkring 1996 begyndte en ekstremistisk militant gruppe at få mere magt i Nepal, hvilket resulterede i en borgerkrig, der varede 10 år. I den periode flygtede mange nepalesere og søgte asyl i lande rundtomkring i verden inklusive Danmark.

Havde min familie været en del af den oprindelige gruppe, der flygtede, ville jeg have været 14 på det tidspunkt. Historiske tilfældigheder uden for min kontrol kunne have ført mig til det samme land, den samme fysiske lokation, men med et fuldstændigt andet perspektiv. Lad mig prøve at svare på det samme spørgsmål med det i tankerne.

What do you think of Denmark? Et land med utrolige folk og et utroligt potentiale, men med en nogle gange skræmmende blindhed over for de medlemmer af samfundet, der har det mindste mål af frihed og selvbestemmelse i deres liv.

Why Denmark? Ud over esoteriske grunde, hvorfor så flytte? Måske på grund af nogle kulturelle forventninger, et ønske om at se noget nyt ... sandsynligvis en veleksekveret pr-kampagne, der hævder at det er det lykkeligste land i verden. Det er egentlig den samme historie for enhver, der vil rejse.

Where are you from? Jeg kommer fra et særligt sted på kloden, det samme som alle andre. Det viser sig, at det er ligegyldigt, hvor det sted er; det, der er vigtigt, er, at jeg er her nu. Forskellen er, at gennem en række af tilfældige begivenheder, jeg ikke havde kontrol over, er jeg i stand til at opleve dette land på en måde, som andre medlemmer af dette samfund aldrig nogensinde vil være i stand til. Jeg synes, at en persons oplevelse af verden, bør være afhængig af den person, de stræber efter at være, og hvordan de lever, og ikke af historiens tilfældigheder, de har fundet sig selv i. Vi er faktisk alle sammen historiens tilfældigheder og i sidste ende betyder det ikke noget, hvordan vi endte her, kun at vi er her nu, vi har alle den samme evne og lyst til at have en fornemmelse af kontrol i vores liv, en drift, der bør blive honoreret, uanset hvor vi begyndte vores rejse fra.

Note: Lejren i Jægerspris er blevet lukket. I skrivende stund er de fleste af børnene blevet flyttet til en lejr i Vipperød

visAvis № 8 • 2013

"Vi er tredjeklassesmennesker"

– et besøg i asylsøgeres hjem i Constance, Tyskland af Andreas Schmaltz Constance er en lille by i Sydvesttyskland med 80.000 indbyggere. Den ligger på kysten af søen, Constance, med direkte udsigt til alperne. Byen grænser op til Schweitz og er en populær destination for turister fra hele verden. Et af de to hjem for asylsøgere i dette land ligger i denne by. Deres hjem er beliggende i et område med industribygninger, lejligheder og tidligere militærbarakker. Der er et Tysk Røde Kors tegn ved indgangen til den gamle, rosamalede bygning. Ovenover er der et messingskilt med Baden-Württembergsemblemet med indskriften Common Housing for Refugees County Constance. Foran huset er der en indhegnet legeplads. Facaden i baggrunden har stadig sin industrielle charme.

”Type C: barakker”

”Kan du se, hvordan vi bor her?” spørger en mand i tyverne. Han er serbisk og rumænsk og vil blive deporteret om en måned. Inde i huset leder brede trapper op til anden etage. Væggene er malet gule og grå. I korridoren er der værelser både til venstre og højre. Fliserne på gulvet er slidte og beskidte.

Der er ét køkken. Badet er i kælderen. Fire til fem personer deler ét værelse. De skal købe deres egne møbler. Antallet af beboer er omkring 150 personer. Flygtningeorganisationen, Pro Asyl, kalder denne boform ”Type C: barakker.” Flygtningerådet anbefaler, at de bliver lukket øjeblikkeligt. Der er i øjeblikket 29 af denne slags bosteder i Tyskland.

Men det er usikkerheden, der går folk på i Type C: barakkerne. Nogle gange må de vente flere måneder på svar fra myndighederne. Seks mænd fra Pakistan sidder i et værelse på anden sal. De tilbyder mig te.

De er venlige og meget gæstfrie. De siger, at der ikke er mange, som interesserer sig for deres situation.

De fleste af dem har allerede fået afvist den første ansøgning om asyl. Myndighederne tror ikke på mændenes årsager til at flygte fra hjemlandet – eller de finder dem utilstrækkelige. For at få en chance mere sparer de deres godtgørelser på 130€ sammen til at betale en advokat. Værelsekammerater med arbejde hjælper af og til, hvis der er en, som ikke har penge nok. Mændene fortæller mig, at de prøver at holde sammen.

Tredjeklasse

Asylsøgere kan først søge om tilladelse til at arbejde efter et år i Tyskland. De får tilladelsen, hvis de kan finde et job, som ikke er tilegnet en tysker, en EU-borger eller én, der allerede har fået asyl. ”Vi

2013 • visAvis № 8

er tredje-klasses-mennesker” siger de. Når man spørger dem, om der er nogen, som fortæller dem om deres rettigheder, eller hjælper med papirarbejde, svarer de: ”Nej”. Det virker som om, ingen hjælper. En mand taler om sin konstante hovedpine. Han kan ikke klare at vente længere. ”Det er kun inden for et bestemt tidsrum, at man kan klare ikke at lave andet end at sove og se tv uden at blive skør”. Han har adskillige slags smertestillende piller i sin hånd, som han har fået ordineret af en læge.

At bo sammen

Tilbage på anden sal: køkkenet. En mand fra Algeriet laver mad. En kyllingevinge, to æg og nogle halvbagte boller. Han køber mad med kuponer.

Manden kom til Tyskland alene. Det er tre år siden nu. Der var ingen muligheder i Algeriet, kun fængsel; derfor kom han til Tyskland. Han kom til Europa i båd. Som så mange andre flygtninge betalte han menneskesmuglere for den farlige rejse. ”Man når frem, hvis ikke man dør,” siger han, ”og så vil de bare deportere en. Man sætter sit liv på spil for at komme hertil og de siger: tag hjem”.

Han glemte næste sine boller i ovnen på grund af vores samtale. Han tager de letbrændte boller med ind på sit værelse.

Der er to ovne i køkkenet. De har været der i et par måneder. Den til venstre virker ikke rigtig længere.

Væggen ved siden af er beskidt. Der er kakerlakker. På begge sider af køkkenet er der borde i rustfri stål. På dem står nogle enkelte pander. De mangler håndtag og kan kun bruges med tænger. I midten af køkkenet står en skraldespand, som egentligt er en stor gryde, nu fyldt med affald omringet af emballage og madrester. Byen betaler et rengøringsselskab, som kun kommer om mandagen. I dag er det lørdag.

Længere nede af gangen er toiletterne. Nogle af fliserne rundt om kummerne mangler. Der er ingen toiletsæder. Luften af urin trænger ud på gangen.

Når man spørger til toiletterne, svarer manden fra Algeriet: ”Folk her er ikke dyr. Ikke engang hunde ville gå på toilet et sted som her. Skal man på toilettet, går man ud til shoppingcenteret. Bare et eller andet sted - men ikke her.” Shoppingcenteret ligger ca. 500 meter herfra. Selv for familierne, der bor her i huset, er der ingen anden mulighed. Og hvis de klager, bliver de truet med deportation. Det er det, alle er bange for. Og for den unge mand fra Serbien er dette nu blevet en trist realitet.

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In Thyborøn the sea waves

by Sine Bang Nielsen In Thyborøn the sea waves down in cellars and is stored until the future buckets will empty them as one empty the sea for the moon.

If god interferes, man has nothing to do and we do off and on and we push the belief that essence is a flat. The sky is without a core that can roll a miracle.

The water, the flats, the sky and sea are threatening. Time is threatening. It is the essence that’s after us. We are in empty empty times. We are jellyfish without glue.

Is it god who, as a plast, interferes and pushes us back into the sea? No, it’s us, who do off and on and more. And jump because it’s cold? No, because the earth burns the way it does.

In barrels in barrels in rafts they come to Europe.

Oil and gas, oil and gas, the rhythm of death and waves. Back to the sea, till the baptism is a threshold, the sin is washed off, the brain is washed in the Jordan River, the Nile, Gibraltar, as if a salvation that drips, not of torture. Oil on skin burns and burns, the desert is dark and full of fire.

Mother earth has many boarders, the boarders are waters and can be emptied as one empties the baptized from baptism. The Gibraltar Strait marks a boarder. The Pacific covers a third of the earth, the Pacific contains 25.000 islands, 25.000 islands that are to be flooded, when the Pacific rises, the inhabitants have only the sea to inhabit.

I’m speaking up close to a wall with my lips against a brick. We’re living as if we didn’t see each other, with our European eyes there is no one for miles, until snow comes and colors us white and swirls us around a feeling, as if we would circle a tree all year.

Resin is sticky, it’s a pine. And we’re dancing ourselves together for an even greater discomfort for discomfort is love and it’s a movement and the movement is the uncomfortable in the circles that regenerate us year after year are the following that follow the following. Thus, dizzy I surround a tree in the woods and touch it so much that I grow my arms through a movement I pass the bark and experience the richness of light with arms extended into branches.

Where are the woods. At the Liim Fiord in Thyborøn I take the train to Thisted and feel the wind being usable, besides the trees in the woods are facing east, the wind is constantly changing. At sea one knows what the wind is. I sew myself a sail, for when I, like a tree, am cut out to a kayak, will see Europe from the waterside. There comes a time when even I will overflow. Even I will.

Sultestrejkens år af Lise Olivarius

Når man ikke længere har magt over sit eget liv, kan man gøre modstand ved at beherske sin egen død. I 2012 blev sultestrejken benyttet som modstandsform af blandt andre migranter i danske asyllejre og en politisk fange i Bahrain. Teksten her analyserer, hvordan de to sultestrejker blev fremstillet i de danske medier.

Hvis 2011 var revolutionernes år – fra Tahrirpladsen til Wall Street – var 2012 sultestrejkens år.

Pussy Riot gjorde det i Rusland. Julia Timoshenko gjorde det i Ukraine. Politiske fanger gjorde det en masse i Mellemøsten. Og migranter gjorde det

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i asyllejre i Danmark. Ud fra mængden af spalteplads, sultestrejker optog i det danske medielandskab at dømme, kan man roligt tale om et momentum for denne modstandsform. Selv om de ofte blev kraftigt fordømt, var sultestrejkerne på dagsordenen, repræsenteret i medierne, og det er en pointe i sig selv. En sultestrejke er en performativ modstandsform, og repræsentationen og tilskuerne er mindst lige så vigtige som selve handlingen at sulte sig.

Teksten her zoomer ind på asylansøgernes sultestrejke i Danmark og sammenligner den med en bestemt politisk fanges sultestrejke i Bahrain for at spørge, hvorfor sidstnævnte sultestrejke blev fremstillet som langt mere legitim og set på med langt større velvilje end førstnævnte. Hvornår, for hvem og imod hvad er det ifølge den hegemoniske diskurs berettiget at sultestrejke?

visAvis № 8 • 2013

Langsom død: nekropolitik

”Det er en langsom død at være asylansøger i årevis” (Nielsen 2012), skriver de 11 sultestrejkende iranske asylansøgere i en fælles udtalelse. Det er mere end polemik. Døden skal ikke forstås metaforisk her; den skal forstås bogstaveligt. Generelt er døden et tilbagevendende tema i mediediskursen om asylsultestrejkerne. Ved flere lejligheder er de sultestrejkende citeret for at erklære, at døden er deres eneste mulighed. Således siger Farhad Talebi, en af ​​de elleve sultestrejkende iranere: “Vi vil sultestrejke, så længe vi lever […] Uanset hvad, så skal jeg dø. Enten her eller i Iran” (Larsen 2012a). De sultestrejkendes oftest tilbagevendende argument – filtreret gennem mediernes hegemoniske diskurs – er, at døden er uundgåelig, og at det at tage døden i egen hånd er deres sidste og eneste mulighed: ”Sultestrejken er min eneste udvej” (Larsen 2012c). ”jeg kan ikke gøre noget. Kun sultestrejke. Måske er der nogen, der hører mig og gør noget for mig” (Krøl 2012). Ifølge disse citater tyr asylansøgere til sultestrejke, når de er frataget andre politiske handlemuligheder. Desperation er et andet nøgleord i hele mediedækningen, hvad der tjener til at understrege opfattelsen af, at det forsætligt at udhungre sig selv er det ultimative udtryk for magtesløshed.

Men det er ikke nødvendigvis tilfældet. For filosoffen Achille Mbembe er døden en handling med sin egen agens. I sin tekst ’Necropolitics ’fra 2003 argumenterer Mbembe for, at døden – i meget konkret og bogstavelig forstand – spiller en central rolle i de nuværende, politiske magtstrukturer. Mbembe introducerer begrebet nekropolitik, dødens politik, som et korrektiv til Michel Foucaults indflydelsesrige begreb biopolitik, livets politik. Biopolitik eller biomagt er den nutidige, decentrale magt til at kontrollere og kultivere livet i alle dets aspekter, og den skal forstås i modsætning til suverænens magt til at tage livet af sine undersåtter, dvs. dødens magt.

Foucault begår imidlertid en fejl, argumenterer Mbembe, ved at afskrive døden som et irrelevant appendiks til det biopolitiske system, hvor døden, ifølge Mbembe, stadigvæk har en væsentlig funktion. Derfor er det foucauldianske begreb om en (omend kun tilsyneladende) ”godgørende” magt, der hovedsageligt opererer gennem kultivering af livet, utilstrækkelig. Men nekropolitik er ikke et alternativ til biopolitik; der er snarere tale om, at den nekropolitiske død er en forudsætning for den biopolitiske dyrkning af livet. Tænk for eksempel på, hvordan krig legitimeres med argumenter om sikkerhed. Eller mere abstrakt på, hvordan opretholdelsen af levestandarden for en dominerende, vestlig klasse har fatale omkostninger i andre dele af verden og andre lag af samfundet. Nogle må dø, for at andre kan leve.

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Nekropolitik opererer ikke kun gennem bomben, pistolen, dronen, den spektakulære død eller den individuelle krops singulære død. Nekropolitik opererer også gennem kontrol af befolkninger ved at holde dem kun netop i live i dødsverdener, som Mbembe kalder det, på grænsen mellem liv og død, som såkaldt levende døde. Pointen er, at ingen af​​ de nekropolitiske dødsverdener, som Mbembe opremser i en historisk gennemgang – ikke engang Holocaust – er afvigelser fra historien; tværtimod er dødsverdenerne fundamentet for den nuværende verdensorden. Ikke undtagelsen, men normen.

Eller med Giorgo Agambens ord: Undtagelsen er blevet konstant. En af Agambens mest berømte pointer er, at samfundet er afhængigt af dem, det udelukker. Med Mbembe kunne vi gå lidt længere og vove at foreslå, at samfundet er afhængigt af dem, det slår ihjel.

Der er grund til at foreslå, at de migranter, der er fanget i det danske asylsystem, er inkarnationer af Mbembes ”levende døde”, og at asyllejren eller tilstanden at være en ”asylansøger” er en ”dødsverden” i mbembesk forstand, et nekropolitisk topos, tilsyneladende abjekt og exceptionelt, men reelt både normalt og nødvendigt for opretholdelsen af systemet. Langsom død, som de sultestrejkende fra kirken kalder deres liv som asylansøgere, når de formår at trænge igennem i medierne.

Racisme: distribution af ​​grader af liv og danskhed

Kunne et andet navn for langsom død slet og ret være racisme? For Foucault er racisme den instans, der opdeler folk i dem, der skal dø, og dem, der kan leve – eller dem, der må dø, for at andre kan leve.

Racisme er et middel til at distribuere grader af liv. Mbembe tilføjer, at racismen tjener det formål at retfærdiggøre biopolitikkens dødsfunktion.

Racisme er det medium, hvorigennem suverænens dødsmagt transporteres over i det biopolitiske system. I denne morderiske, biopolitiske sfære – som er det, Mbembe kalder nekropolitik – fremstilles døden, som om den har den funktion at redde liv.

Det er krigens sikkerhedslogik, den undtagelsestilstand, der med racismen er blevet konstant, banal og dagligdags.

Det er således et udtryk for racisme, når sultestrejke gentagne gange fordømmes som ”udansk” eller ”ukristen” af adskillige medier, politikere og meningsdannere (fx Heick 2012). Fordelingen af​​ privilegier – såsom det privilegium at deltage i det politiske liv, fx ved at protestere – i forhold til nationalitet, kultur og religion, er en funktion af strukturel racisme.

En central pointe i den hegemoniske diskurs er, at sultestrejken som modstandsform ikke hører hjemme i Danmark. Som lederen af Jelling asyllejr

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udtrykker det: “Ingen dansk sagsbehandler vil føle sig presset, og der er ikke tradition i Danmark for, at den type aktion ændrer noget […] I deres del af verden har man tradition for at markere sig noget kraftigere, end vi selv gør” (Baun 2012). Lejrlederen afskriver de sultestrejkende som ikke-vestlige eller udanske. Deres utilstrækkelige danskhed, der allerede blev slået fast, da de blev nægtet asyl og dermed udelukket fra den danske nationalstat i første omgang, understreges ifølge dette argument yderligere af deres protest mod denne udelukkelse, når lejrlederen lægger kulturel afstand til protestens abjekte, fremmedartede form: sultestrejken. Det vrimler med lignende kulturel-national afstandtagen i mediernes fordømmelser af asylsultestrejkerne. Diskursen fungerer hovedsageligt ved hjælp af en meget hyppig brug af ordene ”dansk” og ”Danmark”.

Interessant nok er der bred enighed om at fordømme asylsultestrejkerne på tværs af hele det parlamentariske, politiske spektrum (Larsen 2012d). Uanset hvilke holdninger, de ellers har til asylspørgsmål eller migrationspolitik, er politikerne enige om at fordømme det faktum, at asylansøgere sultestrejker. De fleste af de meningsdannere uden for folketinget, der giver deres mening til kende i pressen, indtager den samme holdning (fx Heick 2012). Selv det humanitære, asylpolitiske støttenetværk Bedsteforældre for Asyl er enige om at fordømme sultestrejker som malplacerede i Danmark. Talsperson Mogens Hilden optræder i flere medier med udsagn som: ”Sultestrejke er der ikke nogen i det danske samfund, som synes er godt” (Lindqvist 2012), eller ”jeg er optimist og håber på, at de med tiden vil indse, at denne kamp skal kæmpes med andre midler – og uden livet som indsats” (Dagbladet Køge 2012a). Her ignorerer Hilden fuldstændigt de sultestrejkendes budskab, som det er blevet præsenteret i medierne – at det allerede er et spørgsmål om liv eller død for dem. Desuden formår Hilden på én gang at praktisere victim-blaming: ”Jeg ved ikke, i hvor høj grad vi kom igennem med at understrege alvoren i den situation, som de sultestrejkende har bragt sig selv i” (min fremhævelse) (Dagbladet Køge 2012b), og offergørelse, da han svarer på journalistens spørgsmål om, hvad asylansøgerne bør gøre i stedet: ”Jamen, de kan jo ikke gøre noget, de stakler. De kan ikke andet end at holde ud” (Lindqvist 2012). Lignende nedladende offergørelse springer i øjnene i en stor del af mediediskursen (fx Politiken 2012e, Wolfhagen 2012).

National afstandstagen og national tilegnelse

Sammenlignet med asylsultestrejkerne modtager Al-Khawajas sultestrejke bred støtte i den danske presse. Al-Khawaja præsenteres med titler som

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”demokratiforkæmper” (Politiken 2012c) og ”menneskerettighedsaktivist” (Jyllands-Posten 2012).

Ordene demokrati og frihed former en rød tråd gennem hele mediedækningen af ​​hans sag.

Hvis diskursen om de sultestrejkende fra asyllejrene er karakteriseret ved en national afstandstagen, er diskursen om Al-Khawaja omvendt kendetegnet ved national tilegnelse, da hans danske statsborgerskab gentagne gange fremhæves. Eller rettere, hans danskhed – de tilbagevendende nøgleord frihed og demokrati tjener det formål at skabe en diskurs om et kulturelt tilhørsforhold til Danmark og Vesten, der rækker ud over hans rent juridiske status som dansk statsborger.

Han benævnes som dansk-bahrainsk eller slet og ret som dansk. Desuden rapporterer flere medier, at det var det danske samfund, der lærte AlKhawaja om menneskerettigheder i første omgang (Politiken 2012a, Jørgenssen 2012a). Han får endda tildelt ”Politikens Frihedspris 2012” (Politiken 2012b). Og selv om samme avis i en leder kalder hans beslutning om at ende sin sultestrejke ”klog” (ibid.), bliver Al-Khawajas modstandsform aldrig fordømt i samme grad som asylansøgernes. I AlKhawajas tilfælde bliver sultestrejken fremstillet som både legitim og som potentielt effektiv.

Heroverfor er et af ​​de mest karakteristiske og tilbagevendende træk ved mediernes dækning af asylsultestrejkerne påstanden om deres nyttesløshed. Ordene nyttesløs, meningsløs og formålsløs danner en rød tråd gennem mediediskursen. Som nævnt er en sultestrejke en performativ modstandsform og derfor afhængig af, hvordan den repræsenteres. Når medier i ledere og kronikker kalder en sultestrejke nyttesløs eller citerer politikere og andre kilder for samme synspunkt, er det en talehandling. Når man kalder en sultestrejke meningsløs, bliver den meningsløs.

Den religiøse faktor

På trods af den relative brede opbakning, AlKhawaja har i medierne, svinger repræsentationen af hans sultestrejke stadig på en akse mellem yderpunkterne legitim/”dansk”/”pro-demokratisk” og illegitim/”udansk”/”muslimsk”/”islamistisk”. Således spørger Jyllands-Posten i en leder: ”Martyr for demokratiet eller for islam?” (Willum 2012). Religion er i forbløffende høj grad også et tema i dækningen af ​​asylsultestrejkerne. Det er selvfølgelig til dels en konsekvens af de iranske sultestrejkeres valg af en kirke som scene for deres protest. Desuden er nogle af disse sultestrejkende angiveligt kristne, og graden af deres ​​ kristenhed fungerer som en mere eller mindre legitimerende faktor for deres sultestrejke, meget lig Al-Khawajas skiftende grader af danskhed (mens asylansøgere ubestridt er udanske). Kristeligt Dagblad advarer dog om, at ”Det er en mere religiøst blandet gruppe

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af sultestrejkende iranere, der er flyttet ind i Stefanskirken på Nørrebro i København, end det i første omgang er fremgået af mediedækningen. Modsat hvad flere medier, herunder Kristeligt Dagblad, hidtil har viderebragt, er kun et mindretal af asylsøgerne kristne.”

(Dale & Hagemeister 2012). Den kulturelle og religiøse distance skabt af de sultestrejkendes skuffende lave grad af kristenhed er endnu et element i den diskursive distribution af danskhed – som også er distributionen af rettigheder, legitimitet og liv.

Men fænomenet sultestrejke som sådan underkastes også religionsfilosofisk analyse – som når metoden sultestrejke kaldes ”ukristen” (Heick 2012, Kristeligt Dagblad 2012).

I en leder uddyber Berlingske: ”I stedet for at lægge ansvaret for deres fremtid over på kirken og den danske offentlighed, må asylansøgerne selv påtage sig ansvaret. Det er faktisk også et af kristendommens væsentligste budskaber” (Berlingske 2012).

At spille demokratiets spil

Det oftest gentagne argument mod asylsultestrejkerne er, at denne udtryksform ikke hører hjemme i et demokrati som det danske samfund. Et af mange eksempler er en leder i Kristeligt Dagblad: ”en sultestrejke kan give mening i diktaturer, hvor parlamentariske løsninger ikke kan søges. Omvendt er det svært at se rimeligheden af at tage pressionsmidlet i brug i et demokrati, der tilbyder den forurettigede andre kanaler til at søge sin ret” (Madsen 2012). Det argument tager imidlertid ikke højde for, at migranterne ikke er fuldt inkluderet i den stat, de er underlagt.

Asylansøgere har ikke status som politiske agenter, og de nyder ikke demokratiske rettigheder. Sondringen mellem dem, der er politiske væsener eller borgere, og dem, der ikke er det; dem, der er tildeles politisk agens, og dem, der fratages samme, er afgørende for diskursen om sultestrejker.

Den danske statsborger Al-Khawaja bliver ofte omtalt med betegnelsen ”politisk fange” og tildeles dermed allerede politisk agens. Adskillige talspersoner for asylsultestrejkerne forsøger at fremstille deres kamp som noget, der ligner den exceptionelle AlKhawajas: kampen mod en udemokratisk, ikke-vestlig stat. Således spørger Dariush Mokhtari fra den iranske gruppe: ”Den danske regering tog afstand fra Bahrain. Hvorfor vil de ikke tage afstand fra Iran, når vi demonstrerer?”(Heick 2012).

Andre appellerer til fortællingen om den danske stat som demokratisk: “Vi troede, at

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livet i et demokratisk land ville bringe os nyt håb og nyt liv” (Hussing 2012).

Men måske mere interessant end disse forsøg på at lægge sig i forlængelse af den hegemoniske diskurs – og vi må ikke glemme, at vi her kun har adgang til disse udsagn filtreret gennem mediernes hegemoniske diskurs – er protesternes blotte insisterende tilstedeværelse. Nogle protesterer i lejrene, mens elleve iranere gør sig synlige ved at flytte deres kamp til midten af København.

Her bliver de efter tur smidt ud af deres tilflugtssteder: først kirken og senere, næsten for ironisk symbolsk til at være sandt, fra et medborgerhus ved navn Demokratihuset.

Når de elleve sultestrejkende flytter deres kamp til det danske magtcentrum ved at slå lejr foran Christiansborg, er det måske ikke så meget for at appellere til det demokratiske system, som Christiansborg symboliserer, som det er for at påpege utilstrækkeligheden ved samme system. Det er stærkt performativt, tilmed teatralsk, hvis ikke ligefrem tragisk: et skuespil, der afslører det såkaldt demokratiske samfund som et rent skuespilsamfund. Interessant nok har nogle af de mest anerkendte, historiske sultestrejker også været kampe for at udvide den politiske sfære og for anerkendelse som politiske agenter.

Såsom suffragetterne, der i deres kamp for stemmeretten som de første introducerede sultestrejken på den politiske scene i det 20. århundrede (Ellmann 1993:12).

Sultestrejken som nekropolitisk modstandsform

Sultestrejkens magt, foreslår Patrick Anderson i sin analyse af den store sultestrejke blandt fanger i Tyrkiet omkring år 2000, består i dens udfordring af statens voldsmonopol. Den sultestrejkende gør sig selv til subjekt for den vold, hxn allerede er objekt for. Volden har måske ikke ændret grad eller karakter, men dens agent har rykket sig fra staten til den sultestrejkende (Anderson 2004:830). Det er uacceptabelt for den suveræne stat, hvis magt er baseret på dens voldsmonopol.

Måske kan det gøre det lettere at forstå, hvorfor Al-Khawaja og migranterne i Danmark bevidst valgte at fremskynde deres uundgåelig, langsomme død. Disse sultestrejker er forestillinger iscenesat i nekropolitiske rum, hvor folk ikke længere har magt over deres eget liv og derfor kun kan beherske deres egen død. Det er sultestrejkens magt – at udfordre suverænens privilegium til at kontrollere sine undersåtters død. Det

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er det, der gør sultestrejker så provokerende: En hvilken som helst voldshandling begået af enhver anden aktør end staten, om det så er mod én selv, bliver traditionelt fordømt som illegitim af den hegemoniske, vestlige diskurs (her repræsenteret af de danske medier).

Synliggørelse af volden

Disse sultestrejker forsøger ikke så meget at opnå specifikke, borgerlige rettigheder eller privilegier, som de performer og synliggør den strukturelle vold i nekropolitiske (dvs. på en gang suveræne og biopolitiske) systemer, såsom den totalitære stat og deportationsregimet. Hver individuelle sultestrejkende, døende eller døde krop, hvor virkelig og materiel, den end er, repræsenterer noget mere end sig selv, et fællesskab som helhed.

Det er nekropolitisk modstand. Og solidaritet.

Som når Ramin Molavi, talsmand for de elleve iranere i København, reagerer på en journalists ledende spørgsmål om, hvorvidt han mener, at sultestrejken juridisk har forbedret hans asylsag: ”Jeg tænker ikke på min egen sag, jeg tænker på det kollektive ansvar” (Brobjerg 2012). Hvis man følger denne tankegang, er det muligt at begribe sultestrejke på en måde, der rækker ud over mediediskursens rent negative begreber om desperation, meningsløshed og selvbeskadigelse grænsende til galskab. Sultestrejker kan have succes med at udfordre systemet, samtidig med umiddelbart at tabe kampe for særlige rettigheder inden for dette system. Sultestrejken både repræsenterer og omvender de voldsrelationer, suverænens magt bygger på, når den tager dødens våben ud af hænderne på staten.

Således er det værd at bemærke, at samtidig med, at de danske medier i overensstemmelse med den generelle ”nyttesløshedsdiskurs”, er hurtige til at fælde dommen ”fiasko” over asylsultestrejken ("Sultestrejke stopper i dag – politikere bøjede sig ikke" (Brobjerg 2012), som en overskrift hoverer), udsender en gruppe af de syrisk-kurdiske sultestrejkende en erklæring om, hvad de har opnået: ”Vi har givet vores stemmer til kende og vist vores lidelser til den danske og europæiske offentlighed, bevidste om, at det ikke var vores hovedformål, men et middel til at få den anerkendelse og frihed, vi kræver” (Jørgenssen 2012b).

Faktaboks: to sultestrejker

Bølgen af asylsultestrejker begyndte omkring den 7. maj 2012 i Sigerslev asyllejr, da omkring 20 afviste syrisk-kurdiske asylansøgere indledte en sultestrejke for at kræve at få deres sager genåbnet. De følgende uger fulgte mange andre trop: syriske kurdere i lejrene Brovst, Jelling, Holmegaard og Hanstholm samt en gruppe af iranere i Sandholm. Omkring den 24. maj talte sultestrejken mere end 80 asylan-

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søgere i hele landet. Den 23. begyndte 11 migranter fra Iran at sultestrejke i Stefanskirken i København.

Gruppen blev tvunget til at forlade kirken den 29. maj. Protesterne fortsatte i et medborgerhus ved navn Demokratihuset, hvorfra de dog også blev smidt ud et par dage senere. Derefter fortsatte de deres sultestrejke foran Christiansborg.

I mellemtiden afsluttedes de forskellige sultestrejker, og omkring den 12. juni var asylsultestrejken officielt afblæst.

Samtidig optog det betydelig plads i medierne, at den fremtrædende menneskerettighedsaktivist Abdulhadi Al-Khawaja, der oprindeligt er fra Bahrain, men har dansk statsborgerskab, også sulte-strejkede. Al-Khawaja har været fængslet i Bahrain siden juni 2011 for at arrangere prodemokratiske protester som en del af det såkaldte arabiske forår. I februar 2012 indledte han en sultestrejke for at kræve sin løsladelse. Al-Khawaja, der er en af det ​​ arabiske forårs internationalt anerkendte helte, er stadig i fængsel.

Literaturliste:

Agamben, G 1998, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, Stanford University Press Stanford, California.

Anderson, P 2004, ‘‘To lie down to death for days’: The Turkish hunger strike, 2000-2003’, Cultural Studies, vol. 18 no.6, pp. 816-846, DOI: 10.1080/0950238042000306882 .

Baun, L 2012, ’Centerleder: De bestemmer selv, om de vil spise eller sultestrejke’,Vejle Amts Folkeblad, 22. maj, set 29. januar, Infomedia database.

Berlingske 2012: ’Berlingske mener’, 26. maj, set 11. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Brobjerg, MB 2012,’Sultestrejke stopper i dag – politikere bøjede sig ikke’, Jyllands-Posten, 12. juni, set 11. februar 2013, http://www.jyllands-posten.dk/protected/premium/indland/ ECE4718496/sultestrejke-stopper-i-dag-politikereboejede-sig-ikke/ Dagbladet Køge 2012a: ’Demonstranter vil stoppe sultestrejke’ , 21. maj, set 2. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Dagblaget Køge 2012b: ’Sultestrejke fortsætter trods demonstration’ , 21. maj, set 10. februar 2013, Infomedia database Dale, I & Hagemeister, ML 2012, ’De sultestrejkende iranere er en religiøst blandet flok’, Kristeligt Dagblad, 26. maj, set 10. februar 2013, http://www.kristeligt-dagblad.dk/ artikel/463761:Danmark--De-sultestrejkende-iranere-er-en-religioest-blandet-flok

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Ellmann, M 1993, The Hunger Artists.

Starving, Writing, and Imprisonment, Harvard University Press.

Foucault, M 2003, ‘17 March 1976: Society Must Be Defended’ i Lectures at the Collège de France 1975-76, ed M Bertani et al., Picador, New York, pp. 239-265.

Heick, KK 2012, ’Sultestrejker er blevet en farlig trend i Danmark’, MetroXpress, 5. juni, set 3. februar 2013, 5/6, Infomedia database.

Hussing, M 2012,’16 iranere sultestrejker ved Sandholm’, Allerød Nyt, 23. maj, set 2. februar 2013, http://alleroed.lokalavisen.dk/16-iranere-sultestrejker-ved-sandholm-/20120523/artikler/120529645/1008 Jyllands-Posten 2012: ’To danskere er blandt verdens førende tænkere’, 27. november, set 3. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Jørgenssen, SA 2012a, ’Frygt for sultestrejkende danskers liv’, Berlingske, 1. marts, set 30. januar 2013, http://www.bt.dk/udland/ frygt-for-sultestrejkende-danskers-liv Jørgenssen, SA 2012b,’ Syrere indstiller sultestrejke over hele landet’, Jydske Vestkysten, 31. maj, set 10. februar, Infomedia database.

Kristeligt Dagblad 2012: ’Ledende artikel: Sultestrejke giver andre skylden’, 1. juni, set 10. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Krøl, AS 2012,’‘Måske er der nogen, der hører mig’’, TV2 Nyhederne Online, 24. maj, set 10. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Larsen, JB 2012a, ’Politikere: Sultestrejke nytter ikke’, BT, 25. maj, set 30 januar, Infomedia database.

Larsen, JB 2012b, ’Iranere frygter tortur og død i hjemlandet’, Århus Stiftstidende, 24. maj, set 31. januar 2013, Infomedia database.

Larsen, JB 2012c, ’Sultestrejkende iraner: Jeg er bange for at blive henrettet’, Politiken, 23. maj, set 2. februar 2013, http://politiken. dk/indland/ECE1634530/sultestrejkendeiraner-jeg-er-bange-for-at-blive-henrettet/

Madsen, AE 2012,’Sultestrejke giver andre skylden’, Kristeligt Dagblad, 1 June, set 10. februar 2013, http://www.kristeligt-dagblad. dk/artikel/464486:Leder--Sultestrejke-giverandre-skylden Mbembe, A 2003, ‘Necropolitics’, Public Culture, vol.15(1), no.1, pp.11-40, Duke University Press.

Nielsen, G 2012, ’’Det er en langsom død’’, Berlingske, 29. maj, set 31. januar 2013, http://www.b.dk/nationalt/det-er-en-langsom-doed Politiken 2012a: ’Portræt: Ikke til at kue’ 10. april, set 3. februar 2013, Infomedia database Politiken 2012b: ’Pris til Al-Khawaja’ 29. oktober, set 3. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Politiken 2012c: ’Al-Khawaja for retten i Bahrain’, 1. december, set 10. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Politiken 2012d: ’Al-Khawaja for retten i Bahrain’, 1. december, set 10. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Politiken 2012e: ’Bedsteforældre for Asyl: Hold så op med at sultestrejke’ 23. maj, set 10. februar 2012, Infomedia database.

Willum, G 2012, ’Martyr for demokratiet eller for islam?’, Jyllands-Posten 11. april, set 31. januar 2013, http://www.jyllands-posten. dk/protected/premium/international/article2746127.ece Wolfhagen, R 2012: ’“Jeg kan ikke se nogen løsning på jeres problem”’, Information 4. juni 2012, set 10. april 2012, http://www.information.dk/302554 Litteraturlisten omfatter udelukkende artikler, der bliver citeret direkte i teksten.

Analysen er baseret på omkring 150 nyhedsartikler, ledere og kronikker fra et bredt udvalg af danske, skrevne medier.

Larsen, JB 2012d, ’Politikere opfordrer til at droppe ”formålsløs” sultestrejke’, Århus Stiftstidende, 24. maj, set 11. februar 2013, Infomedia database.

Lindqvist, A 2012,’ Bedsteforældre for asyl: Hold så op med at sultestrejke’, Politiken, 23. maj, set 31. januar 2013, http://politiken.dk/ indland/ECE1634261/bedsteforaeldre-forasyl-hold-saa-op-med-at-sultestrejke/

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Dem der har det med at lave ballade af Sara Ahmed og Liv Nimand Duvå Affektive konsekvenser af forhandlinger om forskellighed, andethed og fremmedgørelse, og hvordan disse konsekvenser synes at ‘gøre’ subjekter over tid, er nogle af kerneområderne i Sara Ahmeds værker. Som professor i race- og kulturstudier ved Goldsmith University of London beskæftiger hun sig med teorier, der omhandler forestillinger om ‘andethed’ såsom postkolonialisme, queerteori og transnationalitet. Centralt i hendes forfatterskab er forståelsen af følelsers bundethed; Synet på, hvordan følelser registrerer andres nærhed, og hvordan kategoriseringer af følelser bindes til objekter, og hvordan følelser derved kan ‘klistre’ til både subjekter og objekter. visAvis har bedt hende udfolde enkelte aspekter af sit forfatterskab i relation til asyl- og queeraktivisme. Vi begynder med figuren, den feministiske glædesdræber. Ahmed adresserer med denne figur potentialerne i at ødelægge den gode stemning.

Et af kernebegreberne i dit forfatterskab er figuren, den feministiske glædesdræber. Jeg finder begrebet brugbart som en måde at nærme sig og forstå aktivisme på. Kan du introducere den feministiske glædesdræber som et værktøj til at forstå de følelser, der omgiver aktivisme?

Jeg mener absolut, at figuren den feministisk glædesdræber er fyldt med potentiale! Og det er i sig selv interessant, fordi nogle af mine tidlige erfaringer med at være feministisk glædesdræber var vanskelige, endda smertefulde. Det forventes, at du siger dit og dat, er imod dette eller hint, fordi du er feminist, fast besluttet på at ødelægge andres glæde.

Du behøver ikke en gang sige noget: så snart du er identificeret som feminist, forventes det, at du er besværlig! Og det kan være besværligt at forventes at være besværlig! Jeg tror, at det er ved at finde potentiale i oplevelsen af besværlighed, at den feministiske glædesdræber, kan blive et politisk værktøj.

Hvis det kan forstyrre lykken at udpege racisme eller fremmedfjendskhed, skal vi stille os i vejen for lykken: da skal vi gøre nøjagtig dét, som de beskylder os for at gøre. Tænk på, hvor tit immigranter og asylansøgere betragtes som om, de står i vejen for den nationale lykke – som om de stjæler nationen, der tilhører os, som om de tager vores jobs, vores velfærdsydelser eller som om, de fremmedgør os fra vores kultur og historie. Hvis fremmede og migranter opfattes som årsag til den ødelagte lykke, er det ikke underligt, at ødelagt lykke kan blive en politisk mærkesag. Den feministiske glædesdræber er

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den, som er villig til at stille sig i vejen for lykken, hvis lykken er uretfærdig eller hvis lykken gives til nogen på bekostning af andre.

Du har beskrevet aktivisme som et spørgsmål om pladser omkring et bord. Om at blive nægtet en plads ved lykkens bord. Kan du udfolde iagttagelsen om pladser i relation til vores arbejde med asyl og migration?

For at besvare det spørgsmål, tror jeg, at jeg bliver nødt til at gå et skridt tilbage: Hvorfor borde? Og pladser omkring et bord? Mine tidlige erfaringer med at være feministisk glædesdræber finder faktisk sted omkring familiens spisebord. Min familie var politisk set ret konservativ. Jeg ved ikke, hvordan det opstod, men i al den tid, jeg kan huske, har jeg altid været optaget af uretfærdighed; hvad enten det omhandlede forskelle mellem pigers og drenges formåen, eller om hvorvidt fattigdom og ressourcesvaghed blev set som de fattiges og de ressourcesvages egen skyld (et af mine tidlige minder om politisering var den konstante brug af figuren, ”the dole bludger” i de australske medier, som om alle arbejdsløse var dovne og ufortjent modtog arbejdsløshedsunderstøttelse), eller hvorvidt det handlede om racisme (de krænkelser, som jeg blev udsat for i skolen på grund af mit sjove navn, graffitien på det lokale busstoppested, som sagde ”Asians out”).

At være optaget af uretfærdighed og sige det højt, nægter én en plads ved lykkens bord. Fordi selve det at sidde omkring familiens spisebord (og familien antages ofte som lykkelig) er ensbetydende med ikke at tage disse emner op. Åh, alle de middagsselskaber jeg er blevet beskyldt for at ødelægge, fordi jeg har protesteret, når et familiemedlem har sagt noget sexistisk eller racistisk eller homofobisk! Den som protesterer mod overgreb, anses for at bringe overgreb og voldshandlinger ind i rummet. Som aktivister har vi selvfølgelig vores egne borde, som vi samles om: vores møder og events.

Vi optager pladser i en fysisk, så vel som symbolsk forstand. Det er givetvis bevidsthed om uretfærdighed og overgreb, der samler os ved disse borde.

Men selv dér er vi ikke alle altid enige; og vi ved det, det er sådan, det er – selv med vores nærmeste allierede. For nyligt har der været eksempler på dette i socialistiske partier, hvor kvinder er blevet behandlet som glædesdræbere, som nogen der står i vejen for solidariteten i partiet, fordi de har italesat de seksuelle overgreb, som forekommer inden for partiet. Og partiet forsvarer sig selv ved at gøre

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disse kvinder til problemet. Farvede personer bliver ofte glædesdræbere omkring feministiske og queeraktivistiske borde, når vi bringer spørgsmål om racisme på bordet. Jeg synes, at aktivistisme udgør en ganske særlig ramme: folk kan have en idé om sig selv som radikale eller progressive, og hvis du udfordrer den idé, får du en meget selvforsvarende reaktion. Og det, der følger efter en selvforsvarende reaktion, kan ofte føre til en afvisning af din plads: du mister din plads ved bordet, så de kan beholde deres.

I et hvilket som helst aktivistisk miljø vil der være særlige emner, som ikke er tilladt omkring bordet, ikke nødvendigvis officielt, men følelsesmæssigt (så hvis den og den nævner det og det, vil det blive mødt med himmelvendte øjne, selvom ingen siger noget). Når vi samles omkring vores egne borde, må vi ikke blot tænke over processen og procedurerne (de regler vi må stille op for at muliggøre en så god samtale som muligt, for at nå frem til beslutninger på den bedst mulige måde), men også over hvordan atmosfærer kan skabe deres egne inklusioner og eksklusioner. Hvis den gode stemning forstyrres af, at nogen nævner ordet racisme, så er det den, der nævner ordet, der beskyldes for at have ødelagt den gode stemning! Vi bliver nødt til at reflektere over, hvordan vi også behandler andre som glædesdræbere, hvis de for eksempel står i vejen for det, vi gør. At vi er på samme side som dem, der kæmper for legitimitet inden for nationen, betyder ikke, at vi har ret.

De personlige historier fra folk, som er migreret og bosat i lejre, udtrykkes ofte med sorg, vrede og håbløshed. Hvis vi forstår solidariske handlinger som villighed til at dele disse følelser, er det vigtigt, at vi ser på, hvilke forandringer disse følelser undergår, når de vandrer mellem subjekter, der er forskelligt positioneret. Hvad er din opfattelse af følelsers mutation i et solidarisk perspektiv?

Solidaritet er, hvad vi opnår, ikke hvad vi antager: Det har jeg lært af Audre Lorde, som har lært mig så meget. Solidaritet begribes nok ikke bedst som en følelse (hvilket ikke var, hvad du spurgte om, men stadig værd at nævne): du kan føle solidaritet med nogle og stadig handle usolidarisk (tendensen til i aktivisme at ”tale på vegne af andre” relaterer sig bestemt ofte til problemet med at ”føle med andre” – eller på vegne af andre). Om noget vil jeg sige, at forståelsen af solidaritet som en følelse kan være en del af problemet. Hvad angår Australien, har jeg ofte følt dette: de privilegeredes empati og medfølelse med de oprindelige australiere kan blot være en anden måde at højne deres egen selvfølelse på.

Det er utrolig vigtigt at etablere en forståelse af, at vi ikke behøver at dele andres lidelser for at forstå,

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at denne lidelse har noget med os selv at gøre (ellers kunne jeg sige: ”hvis jeg ikke føler din smerte, har din situation intet at gøre med min egen”). Vi må også passe på med ikke at reducere andre til at være lig med deres lidelser; eller at forvente af andre, at de skal aflægge vidnesbyrd for deres lidelser (kravet om at skulle aflægge vidnesbyrd gør asylansøgning tragisk og svær, fordi det at skulle vidne om en situation, hvor man har lidt overlast, kan opleves som en gentagelse af hændelsen). Vi ved, at loven ikke er særlig tilbøjelig til at lytte; loven hører kun dét, der allerede er godtaget som bevis. Det at søge asyl er altså ofte forbundet med at skulle omsætte ens tragiske oplevelser til noget, som loven vil godtage; og som del af denne proces betvivles ens vidneudsagn konstant. At støtte mennesker gennem det traume, som asylsøgning kan være, er og bliver enormt vigtigt. Derfor er det at være villig til at lytte på en andre måder et væsentligt udgangspunkt for asylaktivisme. At lytte er at være villig til at lade sig påvirke følelsesmæssigt af andre, for du bliver uundgåeligt påvirket (hvis følelser vandrer, vandrer de sjældent ubesværet). For mange vil det være vigtigt at kunne dele en traumatisk historie med andre, så oplevelsen kan blive anerkendt og erklæret gyldig, så den kan bevæge og påvirke andre følelsesmæssigt. For andre vil det være en lettelse at være fri for at omsætte deres følelser til ord; ikke at skulle dele hændelsen med andre. Vi ved ikke altid, hvordan mennesker finder ressourcerne til at overleve. Men at være villig til at lytte, hvis det at fortælle virker, er ensbetydende med at være parat til at lade sig åbne af det, som fortælles. Det kræver en indsats at lytte med åbne ører, da så meget af vores livserfaring har lært os at lukke vores ører for det, som står i vejen for vores ret til at optage plads.

I din forskning i, hvordan følelser virker ved at klistre figurer sammen, beskæftiger du dig med figurer som asylsøgeren og den internationale terrorist.

Hvordan klistrer disse figurer sammen i følelsernes narrative strukturer?

Jeg har benyttet ideen om klister for at nå ind til, hvordan racisme opererer. Figuren den bedrageriske asylsøger florerer i medier og politik, for at skabe narrativet om, at mange af de mennesker, som søger asyl, gør det illegitimt. At de gør krav på at modtage asyl, for at få adgang til landet og modtage dets goder. Ordet asylsøger overfører altså betydningen bedragerisk – man behøver ikke en gang at sige det, for at overføre hele betydningen; den er allerede klistret fast. Og figurer kan klistre sammen: så det at have en blød migrations- og asylpolitik, bliver ensbetydende med at gøre nationen sårbar over for terrorisme, hvorved asylsøgere vil blive behandlet, som var de terrorister. Tænk også på udtrykket islamistisk terrorist som, når det gen-

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tages, kan klistre de to ord sammen, så islamistisk i sig selv henleder tankerne på terror. Fare og terror projekteres over på de subjekter, der opfattes som fremmede, som ikke os og dette ikke klistrer til nogle kroppe. Der er intet, der er mere farligt end at blive opfattet som en fare for nationen!

Hvordan reagerer glædesdræberen på disse narrativer?

Jeg er ikke sikker på, at det handler om at reagere som en glædesdræber, fordi jeg ikke mener, at vi altid kan være sikre på, at vi er glædesdræberne!

Hvis vi antog det, ville det give os en falsk tryghed.

Vi kan også være en del af problemet; aktivister inden for de her områder er ikke nødvendigvis upåvirkede af den racisme, der strukturer så stor en del af den nationale diskurs. Ser vi isoleret på narrativerne, tror jeg, vi bliver nødt til at finde ud af, hvad der er på spil. Det kan måske synes simpelt og ligetil. Og nogle gange er det også det. Men faktisk så tror jeg, at en vigtig del af politisk arbejde stadig må være det at beskrive mekanismerne, fordi disse mekanismer ofte reproduceres ved ikke at blive italesat. Jeg synes også, det er vigtigt at huske på, at racisme ikke kun er noget, der findes hos andre.

Racisme er allestedsnærværende og kan tage sig meget mere kultiveret og udspekuleret ud, end det gør i de former, som jeg har beskrevet her.

Bør vi være tilbageholdende med at overføre teorien om den feministiske glædesdræber til asyl- og migrationspolitik?

Jeg tror, vi skal være tilbageholdende med at indtage den feministiske glædesdræber som en teori eller position, vi kan tage patent på. Det vi kan lære af den feministiske glædesdræber er, at dem der påpeger et overgreb, ofte betragtes som kilden til overgrebet. Når vi udfører denne slags arbejde – arbejde som udfordrer tankerne om, hvem der hører til nationen og hvem der ikke gør – bliver vi mødt af de samme strukturer, som vi forsøger at bekæmpe. Hvis man for eksempel arbejder mod racisme, konfronterer man racisme; racisme kan blive rettet mod dem, som påpeger racisme. Det er derfor, at politisk arbejde kan være så udmattende og så vigtigt på samme tid. Jeg tror, at hvis jeg finder en form for vejledning i figuren, så er det ganske enkelt dette: at hvis den her kamp er udmattende, kan vi genvinde energi ved at dele udmattelsen med andre. Dem der har det med at lave ballade, plejer at finde andre med den samme tilbøjelighed!

En diskussion om kønsstrukturer i lejrene: ’vi burde ikke skulle være bange for at gå ud fra vores værelser om natten på grund af vores køn’ af Liv Nimand Duvå Hver mandag mødes kvinder med og uden dansk statsborgerskab i det brugerstyrede kulturhus, Trampolinhuset, for at diskutere kvinders vilkår og strategier for overlevelse i hele verden. Mandag d.

3. juni 2013 handlede diskussionen om kønsstrukturer i danske asyllejre og det øvrige samfund. Den følgende samtale er baseret på uddrag fra diskussionen, hvor otte kvinder deltog. Uddragene illustrerer de centrale temaer i diskussionen om blandt andet kønsstrukturer, mandlig dominans og kvindernes oplevelse af at være utrygge og ubeskyttede - især i lejrene.

skellige. Nogle mennesker bliver skøre, fordi de har været i asyllejrene i otte eller ti år. Hvis jeg havde været der så længe, ville ​​ jeg også blive skør. Det er trist at være vidne til, men sådan er lejrlivet.

A: Der er forskelle mellem mænd og kvinder, men der er forskelle mellem alle og folks sager er for-

A: Ja, det sker hele tiden. Det er derfor, vi skal være forsigtige og passe på os selv. Hvis en kvinde har

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B: Det er derfor, at vi bør finde nogle måder, hvorpå vi kan støtte især kvinder. Folk skal ikke være bange for at forlade deres værelser om natten på grund af deres køn. Sidste mandag var der en kvinde her, som sagde, at det var svært for hende at forlade sit værelse, fordi alle mændene hele tiden spurgte hende om sex for penge.

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mange relationer til mænd i lejren, vil alle mænd hoppe på hende. Så hvis man har en mand, bør man blive hos ham og opføre sig ordentligt, ellers får man problemer.

B: Men i Danmark, officielt i hvert fald, har mænd ingen ret til at røre kvinder, uanset hvordan de klæder og opfører sig.

C: Sådan var det også i Danmark i gamle dage. Hvis der skete noget med en kvinde, ville alle også sige: "det er hendes egen skyld."

D: Der er stadig mange af sådan nogle tilfælde i lejrene. Og fordi Røde Kors ikke kan beskytte kvinderne, får de i stedet anvist de isolerede værelser. I hvert fald i Sandholm.

Så i stedet for at beskytte kvinderne, isolerer Røde Kors os bare endnu mere. Hvis man er bange, gør dét bare en mere isoleret og alene.

På den måde bliver det ens eget problem i stedet for et generelt.

E: Når jeg har problemer med mænd i lejren, ringer jeg nogle gange til politiet i lejren, men får ingen hjælp. Så hvad med jer kvinder i Danmark – hvis I har problemer med jeres kæreste eller mand eller andre mænd, kan I så få hjælp?

F: Det er en del af vores system, at vi kan få hjælp. Der er disse støttecentre for kvinder, hvor man kan få asyl, hvis man har problemer. Så loven siger altså, er det muligt at få støtte, man kan få en advokat, et tilhold.

E: Okay, men jeg vil gerne vide, hvad der sker, hvis du går til politiet. Har de brug for vidner eller skal de øjeblikkeligt tro på dig?

B: Hvis du ringer til politiet og siger, at en mand har slået eller voldtaget dig, vil de tage det alvorligt. Men problemet er det, der sker efterfølgende. Der er en masse procedurer, man er nødt til at gå igennem. Man er nødt til at fortælle sin historie igen og igen, de tror ikke på en med det samme.

E: Jeg spørger, fordi da jeg var i mit hjemland, kendte jeg en pige, som fortalte mig, at de tog sig godt af kvinder i Europa. Men nu hvor jeg er her, kan jeg se, hvor mange mænd der slår kvinder, og jeg har selv haft problemer og fik ikke støtte. Jeg ringede til politiet og fortalte dem, at jeg havde problemer med den her mand, og de gjorde ingenting. I dag fik jeg besøg af en kvinde på mit værelse. For tre

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år siden, da hun var sammen med sin mand i lejren, slog han og tog kvælertag på hende. Og når man hører den slags historier, har man ingen tryghed i sit liv. Så i forhold til alle de ting, jeg hørte om ligestilling i Europa, synes jeg ikke, at jeg kan se det her.

A: Overalt i verden bliver kvinder forulempet af mænd og især i lejrene.

G: Det er også et problem, at der i lejrene eksisterer en slags skjulte samfund. Hvis den samme stamme flytter fra det samme land til lejren, tager de deres regler, normer og traditioner med sig. Jeg har selv oplevet det. Jeg er fra et bestemt land og er nødt til at blive beskyttet af mændene fra det pågældende land og er beskyttet af et nationalt ophav. Det er det, der gør det vanskeligt for loven at gøre noget, fordi vi lever sammen med disse mennesker. Og er tvunget til at være der.

H: Det er en måde, hvorpå mændene kan beholde kontrollen i den prekære situation i lejrene, hvor de har en masse overordnede i deres liv. Den sidste ting, de kan miste, er kontrollen over kvinderne. Det er naturligt skabt i lejren.

C: Der er også flere mænd end kvinder i lejrene, hvilket betyder, at kvinderne er en dobbeltminoritet. Så måske der bør være mere segregation. Og som det mindste burde kvinderne, der kommer hertil, kende deres rettigheder.

H: Men det fjerner ikke problemet i at skulle bevise alt. Når kvinder for eksempel er flygtet fra Afghanistan, kan de ikke få nogen hjælp i Danmark, medmindre de er i stand til at bevise, at de er i fare. Og hvordan er det muligt at bevise undertrykkelse?

E: Du har ret. Da jeg spurgte politikvinden i lejren om, hvad de kan gøre for kvinder, der er blevet voldtaget, sagde hun: ”hvis der er beviser nok, kan vi hjælpe”. Der er en masse kvinder i lejren, der har problemer med voldtægt og vold, men hvis de ikke har beviser for det, vil deres sag blive lukket.

Trampolinhuset, Skyttegade 3, København N 2200, www.trampolinhuset.dk

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At skabe hjem bag murene

– et indblik i værelserne i Asylcenter Avnstrup af Karen RAVN VESTERGAARD Ismails værelse:

Jeg fik dem fra Det Islamiske Trossamfund i Danmark. Hvert år under Ramadanen kan man få denne her kalender gratis. Jeg fik også billedet gratis, selvom man nogle gange skal betale. Når man kigger på billedet, så bliver det hos én. Man tænker på Mekka og på bønnen, man ser gruppen af mennesker, og man kan bruge kalenderen til at planlægge sine bønner. Nogle gange når jeg kigger på billedet, får jeg det lidt bedre. Ikke bare fordi jeg gerne vil til Mekka, men fordi jeg af og til får en anderledes følelse, når jeg tænker på at bede. Nogle kristne har Jesus på væggen. Måske er det den samme følelse. Der er mange mennesker på billedet, men de ser alle sammen på Ka’baen [muslimer forventes at vende sig mod Ka’baen under bønnen].

Så når jeg beder, så beder jeg på denne her måde [viser en specifik retning]. Sådan beder alle muslimer... Jeg tror, at du kan finde dette billede på enhver muslims værelse – ikke bare i det her center, men også uden for og i andre lande. Hvis du kommer ind i et rum og ser det her billede, så ved du, at de er muslimer, ellers ville de ikke ikke have billedet oppe. Jeg har det ikke bare for at blive genkendt, jeg kan godt lide billedet. Jeg er glad for at have det her.

Ali og Lisas værelse:

Ali: For tre måneder siden gik jeg i sultestrejke i ti dage. Jeg spiste ikke. Og i de tre sidste dage snakkede jeg ikke engang. I løbet af de første dage skrev jeg det her på væggen: “Palæstina vil blive frit. Jeg beder ikke om at være i jeres land, jeg beder om at få mit land tilbage.”

Lisa: Han skrev det først på væggen ude i gangen, men så fjernede Røde Kors det. De sagde, at det ikke er tilladt at skrive noget politisk ude på væggene.

Når jeg ser på denne væg, tænker jeg på Palæstina.

Ali: Vi ønskede at arbejde for fred i Palæstina. De israelske soldater sagde til mig, at vi er farlige for dem, fordi vi er fredskæmpere. Jeg sagde til dem; jeg er ikke fredskæmper, jeg er fredsskaber. Vi skaber fred.

Lisa: Denne skrift på væggen var en del af sultestrejken. Vi skrev den her fordi det også er en del af vores personlige kamp.

Ali: I Palæstina har jeg være i fængsel mange gange.

Da jeg kom ud, anholdt de os sammen. Jeg blev også anholdt på grund af hende. Hver gang de så os sammen, sigtede de på mig med et våben, fordi hun er israeler og jeg er palæstinenser. Den israelske soldat pegede på hende og satte sin pistol på mig. “Elsker

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du hende,” sagde han.

Lisa: De sagde til mig: “Det har ikke noget med dig at gøre, du har ikke ret til at tale.”

Ali: Og så sagde de, “Hvis vi ser jer sammen igen, kan vi ikke svare for følgerne”, men det ville enten være fængsel eller død. Jeg var i fængsel tre gange og så flygtede jeg. Efter otte måneder kom jeg her til Lisa.

Yousefs værelse:

Jeg fik blomsterne for to uger siden. Nogle unger smed dem væk og så tog jeg dem. Jeg kan virkelig godt lide dem. Blomsterne er smukke. De minder mig om udenfor centeret og den gode følelse der er derude. For det meste er jeg alene på mit værelse.

Hver dag når jeg vågner, kigger jeg på blomsterne, og det gør mig glad. Jeg gør dem rene, for at holde dem pæne. Jeg vil gerne have, at de bliver ved med at være pæne, for jeg er meget alene på mit værelse og de får mig til at smile.

De minder mig om min ungdom, om når jeg legede som barn, legede med andre børn. De minder mig om at være et barn, om ikke at have så meget, at gå rundt og lege. Det var dejligt at være ung. Det var en anden tid, hvor jeg tænkte på en anden måde.

Amrans værelse:

Jeg fik denne her tegning i Sverige, som var det første land jeg ankom til. Det var det første sted, jeg kom til at bo i Europa, det første sted, jeg fik et sted at være. Jeg havde de her tre rigtig unge somaliske børn og deres mor som naboer. Det var første gang efter jeg rejste hele vejen fra mit land, at jeg fik mulighed for at tale med nogle mennesker, som jeg var tryg ved, nogle som mig, med det samme sprog. En morgen var der et af børnene, en tolvårig pige, der var på vej til til lejrens skole. Hun sagde til mig, “Jeg kan lide dig, jeg elsker dig,” og jeg kunne også virkelig godt lide hende. Hun var så nuttet. Hun vidste, at mit navn starter med A, så hun tegnede et hjerte med A i. Hun gav det til mig som en gave. Hver gang jeg ser denne her tegning, kan jeg huske min tid og mit liv i Sverige, de fire måneder jeg var sammen med de her mennesker.

Da jeg kom til denne her lejr, hang jeg den op på væggen, for at huske den lille pige. Det får mig til at tænke på det liv, jeg havde sammen med dem. Så jeg hængte den her på væggen, for at huske mit liv i Sverige. Den får mig til at huske, at hun elsker mig.

Jeg har ikke noget andet på væggene. Vi hænger for det meste kun ting, vi skal huske, op på denne her væg; aftaler med lægen, interview, eller papirer om praktik. Men hjertet er der altid.

visAvis № 8 • 2013

Tegneserier fra Refugee Protest Camp i Berlin Under tegneworkshoppene bliver tegneserier brugt som en måde, hvorpå flygtninge kan dokumentere deres situationer og dele deres historier. Nogle forfattere bruger tegneserier til at fortælle historien om deres rejse fra deres oprindelsesland til Berlin, mens andre fokuserer på deres nuværende situation. Flere bor i Refugee Protest Camps telte eller i den nærliggende skolebygning, der blev besat af flygtninge i december 2012. Workshoppen finder sted i et stort cirkustelt i Refugee Protest Camp to eftermiddage om ugen. Der er en gruppe af faste deltagere, som arbejder kontinuerligt med deres tegneserier. Andre kommer forbi indimellem. De fleste deltagere er i tyverne og kommer fra vidt forskellige steder som Libyen, Mali, Sudan, Pakistan, Tyskland og andre. Fordi der tales så mange forskellige sprog, er oversættelserne blevet en afgørende del af vores arbejde.

Keita er fra Mali. I sin tegneserie beskriver han den dag, hvor han ankom til Refugee Protest Camp på Oranienplatz samt den første nat i den besatte skole. Hans historie peger også på, at institutioner som Caritas, som er en religiøs nødhjælpsorganisation, sender folk som søger støtte til protestlejren, idet han indikerer, at de ikke selv har kapaciteten til at hjælpe.

Udover tegning findes der flere andre kunstneriske aktiviteter i lejren: teater, fotografi og maleworkshops, der alle faciliteres af kunstnere fra Arts Vagabonds Rezo Afrik Benin og Arts Vagabonds Deutschland. Projektet “Migration und ich - über die Brücke der Künste zur gemeinsamen Heimat Erde” startede i marts 2013 og vil fortsætte i hvert fald indtil dette efterår og forhåbentlig endnu længere. I juni blev der organiseret en kunstuge i lejren med musik, teater, filmvisninger og en udstilling med tegneserier, malerier og fotografier.

Aruna Diakite er en utrolig produktiv ung kunstner fra Mali. Hans fremstilling af en gade i Berlin er én blandt mange smukke tegninger, som han kreerede under sit ophold i Berlin. Desværre har han forladt Oranienplatz for at arbejde i Italien. Vi savner ham meget, og selvom vi håber, at han vil komme tilbage igen, ønsker vi ham alt det bedste med sit arbejde.

Som følge af en del negativ mediedækning af Refugee Protest Camp blev festivalen også en mulighed for, at besøgende kunne komme forbi, møde os og opleve alle de produktive initiativer, der foregår i lejren. Naboer, venner og alle, som var nysgerrige, var inviteret til festivalen på Oranienplatz.

Og det var opmuntrende at se, at mange kom forbi og deltog.

Yahya Hamdans bidrag er en del af en igangværende serie omhandlende hans dagligdag i Refugee Protest Camp samt den besatte skolebygning. Her hører vi om, hvordan han blev modtaget, da han forsøgte at finde et sted på skolen, hvor han kunne sove. I andre striber fanger han måden, hvorpå folk relaterer til hinanden på gaden, han tager os med i køen i køkkenteltet og somme tider også til sit oprindelsesland Sudan.

Paula Bulling er fra Berlin. Sammen med Jan Bachmann og Rodrigue Towanou er hun ansvarlig for tegneworkshoppene. Hendes stribe fanger en af de små øjeblikke, der gør det at arbejde sammen rigtig sjovt.

Tegnserierne på de følgende sider er eksempler på arbejder af Mahmoud Fozi, Keita, Paula Bulling, Yahya Hamdan og en tegning fra Aruna Diakites omfattende sketchbog.

Før han kom til Berlin, passerede Mahmoud Fozi gennem Italien. Hans bidrag tager os med ombord på et skib fra Libyen på vej til øen Lampedusa – en asyllejr i Mandurien i Italien. I øjeblikket arbejder Mahmoud på en tegneseriestribe, der handler om Tuareg-folkets situation i hans oprindelsesland Libyen og de omkringliggende lande.

2013 • visAvis № 8

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