stare xv

this portrait was the result of a very lengthy discussion about this man’s experience of the 2011 egyptian revolution. i tried to capture some of the complexities of these stories in an earlier post, this demolished room

egypt has been on my mind

though acertainblindness is a sharing of my photographic work, it is also a sharing of who i am and way that i see the world. in this space, it is expressed as a visual (and sometimes written) exploration of themes and a number of long-term recurring projects.

but there are things that make who i am, and my photographic vision, which can not always be expressed as photographs in the immediacy of the moment.

on friday 21 july 2013, the prime minister of australia announced a new policy for those who attempt to seek asylum in australia via boats. and i was appalled. actually, i’ve been appalled at the way in which politics has shat for over a decade, and continues to shit, over human beings who assert their right (both ethical and legal) to seek refuge from persecution and fear of death.

the new policy announcement means that asylum seekers who arrive in australia (and australian territorial waters) by boat will be deported to papua new guinea and neither processed in australia, nor settled in australia. that is, it is no longer possible to seek asylum via boat in australia. and that’s fucked. for a whole range of reasons.

others have addressed the legal, ethical and political ramifications of this policy, and many are rightly furious, ashamed and disgusted at this cruel and most foul-smelling asylum seeker policy. in my politically aware lifetime, this sets a new low (though, politics being what it is - i’m aware that the next iteration of policy may be even more cruel.)

since saturday, the government has blanketed the australian print media with this ad (click to see) and i want to make clear, by jamming the ad, that this is not in my name. that this policy is fucked. that i disagree, reject and wholeheartedly say no to this barbaric policy.

i want to make clear that asylum seekers are welcome here in australia, always.

i want to make clear that seeking asylum here in australia is legal, always.

and i want to make clear that as a settler colony nation-state, that it’s filthy business to project anxieties that surround unresolved reconciliation and indigenous sovereignty issues on to asylum seekers who arrive by boat.

and so, kevin, get fucked.

you are free to use, change, modify, post, blog, reblog, share this image as you see fit. if you want an a2 size version of this image, send me a message and i’ll send you the file.

avaaz is hosting a petition, not in my name, which you can add your name to here

getup has a quick and easy system to email your local parliamentary member here

rise refugees survivors and ex-detainees is a fierce melbourne based group fighting the good fight

signal boost.

always welcome, always legal

rams of anarchy | door handle detail, anarchist squat, barcelona

man

it’s been some time now since i’ve left egypt.

i was editing some work today and found this. this one. this photo.

i think back to the night of the one year anniversary of the egyptian revolution and wonder about that place. that slice of time, that moment where there was the hope that perhaps something still might change. that a young man could get up and spit his words and have the crowd listen. like the revolutionaries could defeat the deep state.

and i’ve been following the news, listening, reading. seeing the same images. wondering, wondering, wondering.

towards the light

between the first and second police van it is possible to discern a peaceful crowd of protesters. the vans are charging the crowd.

this is difficult to see, though not to imagine.

rock throwing, tunisia

i thought about trying to revisit the revolution.

to assess, somehow, what the passage of time had done, or revealed, or not. either way.

there were snippets of conversations - in a car, in a cafe, with a taxi driver.

but somehow it was all a little vague, a sense of wondering, of waiting, of not yet, of soon and shortly and nearby.

so we passed the afternoon throwing rocks at the sea,

though i never did see the splash

texture of violence | al shifa pharmaceutical factory, khartoum

early artefact from the war on terror.

al shifa pharmaceutical factory, khartoum

destroyed august 20, 1998 by united states cruise missiles. allegedly the site of chemical weapon manufacture. 

wall detail, souk al-arabi, khartoum

hat tip to ‘halfawi’ whose distinct graffiti is prolific throughout the alleyways off al-huriyah street. his drawings of khartoum street life often reflect the matter directly in front of him, and consequently, are usually found on the wall opposite to what is being depicted.

this wall, which forms the backdrop of a tiny alley cafe, contain major themes and characters from the two sudanese civil wars, that culminated in the creation of south sudan.

everyone i spoke with identified 'halfawi’ as crazy.

so did anything happen here during the revolution?

no, not really. i got drunk the night before and was still drunk in the morning when my friends woke me to tell me the news. that mubarak had stood down.

what did you do?

i ran out into the main square screaming obscenities against the government, but everyone told me to go back inside. 

and?

that was it. except that night, a crowd gathered outside one man’s house and they demolished the front of the house.

the front of his house?

the council had wanted to widen a particular road for a very long time, and all the other houses had agreed, so everyone had demolished the front of their own homes. except one man, he wouldn’t agree. 

that night everyone came and demolished the front of the house for him. and now the road is wider. 

that’s what happened here during the revolution.

–

see this, this demolished room? this room we are sitting in?

yes.

the muslims came at night and destroyed it, during the night of the revolution.

why did they destroy it?

they destroyed it because i am the only christian man in this town, and they want me and my family to leave. they thought i wanted to build a church, but i don’t. they thought that they could scare me.

are you scared?

only from god. they don’t scare me, and i won’t leave.

and now, what will you do?

now? 

now.

now, i sell cigarettes from this room.

this demolished room.

wolves, fucking

i found him, by chance, around the corner from his first mural, beginning work on his second.

do you want to see something secret?

of course.

obscured from the street, the recess smelt of piss and shit. a convenient place, it seemed, to relieve oneself.

the painting was of two wolves fucking, their tongues extended with pleasure. 

this, this. this is the secret.

this is sadism. these are our problems, this is the reality that the government wants to hide. they show one picture, but its not like that. if you know, if you open your eyes, if you understand, then it is no secret.

and with that, i knelt, and recorded it in light. 

because that which is hidden is easily found.

–

hattip to alaa, whose work is mind-bending.

quarters

in graff - the maspero building, the home of the egyptian state radio and television broadcast networks, and the word ‘liars.’

passerby

tahrir square is a place much smaller than i had imagined. 

the protesters, the passersby, the undercover security agents, the homeless, the thugs, drug dealers, revolutionaries, counter-revolutionaries, tea-sellers, flag merchants, newspaper vendors, readers, journalists, photographers, gawkers, hustlers and prostitutes all have their place. neither through agreement nor disagreement - but because of the way the square, in as much as it is a roundabout - is.

the last few weeks, for those more or less residing permanently in the square, has seen a shift inwards. a sense of, well, needing to reinforce before the army, or paid thugs, or counter-revolutionaries, or state security, or riot police arrive. a seige mentality of a most perfectly paranoid state. where every action and non-action is analysed, and always at fever-pitch.

and there, demarcating the pourous boundaries of a protest tent cluster, was a fence of heavy plastic. making him all but a shadow. 

pastries

those pastries we ate last time - where did you get them?

at the protest.

i want some now, can we go and get them?

no.

why not?

i’ve only seen them at the protests. they don’t exist anywhere else.

that’s impossible. how can that be?

i don’t know. but the revolution lives on these. at every protest, these pastry sellers materialise. and we all eat. it’s like the revolution happened only because of these pastries.

and one million cigarettes, all smoked into the dirt.

naughty boys

egyptian riot police sneak cigarettes whilst guarding the syrian embassy, cairo.