Hundreds of thousands of activists returned to Cairo’s Tahrir Square on Monday night to protest supplementary constitutional amendments issued by the ruling military council in recent days. The amendments grant the military sweeping legislative and budgetary powers while limiting the powers of the country’s next president. Critics argue that the surprise amendments — announced as votes in the presidential run off were being counted — are a last-ditch effort by the military to retain power beyond the handover to civilian rule on 1 July. The Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF) has denied the charge, insisting it will hand over to the newly elected president on the scheduled date as promised.
The newly introduced amendments include re-imposition of martial law allowing military police to arrest civilians “to enforce order”. Shielding the military from accountability, they also grant the SCAF the right to form a panel to draft the constitution should the constituent assembly recently elected by parliament fail to complete its work. The military council would also have control over the drafting of the new constitution with the right to object to any article.
The new decisions by the SCAF unleashed a new wave of anti-military criticism. Rights lawyer Hossam Bahgat called the amendments “a declaration of war” while sceptics described them on Twitter as being tantamount “to a complete military coup” and “an inevitable end to a messy transitional period.”
The announcement of the new amendments came as Egyptians were still reeling from shock after the High Constitutional Court issued a ruling to dissolve the Islamist-dominated parliament on Thursday . The court also decided to allow Ahmed Shafik, a former air force commander and the last prime minister under Mubarak, to stand in the run-off election. The latter ruling dashed hopes of the youth-revolutionaries that the former regime remnant would be forced out of the presidential race under a so-called “political exclusion law” passed by parliament. The law, which bars former regime members from standing for office, was rejected by the High Constitutional Court as unconstitutional.
As pro-reform activists chanted anti-military slogans in Tahrir Square on Monday night, supporters of Muslim Brotherhood candidate Mohamed Morsi celebrated his victory after his campaign organisers announced he had won the election by 51.2 per cent of the vote. Shafik ‘s camp has disputed the vote count , declaring its candidate the winner. The two camps have also traded accusations of election violations. The Supreme Electoral Commission has stated it may have to delay the announcement of the official election result beyond Thursday as it continues to look into complaints of voting irregularities filed by the two camps.
The presidential vote has brought to the surface the Islamist-secular divide that has existed in Egypt for decades. The Muslim Brotherhood, Egypt’s largest opposition group — who have long been marginalised and oppressed by successive military presidents in Egypt — fears a renewed crackdown if Shafik wins the election.
Members of the movement have in recent days tried to rally the secularist youth-activists behind them, urging them to unify ranks to counter “the military challenge”. But the truth is there no love lost between the mostly middle class, educated pro-reform activists who led the January 2011 mass uprising and the Islamists. Despite giving the MB candidate Mohamed Morsi their vote, many of the young revolutionaries argue that they voted for him simply because they considered him “the lesser of two evils”. Many of them believe the Muslim Brotherhood betrayed the revolution to further its own interests.
Film director Khaled Youssef, a liberal who invalidated his vote, accuses the Islamist movement of aligning with the military dictatorship and “selling out the revolutionaries.”
“Not only did the Muslim Brotherhood attempt to excercise monopoly over the drafting of the constitution but they also reneged on a previous promise not to field a presidential candidate,” he charges.
He adds that the Islamist parliament had allowed the blood of the pro-reform activists to be spilled during last year’s Mohamed Mahmoud violent protests when MPs had charged that “the protesters were not the real revolutionaries but were thugs and criminals instead.”
With tensions escalating and political forces calling for another “million people march” in Tahrir Square on Friday, analysts predict that the unrest in Egypt is likely to worsen in the coming weeks before showing signs of improvement. The activists meanwhile are bracing themselves for another showdown with the military.
The Syrian regime has gone to great lengths to silence the satirical commentary of Ali Ferzat. But the celebrated cartoonist and Index award winner has no intention of letting the censors keep him down. Malu Halasa reports
Three months before the start of the Syrian revolution in March last year, Ali Ferzat broke with his own satirical convention: he stopped using symbolism in his cartoons to criticise the regime and began to target identifiable individuals, including the president himself. He describes the shift as pushing through “the barrier of fear”. The first cartoon in Ferzat’s new series showed President Bashar al Assad agitated at seeing the traditional day of mass demonstrations against the regime, Friday, marked on a wall calendar. Another had him hitching a lift from Gaddafi making his own getaway in a car. The third featured the “chair of power”, one of Ali Ferzat’s iconic symbols, with the springs popping out of the cushion and Bashar hanging onto its arm.
Drawing the president, Ferzat admits, was a personal and political breakthrough — if not foolhardy. “It is quite suicidal to draw someone who is considered a godlike figure for the regime and the Ba’ath party, but still I did it and people respected that courage and started carrying banners with caricatures in the protest to show how they feel about things.”
Ferzat must have anticipated that his actions might lead to violent repercussions. Last August, pro-regime forces viciously assaulted him and broke both his hands. During the attack, one of the assailants yelled at him, “Bashar’s shoe is better than you.” Article 376 of the Syrian penal code makes it an offence to insult or defame the president, and carries a six-month to three-year prison sentence.
The most lauded cartoonist of the Arab spring, Ferzat has won countless international prizes — including this year’s Index Freedom of Expression Award for the Arts. For more than 40 years, he has been delivering his own scathing messages to dictatorship. Published daily in al Thawra (the Revolution) newspaper in Damascus for a decade, he was a thorn in the side of Hafez al Assad. In the early noughties, the launch of his satirical newspaper al Doumari (the Lamplighter) was considered a hopeful sign in the nascent presidency of Hafez’s heir. Last December, when Bashar al Assad was asked about the attack on Ali Ferzat by the American news commentator Barbara Walters, he responded, “Many people criticise me. Did they kill all of them? Who killed who?’” Such comments made little sense and attest to Ferzat’s power, whether convalescing in a hospital bed or through his drawings.
There are two cartoons by Ferzat embedded in my own visual consciousness of Syria during years of visiting and writing about the country. The first is a drawing of a man whose head has been sliced and popped open at the airport. Instead of searching the luggage on the rack, a uniformed authority figure inspects the contents of the man’s brain. The other is of a dismembered prisoner hanging in a cell, body parts everywhere, while the jailer sits on the floor, sharp implements to hand, crying over a television soap opera. Both of them were a comment on the secret life that routinely takes place in Syria, the self-censorship that is sometimes needed to survive and the ongoing activities inside prisons that are rarely officially acknowledged in the state media.
Speaking the truth
In a recent exhibition of Ali Ferzat’s work at the MICA gallery in London, there were numerous examples of his coded messages: the armchair of salat (representing ruling power), the shortened ladder to suggest the gulf between the political elite and the nobodies (sometimes in a hole) or the ever busy authority figure waving a roll of toilet paper like a flag. The messages are inescapably clear but their target is not always what one might expect. In one colourful drawing, a man is trying to pluck fruit from a tree, but the three ladders on which he is standing have been laid horizontally, not vertically. Pausing beneath this picture, Ferzat points out: “Yes, I always speak truth to power. Sometimes it’s not only the president to be blamed but the people too.” The gallery, usually closed at the weekend, was filled with Syrians and their families within minutes of its unscheduled opening. Everyone, from grown men to children of all ages, photographed the cartoons on the walls with their mobile phones.
Ferzat’s unique visual vocabulary, developed in extreme circumstances, has had an unexpected reach:
To survive and get around censorship, my caricatures had to be speechless and rely instead on symbols. That gave them an international aspect I did not intend in the first place. So I managed to get the voice of people inside Syria to the outside, through channels of common human interest.
During his stay in London in the spring, Ferzat received good news. There is an interest in reviving al Doumari, with plans to publish it in exile in Dubai and, ultimately, hopefully back home as well. One gets the impression that no matter where Ferzat is — he currently resides in Kuwait because his family thinks it is too dangerous for him to be in Damascus — living away from the revolution has been frustrating. He spends most nights watching the Arabic news channels and drawing until the early hours. His right hand, which was fractured in the attack last summer, remains a little stiff, although that is not evident in the first two cartoons he drew when he was able to move his fingers. One shows an armoured Trojan warhorse with marauding tanks for hooves. The second is, again, a tank poised on its back wheels, ready to crush a lone green shoot sprouting from the ground.
False springs
The Syrian people are a major influence on his work. “Drawing is first of all a means and not a purpose in itself,” he says.
The artist is always the one who produces an idea, but if that person is not living within his community then how can he reflect what his community is going through? Art is about being with your own people and having a vision of what they need. You can’t sit in your room isolated behind your window and draw about life — it doesn’t work like that.
The revolution was sparked in March 2011 when young graffiti artists in Deraa, between the ages of nine and 15, were arrested and tortured for writing government slogans on the walls. The sale of spray paint is now banned in Syria unless ID papers are shown.
There have been many false springs in the country’s turbulent political history. A decade ago, and just a few months after Bashar al Assad assumed the presidency, Syrian artists and intellectuals were hopeful that change was possible in their country, a sentiment that began in Ferzat’s case when Bashar al Assad, a “tall dude with a large entourage”, walked into his exhibition filled with censored cartoons. (Ferzat always shows banned cartoons in his exhibitions.) When the new president asked Ferzat how he might be able to gauge popular opinion, the cartoonist urged him to simply talk to the people. Eventually Bashar telephoned him and said he was having a Pepsi with ordinary folk in the street. This was during the so-called Damascus spring of the early noughties, when the regime was courting artists and intellectuals. Imbued by optimism in 2001, Ferzat started his satirical newspaper al Doumari, but as the mood of the political elite reverted to tried and trusted methods, so did the fortunes of his weekly. By the time it closed in 2003, 105 issues later, he had survived two assassination attempts that were never investigated. Thirty-two court cases had been filed against the newspaper and advertisers had stopped advertising.
An incredible heritage: satire in the Middle East
Historically, cartoonists have been astute in their circumvention of censorship. As Fatma Müge Göçek has shown, under the Ottoman press laws of the early 1900s, they sent erasable drawings to the censors and, after approval, substituted other images in their place. Newspapers at that time also appeared with black boxes where a cartoon had been censored. As the gap widened between official pronouncements and reality – or as Václav Havel once said, ‘People know they are living a lie’ – caricatures became an important means of expression in the Middle East. Now cyberspace provides a comparatively safe haven for pictures and ideas that cannot be expressed in print.
Editorial cartooning, like journalism, is considered a western invention, but the convention of satire in the Middle East is as old as the stories of Alf Laila wa Laila (A Thousand and One Nights). Ferzat’s peers include the Egyptian Baghat Othman, who parodied Sadat, Palestinian Naji al Ali, creator of the Palestinian barefoot boy Hanzala (with his back always to the reader in rejection of the world around him) and Algerian Chawki Amari, now in exile in Paris after serving a three-year sentence in his country for drawing the country’s flags in a cartoon that was seen as ‘defacing’ a national symbol. The Syrians also bring something new to the mix, which springs from a sense of humour coloured by the experience of dictatorship, coupled with sexual innuendo. This blend is nicely demonstrated by a joke from the 1980s that is still pertinent, as recently told to me by a political activist.
A guy used to talk about the president. The mukhabarat, secret police, picked him up and started beating and torturing him. They told him, ‘Stop making jokes about the president. Stop talking about the president. You can tackle whatever issues you want, but in the end you always have to say: this has nothing to do with the president. The president is not aware of this.’ So the minute the guy is released, he sees his family waiting by the door and says, ‘Have you heard, the wife of the president is pregnant and the president has nothing to do with it. He’s not even aware of it.’
Even in his comic strips for juveniles, Ferzat has challenged traditional sensibilities in Syria, a country known for channelling propaganda through state-sponsored children’s publications. Ferzat was 26 years old when he created ‘The Travels of Ibn Battuta” for the popular Usama magazine, published in 1977. In the strip, the famous medieval Arab traveller Ibn Battuta is depicted with a moustache and beard, wearing a turban in the shape of the globe. Ferzat demystifies Ibn Battuta by drawing Muhammad Ali, Omar Sharif and the pop singer Abdel Halim Hafiz, with a turban globe on their heads; as avatars of Ibn Battuta, they respectively box, hug a leading lady and sing. Later in the strip, as the historic traveller pulls his donkey into the present day, his size shrinks, suggesting he is overwhelmed by modern life.
A letter sent to the editor of Usama complained about this portrayal of Ibn Battuta. Ferzat did not use one of the traditional Arab figures of ridicule such as the poet Abu Nuwas or the folk character Juha as his fumbling protagonist, but instead a notable historical personage, which the letter writer found highly insulting. This was at a time when the magazine was already starting to change, and was publishing less controversial material, as Allen Douglas and Fedwa Malti-Douglas show in their study of Arabic comic strips.
Self censorship, survival and living without boundaries
Originally from a Sunni Muslim family in Homs, Ferzat describes freedom of the press as “a responsibility”. He stresses:
It’s not as if I should do whatever I feel like doing, regardless of the consequences. It is a matter of moral commitment at the end of the day and varies between countries, depending on the culture and civil liberties. You have to find the right balance. Some newspapers have no obligation, not even morally, and they refrain from nothing and then call it ‘freedom’. Meanwhile other newspapers censor human interest stories. I see both as bad — whether too much suppression in the name of commitment, or too much unethical commitment in the name of freedom. They are both the same.
During prolonged periods of dictatorship, there have been unexpected chinks in the wall of silence, which Lisa Weeden outlines in her tour de force Ambiguities of Domination. One way ordinary Syrians thwarted the cult of Hafez al Assad that pervaded their daily lives was in their choice of newspapers. Throughout the 1970s, al Thawra published a daily editorial cartoon by Ferzat. When he was dropped from the newspaper, al Thawra experienced a 35 per cent drop in sales and was forced to ask the cartoonist to return. Ferzat’s stories about his days there are particularly amusing and they reveal just how much leeway can exist in what at first glance appears to be a monolithic system. In some instances, the offending cartoon would be published in the paper. Then the abusive phone calls from the minister of information would begin.
Ferzat continues:
They came with this new procedure. First the editor-in-chief had to look at the caricature. If he approved it, he had to send it to the general manager. If he approved it, or if he found it controversial and difficult to understand, he had to send it to the minister of information. Take into consideration that the minister of information was a bit of an ass, he would say ‘Yes’ because he didn’t understand it and the next day the people would get the meaning because it only took commonsense. Suddenly the angry phone calls would start all over again.
According to Italian visual critic Donatella Della Ratta, Bashar al Assad’s Syria is ruled by what she calls “a whispering campaign” waged by competing elites, the secret police, the official media and finally the president and his inner circle. All of the different factions are involved in censorship: it takes many pillars of society to control the flow of information and ideas in a totalitarian state.
In such a society, what is the difference between self-censorship and survival for someone like Ferzat? “What I can tell you is that I have no boundaries,” he says.
I don’t have a censor or a policeman in my head before I draw. However, it is not requested of fedayeen — freedom fighters — to be suicidal. As an artist, I’m not going to go and find a landmine and sit on top of it. I invented the symbols that actually manipulate the censor and survive the dangers of punishment. I put simple codes and symbols in my drawings, and anyone who has the capacity to notice things would understand them. That is what I do to secure myself and not be suicidal.
He concludes: “At the end of the day, my drawings and caricatures are part of the daily culture of the street. I want to represent the consciousness of the street, of the people, and I do, and that gives my work value.”
As Ferzat and the graffiti artists of Deraa, who sparked a revolution over a year ago, have shown: Sharpie pens and spray paint can be the most effective tools against a brutal regime.
Malu Halasa is a writer and editor. Her books include The Secret Life of Syrian Lingerie (Chronicle Books)
This article appears in the new edition of Index on Censorship. Click on The Sports Issue for subscription options and more
The Justice and Security Bill was introduced in the House of Lords this week. Should it become law then it will have a devastating effect on the extent to which the public can find out about matters of major importance. These include the activities of those suspected of threatening security and of the authorities who attempt to counter such threats.
Do not be misled by the Daily Mail’s claim that the Bill is a “climbdown” and a victory for their campaign against secret justice. To be sure, the Mail was a key player in the government’s decision to remove inquests from the proposals, but this Bill is not victory. The Justice Secretary Ken Clarke maintains it will not result in the “public finding out less about the truth in important cases”, but that seems unlikely.
Under the bill if information emerged in civil cases that could affect national security, then the government could ask the court to use closed material proceedings (CMPs). The opposing parties and their lawyers would then be excluded from crucial parts of the case; only the judge and government parties would remain, with a special advocate representing the interests of the claimant.
The media will have no access. There is no requirement that the public be notified a CMP will be sought, even though in criminal cases seven days’ notice is required for an application to close a court on national security grounds. The media would be totally excluded from hearings which consider whether CMPs should be used, without even a special advocate representing the public interest in open justice.
It is virtually certain CMPs will become the norm in this area because the proposed rule is that if the judge thinks that a disclosure of information would be damaging to national security, then she or he must order a CMP. The judiciary defer strongly to executive judgments about what will damage national security (and the government tends to set a low threshold for damage) and, once reaching the conclusion national security would be damaged, a judge will have no discretion on the order that follows.
In theory, the legislation would not permit the government to use CMPs to cover up embarrassment. In practice, however, the outcome is likely to be different. A key rationale behind the laws is that the government must protect relationships with other countries, and especially the United States. If embarrassment to the UK government can be claimed to affect those international relationships then, in a kind of legal alchemy, non-damaging embarrassment can be transformed into damage. The result will be secrecy.
We can expect these procedures to apply in many important cases. The Justice Secretary has indicated that it is intended to apply only to a narrow group of cases, such as actions for damages by former Guantanamo Bay detainees claiming British complicity in detention or torture. The Green Paper that preceded the Bill said 27 cases were in issue, though the government refused to say what they were.
In the Law, Terrorism and the Right to Know research programme at the University of Reading, we have tried to identify the cases likely to be affected. Our list is now at around 20 cases where claimants have been subjected to detention, torture, extraordinary rendition and the like. They stretch across the world, alleging British complicity in wrongdoings from Guantanamo Bay to Pakistan, Afghanistan, Kenya, Uganda, Libya, Egypt and Bangladesh, among others.
But the reach of the Justice and Security Bill is wider than even these cases. It will also include matters that occur solely within the UK. While inquests are no longer to be subject to CMPs, any civil actions which follow inquests could fall within its provisions if intelligence sources or methods could be disclosed. That could well include cases relating to deaths as a result of shootings by police.
If police make arrests in a counter-terrorism operation and are subsequently sued for assault or false imprisonment then CMPs would very likely be sought because the action may well involve disclosure of methods used by the security services.
There will inevitably be other categories of cases in which the laws will be applied. National security is a broad church.
One of the most disturbing provisions in the Bill is the absence of any weighing of competing public interests in the decision to order the use of CMPs. The Bill removes all consideration of competing interests in open justice. No matter how strong the public interest may be in the substantive issues or in process of justice being done in the public eye, a judge cannot take account of that.
Moreover, there will be no recording of how often CMPs are used. There will be no method or point of review to determine when closed judgments can be made open. This Bill proposes that these matters are closed forever.
There is every reason to see this Bill as laying the foundations for a secret state where the executive is able to use national security as a blanket to hide proceedings from the public eye, regardless of how great the public interest in open justice might be.
This Bill will make our governments less accountable. It will make secrecy the norm. Our parliament should oppose it fiercely.
As Egypt prepares for presidential elections in less than two weeks’ time, the country is on the brink of chaos. Tensions have been brewing for more than a year and the patience of Egyptians is wearing thin. They yearn for stability and many feel betrayed by the country’s de facto military rulers who have held power since Mubarak was toppled in February 2011.
“The ruling military generals who promised us stability have only delivered brutality and repression,” complained 24-year-old activist Tarek Ali at a protest two weeks ago outside the Defence Ministry in Abbasia.
The violent confrontations between pro-democracy activists and security forces that have erupted sporadically during the transitional period have been the focus of local media, but once again there has been a stark contrast between the independent media coverage of the deadly violence and that shown on Egyptian State TV.
Democracy activists accuse state television of launching a vicious defamation campaign against them — one which, they say, has largely succeeded in turning public opinion against them.
“Right after last year’s mass uprising, everyone was proud of the young activists who started our revolution,” says taxi driver Maher Sobhy. “Now, we hate them for causing chaos and instability.”
The vilification campaign is reminiscent of a similar campaign launched by the state-run broadcaster during last year’s 18-day mass uprising. State TV has long been described by critics as “a propaganda machine” of the ousted authoritarian regime. The broadcaster initially dismissed the anti-Mubarak protests as nonevents, labelling the pro-democracy activists as “foreign agents” and “anarchists.”
When pro-Mubarak rallies were staged on 1 February 2011, state TV channels exaggerated the number of protesters, reporting that “the streets were flooded with thousands of Mubarak supporters” instead of the few hundred who were in fact there. Many Egyptians turned to foreign satellite channels and social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter to follow the events in central Cairo. Angry protesters in Tahrir Square retaliated by carrying banners that denounced and ridiculed state TV, branding presenters who worked there “liars”.
But halfway through the uprising, state TV made an abrupt turnaround, adopting a more pro-revolutionary tone.
Media analysts saw the change as a sign that the regime was losing its grip on power. But the shift had come too late and state TV had already lost many of its viewers.
For a few weeks after the fall of Mubarak, state television fought to regain credibility. Opposition figures, including Islamists who had not been welcome in the building, were invited to appear on talk shows, and state TV reporters made a noticeable effort to enhance the ratings of their channels through factual, unbiased reporting. But the spell of freedom was short-lived and news editors and anchors soon fell back into their old habits. State employees began practicing self-censorship again after several journalists and talk show hosts working for private channels were summoned to the Military Prosecutors’ office after they criticised the military regime. Two bloggers were convicted in military courts for expressing their views in blog posts and on Facebook — a move that sent a strong message to journalists and broadcasters that the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF) would not tolerate criticism.
Tamer Hanafi, a news anchor working for the Arabic state-run Nile TV was investigated a few months after the revolution for refusing to heed calls from the station manager to abruptly cut his programme short after his studio guest, the outspoken activist Bothayna Kamel lashed out at the military rulers on air. Tamer, his face flushed with anger, told viewers that he had been ordered to end the show but that he would continue because he did not see anything wrong with Bothayna’s comments.
Other presenters and reporters who attempted to stand up to censorship have been sternly reprimanded by their bosses in recent months. Finding that the stakes are high — they could lose their jobs — most state employees have reverted to the old ways, obediently following directives from senior management.
News anchors complain that they have to read what their editors write without questioning the source. One senior anchor, who spoke on condition of anonymity said she had had to read that “the Emergency Law was in place to guarantee freedoms” and that “protesters in Kasr El Eini were hurling rocks at the military forces” when there had actually been an exchange of rock throwing. “Any anchor who deviates from the adopted state line lands in trouble,” she lamented. During most of the protests, state TV broadcast exclusive footage of the ongoing clashes shot by the Ministry of Interior, most of it portraying the soldiers and riot police as victims rather than aggressors.
Little has changed at the state broadcaster where the anchor lamented that “SCAF has replaced Mubarak as the red line not to be crossed.” Despairingly the anchor explained that the senior military general who was appointed Minister of Information now exercises control over all broadcasts and ensures that state TV continues to churn out propaganda messages about the lack of security, foreign meddling in Egypt’s internal affairs, the threats foreign-funded NGOs pose to national security or the plummeting stock market.
State TV’s flagrantly biased coverage of the deadly October clashes last year between Coptic protesters and security forces triggered another wave of stinging criticism of the state broadcaster, once again earning it the wrath of the public. The news network was accused of inciting the sectarian violence in which at least 27 people were killed — some of them crushed to death by army tanks — after Channel One’s lead anchorwoman Rasha Magdy urged Muslims “to protect the army from Christian attackers.”Although an investigative committee later cleared state TV of the charge, critics like media expert Hisham Qassem say repeating the mistakes of the past has cost the broadcaster its reputation for life.
Sixteen months after the onset of Egypt’s uprising, Egyptians are still struggling to shed decades of repression and transform their country into a democratic and free society. In a country where 35 per cent of the population is illiterate and relies heavily on the state-run broadcaster for information, a highly politicised, partisan state TV is a major impediment to the democratic process. “The ruling generals who have on several occasions since the revolution turned their guns on peaceful protesters are using State TV as another weapon to kill the revolution,” said 29 year- old activist Waleed Hamdy. They know it is a powerful tool and have used it to further their interests.”
Journalist Shahira Amin resigned from her post as deputy head of state-run Nile TV in February 2011. Read why she resigned from the “propaganda machine” here.
