النحل والبشر يتعايشان في منطقة حساسة في شبوة باليمن

أصبحت محافظة شبوة في اليمن موطناً لمعجزة صغيرة. أولاً ، تم بناء مستشفى ، والآن يجري العمل على إنشاء منتجع لقضاء العطلات. يود الحاكم المحلي أن يرى المقاطعة تقدم نموذجًا لمستقبل البلاد.

نُشر المقال الذي تقرأه في الأصل باللغة الألمانية في العدد 49/2020 (28 نوفمبر 2020) من

 DER SPIEGEL.

Christoph Reuter

"A Spark of Optimism in the Yemen Civil War"

مات المئات من النحل في الصباح الباكر. بالكاد كانت الشمس قد أشرقت فوق الجبال قبل أن يترنح النحل على الأرض ، يتذكر الرجل العجوز بمرارة في صوته. أقامت القوات الحكومية اليمنية حواجز على الطرق في أعقاب هجوم للقاعدة. "لقد كنا عالقين. لكننا بحاجة إلى الانطلاق ليلاً للوصول إلى هناك قبل الفجر حتى تتمكن مستعمراتنا من الطيران عند أول ضوء! وإلا سيموت الكثير منهم! لا يمكن للنحل أن يتسامح مع الحبس أثناء النهار! "

قوبلت تعليقاته بعلامات موافقة من حوله. يحمل البعض خناجر تقليدية مربوطة إلى بطونهم ، ويجلس الرجال بين عدد من العلب والزجاجات وعلب الصفيح المليئة بالعسل. كما يحدث في شهر نوفمبر من كل عام ، يأتي مربي النحل من الوديان النائية في جنوب اليمن إلى العاصمة الإقليمية الصغيرة عتق لبيع محصولهم السنوي الثمين. يتراوح لون العسل من الأصفر الفاتح إلى البني الغامق. بعضها خفيف جدًا ، بينما يحرق البعض الآخر حلقك كما لو كان مصنوعًا من الفلفل الحار. في كل مكان ، يتذوق الناس ويتفاوضون ، ويتم فحص الاتساق واللون عن كثب. الباعة العازمون على تصدير العسل إلى المملكة العربية السعودية والكويت وأوروبا يدفعون ما يعادل 1،300 يورو لعلبة 10 لترات من أفضل عسل السدر المصنوع من الزهرة الصغيرة.

إنه معرض دولي للعسل في قلب اليمن ، وليس بالضبط ما قد يتوقعه المرء من بلد في خضم حرب أهلية. لسنوات ، كان اليمن اختصارًا لكل من الأوبئة القديمة والجديدة: الحرب والكوليرا ، والكورونا ، والأطفال الذين يعانون من نقص التغذية. منذ الإطاحة بالديكتاتور علي عبد الله صالح ، الذي حكم البلاد بقبضة من حديد لعدة عقود ، في عام 2012 كجزء من الربيع العربي ، دمرت الحرب البلاد. البلد أبعد من أي وقت مضى عن حل سلمي.

لكن بين كل الجبهات ، يبذل الناس قصارى جهدهم للحفاظ على القليل من الحياة الطبيعية ومحاولة كسب لقمة العيش. قلة ، على الرغم من ذلك ، تقود عبر البلاد بجرأة مثل مربي النحل في شاحناتهم ، مع تحميل مستعمراتهم في السرير. إنهم يطاردون باستمرار الأمطار غير المتوقعة والأزهار الثمينة من شجيرة الصحراء الشائكة. يقول صالح ، مربي النحل العجوز ، "تسمح لنا الميليشيات دائماً بالمرور عبر نقاط التفتيش". "كلهم يخافون من النحل." يقول إنه عندما تشعر 80 وحدة من النحل بالتوتر ، حتى الرجل الذي يحمل مدفع رشاش لا يحظى بفرصة.

صالح من منطقة تمكنت من محاربة جميع المهاجمين ، وتتمتع بالاكتفاء الذاتي إلى حد كبير - وتشهد طفرة غير مسبوقة. كانت شبوة ، وهي محافظة تبلغ مساحتها ضعف مساحة ولاية هيس الألمانية ويبلغ عدد سكانها 700 ألف نسمة فقط ، منطقة متخلفة ومنسية منذ فترة طويلة ، حتى بمعايير اليمن. وهي منطقة جبلية قاحلة تمتد جنوبا إلى الساحل. مدينة عتق الإقليمية ، حيث يلتقي النحالون والبائعون كل شهر نوفمبر ، هي موطن لحوالي 100،000 شخص.

عندما تم اكتشاف احتياطيات النفط في شبوة في أوائل التسعينيات ، انتهى الأمر بجميع الإيرادات في العاصمة اليمنية صنعاء. لم تستفد المنطقة كثيرًا حتى عندما قام كونسورتيوم دولي بقيادة شركة توتال الفرنسية ببناء محطة ضخمة للغاز الطبيعي السائل بقيمة 4.3 مليار يورو في مدينة بلحاف الساحلية. على الرغم من أنها كانت كافية لتمويل حوالي 40 في المائة من الميزانية الوطنية اليمنية لبعض الوقت ، إلا أن شبوة بالكاد حصلت على أي منها. والمحطة لم تعمل منذ عام 2015.

الشخص الوحيد الذي اكتسب شهرة كبيرة في المحافظة هو أنور العولقي ، الداعية الإسلامي ذو الشخصية الكاريزمية الذي حث على قتل الأمريكيين ويُزعم أنه متورط في هجوم فاشل على طائرة شحن أمريكية. توفي في هجوم بطائرة بدون طيار تابعة لوكالة المخابرات المركزية في عام 2011. [ملاحظة من المترجم: قُتل ابنه عبد الرحمن البالغ من العمر 16 عامًا أثناء تناول العشاء في مطعم في الهواء الطلق في اليمن جراء غارة جوية بطائرة بدون طيار أمر بها الرئيس الأمريكي باراك أوباما.]

في هذه الأيام ، إذا اقتربت من عتق بعد ساعة بالسيارة عبر السهوب ، يتحول الطريق فجأة إلى أسفلت. إنها إحدى الطرق العديدة التي تم تحسينها في الأشهر الأخيرة. بالإضافة إلى ذلك ، يتم توسيع مبنى غير مكتمل عمره 20 عامًا - احتله الحوثيون المتقدمون في عام 2015 ثم قصفته القوات الجوية الأمريكية على الأرجح - ليصبح مستشفى حديثًا به 240 سريرًا ونظام مركزي للتحكم في المناخ وحريق. خطة الطوارئ. وبجانبها تم تقسيمها بين عدة مبان وأنشئت محطة حجر صحي لكورونا مجهزة بسبع تهوية ومحطتين للعناية المركزة ومعمل اختبار.

قد لا يبدو الأمر كثيرًا ، لكن لم يكن هناك شيء على الإطلاق. حتى اختبارات الهالة كان لا بد من قيادتها لعدة ساعات إلى عدن لمجرد العلاج. التكنولوجيا في المختبر تم تمويلها من قبل المملكة العربية السعودية ، كما يقول الدكتور هشام سعيد ، والباقي من ميزانية المحافظة. 

مربي نحل بالقرب من عتق: ضد سرب من النحل ، حتى الرجل الذي يحمل مدفع رشاش ليس لديه فرصة.

سام تارلنج / مركز صنعاء

 

ولكن كيف يمكن إحياء الحياة رغم ركود المياه؟ يقول المحافظ محمد بن عديو ، وهو رجل ودود في منتصف الأربعينيات من عمره ، إنه تمكن من التفاوض على صفقة مع حكومة المنفى في المملكة العربية السعودية ، والتي بموجبها سيبقى خمس عائدات النفط الضئيلة من شبوة من الآن فصاعدًا.

أولاً ، رغم ذلك ، كان عليه أن يستعيد محافظته - من الإمارات العربية المتحدة ، التي جاءت في الأصل كحلفاء. تحكي قصة بن أديو الكثير عن وجود الرجال المتمركزين حول الأنا وإخفاقات القوى المنافسة ، وعن تأثير التقاليد القبلية وعن أهمية وجود الأشخاص المناسبين في المناصب المناسبة.

كان قرار حكومة المنفى تعيين محافظ بن عديو نهاية 2018 قرارًا استثنائيًا. لم يصل إلى منصب خادم الرئيس المتعطش للسلطة ، ولا كزعيم محلي مدجج بالسلاح. وهو خبير في البنية التحتية أمضى سنوات في التعامل مع القضايا الاجتماعية في مجلس مدينة عتق. وربما يكون فريق قيادة بن أديو أكثر غرابة. أحد الأعضاء هو سليم العولقي ، "المنسق الأمني" النحيل الذي يبتسم إلى الأبد لجميع القوات وضباط الشرطة وجهاز المحافظة الصغير. مدرس تاريخ مع التدريب ، جاء إلى بن عديو كنوع من الرهينة الطوعية ، قطعة ضمان لتهدئة صراع دموي بين قبيلته وقبيلة الحاكم. يقول: "طالما أنك معه ، يجب أن يتوقف القتل" ، يبدو أنه يجد دورًا مقبولاً تمامًا في الحياة.



 Photo: Sam Tarling / مركز صنعاء. تذوق العسل.

والآخر هو العميد عبد ربه لكاب ، وهو في أواخر الثلاثينيات من عمره فقط ولكنه يبدو أصغر منه - ولا يبتسم أبدًا. بعد أن شارك في معارك لا حصر لها ، فقد ساقه ونصف يده ، وبالكاد بقيت أصابعه كافية لإحصاء كل من حاربهم في مقاطعته. أولاً ، كان الحوثيون هم من احتلوا عتق لمدة أربعة أشهر في عام 2015 ثم مكثوا هناك لمدة عامين آخرين في الشمال الغربي. ثم اضطر إلى محاربة مقاتلي القاعدة المتناثرين والعصابات الإجرامية. أخيرًا ، وجد نفسه في مواجهة تلك القوات التي وصلت عام 2015 لإنقاذ البلاد: قوات التدخل السريع الإماراتية وميليشياتها المرتزقة المدججة بالسلاح ، قوات النخبة الشبوانية. قال بصوت هادئ: "أردت ذات مرة أن أصبح محاسبًا".

في البداية ، تم الترحيب بالقوات الإماراتية في شبوة ، وفقًا لرجال المحافظ ، وكذلك صاحب متجر وصحفي محلي عوض صالح: “اعتقدنا أنهم كانوا يساعدوننا ضد الحوثيين والقاعدة. وكانوا كذلك ". لقد ضربوا ساحة المعركة بطائرات هليكوبتر قتالية من طراز أباتشي وطائرات بدون طيار ومركبة مدرعة أمريكية الصنع من طراز كايمان.

ولكن كلما قل عدد الأعداء الأصليين المتبقين ، زاد عدد الأشخاص الذين جندهم الإماراتيون ، مما أدى في النهاية إلى تشكيل قوة مقاتلة قوامها أكثر من 7000 جندي ، وهو ما كان يُخشى في جميع أنحاء المحافظة.

يتذكر الصحفي صالح: "خرجوا ليلا واجتازوا قرى بأكملها وأخذوا الرجال عشوائيا وحملوهم". هدد قائد باغتصاب كل من يشك في سلطته.

انضمت الإمارات إلى الحرب في عام 2015 كشريك صغير للمملكة العربية السعودية بهدف إعادة تشكيل اليمن وفقًا لتفضيلاتهم. لكن الوعود الصاخبة التي قدمها محمد بن سلمان - الذي كان وزير الدفاع في ذلك الوقت ولكن الآن ولي العهد السعودي - بأن الحرب ستنتصر في غضون أسابيع قليلة لم يتم الوفاء بها. ثبت أن افتراض الرياض الاستراتيجي بأن المتمردين سوف يستسلموا بعد بضع ضربات جوية مدمرة في غير محله. واتضح أن الحوثيين خصم عنيد يدفعه طموح تبشيري لتنفيذ إرادة الله بقوة السلاح.

كلما أصبح الفشل أكثر وضوحًا ، كلما تراجعت الإمارات عن هدف قهر اليمن كله. وبدلاً من ذلك ، بدأوا في التركيز على فرض سيطرتهم على نصف الدولة التي كانوا يأملون في السيطرة عليها: منطقة كانت تُعرف سابقًا باسم جمهورية اليمن الديمقراطية الشعبية ، والمعروفة باسم اليمن الجنوبي ، والتي كانت موجودة منذ 23 عامًا حتى عام 1990. تشعر بالحنين إلى هذه الفترة ، فقد أثبت الاستقلال أنه مقاتل متحمّس - ويمكن للإمارات العربية المتحدة التأثير على المجلس الانتقالي الجنوبي ، كما يطلق الانفصاليون على أنفسهم اليوم.

سرعان ما تحول "المحررون" إلى قوة احتلال بدأت تأخذ نظرة جشعة على شبوة وحقولها النفطية على أمل إضافتها إلى المملكة الجنوبية الجديدة. لكن أبناء المحافظة أرادوا أن يظلوا جزءًا من يمن موحد وألا ينتقلوا من حاكم إلى آخر.

سوق في عتق تصوير: سام تارلنج / مركز صنعاء

في أغسطس 2019 ، أصدرت الإمارات إنذارًا نهائيًا: على جميع القوات النظامية في المحافظة تسليم أسلحتها الثقيلة والانسحاب من عتق. بدأت الوحدات التي يزيد مجموع أفرادها عن 7000 مقاتل في السيطرة على المدينة من جميع الجهات. لم تكن تبدو جيدة للمدافعين.

"كان لدينا 300 رجل وطريقتين أو ثلاثة تحت سيطرتنا" ، قال العميد لعقب خلال مقابلة في مقر الحكومة. يقول سليم العولقي ، المنسق الأمني: "لقد طلبنا من الحكومة المساعدة العسكرية مرارًا وتكرارًا". "لكن لم يأت شيء. لذلك استعرنا أسلحة". يقول الحاكم بن أديو: قلنا للإمارات ، إذا كنتم تريدون إطلاق النار على الإرهابيين ، تفضلوا! ولكن لماذا نحن؟

بدأت المواجهة مساء 21 آب / أغسطس ، يقول لكاب: "كنا مستعدين للقتال حتى الموت". لكن بعد ذلك ، لم يتمكن المقاتلون المحليون الذين ينتمون إلى قوات المرتزقة الإماراتية من الاتفاق على ما يجب القيام به. هل يجب أن يطلقوا النار على أبناء عمومتهم بأمر من الأجانب؟ خلال الليل وعلى مدار اليومين التاليين ، تحدث شيوخ القبائل المحلية للجانبين عبر الهاتف ، متوسلين أقاربهم في وحدات المرتزقة الإماراتية لوقف إطلاق النار. المزيد والمزيد من مقاتلي النخبة استسلموا ، تاركين مواقعهم وعرباتهم. بحلول اليوم الثالث ، كان قد انتهى.

في النهاية ، تمكن المدافعون من الاستيلاء على تسعة من عربات Caiman المدرعة. يأمل بن أديو في عرضها في متحف ذات يوم ، حتى مع استمرار الإمارات حتى يومنا هذا في إرسال مبعوثين وأموال على أمل استعادة المركبات. "عليك أن تعرف ما الذي تقاتل من أجله" ، يقول لكاب. "المال لا يكفي. ما الفائدة من المال إذا كنت ميتًا؟"

الآن أصبحت شبوة حرة لأول مرة منذ عقود. اشتهر بن عديو في كل اليمن بشجاعته في الوقوف في وجه الإمارات. وظهر استقلاله بشكل كامل عندما تغلب على مقاومة القوى الأجنبية الموجودة في اليمن ، ومقاومة حكومته ، لإحضار مجموعة من المراسلين الأجانب إلى شبوة بالتعاون مع مركز صنعاء للدراسات الاستراتيجية. ويصر على أنه "لا نريد حتى الاستقلال الكامل". "نريد فقط أن نحكم بشكل عادل".

هذه الأيام ، تسود المدينة حالة من التفاؤل الحذر. وتدفق مبلغ خرافي قدره 31 مليون دولار على موازنة المحافظة في خريف 2019 ، كحصة لها من عائدات النفط. هناك وظائف بناء جديدة متاحة ، في حين تم زيادة رواتب المعلمين - بل يتم دفع رواتبهم. يجرؤ النحالون على جلب محاصيلهم الثمينة إلى المدينة. حتى أن اتحادًا محليًا بدأ في بناء منتجع لقضاء العطلات على الساحل.

لكنه سلام غير مؤكد ، مدته تخمين أي شخص. يواصل الإماراتيون احتلالهم لمعسكر علم العسكري الواقع بين حقول النفط في الشمال ومحطة الغاز الطبيعي السائل في بلحاف. وتحتفظ الإمارات بقاعدة عسكرية في الموقع الواسع إلى جانب سجن سري خارج نطاق القانون ، أكدت وجوده الأمم المتحدة ومنظمة العفو الدولية وأطباء من مستشفى الدولة في عتق. وبشكل دوري ، ينطق أحد الأطباء بإيجاز ، ويظهر السجناء المفرج عنهم من بلحاف مصابين بـ "كسور في العظام وورم دموي وحروق"

لا يهتم الضباط الإماراتيون وقيادات الميليشيات اليمنية بالتحدث مع وسائل الإعلام الأجنبية. على هذا النحو ، لا توجد إجابات على عدد من الأسئلة العاجلة. لماذا ، على سبيل المثال ، يحتجزون أشخاصًا ليسوا إرهابيين وكثيراً ما انتقدوا دور الإمارات العربية المتحدة؟ أو: ما مبررهم لاحتلالهم أهم منشأة صناعية في اليمن؟

لكن حتى حكومة محافظة شبوة قلقة من الانسحاب الإماراتي الكامل ، حتى لو تم التعبير عن هذا المطلب مرارًا وتكرارًا. الحوثيون ، بعد كل شيء ، ما زالوا يتربصون في الجزء الغربي من المحافظة ، بينما يختبئ أتباع القاعدة في الأودية النائية. إن الحفاظ على الحرية التي تتمتع بها شبوة حاليًا هو مسألة موازنة بين مجموعات مصالح بعضها البعض أكثر من كونها مسألة قتال.

ولكن حتى إذا لم تكن شبوة قابلة للحياة على المدى الطويل ، فقد حدث تغيير في كيفية تعامل الناس مع السياسة - وهو تغيير من المرجح أن يجعل العودة إلى الديكتاتورية صعبة للغاية: الرغبة في دولة فاعلة واحترامها. حتى في الأماكن التي قد لا تتوقعها.

وفي إحدى الأمسيات الماضية ، التقى زعماء أهم عشائر شبوة بالصحراء لمدة ساعة ونصف خارج عتق لمناقشة الأمور المعتادة: الخلافات والمراعي والزواج. تم نصب عدد من الخيام شبه الخيام في رمال الصحراء ، مع شواء الماعز فوق النار.

الزعيم العشائري أحمد المحضار: شيء تغير في تفكير الشيوخ : Sam Tarling / مركز صنعاء

ظهر شيوخ حمامي والعولقي وليموش الرئيسيين بملابس رسمية كاملة. حتى الشيخ جربوع الناسي الشاعر الأسطوري ووسيط الخلاف أحضر معه بندقية قديمة. لكن الخلفية التقليدية لا يمكنها إخفاء حقيقة أن شيئًا ما قد غير تفكير كبار السن. بمجرد الانتهاء من الإجراءات الرسمية التي لا تنتهي ، يقول الناسي: كل شيء مع القوانين ليس سيئًا للغاية. إذا نجحوا ، فلن يكون القانون القبلي ضروريًا. وأعرب آخرون عن دعمهم لحقيقة أن العميد ذو الأرجل الواحدة في "العصر" يجرؤ الآن على اعتقال مرتكبي جرائم القتل من بين عشائرهم. يقولون إن النموذج القديم ، حيث تكون القبيلة مسؤولة عن كل ما يفعله أفرادها ، وحمايتهم وتنظيف الضرر ، لم يعد يعمل بعد الآن.

التجربة جارية حاليًا: استقلال جديد قريب من المعسكر الإماراتي في علم. ويخيم العشرات من سكان الحجر هناك منذ أسابيع للمطالبة بالعدالة بعد مداهمة قريتهم. وقال الشيخ أحمد المحضار: "أتت قوات النخبة ليلا وبدأت على الفور بإطلاق النار". ركضت إلى المسجد وناديتهم عبر مكبرات الصوت لوقف إطلاق النار ، ثم قصفنا الإماراتيين من الجو. وقتل في الهجوم تسعة مواطنين.

اعتقد القرويون أنهم تعرضوا للهجوم لأنهم رفضوا تجنيد قوات النخبة. لم تعترف الإمارات رسمياً بالهجوم. ومع ذلك ، تم تقديم اقتراح غير رسمي لرجال القرية للانضمام إلى قوة النخبة كشكل من أشكال التعويض. يقول محضار بغضب: "أولاً ، يقتلوننا ، ثم يعرضون علينا وظيفة مع القوات المميتة". "هذا جنون! نطالب بمحاكمة جميع المسؤولين في المحكمة! سنبقى مسالمين ، لكننا سنبقى هنا حتى نحقق العدالة".

يحل الشتاء في تلال شبوة القاحلة. يستعد النحالون للانتقال إلى الأراضي المسطحة الأكثر دفئًا على الساحل. بالقرب من عتق ، يسحب سعيد العولقي بعناية آخر قرص عسل كامل من صندوق الخلية الخشبي. وعن صناعة العسل يقول: "لن تنجح ما لم نتعاون". "إذا أضفت السكر أو الدواء ، يجب أن أخبر الآخرين ، لأن نحلهم يطير أيضًا إلى خلايا بلدي. إذا استخدم المزارعون المبيدات الحشرية ، يخبروننا أولاً لأنهم بحاجة إلى تلقيح نحلنا." يقول إنهم يخبرون بعضهم البعض أيضًا عن حواجز الطرق  والعواصف المطيرة المفاجئة باستخدام عدة مجموعات مختلفة على واتس اب

إنها تتحدث عن العسل ، لكنها تبدو عن غير قصد وكأنها رؤية أوسع للمقاطعة بأكملها: "إذا قاتلنا بعضنا البعض وأراد الجميع طريقته الخاصة ، فسوف نخسر جميعًا". إنه يعرف ما يتحدث عنه: قبل سنوات ، أمضى خمس سنوات في السجن لدعمه القاعدة. اليوم ، كما يقول ، لا يزال هو ومربي النحل الآخرين يتحدثون بحماسة عن السياسة: "ترامب وبايدن وأشياء من هذا القبيل". لكن إذا لم يوافقوا ، فلن يسحبوا أسلحتهم ، ويفضلون تغيير الموضوع بدلاً من ذلك. ثم نعود إلى الأشجار والنحل.

Diaspora and Development

While reading a book about water management in Yemen, I was surprised to learn that 6 centuries ago, people from Yemen were migrating from the Hejaz to what is present-day Ethiopia due to ecological distress. I also read about the Rashaida tribe (aka “Bani Rashid”) which followed a similar migratory pattern a hundred and fifty years ago in a large-sized coffee table book at the St. George Art Gallery. They currently live on the coastal areas of East Africa.

This question about the survival of the Yemeni people has haunted me since I have been following the heart-wrenching developments of the civil war. Many organizations focus on the lack of humanitarian intervention into this region from developed nations. Yet much less is discussed about the relationship between Yemen and Africa at large. The latter is considered  relatively undeveloped, but provides assistance nonetheless through economic networks. 

“Diaspora” has a complicated relationship with the nation-state. As Yemen strives to define its identity as a nation-state, with the Southern Transitional Council vying for prominence and calling for political autonomy, the survival of the diaspora is also a worthy subject of discussion a humanitarian and academic perspective.

Yemeni restaurants dot the urban spaces of Djibouti and Addis Ababa. The restaurants are generally popular among the upper-middle class of these respective cities. The restaurant-goers consume Yemeni culture in its aesthetics and food alongside a sense of Islamicate culture, such as designs of Yemeni architecture.

A rather elaborate version of Yemeni fish. Source: internet

The menu includes lamb as well as Yemeni fish, which is usually baked and served on a flat and dry surface. The restaurant "Bait al Mandi," located in the embassy-dotted Heron area of Djibouti, even had a French menu. This menu signified the class of the targeted clientele. As I ate in the "Al Pasha" restaurant, which is located in the former colonial space of Djibouti, a high ranking Djibouti military officer also was eating lunch to my left, as well as 4 abaya-wearing girls to my right. The girls self-consciously switched to communicate in French when they joined my table. The buffet at the up-scale Kempinski Hotel, near the shoreline, costs 45 dollars a person. This buffet also included the item of Yemeni fish. Through culinary heritage, Yemeni people find a way to maintain their economic independence through the upper echelons and aspiring classes of (Islamicate) Africa, without any handouts from (non-Muslim) developed nations. 

This trend of perceptions of a certain diaspora, which differs from the way English media portrays them, also follows a China-related observation. Western development agencies pioneered the foreign presence in East Africa. Their buildings are usually gated and guarded with barb wire. Their cars are usually very clean and up-to-date in comparison with the dusty and slightly run-down city buses common people use for transportation. The general vibe of these agencies toward the area seems optimistic but also condescending, since their presence has been felt for decades. In contrast, China’s presence feels much more pragmatic: profit is the name of the game and hardcore construction capital accumulates, instead of the other abstract notion of “development.” While China also engages with similar efforts of development, such as poverty alleviation and disease preventions, other sectors do not shy away from the business element of China’s involvement in Africa. In Ethiopia, furthermore, many of the tiles on the street are distinctly from mainland China. To trace it even further back, Addis Ababa has socialist architecture harking back to a different type of internationalism than the current one led by development agencies. Yet development agencies and mainland China-led initiatives both share a secular bent and an emphasis on financial accountability. The ethical aspect of accountability and sociability can easily be lost in translation during the search for construction and development.

Both the China population and Yemeni diaspora do not fit in the dominant literature on foreigners in East Africa, and thus have drawn my attention. This article has discussed their presence in terms of urban consumption as well as racial identity. After the abolition of slavery in most parts of the world, the evolving identities of “Africa” can be indicated not only through skin or tribe, but also capital. Though capital accumulation is intertwined with racial identity around the globe, the native-foreign relationship cannot be distinctly drawn alongside the binary of exploitation. While welcoming populations seeking refuge such as the Yemeni people, nationalism is alive and well alongside capitalism in East Africa. As the PM of Ethiopia calls for importing more “zero-zero” standard of new cars instead of used cars from abroad, the role of the Chinese and other non-Ethiopian diaspora will need to find a new way of continuing their commercial relationship with Ethiopia.

Ramadan 2019: Day 10-11

Day 10 Wednesday

Walid and I reflected before on the first instances when people called us "uncle" and "aunty." I was called aunty when attending college. Walid's nephew, Asar, called him "ammu Walid," which made Walid conscious about his age.

I went to the hairdresser in the afternoon. She was quite dressed up, in all black clothing and sharp cream-colored gel-nails, which helped me feel that I was also going for a "makeover." She was also quite focused on making this trip an "experience," asking a lot of well-meaning questions, and showing the end product through a dramatic build-up. She offered a lot about herself as well: unmarried (despite wearing a ring), easygoing, likes to travel to Europe and the Caribbean, of Italian descent...

I felt uncomfortable when she kept praising my straight hair in front of two other ladies of African descent and mused about the origins of this interracial hair salon. She also noticed my frequent yawning and asked if I partied last night. I felt slightly obliged to educate her on the idea of Ramadan. Instead, I gave up and offered a sheepish smile.

I waited for a bus transfer for forty minutes without cellphone service while Walid waited for me at Malden Center. The rushing cars, suburban decay, and the manicured, external facade left me feeling apocalyptic. The habitus of the well-tended gardens and individual houses can render immigrant existence as largely ahistorical and destined for such depressing, parochial pastures.

I reunited with Walid and complained about the foreignness of the aging suburban community and my out-of-place-ness. Walid was quite understanding although he was tired of waiting at the station. We recharged at the Indian take-out restaurant while I ate spicy palak paneer with a mango lassi. The restaurant played a punjabi playlist, including Punjabi Mast, which swept some of the blues away. Other days the TV played teledramas or Hindu and Sikh bhajans. I wondered if internet connectivity was more essential to diasporic people than non-diasporic people in the U.S. I realized that the cook/cashier man lost a lot of his hair over the short time I had met him. Walid thought it could be from stress.

A picture of maqlooba from Fauzia's Kitchen fun

We bought groceries and Walid helped carry it all the way back. He was excited over the $2 / pound mackerel that would be perfect for his baking plans. He broke his fast with the remaining lassi, while uttering the words prior to iftar. He made a vegetarian version of maqlooba and we both enjoyed it.


I felt ill in the evening and Walid read surat al-jumaa for me. I found the message about Jewish people eye-opening and somewhat disturbing as well. One version of the explanation is that the passage meant that if certain people think they are favored by God, they can "prove it" by desiring death since that is a sign that they are sure that they will enter heaven (jannah). But this life is attractive in its own ways, and among all the people I have met, only a few who I have seen in Asia have truly achieved that level of consciousness.


Day 11 Thursday 

The sun finally appeared after days of rain and clouds. I chatted with Amina in the morning, which helped me wake up my brain. I learned more about updates in her life while offering some of my wisdom on how love affects one's spirit, without using those words as such. Later, she messaged me and said that she finally realized that over-rationalizing prevents other sweet aspects of life.

I read Dr. Kecia Ali's interview of scholar amina wadud, and was comforted by the fact that Buddhism helped dr. wadud realize that God's form is not limited to an old white man in the clouds. She also said the following quote about her lived engagement with theology: “I don’t believe in a dead God; I believe in Al-Hayy, the Living God, and I don’t practice a dead religion.” The following passage is also quite illuminating:

I think in becoming a Muslim I intuitively knew, as did Africans who were brought here and enslaved who had Islamic backgrounds, that you are connected to the entire planet. You are not separated from Divine truth just because you’re separated from your origins. The reality of the sacred is manifest everywhere, in every religion, and even in nonreligions. I see that manifestation, so I’m no longer so estranged by the mandate to define a territory as exclusively mine, as a Muslim, as a woman, as an African American.

I felt rather hyper and full of energy. My roommates discussed their graduation plans and incoming relatives. One roommate's deadbeat boyfriend possibly cannot attend her graduation. I felt sorry for her.

I listened to a podcast about a study on migrant laborers in Beirut. In between, I called Ahmad and wondered if any successful Syrian ever wrote about his or her account of life as a businessperson in Lebanon. I finished the podcast, wrote down some thoughts, and ventured to school. I drank a cup of coffee and saw a few fellow students, some of whom were still grading tests before their graduation.

I read the "Repression in the Fieldwork" chapter in anthropologist Pascal Menoret's Joyriding in Riyadh and learned a lot of useful information. I liked his description of his as well as his bedouin informants' tufshan (emptiness and repressed life).  The level of social suspicion described by Menoret reminded me of the telfaz11 short that depicted a thief who tried to enter a shilla and pretended to be related to one of the absent friends of an all-male gathering.

I found anthropology quite personal: if you don't like the researcher, it is hard to relate to the moods described in the ethnography. In contrast, the data in history is impersonal. During that time, my friend CP texted me about the death of I. M. Pei. I told him that I also visited places of his works, and felt the loss of this great Chinese American architect. CP found it impressive that I had traveled to such places.

The Arabic translation's book cover

I returned my professor's book and printed some reading. I printed and began reading Baudrillard's Forget Foucault on the way back to Malden. I would not have been susceptible to such a title prior to this summer break, possibly because I have realized the limitations of working with the archive, truth, and genealogy. The first section discusses how capitalism has destroyed our understanding of sexuality, with finer words. He discusses how liberation can also be part of repression, which is interesting to think in terms of the social conditions of Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and China.

I also found relief in the sensibilities both Walid and I share, to some extent, in regards to how to discuss taboos. While taboos are generalizable, different cultures have different reasons and manners to observe those taboos. Luckily for us, we can come to the same habitus and understanding in regards to sexual taboos. When I was young, I liked generalizable information on such subjects, since they can help navigate the terrain. Now, after marriage, the practice is about what Walid and I share as truth and does not matter what works for others. Science tries to be generalizable, but ethics are specific and interpersonal. I have yet to read works on a queer modernity's vision of ethics, that would be as informative to me as Bedouin ethics of manhood, described by Menoret.

I once lamented to Walid that there are fewer and fewer people who can think with me. Many people can think against me (as is often seen in trite academic debates). But that is perhaps I have matured and found comfort in my own thinking patterns.

I met up with Walid at Oak Grove. He just finished his first day at a pizza place. There were Iraqi kurdish coworkers, one of whom worked at the same place for seven years. The Egyptian owner found Walid's skills to be quite good. Walid did not find the food suitable for himself there and waited to eat his own maqlooba. We listened to the music of the carnatic violin. I was surprised that he could appreciate the music, which my mother cannot. He joked that he cannot change this type of suffering, so he might as well enjoy it. Then he played Black Thema's song fi bilad ay hagga, which was quite depressing.

I quoted to him a version of this quote: “A poet might die at twenty-one, a revolutionary or a rock star at twenty four. But after that you assume everything’s going to be all right. you’ve made it past Dead Man’s Curve and you’re out of the tunnel, cruising straight for your destination down a six lane highway whether you want it or not.” - Murakami

We walked around the neighborhood around 11pm pretending to smoke. We saw the moon and Walid remembered how a sahaba said that the Prophet Muhammad was more beautiful than the moon.

On the way back, we discovered a skunk. Walid remembered my grandpa's cautionary tale of the skunk. We translated its name in Google and found out that skunks are unique to North America. Animals truly humble our ways of knowing and bring attention to our limited existence.

Walid wrote a very beautiful poem for me in our collective journal. We drank a can of soda, ate a lot of pepper jack cheese and slept. 

Social Relations and Sexual Assault

Yesterday a scholar came from the University of Massachusetts-Amherst to speak on her research work on sex workers of Bombay. Her main concern is that most legal and policy discourses do not take into account the differences in terms they use and the terms the sex workers use. For example, a daily wage laborer who may have been engaging in sex work as well would use the term majburi to describe her undesirable circumstances. A Dalit man Muku also used the same word majburi for moving after a drought in his Maharastrian village. This term is best translated as having to do something under constraint, but even that for the scholar is unsatisfactory and disempowering. Policymakers would usually use the words like "forced" for majburi, e.g., someone was forced to engage in sex work. She finds that this translation reduces the legitimacy of their means of liveligood, which includes sex work. She also finds issue with the liberal paradigm of sex as individual expression and, rather than something socially mediated. She also proposed that there is a strong overlap of sexual labor and daily wage labor for these lower-classed, lower-caste people. She brings up the issue of caste, such as hijras are not only a community seen in a sexually charged manner, but also through caste lenses; but I found the caste issue to have been more of an auxiliary to the talk as a whole. I would have been more keen on understanding how caste is reflected in such an urban sexual economy. The talk garnered a lot of attention and much discussion. Most questions were thinking about how one could link the ethnography with the center questions. I also asked a question about how to think about these undisciplined sexualities in general, since intercaste marriages in India are also punished for breaching the dominant regulation of a casteist sexual economy. I did not get a satisfactory answer.

This post will be discussing another incident related to the idea of ambiguity and sexual relations bounded by social processes. I was exchanging in Delhi at Jawaharlal Nehru University in 2015. I befriended A.S. at the Brahmaputra Hostel, where I went to eat most of the time. Like most people staying at this Hostel, he was a PhD student. Towards the end of the semester, I had the opportunity to travel with him to Gwalior. We stayed overnight in separate accommodations. It was a nice trip overall, with some hiccups in between. We had to wait for several hours due to some planning errors outside of the Gwalior Fort. During this time he mentioned to me about a Lucknow girl who he claimed to be madly in love with. He said that she did not love him as much. We even had beers in a restaurant, which is rather unusual given the relatively conservative environment of the city. At the train station, I bought the memoir Lucknow Boy written by Vinod Mehta, while A.S. continued to reminisce about “his” Lucknow girl. We also played the game of Antakshari (a South Asian spoken parlor game played with song verses) while waiting in the train station. We arrived in Delhi around 5AM, and it was relatively cold. He suggested for me to stay at his hostel for some time, but I refused. We remained on good terms afterwards. I also hosted my birthday party in December in his room, in which he was invited. After the party, he expressed interest in one of my friends who attended as well, to which I downplayed since I thought they would probably not be suitable as a couple. 

A month later I finished my semester. He helped me handle some of my luggage on the last day before I returned to Germany in 2016. He received the opportunity to exchange on scholarship in an Eastern European country, and left for said country in March, but we did not meet. 

Last year, September 27th, I was in the U.S. and recounted the memories of traveling in Gwalior to another friend of mine on Wechat. Then coincidentally, some news about A.S. popped up on my facebook timeline. It was a link reporting sexual assault charges against him. The victim said that he promised he would marry her, which he did not. I automatically assumed that this was the Lucknow girl he used to speak so often about (I was wrong. I searched for this news again today, which has been either cleaned from Google or swamped by other more controversial cases of sexual assault that have since been unfolding. But I did manage to find a link to a news report and in that report, it is said that this girl studied at Delhi University. Only then did I realize I had wrongly assumed the identity of the victim for the nine months.). An Eastern European friend of A.S. had shared the link and defended A.S. against the news. The friend personally vouched that A.S. is a good person and would never do such a thing. This was during the time when JNU had experienced much attack from a biased news media, so I was very skeptical of this report and defensive as well. I discussed this issue with my mom in the same manner and stressed that perhaps it was because of his changed circumstances that severely affected his relation with the Lucknow girl, and this claim was being subsequently being made against him.

My mom thought that such incidents often happen under an environment where people become upward mobile in a short period of time. According to her analysis, the woman would want to share some glory with the successful man who had the ability to go abroad. When she does not get what she wants, she resorts to claims of sexual assault or rape. My mother thought that when it comes down to cases of sexual assault, it is a game of he-said, she-said: the outcome largely depends on the clout of each party involved. If the man has more social and legal resources, then the girl would usually “lose,” regardless of what actually happened. 

The matter stayed in my mind for some time and I gradually forgot about it. When I visited JNU again this year in March, I was again confronted with more details about this case. I met up with Sardarji, who is an affable and popular guard at the university and a true friend of mine. He had met A.S. on two separate occasions with me as well. A.S. and I were once invited to eat handmade makki ki roti (unleavened Punjabi bread made from corn flour) at Sardarji’s home across the road from the University. We had a really good time eating and talking about how the University is often a social force of its own that defends its turf against the other corrupt and elite groups of Delhi, including those that have ties with the state. The other time was when Sardarji attended the birthday party hosted in A.S.’s room.



When Sardarji and I met, I felt like there was much to discuss since we do not have very good ways of communication when we are in different countries. We spoke in Hindi. I prefer to talk in Hindu with someone in person rather than on the phone, because there would be more visual cues for me to understand. Sardarji thought that the case of A.S. was one of the important things to be discussed with me, since we were friends. He asked me if I knew about the case. I said yes, I had read about it, and I was very shocked about the situation. He said he was shocked as well, since A.S. seemed to have been such an innocent boy (sada). We both agreed that A.S. seemed innocent. Sardarji gave me more details which he witnessed on the night of the police raid after the FIR was filed: the policemen stormed Brahmaputra hostel and one even slapped A.S. The moral accusations hurled at A.S. that night by various agents of the law seemed to be more emotionally charged than the actual “crime”: he was married at home and was having relations with more than one girl who were not his wife. Sardarji also seemed to be more appalled by the promiscuity rather than the rape. It is very ironic that the last time all three of us bonded, Sardarji, A.S. and I were discussing about the acts that rebelled against the state (in Hindi): JNU students had been defending one JNU female student who had been harassed by a Delhi elite who was the son of some politician. The police came to arrest students and it was a total chaotic clash. This time, for Sardarji, the police now represented moral authority that rightly punished the philanderer. I listened with awe to both cases, since 1) I did not witness or could not have read about it anywhere and 2) my language capabilities restricted me from posing questions that would generate more nuanced details. Sardarji and I talked perhaps for 40 minutes and this case was the most prominent theme.  We said goodbye and I left the campus.
Through facebook, A.S. also learned that I was in Delhi and reached out on facebook to meet up.  I did not know how to make about the whole situation and I did not reply.

Today, I was reading Nivedita Menon’s book Recovering Subversion and the chapter on rape was particularly thought-provoking. “Law’s claim to truth is based on a binary logic which sets up oppositions like truth/untruth, guilt/innocence, consent/non-consent. This binary logic, [Carol Smart] argues, is completely inappropriate to what she calls the ‘ambiguity of rape.’ In criminal law the object is to establish guilt or innocence, and in rape cases, the establishing of either, turns on another pair of opposites: that of consent/non-consent.

The dualism of consent/non-consent is “completely irrelevant to women’s experience of sex. Neither begins to approach the complexity of a woman’s position when she is being sexually propositioned or abused… (T)he ‘telling’ of a story of rape or abuse inevitably reveals ambiguities. Hence a woman may agree to a certain amount of intimacy but not to sexual intercourse. In the legal model however, consent to the former is consent to full intercourse… (I)n legal terms submission fits on the consent side of the dichotomy. The only alternative when non-consent is not established is to presume consent.” (p123)

This story came up again in my mind and I decided to write down what I have learned so far. How to think about an anthropology of sexual assault or sex work that does not fall into the binaries of consent/non-consent or agency and oppression?

Access to the Iraqi Field

In between a trip to Prague, I have been reading books on the modern history of Iraq, the legal history of women's rights in Iraq, and biographical narratives of diasporic Iraqi women. This coming month also marks the third year since I permanently moved from Beijing, which was my home for many years. Many reflections on diaspora and the meaning of living abroad came up when I read books on Iraqi politics as well as Kundera's classic The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I also compare diasporic conditions cross cultures during my time spent with the Pakistani student community in Gottingen. While the background of my interest is mostly personal, this blog post will mainly address the political issues and questions of methodologies that surfaced when I read the books on Iraq.

In her book Iraqi Women: Untold Stories from 1948 to the Present, Dr. Nadje Sadig Al-Ali presents material she gathered through interviews with women from four different diasporic communities, including Amman, London, San Diego, and Detroit. There are many similarities between the Iraqi communities I am reading about in Dr. Al-Ali's work and the Pakistani community I encountered, such as the highly contested narratives of the twentieth century. Given the hetergenous makeup of the Iraqi diasporic community, with different ethnic groups, sects and classes occupying different social and political lives, the matter is evidently complex. Generations also mattered: the order of persecution entailed a different relationship with politics. This was also spelled out to me during a conversation with a Kurdish friend, P., who comes from Syrian-occupied Kurdistan. He has stayed in Germany for many years and most of his family is here. He works, studies, and likes the idea that his future would be bounded with Germany. I told him during a conversation about the sufferings of my other Syrian friend who lives in India right now and has been separated from his family since the war started. He replied that indeed, it is a hard life for my friend and other recently exiled Syrians, but his own family had established themselves abroad earlier because they have been persecuted earlier as a religious minority. In other words, my friend may suffer now, but it's because he didn't have to think about it earlier. We each receive our own due in time.

Al-Ali also addresses the sectarian issue through her experiences in the field. During her research in the U.S., she stays with various Iraqi families and acutely notices the differences in locale and socialization. During her research in Dearborn and the broader Detroit Area, the issue of sect becomes strong enough for her to voice her own opinions in this particular situation:

As I talked to the group of young women refugees, it became evident that at least this group of recently arrived women had a very strong sense of their roots and identity, both as Iraqis and Shi'is involved a strong sense of entitlement in terms of rights and privileges in the new Iraq. It also entailed a very strong and, for me personally, disturbing sectarianism that was directed not only at Sunni Iraqis but also at Iraqi Chaldeans. Khadija, just like Fatima and her sister Zeinab, criticized Iraqi Chaldeans for having been supporters of the previous regime and for failing to engage in anti-government activities in previous years. I was puzzled by this sweeping generalization and condemnation of the Chaldean community. Although several Chaldeans I talked to had clearly appreciated the generally secular nature of the previous regime, especially before 1991, which allowed for the relative religious freedom of minorities, many of the more established and well-to-do Chaldean families have been active supporters of the Bush government and his war on Iraq. (p38, emphasis my own)

I also encounter this question of methodology when I conducted research in Germany and Lucknow. When I encounter South Asian and Iraqi Muslims and explain that one of my research interests include Shi'ism, it often sends a message that I am someone who has affinity with the imagined community of Shi'as. The scope of the imagined community depends on the world view and values of the person in question, and how he or she would answer the question of "who is a Shi'a." For me, the question is extremely delicate and variable on situation.

A picture of Imam Hussain in a food store owned by Iraqis. Louisville, KY,  2016

The paragraph by Al-Ali also raises the question of politics and religion: to what extent can one draw the line between sectarianism and political activism? Many of the NGOs and charities related to Iraq claim that they service all sects, which clearly shows there are many NGOs and charities that have particular sectarian identity, subtle or not. When does a "sectarian" conversation or situation call for an activist scholar, such as Al-Ali, to intervene? This also goes back to the debate within race and sociology: is one studying a social group for the purpose of an empirical understanding, or is there an ethical obligation to that group's future? When one labels and understands situations through the lense of sects in an informed manner, the research is usually empirically rich and analytically strong. But what are the additional methodological concerns?

In evaluating narratives of women's rights in Ba'athist Iraq, historian Noga Efrati has noted in her book Women in Iraq how positionality affects the written historical accounts.

Doreen Ingrams and Deborah Cobbet present the clearest examples of following only one narrative. Whereas Ingrams favors the Iraqi Women's Union narrative, Cobbett bases her work on the League for the Defense of Women's Rights narrative. Their contrasting historical probes were probably influenced mainly by their conflicting attitude toward the Ba'ath regime as well as by their personal connections with different Iraqi women. Ingrams, at least at the beginning of the 1980s, sided with regime supporters, whereas Cobbett sided with its opponents. (p134, emphasis my own)

Furthermore, what happens when one relies on one's own group identity to gain access? Researchers such as Nadje Al-Ali (p29) as well as anthropologist Hayder al-Mohammad have mentioned how their family introduced them to certain contacts in the field. Al-Ali has also met many contacts through her own activism in London and Hayder al-Mohammad established contacts from arising circumstances over the length of five years in Basra. Dr. Lila Abu-Lughod also discusses her father's role in her field:

[M]any people remain intrigued by what I wrote about my father having introduced me to this community, perhaps because it makes us think hard about our inevitable positionality in fieldwork. I understand my father’s motives a bit differently now that I am a parent, but I also worry that people exaggerate the importance of this introduction. I still treasure the ways I was able to participate in the intimate and lively women’s world. I know that it was a bit easier for me to be part of this family because of this identity. But even though being perceived as Arab, Muslim, and respectable (under the protection of my father) was important, I don’t think we should overstate its importance. Fieldwork is intense and interpersonally complicated for everyone. Once you are there, no matter how introduced, it is you—as a person—who develops the relationships you do, even as you never escape your locatedness.

It would be an overstatement to say that their research would have been markedly different without the family contacts; still, the question is unresolved in my mind. Al-Mohammad does a wonderful job of historicizing the idea of "tribes." He questions the method which sees tribes as the dominant form of social organization in his 2011 article "You have Car Insurance, We have Tribes." Still, access to tribes were crucial in the field, and the male Iraqi identity was no doubt a gamechanger in terms of on-the-ground research. He writes, "Many leaders are very generous, not only with their wealth and power, but also with their time. Many have also been tremendously protective of me, with no hope of ever seeing anything in return other than friendship and gratitude." Identity plays such a crucial role in these sites, and thus to present oneself with an established lineage (sect or locale) affects how one is perceived in the field. I would like to read more about the implications of this approach.

Al-Mohammad passionately argues about his positionality in an interview and invokes his "brown eyes" that sees what non-brown eyes fail to see--

I have skin in this game, to invoke an idiom I am rather fond of. I’m an Iraqi. I consider Basra my home and not London where I have spent more than twenty years. The problem is, then, where can I turn to that has been relatively untarnished by the theorizers and fly-by-night Iraq specialists? What I noticed was that events, local happenings and moments, are too small for the young bucks, trying to make their name in this racket, to get their hands dirty in. They also did not have access to such experiences, nor did they have a grasp of the background knowledge and ways of life of ordinary Iraqis, hence struggled to notice the significance of certain events. Many have conducted interviews in the north of Iraq in Erbil, or outside Iraq in Amman and Cairo with Iraqi refugees, but essentially, everyday life in Iraq has been beyond the reach of the machinery.

Finally, it is appropriate to end with this observation on academia by Hayder al-Mohammad, to understand the importance of entering the field with his particular approach:

The reason why anthropologists have turned to institutions, cults, groups, and scholars is because of the obvious difficulty in locating one’s fieldwork. Not being natives of the region where they are working in, most anthropologists have few doors open to them. But what starts off as a difficulty in locating where one should, and actually could, conduct fieldwork has a very serious impact on what is studied and how it is studied. Clearly, working with religious scholars and Imams will give you a very limited picture of Islam as it is lived.

...

Most anthropologists do not make clear at all how extraordinarily artificial the pictures they draw of Islam and the life of Muslims are because of the limitations of where they do their fieldwork. So artificial indeed that I have on many occasions sat with my ethnographies of Islam and translated it into Arabic to small crowds in Iraq for most to eventually breakdown into fits of laughter. The comments I hear on many occasions tend to be: “They must think we are really stupid in the West.” (emphasis my own)

Tamil Nadu Politics and Bullfighting (Jallikattu)

This is one of the reflections I wrote on a 10-day school trip to Tamil Nadu in February, organized by University of Göttingen.

We traveled to Tamil Nadu during a very crucial time in its political history. The key figure of the Dravidian ruling party All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (AIADMK), Jayalalithaa, recently died. The party was founded on a charismatic leader and former film star, M. G. Ramachandran. He successfully projected “himself as a Hero, as the true Tamil man” in films and campaigns alike. During campaign seasons, many imitations and plays of him are enacted before meetings of AIADMK officials and voters. Jayalalithaa similarly used her charm and chaste feminine image to her electoral benefit. She survived many probes into allegations of corruption since 1996, and has expelled some members from the party to distance herself from the allegations.

Yet the issue of corruption continued to overshadow the consequent debates over political succession after her death. In early February of 2017, the AIADMK declared that Jayalalithaa’s close aide and confidante Sasikala Natarajan would become her successor. The other contender, who was the acting Chief Minister since October 2016, O Panneerselvam, resigned. However, Sasikala was convicted of corruption just prior to our group’s arrival in Tamil Nadu on February 14. She cannot hold public office for the next six years. Edappadi K Palaniswami, another politician from her faction in AIADMK, swore in as the Chief Minister on February 6. Since the change was very sudden, I saw a lot of advertisements in villages portraying Jayalalithaa posing with Sasikala. As of March during the writing of this report, the two factions of AIADMK are still battling over rules and regulations regarding campaigns, e.g., the right to use the party symbol of two leaves. The dust has yet to settle. Based on my understanding, Sasikala’s inability to govern was more due to her failures in the factional contest rather than corruption per se.

Intense action, with Police in Beige uniforms watching over the grounds. Photo taken by author

Overall I heard very little about the dramatic events within AIADMK from the people we had met over the ten day. We did not meet anyone through the excursion with explicit ties to the party. Thus the understanding of the factional split has been mostly based on news reports. However, the trip was filled with discussions and firsthand experience of politics of a different sort. For example, in a village of the Madurai district, we had the golden opportunity to witness traditional Tamil bull fighting (jallikattu) in action on February 17th. This event has a history of more than two thousand years and has been popularized through Tamil cinema. Personally, the brief glimpses of the village jallikattu had the largest participation of people in a grassroots event I have seen in my four visits in India. The air was also charged with exuberant energy. The policemen welcomed us to come to the fore and engaged in the event as spectators, waving at the bull with their lathis with excitement, while also maintaining order. Most attendees and spectators were men, with a handful of women peering behind the fences. It occurs every year during the harvest festival Pongal and the hero who tames the bull is often portrayed in cinema as a masculine hero and appealing to women. The trope of women falling in love with the bull tamer is as old as Tamil Sangam literature. While injuries are inevitable, participants and spectators alike consider taming the bull a matter of honor. While there usually are prizes for the successful tamers, more rewards of the social nature are also at stake.

Advertisement board for Jallikattu. 

Advertisement board for Jallikattu. Notice Ambedkar on the right side of the board. Photo taken by author

Jallikattu was never a static event. While at some points, most people involved were agricultural workers, other points in time landlords also vigorously engaged in the event as organizers. In an 1893 Tamil novel, the landlord skinned “alive his bull that lost in Jallikattu.” The event has recently reached the height of national political debate due to allegations of animal cruelty and threat to public safety. The use of bulls in this event was contested by the Ministry of Environment and Forests in 2010 but still practiced under the Tamil Nadu Regulation of Jallikattu Act No 27 of 2009. In 2014, India’s Supreme Court struck down the state law and banned it. Many people of Tamil Nadu saw it as an affront on Tamil identity and protested the ban in 2016 and 2017. In addition to Tamil nationalism, anti-Modi sentiment was high but underreported by the media. Most protestors were young people—“students, IT professionals, and activists—many of whom, as residents of urban areas, did not regularly witness or participate in Jallikattu.” Prof. Ayyathurai also pointed out during a discussion that he did not witness Jallikattu in action when he lived in his hometown of central Tamil Nadu. This point is interesting in analyzing the construction of Tamil identity through media rather than mere praxis.

Spectators leaving the grounds. Photo taken by author

Spectators. Photo taken by author

Caste is also a point of contention—certain Dalits find the activity to reinforce caste hegemonies. The village jallikattu we witnessed starred the lower-caste group Thevar, who are dominant. They were the one of the major benefitting social groups of the politically foundational anti-Brahmin Self Respect movement. They are considered to favor the AIADMK party and vice versa. In addition to intense conflicts between Thevars and Pallars (a particular Dalit group) since the 1990s, social pressure also plays out in the form of a ban on Dalits from participating in jallikattu. “Dalits are often forced to do markedly less glamorous jobs like playing the melam (a percussion instrument) to set the tone, and take care of the bulls” during jallikattu and are not paid for it. Women are also rarely the center of this sport. Writer Uma Devi, whom we also met during the last event of our trip, pointed that she cannot fathom that the overtly macho sport should represent Tamil culture. Scholar G. A. Aloysius similarly points out that there are many forms of social dominance in his analysis of caste.

Still, the spectacle has interesting connotations for Dalit assertion as well, once have the opportunity to participate. Many Dalit scholars engage in interpreting bull fighting, including some of our trip guides at the Madurai University. As histories of Hinduism shows, one cannot ignore that ownership of rituals is contested and Dalits have the potential to (re)claim certain events. One news narrative that relegates all Dalits who identify as Hindus or participate in Hindu rituals to be pawns of Hindutva significantly neglects Dalit agency.

On a broader point, University of Göttingen’s anthropologist Nate Roberts has argued in a book review that Tamil identity allows for lower caste organization. “In the historical context of modern Tamil Nadu, ‘Tamil’ refers not merely to a particular linguistic identity, but equally to the universal progressive values—anti-caste, feminist, pro-poor, democratic, and humanist—that Dravidian leaders, following the lead of early Dalit leader Iyothee Thass, sought to characterize as inherent to Tamil Nadu’s authentic (pre-Aryan) culture.” Jallikattu could be a key part to this overarching ongoing research on Tamil identity and caste politics.

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