“All roads take me into exile, all roads take me away from Baghdad. I am looking for the borders of countries and stories of passers through. We believed our exile would be short.” – Qusas Al-Abireen
I met Koutaiba Al-Janabi on a winter evening last year in London. He told me to look out for his white hair at the train station, and indeed, his Einstein style was easy to spot from a mile away. Open and gentle, his mannerisms were pleasingly familiar, not unlike my own father or uncle, so we took our unhurried time finding the nearest open cafe (where, as expected, he refused to let me pay for our coffees), almost instinctively sharing our migrant stories as we set off.
What initially drew me to his work was a glaring absence of official records, archives and films that tell the story of what happened to the millions of Iraqis who were displaced under <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/30/world/middleeast/30saddam.html">Saddam Hussein&#8217;s ruthless dictatorship</a>. As if struggling to keep up with its wars, Iraq has fallen victim to the loss of its own memory, each wave of conflict veiling the last, each tale buried namelessly in a mass grave. Many people saw their family members executed in the 1980s after being targeted as dissidents under the Ba&#8217;ath Party regime, while state paranoia was intensifying during the Iran-Iraq war (1980-1988), so they were left with little choice but to escape the country.
It was not unusual for me to sit with an Iraqi of my parents’ generation. Countless times I&#8217;d listened to our family friends over a cup of tea as they recounted episodes of interrogation at university or in prison, ensuring to make special mention of the regime’s comical incompetence, their language etched with fresh curses and metaphors coined during the Saddami era. As we sat with a generous amount of snacks between us, Koutaiba and I discussed the experience of living in the diaspora, and found ourselves sharing family stories of kidnappings, separation and exile.
In his film, Qusas Al-Abireen (or ‘Stories of Passers Through’), director Koutaiba Al-Janabi weaves a personal account that will be familiar to almost every first generation Iraqi living outside of their homeland – that of a reluctant, forced removal from a place they have loved. It is the story of a people not characteristically known to be travellers, now to become wanderers against their will.

Qusas Al-Abireen is semi-autobiographical, what Koutaiba calls a “visual diary” of his exile, taking us through both real footage and acted scenes over a period of 30 years. It is a fairly linear journey from Iraq to Budapest, but patched together like a disjointed tapestry of migration – sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes hard to decipher. Our key character trudges between anxiety and isolation, navigating dark rooms with ageing window frames, or basements with concrete floors, more than once appearing to be walking aimlessly through the dark. This exiled protagonist is played by different actors: the camera looking into a chaotic call centre where he is desperately trying to call home, or briefly lingering on a rejection letter from the Home Office.
Edited in a style akin to a horror or film noir (or perhaps a bad imitation), this film certainly doesn’t give us a sense of the migrant dream. Koutaiba acts as the film’s narrator using his own melancholic, measured, warm Iraqi Arabic for the voiceover to express a continuous longing that has surrendered to grief. It’s impossible to capture the emotion that comes with decades of exodus, so what he delivers is merely this one sentiment that has characterised his lifetime, between never-ending scenes of roads and train tracks.

iraqi-road-to-exile_z-rahim_16_11_19_zr

Iraqi Road to Exile_Z Rahim_16_11_19_ZR

In Qusas Al-Abireen, Koutaiba narrates that he bid farewell to Baghdad at the age of seventeen. He recalls how he tried to make eye contact with his countrymen as he left, but found them as expressionless as statues. “There was real fear,” he says. “When I left, very few people knew apart from my mother. When Saddam first came to power he said he would create secret police in the brain of every Iraqi and this is exactly what he did.” Koutaiba, here, refers to the Orwellian and notorious intelligence network skilfully set up by the Ba&#8217;ath Party. There was at least one spy for every household, clinic and classroom; telephones were bugged and monitored, so people could not speak freely or contact exiled family members abroad; house raids could happen at any point with penalties for those who did not have a photo of Saddam up on their living room wall.
Despite memories of dictatorship, Koutaiba unravels his nostalgia for the Baghdad he left behind in the opening sequence, with iconic palms, photos of cinemas – Sindabad, The White Cinema, Cinema Al-Nujoom – men in black dishdashas, and women in Iraqi abayas hurrying their kids along.
I ask Koutaiba about the following radio broadcast issued by the Iraqi military, its haunting crackles overshadowing the nostalgic elements of the film:
This is the day we’ve been waiting for. To prove to our country, our families and our nation, that the milk we drank from our mothers was pure.
Defending our great Iraq, our glorious Arab nation. Today is our day, our battle and our war, our tradition. Arise brothers… We have to prove that we are the sons of freedom and pureness. And they are the sons of adultery and sin.
The broadcast reverberates over unsettling music and pouring thunderstorms that occur frequently throughout the film. We see this radio, or propaganda machine, on its own elevated table – despised yet respected – next to an abandoned bookcase, an unanswered telephone and a close-up of house keys, as if the toxic words have made every member of the household disappear.
“This was the speech that announced the Iran-Iraq war,&#8221; Koutaiba explains. &#8220;It was the dirtiest war in years – the war that destroyed Iraq. Nearly one million people dead. They played this speech on and on and on, and used the radio against us.&#8221;
As I’m discussing this announcement with Koutaiba, we note that the language used by the Ba&#8217;ath Party, ‘idribuhum fauq al-a‘naaq’ (translated as both ‘hit them over their heads’ or ‘cut their throats’), is not dissimilar to the language we have seen used by Daesh in recent years.

If the words were not bad enough, the radio plays a heavier, more sinister role in Koutaiba&#8217;s life. His father had been in the Iraqi army and was executed in 1963 when Koutaiba was just a child, during the first wave of executions conducted by the Ba’ath Party as they sought quickly to consolidate their control. It was only when they switched on the radio that his mother and six siblings were faced with the shocking news.
In one extended scene, Koutaiba’s family photos appear to be strewn across the floor, what he describes as &#8220;part of his conscience&#8221;, although in reality there were very few original photos left of his family. The lack of evidence of a life before exile had always troubled my conscience too, with just a handful of polaroids surviving to tell my family history. In this harsh social and political climate, photos were often burned by the families who stayed behind, ensuring there was no trace of those who’d left in order to protect them as much as possible.
Throughout our conversation, Koutaiba compares <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2017/10/21/bfi-lff-perspectives-confronting-the-wicked-past/">Iraq under Saddam to Chile under Pinochet</a>, regimes mirroring each other in their crackdowns on dissidents, disappearances and secret mass graves. “They didn’t give us my father’s body. We don’t know what happened. In these mass graves, people become just a number. I think every Iraqi family has lost somebody, whatever the reason.”
The trauma of loss and lack of closure certainly inform Koutaiba’s preferred genres. His latest fantasy / horror, filmed at the Serbian-Hungarian border, The Wooden Man, is currently in post-production and explores themes of escape and refuge. He tells me that he never imagined the growing refugee crisis would reach the point it has.
It strikes me that Koutaiba, whose name comes from the Arabic root ka-ta-ba, meaning ‘to write’ or ‘to record’, has embodied his name well. “Film is one method to reflect how we feel,” he says. “We [Iraqis] don’t appreciate our archives, we destroyed them, Saddam’s photos, everything. We have to keep them. The country needs to build a huge memorial for that period. If you don’t fix the past, you can’t build the future.”
Qusas Al-Abireen is a rare insight into the impact of exile on the Iraqi diaspora who left under Saddam’s Ba’ath government (1968-2003). Although Koutaiba never appears in front of the camera in his own deeply personal story, he leaves the door wide open for Iraqis to find themselves in the details.

koutaiba-al-janabi-border

Koutaiba Al Janabi Border

Koutaiba Al-Janabi will be running a workshop titled ‘The Art of Exile: A Filmmaking Masterclass’ at the BFI Studio on Saturday 15 June, 1 to 5pm. Stories of Passers Through will be screened as part of the session. Book through the BFI website here: <a href="https://whatson.bfi.org.uk">https://whatson.bfi.org.uk</a>. The film was also screened at the <a href="https://www.arabbritishcentre.org.uk/whatson/stories-of-passers-through/">SAFAR Film Festival</a> last year.
<pre>Photo Credits : Koutaiba Al-Janabi</pre>

Stories of Passers Through New_Site

Our editor Zainab Rahim speaks to Iraqi filmmaker Koutaiba Al-Janabi about his film Qusas Al-Abireen.

The Iraqi Road to Exile: Koutaiba Al-Janabi’s 30 Years from Home

Print cultures are making a fierce resurgence. In the absence of a grassroots, varied and colourful media landscape, an appetite for self-publishing is taking hold. Even the ebook frenzy is dying down, with consumer sales <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/apr/27/screen-fatigue-sees-uk-ebook-sales-plunge-17-as-readers-return-to-print">plunging by almost a fifth</a> last year. There seems to be no better time for ‘doing it yourself’. 
As a member of the new <a href="https://www.facebook.com/KhidrCollective/">Khidr Collective</a> and fascinated by the rise in print ‘zines’, I was keen to find out more. So I spoke to <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2016/01/01/when-talha-ahsan-delivered-poetry-as-a-free-man/">Hamja Ahsan</a>, one of our contributors and the co-curator of the <a href="http://diycultures.tumblr.com/">DIY Cultures</a> festival, an annual day festival exploring the intersections of art and activism. 
The festival on 14th May will showcase more than 90 exhibitors at Rich Mix, East London. It will be accompanied by an extended exhibition, DIY Knowledge, which you can see from now until 2nd June. 
Hamja is a writer, artist and human rights campaigner, and will be debuting his book <a href="https://www.bookworks.org.uk/node/1917">Shy Radicals: Antisystemic Politics of the Militant Introvert </a>as part of the programme this year.
How would you define a ‘zine’? 
A zine is a sub-culture – independent, self-published, and usually cheaply made publication. It’s associated with photocopying. It has its own particular history. I guess a zine is something that’s not official. The antithesis of the mainstream. That’s the ethos of it.
Are zines for the marginalised? 
It’s strange because zines are now bigger than ever, even though we have social media. And because production is small-scale, you never lose that face-to-face interaction. When you sell a zine you often meet your buyers at stalls, so I guess you don’t need capital, authoritisation or grants – it doesn’t have that dependency. 
It’s also accessible, it doesn’t require any special abilities. You get a piece of paper, fold it in two and throw in some felt-tips. In some ways, it’s for people who don’t really want to grow up. 
At DIY Cultures, there’ll be a communal table, lots of workshops, and anyone can bring their zines.
How has DIY Cultures evolved since you, Sofia and Helena started the festival five years ago? 
When I was making zines 11 years ago, it seemed to be only me and Sofia. There was that white exclusivity and domination, but that’s changed. 
Each year, DIY Cultures has become more and more ambitious. We now commission short films and animations. I think you can take a zine attitude to anything, whether it’s science, or architecture or interior design. This year we’ve got an architectural collective and a live TV webcast station by Clapham Film Unit playing in the background. 
Instead of the same circuit of people, what I’ve tried to do in the past is feature people who aren’t necessarily in the foreground. My favourite talk I ever did in the first year was ‘Unemployment and Creativity’ and I just invited seven unemployed people to give their insights. I’m quite sick of hearing Owen Jones’ voice – that statement alone can sum up what I’m aiming for.<a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Malaysia-body1.jpg"><img loading="lazy" class="aligncenter wp-image-12765" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Malaysia-body1-1024x768.jpg" alt="DIY Cultures 2017 - Malaysia" width="380" height="285" /></a> 
So have you sought to expand what it means to be ‘lefty’? 
There’s lots of different routes into DIY Cultures and I’m not necessarily representative of everyone. Some may be more interested in craft-making, some infographics, and so on. Even between the organisers, not all of us are particularly ‘radical’. 
I don’t personally agree with all the sub-cultures that we feature and that’s fine. I don’t particularly like what I’d call hyper-intersectionality, because I view it as very academic, very ossified, very US college campus imperialism. People use academic terms as they would use sunnah or hadeeth. I’m not interested in trigger warning culture and calling everything ‘problematic’ every two seconds, I find that just like orthodoxy. 
What we do in the <a href="http://otherasias.webnode.com/toy-box/">Other Asias</a> collective (who feature in DIY Knowledge) is make up our own critical theory phrases, like ‘whiteous indignation’, ‘sub-alterneering’, so we try to be a bit playful with that sort of critical theory. If you take the value of doodling, play, informality, that’s what I value, that’s what I’m trying to foster.
Why did you choose ‘radical mental health’ as a theme for DIY Cultures? 
The most popular event we’ve ever done was the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQasttBaSm8">radical mental health event last year</a> to an audience of over 900 people. The idea just came from the pit of my stomach. 
The cliché of our times is to say, “let’s talk about mental health”, and everyone from Theresa May to the latest fuzzy NGO uses that rhetoric. I’d like to turn that on its head. Before seeing a psychiatrist or medic, there is this other zone. 
The reason I got into zines when I was 13 was the Manic Street Preacher zines in the early ‘90s. There was a guitarist called <a href="http://www.heraldscotland.com/news/13199612.20_years_on__the_strange_disappearance_of_Richey_Edwards_of_Manic_Street_Preachers/">Richard James Edwards</a>, who was very public in speaking about anorexia, self-harm and depression in his interviews and during his hospitalisation. I found such a level of empathy and insight within those interviews. I produced my own Manic-inspired zine called ‘Nausea’ when I was 13. 
I’m interested in redefining, reclaiming and re-authoring depression. I think the relationship between a GP and a patient has its limits. Things like austerity – a doctor is not going to register that. I even find some of the anti-stigma campaigns reinforce biomedical reduction, when they push <a href="https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/statistics-and-facts-about-mental-health/how-common-are-mental-health-problems/#.WRGwhbwrKi4">statistics like ‘1 in 4’</a>. I’m interested in the spiritual dimension of things too.
Why did the Hillsborough campaign capture your attention? 
Hillsborough is the ultimate example of what it means to be fucked over by the mainstream. There’s an amnesia towards the crimes of the British state. Even though I say DIY Cultures is about empowerment of people of colour, the way Liverpool was treated in the 1980s – and I’ll say this strongly as a statement – was akin to racism. There’s no other way of putting it. 
There was the language of <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-16361170">managed population decline</a> used by Margaret Thatcher, and when the James Bulger child murder happened, many blamed the culture of the people of Liverpool – this was in the liberal Guardian, it wasn’t the right-wing press. 
When I went to Liverpool to make my film for the DIY Knowledge exhibition, I found people had an extra level of hospitality, friendliness and support that I hadn’t experienced in London. I saw what a beautiful, resistant, defiant city it was in the ‘80s. I could see the falseness of Thatcher’s demonisation.
<figure id="attachment_12763" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-12763" style="width: 380px" class="wp-caption aligncenter"><a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Hillsborough-body1.jpg"><img loading="lazy" class="wp-image-12763" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Hillsborough-body1.jpg" alt="DIY Cultures - Hillsborough" width="380" height="253" /></a><figcaption id="caption-attachment-12763" class="wp-caption-text">Hamja Ahsan with Sheila Coleman</figcaption></figure>
How did Liverpool champion an alternative media culture? 
People forget that there were many wilderness years where no one had any interest in Hillsborough. Everyone would parrot the same lies about football hooligans killing their own. The zines helped the real stories survive. 
There’s amazing levels of class critique, wit and humour, and creativity in these football fanzines. They had a particular attitude towards mocking Thatcherism, the police and the state, and the language of chairmen of boards. They often use that Scouse sense of humour, laughing through adversity. Zines like ‘The End’ by <a href="https://twitter.com/TheFarm_Peter">Peter Hooton</a> and ‘What’s the Score’ by Pete Naylor. They showed the truth decades before it entered the mainstream – things that weren’t highlighted officially until the second inquest last year. 
Speaking to the campaigners, it was new to me to hear zines talked about as a white working class medium, because we usually assume they’re for middle class hipsters. I built a whole archive of zines from the ‘80s and ‘90s that are totally out of print – they’re treasures for me and I want to give them the time and space they really deserve in future exhibitions.
Can you tell us more about the Theresa May statue? 
The sculpture shows Theresa May as she really is. Don’t get scared. One of my brother’s campaign supporters did a <a href="https://mediadiversified.org/2016/09/20/the-war-on-terror-in-clay/">life-sized sculpture of May</a> and my brother’s <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2016/01/01/when-talha-ahsan-delivered-poetry-as-a-free-man/">prison poetry</a> is carved into the back. 
The first talk at this year’s festival is called ‘Theresa May &amp; the Others’. May referred to my brother as &#8216;the others&#8217;, and you think, ‘who are the others?’ And I realised there were other others, and that the others is all of us. 
We didn’t know when we started this that a General Election would come. This is my bit to ‘making June the end of May’.
<a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Hamja-body-of-text1.jpg"><img loading="lazy" class="aligncenter wp-image-12764" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Hamja-body-of-text1.jpg" alt="Hamja body of text" width="380" height="253" /></a>
The DIY Cultures 2017 day festival: Zines, Artists’ Books and Comics will be held on 14th May. See the full programme here: <a href="http://diycultures.tumblr.com/programme">http://diycultures.tumblr.com/programme</a>. 
The DIY Knowledge exhibition is open from now until 2nd June in the Lower Cafe Gallery of Rich Mix: <a href="https://www.richmix.org.uk/events/exhibitions/diy-cultures-exhibition-diy-knowledge" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en-GB&amp;q=https://www.richmix.org.uk/events/exhibitions/diy-cultures-exhibition-diy-knowledge&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1494444622616000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFTQ4lzQOe7L7wV3bhoVl7qMjtAVw">https://www.richmix.org.uk/events/exhibitions/diy-cultures-exhibition-diy-knowledge</a>.
<pre>featured and body (final) photo by <a href="http://www.aimvphotography.com/">Aimee Valinski</a></pre>

Hamja Ahsan discusses zines and activism on the fifth anniversary of the DIY Cultures festival in London

Making Doodles and Recording History: Hamja Ahsan On DIY Cultures 2017

British Palestinian filmmaker explains how colonialism is always central to the stories he tells 
&nbsp; 
Piercing looks of suspicion open Saeed Taji Farouky’s short film set in Victorian Britain. Commissioned by <a href="http://randomacts.channel4.com/">Channel 4’s Random Acts</a>, They Live in Forests, They Are Extremely Shy provides a snapshot into the era of an inhumane, but acceptable, curiosity of the wealthy class. The three-minute fiction is set in the Colonial Exhibition of 1886 and shot in sinister black and white, allowing for the contrasting facial expressions of its characters to be laid bare.   
The film features Aboriginal actor Tom E. Lewis who plays David, the ‘civilised barbarian’ dressed in his master’s clothing, being led through the exhibition’s artefacts. When he is introduced to “one of our more impressive displays” – a fellow tribesman in a display box – time stands still. 
I caught up with British Palestinian director Saeed Farouky, who is also a board member with the Arab British Centre, in between a hectic trip abroad and the <a href="http://www.arabbritishcentre.org.uk/safar-2016/">Safar Film Festival</a>. We discussed why he chose the story of They Live in Forests and why the film is so interconnected with current struggles. 
What was the inspiration behind the story? 
I had this image in my mind of a person going into a museum and seeing themselves or their tribe on display. When I started researching the concept, a lot of real events centring around human zoos came up. 
There were three in particular: one was about an inuit native Canadian kid called <a href="http://www.ric.edu/faculty/rpotter/harper.html">Minik</a>, who saw his father’s bones on display; another was a guy called Ota Benga from the Congo, who toured these kind of colonial exhibitions around the world; and one of them was an Aboriginal man, a native Australian called Bennelong, and that’s the one I fixated on, but combined elements of the three. 
For me, the film was always going to be about colonialism. 
Did you have any film influences in terms of the style you picked? 
Yes, a lot of it was colonial photography – that’s one of the reasons why it’s in black and white – particularly the kind of tableau vivant (‘living picture’) where they would pose people. These images were always about fulfilling the colonial fantasy, racism disguised as intellectual curiosity. They contain so many layers about the subjugation of the human, but also how you can simultaneously denigrate and fantasise about them. They were really influential in the way we shot the film, framed it, created the set and the bodies. 
Recent film Embrace of the Serpent shares a few parallels with this. A huge influence was also Hungarian film Werckmeister Harmonies (2000) by Béla Tarr, which is incredibly slow, but absolutely beautiful. It’s about the crumbling of Hungarian society, through the metaphor of a travelling circus. 
How do you think racism, disguised as intellectual curiosity, continues to this day? 
A lot of documentaries, and even mainstream news, are still heavily influenced by the perception that “our view is superior”. Sometimes you see filmmakers wanting to do the right thing, they say, “Oh I made this film because I want to give a voice to the refugees,”  then you watch the film and it’s all about the filmmaker. As a Palestinian, I see this in films about Palestine all the time. 
The skill of being a storyteller, journalist or filmmaker is realising how to use your skillset in a conversation with those people. But the vast majority of the time, they approach looking for characters and quotes to fit their stereotypes. And that’s straight out of the colonial history of photography and painting – it’s what’s called orientalism. 
<figure id="attachment_12518" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-12518" style="width: 380px" class="wp-caption aligncenter"><a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/BODY-REDUCED-Tom-E-Lewis-Saeed-Taji-Farouky-Channel-4-They-Live-in-Forests-copy.jpeg"><img loading="lazy" class="wp-image-12518" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/BODY-REDUCED-Tom-E-Lewis-Saeed-Taji-Farouky-Channel-4-They-Live-in-Forests-copy.jpeg" alt="tom-e-lewis-saeed-taji-farouky-channel-4-they-live-in-forests" width="380" height="254" /></a><figcaption id="caption-attachment-12518" class="wp-caption-text">Saeed on film set with Tom (photo: Andy Berriman)</figcaption></figure> 
How do you avoid this? 
You need to approach every story as a collaboration. It means that sometimes you’ll have to start from scratch. It requires a lot of patience as you develop the story. You need to be explicit about what it is you’re doing and the nature of the film. 
I took the dialogue with Tom and our two cultural consultants very seriously. I came to them with an idea, but if that idea didn’t fly with them, we would have made a completely different film – even though the script and funding was approved. Tom, especially, verified that this story represented a very serious issue and a very real one. 
Tell me about the main character. 
The character’s name is David and he’s from the Northern Territory – one of the last areas to be colonised by the British in Australia. In a strange way, it meant they had an advantage, because they knew the history of the massacres, the techniques, and so on. The British weren’t able to just bulldoze the place. 
In this fictional world, David is invited as an ambassador to Britain to discuss the future of his northern tribe. He is Victorianised, in the sense that he wears a suit and speaks English, and so on. But then he’s invited to the Colonial Exhibition of 1886, and there he sees the taxidermied body of another Yolngu warrior. 
At that moment, he makes a break from being “the good native” to being a real human. He cradles and mourns over the body. I think that, for the first time, he realises who these people are, or he understands the reality of the situation. 
Have you had those moments of self-realisation, like David in the film? 
Yes, the story is about navigating two cultures and that’s been the story of my life – Palestinian living here in Britain, and in many ways, representing them both. 
This is the birthplace of the Victorian epic drama, which is always white, almost always about men, and that’s it. If you want diverse cinema, then you have to really stick your neck out. 
There are moments when you realise you are being co-opted, or you realise you’re the token Muslim, token Arab or token woman, and it suddenly becomes clear – and you have to ask yourself, “Am I going to go on with this?” The older I get, luckily, the more willing I am to call bullshit and say I’m not happy with a situation. 
What I loved about working with Tom is that this is also the story of his life. He’s half black, half white, and for a time he was rejected by both cultures. He made a film about it called <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLW9eVtDjg4">Yellow Fella</a>, about growing up biracial within this very racist system in Australia. 
Victorian society was infatuated with the idea of lesser races and those doomed to die. How does the film reflect this history? 
The practical answer is that there were colonised people, and indigenous Australians, who came to Britain, but we never hear about them. 
The idea of displaying human remains, too, is very controversial – it’s almost never shown in films. The British museums have the largest collection of indigenous, Aboriginal remains in the world. For Aboriginal activists, it’s a big deal to come here and confront, for example, the British Museum, and say, “We want these items back.” The film is part of the process of opening up that dialogue. 
Places like the Natural History Museum were born straight out of the Colonial Exhibition in London and would have once had exhibitions which we consider abhorrent. 
That’s what I love doing – looking at the sore spots of history and poking them. It’s not about blaming anyone or collective guilt, it’s about acknowledging that this happened. 
Is there a collective amnesia about Aboriginals in Australian culture? 
They’re absent from popular culture until they can be coopted. I find that as a Palestinian too – there are certain symbolisms, ceremonies, music or dress, that people can latch onto and say, “Now, this is interesting, I want to use this,” but they don’t actually want to engage with the Palestinian cause. Thankfully, the Aboriginals have incredibly strong networks to push for better representation. 
Where are the main Aboriginal movements based? 
Whereas Aboriginal artworks from other parts of Australia were destroyed along with the people, by the time the colonisers reached the Northern Territory, they started preserving some of the work. Aboriginals from the Northern Territories have been really good at pushing protocols. 
Within film, they have this powerful document, which I really want other indigenous people to look at, about how we should treat their culture – characters, stories, images, or art. It explains that you need to engage people and work on the story with them. I hope it can be a blueprint. 
Do you think there are comparisons to be drawn between indigenous struggles in Australia and America, in light of the <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2016/10/18/water-is-life-the-battle-to-block-the-dakota-access-pipeline/">Dakota Access Pipeline</a> protests? 
Yes, definitely. Within activism, there is a lot of solidarity between them. One of the main issues is resource extraction, particularly for Australians, because a lot of their mining industries are based where Aboriginal people live. They’re very active in challenging them or coming up with frameworks where it’s advantageous for them. 
<figure id="attachment_12514" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-12514" style="width: 380px" class="wp-caption aligncenter"><a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FILMMAKER-CROPPED-Saeed-Taji-Farouky-They-Live-in-Forests-copy.jpg"><img loading="lazy" class="size-full wp-image-12514" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FILMMAKER-CROPPED-Saeed-Taji-Farouky-They-Live-in-Forests-copy.jpg" alt="saeed-taji-farouky-they-live-in-forests" width="380" height="163" /></a><figcaption id="caption-attachment-12514" class="wp-caption-text">Film director: Saeed Taji Farouky</figcaption></figure> 
Why did you make a conscious choice to ask crowdfunders who voted for <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2016/06/29/editorial-the-brexit-die-is-cast/">Brexit</a> to retract their donations? 
Honestly, it was a very easy decision for me to make. I understand not everyone who voted ‘Leave’ is racist or xenophobic – in fact, I know some of those people. But they are influencing our lives in ways that they don’t know. For me, it’s just as important to protest the underbelly of those decisions and the implicit effects. 
It was a message about a political approach that is against everything that I stand for and the story of my family who are migrants. I didn’t want money in the film that was related to something I consider racist. Sure, I’m willing to forgive a small error, but when it’s something on this scale, for very selfish reasons, that will adversely affect so many people’s lives – I mean, at what point do we draw the line? 
What next for you, Saeed? 
I’d love to make They Live in Forests a feature length film, but not right away. At the moment, I’m working on a film on contemporary London, which is a lot easier! 
Most of my work is about similar themes – being vocal about colonialism and post-colonialism, and the hangovers of that which we’re suffering from. But also about the film industry itself – making a film with a diverse group of people. 
I’m also working on a documentary on resource extraction and how it affects the local population. That’s all I can say so far! 
Saeed Taji Farouky’s film They Live in Forests will appear on Channel 4’s Random Acts at midnight on Thursday 8th December 2016. Following the broadcast, it will be available to view on <a href="http://randomacts.channel4.com/">the website</a>. 
There will also be an exclusive screening in Newcastle on Friday 2nd December, followed by a panel event with Saeed. The event is free, but you need to <a href="https://emails.kickstarter.com/mpss/c/0wA/6TYCAA/t.22i/OhTqavVgSNiBZXYlKg2YgQ/h3/h0Wwt3nQASMG-2F4F0JXhX5699lZoA25wX498Tp1xW1UfQdQEEyeXR4cqtJ0B5nzk8yYTYYTHGftV4ltuS7otBFDg53tt-2FT8TOfA7kidOFkV4-3D">reserve a place here</a>.
<pre>Featured film still: S T Farouky / Behind-the-scenes: Andy Berriman</pre>

Saeed Taji Farouky: The Haunting Legacy of the Human Zoo

Zainab Rahim speaks to filmmaker Afi Khan, director / producer of new Channel 4 documentary series <a href="http://www.channel4.com/programmes/keeping-up-with-the-khans">Keeping Up with the Khans</a>. 
&nbsp; 
With 17 years in the industry, Afi Khan is no newcomer to the world of film and television. As the associate producer of Four Lions (2010), he has seen his work unfold into a quotable cult classic. He has trodden the paths of both current affairs and drama in his time as a filmmaker – producing, directing, casting and offering consultancy on scripts. 
Afi Khan’s new observational four-part documentary on Channel 4 highlights the impact of immigration on communities in Page Hall, Sheffield. Filmed over a period of 15 months, each episode of Keeping Up with the Khans features stories of people from different walks of life – those who have been affected by political shifts in their UK towns and their countries of origin. 
Firstly, I have to ask, why did you call the documentary Keeping Up with the Khans when we haven’t met any Khans so far? 
Well it’s funny you say this, because I was thinking the same! There are so many reasons why this could have happened and it may possibly be a compliance issue. But I agree, you should have met the Khans first. It’s a bit like opening a tin of beans and getting spaghetti hoops. Sorry…The best projects and films are the not-so-easy ones. And the documentary isn’t about my family – that’s just a coincidence! 
The idea of immigration seems to induce constant panic in Britain, not least because of the recent refugee crisis. Could you have predicted that at the time of filming? 
I guess not. This is a historic issue. It’s never a good time to talk about <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2011/11/22/a-case-for-immigration-yes-to-70-million/">immigration</a> – it’s always there and it’s going to be in season for a long time to come. As we know, the most recent refugee crisis has been the Syrian crisis – the biggest since World War Two. 
It’s good to debate the issue, and you couldn’t do it in a better way than to create a documentary and allow your characters to discuss it themselves and bring it out into the open. Some humour and reality helps! 
Why did you choose Sheffield&#8217;s Page Hall to tell this story? 
It’s all about the latest arrivals and Sheffield, statistically, has one of the largest Roma populations in the UK. For us, it was like wow, this is going to be interesting. I know Sheffield well: I’ve studied there and I’ve made a lot of films and documentaries there. It’s a hugely diverse area, with so many social issues, but rich with culture, too. We were mixing and talking to the Pakistani community – who are possibly the oldest economic migrants in the area – the Yemenis, and then we had the white British, who had a lot to say about this (positive and negative), and of course the newest arrivals, the Roma Gypsies, which was fascinating. 
<figure id="attachment_11983" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-11983" style="width: 370px" class="wp-caption aligncenter"><a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/1-Body-or-Twitter-Keeping-Up-with-Khans.jpg"><img loading="lazy" class="wp-image-11983" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/1-Body-or-Twitter-Keeping-Up-with-Khans.jpg" alt="Channel 4 Keeping Up with Khans" width="370" height="278" /></a><figcaption id="caption-attachment-11983" class="wp-caption-text">Page Hall</figcaption></figure> 
“I’m not racist but…” is a line we’re hearing a lot in Page Hall. 
There’s tension in this area between communities. People are looking for someone to point the finger at. The Queen avoided Page Hall during her visit. It’s socially excluded with very poor housing and policing – and all those things contribute to resentment. Lynda told me that about a decade ago Page Hall was called “Sheffield in bloom” – people took pride, every house had a hanging basket, and streets were clean, despite being a mill town with terraced houses and a working class culture. But you can’t blame a community who’ve just moved in for the area’s deprivation – you have to go beyond that and ask what the council and government are doing. There’s a problem here, and everyone knows it. Who is to blame? 
In the first episode, I loved Julie&#8217;s interactions with the landlord, Steve. Why do you think these two characters got along so well? 
Julie found love, travelled to Gaza, married someone from the Middle East and lived a life there – but she is still a white British character who understands the culture and can connect with someone like Steve. She’s no different to anybody else other than she changed her faith, became a Muslim, and I think someone like Steve doesn’t see the difference. And that’s quite refreshing. Steve was a very crude character, and I think behind Julie there was a bit of crudeness anyway, and I think they just found common ground. 
The limbo situation of asylum seekers like Haidar from Lebanon and Omar from Sudan seems infuriating. Did you observe holes in the system while documenting their stories? 
Yes, I could see that. That was one of the most difficult episodes to make, because these characters were switching on and off, and they were so afraid of what the outcome would be, and whether the filming would somehow affect their appeal. It’s ongoing and scary. Forget about documentaries – this is about people’s lives and livelihoods. 
Omar does not want to go back to Sudan. He crawled through the desert, he was on a small, vulnerable boat to get to Europe, and he was under a truck at one point. His life was at risk and he could have been <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2014/10/06/child-refugees-in-the-usa-an-illegitimate-debate/">another victim</a>. So it’s not about people coming over here trying to rape the system and take benefits. You saw where they were living, it wasn’t nice, it was a cold and a grim place to stay, they were restricted in so many ways and not allowed to get a job – and it’s a shame it takes so long. That’s just the way it is. 
In episode two, the people of Page Hall came together over&#8230; a snake on the loose! Not the big unifying shift I expected in working-class England. 
That’s not what I expected either! For a start, I’m scared of snakes so it wasn’t easy to film. So I had to grow some balls. What we were dealing with there was three communities breaking down barriers, communicating, and coming together, and it kind of softened some of the characters. Like Lynda can be quite harsh. You might see her in one of the later episodes, very angry, very upset, because a lot of these people are trying to preserve their culture and it’s very hard if you’re white British – you feel slightly threatened. 
Can you explain how the growing &#8216;Gypsy&#8217; community got here? 
So I travelled to Bystrany and Žehra in Slovakia to film that scene in episode two. These villages were squalid, pre-historic in some ways, but there was beauty there too. There’s a lot of racism in Slovakia, so if you’re a Roma Gypsy, you won’t get the same benefits as a white Slovakian. They have a very strong culture – there are good things and bad things about it. They don’t integrate as well and they don’t understand that. 
We followed one of our characters from Slovakia to the UK, so I had to sit on a bus for 18 hours. It was horrible and smelly. But it was an amazing journey too – it’s a beautiful country. It opened my eyes and made me appreciate a lot of things. When you travel, observe how people live, and see where they come from, it all starts making sense. And I think that’s what we’re trying to do with the film. (By the way, I would definitely recommend Slovakia as a holiday destination!) 
<figure id="attachment_11984" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-11984" style="width: 370px" class="wp-caption aligncenter"><a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/2-Body-of-article-Keeping-up-with-Khans.jpg"><img loading="lazy" class="wp-image-11984" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/2-Body-of-article-Keeping-up-with-Khans.jpg" alt="Channel 4 Keeping Up with Khans" width="370" height="278" /></a><figcaption id="caption-attachment-11984" class="wp-caption-text">Slovakia</figcaption></figure> 
Why do you think Erik&#8217;s story was so pivotal to the second part of the documentary? 
Erik is in his mid-twenties, a very larger-than-life character, who is also an orphan. He came to the UK about seven years ago and was taken under the wings of a Pakistani guy called Wahid who’s a bit like Mother Teresa. There’s a contrast between this very traditional Pakistani family and this Gypsy kid who doesn’t know where he came from, but loves this family so much. He bridges the gap. What you don’t see in the final cut was that he’s a proud Catholic, but he prays like a Muslim. At the same time, he’s very camp and melodramatic – he loves to sing Celine Dion and wear sparkly clothes – and there are a lot of interesting underlying issues around sexuality and gender here. A lot of people in Page Hall were not quite ready for this flamboyant character. He was really fun to film. 
What can we look forward to in the final two episodes? 
You’ll meet the Khans from Kashmir, you’ll go to Pakistan – I went over to Kashmir to film it – and you’ll witness some really interesting religious festivals in Page Hall. You’ll see how solid and influential the Pakistani Muslim community is in Sheffield. Their story looks flash to those like the Roma community, because they’re driving around in BMWs and Mercedes. But there’s good and bad in that community too. You’ll see what happens later this week. 
You’ll also see some really heartrending stories in the white British community in the final episode and what the deprivation has done. 
Do you think documentaries like this serve to break down stereotypes or provide indulgent entertainment? 
They do both – and that’s why you have to pick the right documentary and project. TV is more for entertainment purposes these days, but I’m hoping this will be more informing and educating and not just entertaining. 
<figure id="attachment_11985" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-11985" style="width: 370px" class="wp-caption aligncenter"><a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/3-Body-of-article-Afi-Khan-on-Keeping-Up-with-the-Khans-2.jpg"><img loading="lazy" class="wp-image-11985" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/3-Body-of-article-Afi-Khan-on-Keeping-Up-with-the-Khans-2.jpg" alt="Channel 4 Keeping Up with Khans" width="370" height="277" /></a><figcaption id="caption-attachment-11985" class="wp-caption-text">Erik</figcaption></figure> 
Obviously I have to ask you about Four Lions. Could you have predicted its success? 
Not really, it’s been a surreal experience! I started on Four Lions before the script was even written. It was actually meant to be a television series but it didn’t work out that way. When I did the research for the film and introduced the writer Chris Morris to some of the characters, I knew who they were and how they would evolve into these over-the-top characters. For instance, Brother Faisal and his crow was a friend of mine from Blackburn. He was obsessed with birds and he gave us a wild story – and Chris turned it into a great comedy moment. People’s reactions have been amazing, especially from the Muslim community in Britain and beyond. It’s going to live with us for a long, long time. 
If you could remake Four Lions now, underpinned by the climate of counter-terrorism, what would you change? 
I think it was spot on in terms of how things have unfolded. The more you know, the better it is. I don’t think you can make <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2013/05/02/bradford-a-city-of-international-film/">another film</a> like Four Lions, but you can try something different. That’s also why I love making documentaries. Once you understand reality you can do anything with it. 
Will you be involved in similar movies in future? 
I’d like to start writing myself. What you see in Four Lions are people you see in everyday life, but with slightly larger characters. I’m constantly surrounded by them, from the fuckwits to the intelligent, to the extreme to the confused. I think there’s so much scope. 
You can watch Keeping Up with the Khans on the 4oD website here: <a href="http://www.channel4.com/programmes/keeping-up-with-the-khans">http://www.channel4.com/programmes/keeping-up-with-the-khans</a>. The next episode airs on Thursday 18 February at 9pm and the final episode will be on Wednesday 24 February at 10pm. 
<pre>Photo Credits: Afi Khan</pre>

Keeping Up With Afi Khan: Documenting Immigration in South Yorkshire

The final film instalment of The Hunger Games blurs the boundaries between ally and enemy and brings us closer to a world we recognise 
&nbsp; 
WARNING: Contains Mild Spoilers 
In a video <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6TkKm2eEV1A">recently released online</a>, former Israeli soldier Ido Gal Razon faces a silent, expressionless parliamentary committee in a brightly lit court room. Dressed in a dark green V-neck, with his hair pulled back into an undercut ponytail, his voice is shrill with the tormenting agony of his testimony. “You say, ‘Terrorists with blood on their hands?’ I killed more than 40 people for you!” he screams, pointing and hammering his hand on the table at intervals. “I pee at night from post trauma. He comes to me and says: ‘Why did you kill me? Why did you kill me?’” 
Razon served in ‘Operation Clear as Wine’ eight years ago in Gaza, which may well be one of the most accurate out of the many deeply ironic <a href="http://www.haaretz.com/israel-news/name-your-military-operation-a-guide.premium-1.480130">names of Israel’s military campaigns</a>, judging by its bitter, clouded legacy. The former soldier does not – or cannot – question the narrative of his infallible government fighting the terrorists, but, instead, fiercely criticises the authorities who neglected him upon his return and denied him medical treatment, lamenting his new state of dependency. We, the hungry viewers, watch him just as he appears to slip over the edge of sanity. 
When seeing this disturbing footage, it&#8217;s hard not to recall the image of the incensed, deranged Peeta (Josh Hutcherson) at the end of Mockingjay &#8211; Part 1 of The Hunger Games. We left him in this film sprawled across a hospital bed within the white walls of the recovery unit in District 13. Physically and mentally diminished, Peeta had been severely indoctrinated by the Capitol, his original memories forcefully enshrouded in hate and betrayal leading him to attempt to suffocate Katniss (<a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2014/10/29/the-seven-deadly-films/">Jennifer Lawrence</a>) in the dramatic final scene. Of course, for Peeta, the medical treatment to un-do his “hijacking” is of utmost priority to the opposition rebels, but the question of loyalty – as with all cases of war – cuts through this story with a piercing poignancy. 
The fourth film and the final instalment of the trilogy, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=145&amp;v=n-7K_OjsDCQ">The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part Two</a>, directed by Francis Lawrence, opens with Katniss coming to consciousness and feeling her bruised neck following Peeta’s attack. The bruise, of course, runs deeper in her knowledge of Peeta’s illness. Worn out by the arena of war, both during the Capitol’s initial staged tournaments and its later escalation to full-scale destruction of the districts, her eyes are weary, her face is bare and unpainted in this film, and she sets out with firm but cold resolve to take revenge on the dictator, President Coriolanus Snow (Donald Sutherland). 
Crushed by her own form of <a href="http://www.wired.com/2014/11/hunger-games-ptsd-analysis/">post-traumatic stress disorder</a>, Katniss is at first swayed by the self-proclaimed leader of the resistance movement, President Alma Coin (Julianne Moore), whose strikingly straight grey hair and sharp jawbones set us on edge immediately. Doomed to be a tool of this war, Katniss is cubby-holed into the role of countering the Capitol’s propaganda machine, just as when she was plucked from the ruins of District 13 to become the symbolic poster-girl of the revolution – the dark Mockingjay – of the last film. Even before this, in Catching Fire, the Capitol’s President Snow <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=832exPEX8pc">threatened to ruin her hometown</a> of District 12 should she resist. But her designated – dictated – purpose is far from where her heart lies. She is ready to be the first to take down the Capitol. 
With this purpose in mind, Katniss insists on being sent to the frontlines and sets off under the guidance of Boggs (Mahershala Ali) with her military unit. President Coin, unsurprisingly, alarms the team when she asks them to simply focus on filming and marketing their victories en route to the centre of the Capitol. They press on, perpetually beneath the camera lens of the totalitarian state, dodging the “pods” or concealed traps that have been put in place. Eventually detaching herself from Coin’s orders, Katniss takes over from Boggs, navigating the Capitol’s underground sewers to reach Snow’s mansion – not without significant losses. We watch Coin with growing suspicion, seeing her calmly contain her agitation with Katniss and use increasingly authoritarian nuances in her language. Meanwhile, Coin and Snow battle on to reach the hearts and minds of the nation of Panem by taking charge of the television broadcasts and power flits between the two of them. 
&#8220;The enemy is not like us. They do not share our values. They have never known our comforts and our sophistication and they despise us for it. They are coming to destroy our way of life,&#8221; declares Snow, his words perfectly conveying the white supremacist framework, and echoing the eerily familiar superiority complex of the western, developed world – most recently articulated in <a href="http://globalnews.ca/news/2338751/read-the-full-text-of-french-president-francois-hollandes-response-to-paris-attacks/">responses to the Paris attacks</a> and in the fear-mongering statements of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jaz1J0s-cL4">US presidential candidate Donald Trump</a>. 
Upon hearing that the rebels have entered District 1, Snow declares his mansion an open refuge for the wealthy inhabitants of the region, giving an opportunity for Katniss’ team to disguise themselves among the crowds and get closer to him. It is amid this race for safety that the biggest disaster of the film takes place, when bombs are dropped from silver parachutes in two deadly rounds becoming the cause for mass civilian death. It is crucial to note, here, that it is initially unclear who the perpetrators are, demonstrating the blurred lines of conflict – the conflation of a sense of purpose and worthlessness. As the story comes to a conclusion, the moment Katniss has been waiting for emerges. She fires the final arrow with unabated conviction towards an enemy who stands high above the huge gathering – a moment that is so tense and in a space that is so sterile that the spilling of blood comes as both a shock and a relief. 
While the commotion around the adaptations of The Hunger Games trilogy appears to have died down, Mockingjay – Part Two has performed consistently yet <a href="http://www.cinemablend.com/new/Quietly-Hunger-Games-Mockingjay-Part-2-Has-Become-Massive-Hit-101957.html">quietly at the box office</a> since its UK release last month. The film’s emotive moments do not compete with scenes such as the death of Rue (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1KJRRSB_XA">Amandla Stenberg</a>) in the first instalment or Jennifer Lawrence’s chilling rendition of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-Oi43EsQNU">‘The Hanging Tree’</a> in Mockingjay – Part One. In addition, strong characters such as Commander Lyme – a democratic <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2015/08/24/policing-black-women-capitalisms-violent-assault-on-hip-hop-and-civil-society/">black female leader</a> no less – are starkly underdeveloped. The film’s adolescent theme and lack of grittiness have also held back some cinema-goers, and, indeed, the love triangle is unconvincing and falls flat, just as it does in Suzanne Collins’ original novel. 
However, it is this lack of passion which pervades the finale that is most interesting. The indifferent, fatigued expressions and downtrodden spirits reflect the anti-climax of revolution and the murky aftermath of war, where democracy is of little relevance. The fiction could not have been more timely in this respect. We are the generation which has witnessed the Arab Spring in all its stages; we saw regimes fall, dictators imprisoned, new coups arise and <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/africa/hosni-mubarak-could-be-released-from-detention-following-egypt-high-court-order-9974355.html">the same despots released into freedom</a> as in the case of Egypt; we felt the thrill of a people rising against their inherited tyrant, quashed, then splintered into hundreds of rebel groups and dispersed as refugees, <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/worldviews/wp/2015/09/05/hundreds-of-3-year-old-toddlers-have-died-as-a-result-of-the-syrian-war/">arriving dead on our shores</a>, as in the case of Syria. The definitions of truth and falsehood emerge convoluted at the close of The Hunger Games and roles are reversed with a painful blatancy, and, therefore, Peeta’s question of “real or not real?” underpins all power struggles in Panem and our very own daily predicament. 
The Capitol, quite clearly, stands in parallel with our modern, developed world, a world in which <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2014/08/21/police-brutality-must-be-defended/">“Peacekeepers” kill indiscriminately</a> in an attempt to control society. Truth is caught between the propaganda wars of the state and of the people, where an apparatus like a mobile device at once serves to empower individuals and becomes the source of increased state surveillance. The film perfectly echoes how the material glitz of our capitalist world can blind us to the privacy laws being passed at our expense, where, just recently, Congress quietly slipped in a <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/dec/16/congress-budget-omnibus-cisa-surveillance-cybersecurity">“cybersecurity” surveillance bill</a> into the budget in the US, while we were too busy talking about Miss Universe to notice. The film also reportedly inspired protestors to spray-paint a <a href="http://www.bustle.com/articles/51077-near-ferguson-did-someone-spray-paint-a-mockingjay-quote-on-an-archway-report">landmark in Ferguson</a> last year with the Mockingjay quote, “If we burn, you burn with us.” It even caused <a href="http://www.thejc.com/comment-and-debate/comment/126395/is-the-hunger-games-inadvertently-mocking-israel">some commentators</a> to express concern over the possibility that countries like Israel may be implicated amid District 12’s rubble. 
Grappling to understand the truth and to define the moral boundaries of power is maddening enough – as it was for Israeli soldier, Ido Gal Razon. While Katniss’ future is bathed in the surreal sunset and she has achieved the “life of a victor” as instructed, she is plagued by the trauma of what she has witnessed. She smiles blankly. There is a void. Her world is void of victory – void of reality.
<pre>Image from: http://mashable.com/2015/06/09/first-the-hunger-games-mockingjay-part-2-trailer-is-here/#2YXvXdFeDkqy</pre>

The Hunger Games: Understanding Your Enemy

From Trinidad and Tobago, to the United States, to Britain, Claudia Jones stood firmly at the centre of every struggling society she entered, transforming even dark detention centres into active political arenas and causing colonial establishments to dread her influence. While Claudia’s name now surfaces in discussions about the founders of the Notting Hill Carnival, few have understood her legacy, and access to her speeches and television interviews remains limited.
A dedicated grassroots community leader active on both sides of the Atlantic, and a black woman no less, Claudia Jones captivated an audience of 14,000 in New York’s Madison Square Garden in the mid-1940s, an era which preceded the modern civil rights movement and followed women’s suffrage. In Britain, she set up one of the earliest black newspapers, the West Indian Gazette, and among her many campaigns, she organised the week-long hunger strike tent for the Free Mandela movement at St Martin in the Fields in the early 1960s.
What Claudia witnessed clearly paved her path. Her family emigrated from the then British colony of Trinidad following economic unrest and mass upsurges in the city of Port of Spain where unemployed workers’ councils were growing. There was a mounting consciousness particularly amid the Trinidadians through the Garvey Movement which, rightfully, was a cause of concern for European and American colonial powers. A few years after their arrival in Harlem, New York City, when Claudia was just 12 years old, her mother collapsed over a sewing machine in a factory, dying out of sheer exhaustion. As a teenager, she had to abandon further education and contracted tuberculosis due to poor living and working conditions, and this plagued her with ill health for the rest of her life. At the same time, she began to observe the systematic discrimination taking place around her, and was especially affected by the Scottsboro Boys trial of Alabama between 1931 and 1937 in which nine African-Americans were falsely accused of raping two white women. She also closely followed Italy’s invasion of Abyssinia (now Ethiopia and Eritrea) and its closer alignment with Nazi Germany.
Claudia sought a radical political force to combat the social issues being faced by black communities during the Depression: the least paid, least educated, highest mortality and most imprisoned. She found this in the Communist Party. During this period, the Communist Party in Harlem was carrying out strong work in the social sphere, stepping in to stop evictions by white landlords and leading high profile legal-political cases in relation to the incrimination of black men in the south. As such, Claudia Jones joined the youth league swiftly rising to become the “negro affairs” editor for the Daily Worker newspaper and a regular speaker addressing the issues of <a href="https://platformonline.uk/posts/policing-black-women-capitalisms-violent-assault-on-hip-hop-and-civil-society">working-class women</a>. Poet and activist Elean Thomas comments in a 1989 edition of <a href="http://www.bl.uk/press-releases/2015/may/spare-rib-magazine-goes-online-for-the-first-time">Spare Rib magazine</a>: “She did not seek to compartmentalise human beings or see social activities as merely another method of politicity – but as a natural human interest.”
The FBI spent more than ten years spying on Claudia Jones. She was arrested on a deportation warrant in 1948, and again, under the McCarran Act in 1950, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_r234kDAJTI">charged with being a communist</a> “alien” (non-US citizen). In a letter she addressed to her friend John, she describes activism within the confines of Ellis Island with a vivacious pride: “There are trade unionists and maritime industries, who smile their firm greetings of approval when, from shops and locals, wires or letters come, telling of actions taken on behalf of American liberty.” Moreover, she petitioned the United Nations with fellow detainees, asserting, “Our freedom of conscience [has been] violated and our right to think outlawed.”
This Orwellian feeling is reiterated in an extraordinary court speech in 1953 when she is accused, this time under the Smith Act, with the ludicrous charge of advocating the overthrow of the US government. She appeals to judge and jury:
“The thinking process, as your honour well knows, is a process that defies jailing. When it is all boiled down what shows is not the strength of the policies and practices of our prosecutors – which are akin to <a href="https://platformonline.uk/posts/police-brutality-must-be-defended">police state practices</a> – but their desperate fear of the people. Nothing shows this more, your honour, than our exposure of the biased jury drawn from a system which virtually excludes Negro, Puerto Rican and manual workers. This virtual exclusion exists not because of a lack of qualifications or even financial hardship, but because of deliberate discrimination based on consciously cultivated white supremacist ruling class prejudice which sullies our boasted western culture.”
Eventually, in 1955, the courts ruled that Claudia needed to be deported under the McCarran Law. Her country of origin would not take her, petrified of the power she would have on the small island. So Britain had no choice but to accept her as a colonial subject. After 33 years in America, ejected by a superpower frightened by this one woman’s courage, she left for Britain penniless and alone.
The West Indian Gazette and the Notting Hill Carnival 
Impoverished as she was, Claudia Jones forged networks from the moment she stepped into Britain. She surrounded herself with creative practitioners and humanitarians, including Paul Robeson, Trevor Carter and Pearl Prescod. She immediately recognised that the community needed organising and a voice of its own.
The <a href="http://www.irr.org.uk/news/claudia-jones-and-the-west-indian-gazette/">West Indian Gazette</a> and Afro-Asian Caribbean News – its full name – was launched in 1958 in the aftermath of the Notting Hill race riots in which Kelso Cochrane was killed. As well as the newspaper, Claudia set up a committee with Amy Ashwood Garvey (the ex-wife of Marcus Garvey) to defend black victims.
The black press in Britain had a strong history in campaign journalism, published as letters in the 18th-century and gaining momentum as journals in the 19th-century. The mob violence of 1919 perpetrated against returning black servicemen of the first world war who were denied settlement – as well as Arab, Portuguese, Chinese and other minority groups – was the <a href="http://www.open.ac.uk/researchprojects/makingbritain/content/1919-race-riots">worst race riot in British history</a> and gave the government licence to strengthen its immigration laws. Some black communities escaped targeted areas like Cardiff and Liverpool, while others stayed to launch papers and fight back.
Rooted in local and international campaign work, the West Indian Gazette lobbied the government on anti-racial legislation, featuring news stories on culture, immigration and responses to the media’s racialised language. Its publication period coincided with the <a href="https://platformonline.uk/posts/a-brutal-legacy-of-human-rights-and-human-wrongs">pan-African movement</a> and the liberation of many African countries, and its message very much echoed the sentiments of the <a href="http://autograph-abp.co.uk/exhibitions/fifth-pan-african-congress">1945 Pan-African Congress</a> in the UK, namely, the eradication of the colour bar and unity against British imperialism. In a December 1959 edition of the paper she writes, “We can only stop the prejudice in people’s minds by education, by persuasion, but we can stop the actions of incitement and discrimination by outlawing them.”
Claudia Jones went beyond the newspaper – and the <a href="https://dianelangford.wordpress.com/2015/03/05/claudia-jones-letter-to-daily-worker-1963/">unreceptive British Communist</a> Party – to bring the local community together. She set up the <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7577113.stm">first roofed festival</a> in St. Pancras in the winter of 1959, televised by the BBC, in the belief that “unity can defeat rising racial tensions”. With carnival’s strong emancipative traditions, particularly in Trinidad where creative organic celebrations once provided the opportunity for people to dress-up and mock colonial powers, this was an ideal medium. Today, discussions on London’s Notting Hill carnival revolve around its commercial structure and its originality, and <a href="http://noisey.vice.com/en_uk/blog/the-historical-fight-for-notting-hill-carnival-15">for decades it has been under threat</a> from authorities and police clampdowns, and now, gentrification of Westminster, Kensington and Chelsea. Its communal energy, however, continues to reverberate upon Claudia’s previous festival work and <a href="http://www.colvillecom.com/page/talbot-road">anti-racism marches</a> in London.
The vast impact of Claudia’s work is still being unearthed. Earlier this year, the National Archives of Ghana released a “thank you” letter dated 27th October 1942 which she was sent by Kwame Nkrumah of the <a href="http://wasuproject.org.uk/history-of-wasu/">West African Students’ Union (WASU)</a>, a man who went on to become independent Ghana’s first prime minister and president.
Claudia Jones passed away in her sleep on Christmas Eve in 1964, not living long enough to see the UK’s first legislation addressing racial discrimination come about – the Race Relations Act of 1965. Claudia helped lay the foundations for the progress to come, as well as the values we must savour and revisit as we face <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/commentisfree/2015/aug/03/cameron-swarm-plague-god-migrants-calais">refugee crises and the prejudiced discourse</a> that has ensued.
Last week on a hot and sunny Saturday afternoon, <a href="https://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=t&amp;rct=j&amp;q=&amp;esrc=s&amp;source=web&amp;cd=1&amp;cad=rja&amp;uact=8&amp;ved=0CB4QFjAAahUKEwjcu--ew87HAhXQCtsKHTU6BV0&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ft.com%2Fcms%2Fs%2F0%2Fd09ab086-e375-11e4-9a82-00144feab7de.html&amp;ei=tsThVdyIJ9CV7Aa19JToBQ&amp;usg=AFQjCNFEInsS3xaGlK_F2tt3CSpax1q79g">British Jamaican author Donald Hinds</a> sat in front of an audience at the Brixton Cultural Archives, humbly smiling, and spoke of her legacy. Having worked with her at the West Indian Gazette of 250 Brixton Road, Donald described Claudia as a woman with a big heart who laughed a lot and worked beyond her physical capacity. His wife now tells him he has inherited Claudia’s messy desk policy. In a calm but poignant recital, he read the words of George Lamming at her funeral in Highgate where she now lies buried to the left of Karl Marx.
“I shall think of her as a person, as a superior person – superior to the quality of our response to living&#8230; Here was a great source of our strength… If we mourn her, it is only to celebrate her example.”
<a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/Claudia-Malcolm.jpg"><img loading="lazy" class="aligncenter wp-image-11695" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/Claudia-Malcolm.jpg" alt="Claudia - Malcolm" width="450" height="203" /></a>
<pre>
Photo Credit: The New York Public Library Digital Collections</pre>

Claudia Jones

Today’s Notting Hill Carnival rests upon the legacy of a remarkable persevering campaigning journalist

We Need to Talk About Claudia Jones

The Gaza on Gaza exhibition at the P21 Gallery in London connects audiences to a new era of struggle 
&nbsp; 
Not a single home has been rebuilt in the Gaza Strip since the crudely named <a href="http://imeu.org/article/50-days-of-death-destruction-israels-operation-protective-edge">Operation Protective Edge</a> of 2014, in which the Israeli government rained destruction on the densely populated urban community causing huge casualties and widespread damage. The lack of infrastructural progression is staggering. Yet, in the context of this blockaded coastal territory it should hardly be surprising. Israel <a href="http://www.bloomberg.com/bw/articles/2014-07-23/next-gaza-disaster-after-war-with-israel-no-cement-for-rebuilding">severely restricts</a> the import of concrete into Gaza citing concern about the material’s <a href="http://america.aljazeera.com/articles/2014/9/8/gaza-cease-fire-strugglestohold.html">“dual purpose”</a>, so whatever has made it inside has been utilised in repairs, and the flattened homes of 500,000 people remain in ruins. 
From the ashes of this deplorable and ongoing reality emerges the work of artist Majdal Nateel at the new Gaza on Gaza exhibition. Her candlelit appearance over an unstable Skype connection for the press evening is testament to the suffocating conditions she and most Gazans face. (Of course, none of the featured artists were able to travel for the show. Only a British television icon like <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/art/news/palestinian-artists-work-to-go-on-display-in-london-after-channel-4s-jon-snow-smuggles-it-out-of-gaza-10431553.html">Channel 4’s Jon Snow</a> could get away with transporting Majdal’s pieces across the border and all the way to our capital city.) Her installation entitled “If I Wasn’t There” is comprised of her own colourful childlike doodles and drawings on brown paper – symbolically, the paper comes from the original packaging of the limited concrete supplies that did make it through – and on it she envisages the unfulfilled dreams of Palestinian children who died in the onslaught last year. Dreams like smiling. Brushing mum’s hair. Holding a heart-shaped balloon. Playing with a flower. Preparing for a game of “hide and seek”. Feeding a pet turtle. 
While the layers of trauma culminate quietly beneath the surface of Majdal’s work, they ring loud and fierce in the “Through Young Eyes” series, which highlights the work of young Palestinians aged 15 to 17. The enlarged black and white sketches brim with impassioned faces, often with two characters in the foreground, presumably siblings, holding onto one another. Where one character is in hopeless distress, the other is clearly restraining tears, trying hard to remain resilient. And where there were no faces, there were firm hands. In a spectacular piece by Madeeha Al Majayda the viewer sees a man clutching a rose behind his back, hidden from the soldier who faces him, instead, with gun in position. 
The select photographs on display by Mahmoud J Alkurd and award-winning photographer <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/media/gallery/2015/mar/25/heidi-levine-gaza-pictures">Heidi Levine</a>, among others, are carefully edited to juxtapose the seemingly endless colours both of nature and of childhood with the dusty rubble of a recent war and the dark shadow of looming conflict. Within the rigid confines of the frame, there is no escape. 
The gallery additionally hosts short videos, made in Gaza, which raise awareness on living conditions in the region and the problem with Israel’s <a href="https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2012/06/israel-injustice-and-secrecy-surrounding-administrative-detention/">administrative detention</a> laws. 
With the passage of time and the dissipating of this brutal military war from our consciousness, we may have become oblivious to the fact that Palestinian survivors are suffering from a period of psychological war and turmoil. The Gaza on Gaza exhibition reconnects international audiences and activists with Gazans through a visual message of pain, told most eloquently by the young artists who have lived through it. Protective edges collapse and psychotherapeutic reconstruction begins. 
The Gaza on Gaza exhibition runs until 22nd August at the <a href="http://www.p21.org.uk/GazaOnGaza.aspx">P21 Gallery</a>, 21 Chalton Street, London NW1 1JD. Nearest stations are Euston and King’s Cross St. Pancras. Admission is free and opening hours are Tuesday to Friday 12-6pm, Saturday 12-4pm and Wednesday until 8pm.
<pre>Photo Credits: Nasreen Raja at the Gaza on Gaza exhibition</pre>

Dancing Through the Rubble in Gaza

The ‘Human Rights, Human Wrongs’ gallery interrogates the processes of cultural production and consumption displaying a vast selection from the Black Star Photo Agency archives 
  
Everyone has the right to representation as a person before the law. Article 6. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights. This article hovers over the ‘Human Rights, Human Wrongs’ gallery in gold shiny letters against a regal purple backdrop in merciless, authoritative glory. 
The selection of over 300 photos curated by Mark Sealy explores the Black Star Photo Agency archives beginning from 1945 up until the early 1990s. It takes viewers through a period of graphic brutality and change in which the old world order was being dismantled and old colonial powers were losing sight of their possessions. Although universal declarations were being introduced, the incompatibility of sovereign domination and human rights was becoming glaringly evident. 
Amid these pivotal changes emerged the iconic photos of the 20th century – but certainly not by accident. The lighting, angles and sharpness of the photos are thoroughly calculated and would have appeared in Life Magazine and other publications under the instruction of an editor, hand-picked to suit the required narrative. You’d be hard-pressed to separate the majority of these from stills of a West End stage due to their theatrical studio-like quality. 
Very much a Eurocentric conversation during this time, the rhetoric of esteemed and valuable photography did not transcend a great deal beyond France, Germany, Britain and the United States. As such, images from agency leaders in corporate assignment photography would have been a one-sided discussion carrying huge political bearing, reflecting the narrow dialogue of power dynamics that was happening globally. Stemming from this background, the gallery invites the viewer to question the historical accounts in the stock photographs produced for mass western consumption during key historical shifts. Mark Sealy explains that he is less concerned with the photographers, as much as the ideas or forces in which they operated. 
“Any enquiry into photojournalistic practice and its impact on humanitarian objectives, has to necessarily interrogate not only the kind of images we are presented with, but where, when and how they are distributed.” 
State violence is a powerful reoccurring theme of the exhibition, underpinned by racial segregation in the case of the USA, with photos of protests, hunger strikes and riots. This includes a photo from 1968 of the sanitation worker’s strike in Memphis, Tennessee, by Cleatis Ray Keisling, which shows a row of policemen crouching with their guns pointed towards a row of visibly unarmed black men, who, in stark contrast, stand tall holding placards which read “I Am A Man”. The words are echoed aptly (and sadly) in the message “Black Lives Matter” which emerged internationally in the past few months as a response to <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2014/12/06/black-youth-as-a-lethal-weapon-the-incoherence-of-the-american-justice-system/">police aggressions</a> and acquittals in the USA, placing the images firmly in living memory and at the forefront of current struggles. 
Several sequences of Dr Martin Luther King Jr’s life and activism are highlighted in the collection, including a succession of frames by Charles Moore, depicting Dr King’s arrest in Montgomery, Alabama in 1958. There’s also a photo of the Selma to Montgomery rally in 1965 and the first public use of the “black power” fist by students at the Mississippi Meredith March evening rally in 1966. 
The pictures are embedded within the wider context of Pan-African unity taking hold of the African continent, with 17 countries being liberated in 1960 alone, including the Republic of Congo, Somalia and Kenya. However, these huge changes and celebrations are simplified to an “infinite, reproducible” handful of stock images, often depicting the African with hands out, begging, at the European camera – or otherwise, weak, broken and incompetent. This is loudly exemplified in photos by Carlo Bavagnoli and Ray Bellisario, one of which shows an overcrowded row of unclothed, seemingly malnourished, mourning mothers breastfeeding their babies in the Republic of Biafra (now the Federal Republic of Nigeria) in 1967. That being said, in one rare and amusing series by Robert Lebeck, a young man is shown tactfully stealing the sword of the Belgian King Baudouin I during a procession which took place the day before the liberation of the Republic of Congo highlighting colonial transition most vividly. 
Moments of strife in Morocco and of the joy of independence in Tunisia are also on display in this gallery, as well as the fight for justice in Santiago, Chile, 1983, with women demanding to know where their loved ones have been taken (director Patricio Guzmán shows how this search is still ongoing in his extraordinary 2010 documentary film, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ok7f4MLL-Hk">Nostalgia for the Light</a>). The political and military role of women is further explored in photos from Somalia to Vietnam. 
Yet, with all the momentous milestones in this latter 20th century story, come images of the slow, long wait, the observers who stand in the background of pictures witnessing the violence, accustomed and silent. The barren warzones and burnt forests are inhabited by soldiers watching time go by. This seeming irrelevance of war is accentuated by the facade of peace with winners and rejectors of the Nobel Peace Prize overlooking different sections of the gallery. Journalistic stamps and notes at the back of photos of the most heinous crimes are put together in a collage to visually demonstrate the thought processes that led the images into glossy markets. 
As the 50th anniversary of the assassination of <a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/2012/02/21/malcolm-x-before-the-symbol-is-whitewashed-from-history/">Malcolm X</a> fast approaches, the gallery also points to the cost of acting for peace. Several leaders of the period covered in this gallery paid the ultimate price in challenging the status quo: X was eliminated at the point in which he campaigned to change the discourse from ‘civil’ to ‘human’ rights; Dr King was murdered when he began to address <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3H978KlR20">social and economic equality</a>; and beyond the USA, Thomas Sankara was killed mere months after <a href="http://dogwoof.com/films/concerning-violence">he appealed to the west</a> to stop sending aid and to allow Burkina Faso to flourish on its own merit. 
While in some ways our cultural focus has turned to Hollywood and YouTube, cultural production and consumption remains caught up in global power dynamics. The ‘Human Rights, Human Wrongs’ gallery prompts us to examine the given narrative, and understand the interconnectivity of events and the legacies we have inherited. It also forces us to question, over and over, how we have wronged each other in our confined interpretation of human rights. 
The ‘Human Rights, Human Wrongs’ gallery runs until 6 April 2015 at <a href="http://thephotographersgallery.org.uk/human-rights-human-wrongs-2">The Photographers&#8217; Gallery</a>. Entry is free. Please see website for further details.
<pre>Photo Credits: Charles Moore / Birmingham, Alabama, United States of America, May 3 1963 / The Black Star Collection, Ryerson Image Centre.</pre>
<pre></pre>

A Brutal Legacy of Human Rights and Human Wrongs

If Aronofsky’s Noah met the Qur’anic Noah they probably wouldn’t recognise each other 
  
WARNING: Contains Spoilers 
Mass human outrage is no stranger to our 21st-the-pope’s-on-Twitter-and-Russell-Crowe-is-irritating-him century. And there’s no better way to earn your Hollywood director stamp of approval than by interpreting (or butchering) an old, cherished religious tale causing the social media world to combust into a smoke of moral panic and critical acclaim. 
The $125 million production of Noah was never going to be a scriptural rendition, but its promotion provided enough ambiguity to attract a variety of audiences. <a href="http://www.haaretz.com/blogs/the-lighthouse/.premium-1.583432">Jewish</a>, <a href="http://themattwalshblog.com/2014/03/29/im-a-christian-and-i-think-noah-deserves-a-four-star-review/">Christian</a> and <a href="http://www.suhaibwebb.com/society/entertainment/an-imams-review-of-the-movie-noah/">Muslim</a> bloggers put forward their reviews and several countries <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/mar/07/darren-aronofsky-noah-banned-muslim-countries">banned the film</a>. Director Darren Aronofsky <a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/filmchat/2014/03/exclusive-darren-aronofsky-and-ari-handel-on-how-they-developed-the-script-and-where-they-really-got-the-name-for-emma-watsons-character-in-noah.html">said in an interview</a> that, in addition to the Bible, he referred to the Book of Enoch, the Jubilees and the Dead Sea Scrolls to develop the script, but surprisingly &#8211; certainly on a budget like this – the Qur’an did not form a part of this research. 
While the Biblical Noah is described in the Story of Genesis (5:32-10:1) in linear and relatively brief detail, the Qur’an mentions Prophet Noah an astonishing 43 times across various chapters, zooming-in on moments of emotive dialogue and zooming-out to show the message of the prophets and the condition of mankind. 
The plot of this film focuses on the plans of the ominous, absent Creator who is a cruel rationalist seeking revenge, just like his burdened creation Noah (Russell Crowe) seems to do in this reading. It hones in on the lives of Noah’s sons and Shem’s wife Ila (Emma Watson) who ends up pregnant with twin girls &#8211; through a man-triggered miracle funnily enough – and finally Noah’s deranged mission to kill these newborns so they don’t ruin the Creator’s wishes. 
The resulting two-hour-twenty-minute screening is effortlessly terrible. It’s quite clear that the makers couldn’t decide whether they wanted the film to be a historical narration, a war movie, a sci-fi or a documentary, and eventually they seem to settle for a comic jumble of all of these. Although some of the time-lapse sequences of arid and fertile landscapes are beautiful, they are juxtaposed with odd CGI interpretations of the snake and the apple in Genesis and fallen angels who look like Transformers, as well as pre-David-Attenborough-recorded scenes of nature. Aside from the rainbows, the film is dark and deadly with all the lack of emotion that such a theme should bring. Aronofsky may have produced a genuine feeling of worms under your skin in his swishy, pretty, creepy direction of Black Swan, but there is no visual coherence to be found here, nor is there the Maximus-esque hero of Gladiator. (Honestly speaking, Crowe and Watson didn’t do too badly considering they were stuck in such a ridiculous script.) 
So where does Noah fit in with Islam? Well, the Qur’an explains that Prophet Mohammed is the last in line of a series of prophets including Noah, all of whom preached the truth of One God; as such, previous scriptures including the Old Testament are believed to be revelations from the same God and have been altered with the course of time. That the original Arabic Qur’an has remained unaltered since its completion 1382 years ago is seen, by Muslims and according to the Qur’an itself, as a miracle of God. 
Here are six ways the Qur’anic story compares to the Hollywood version: 
&nbsp; 
1) Noah does not hide in a little tent away from the city 
The Qur’an: Noah, much like Mohammed, emerges right from within the heart of his community whom he loves and cares for, hoarding immeasurable patience, spending 950 years preaching to his people to believe in God and to stop committing evil on earth. He is their “brother” and he calls them “my people” in the Qur’an (The Poets 26: 106 and 117). 
“Build the Ark under Our eyes and with Our inspiration. Do not plead with Me for those who have done evil – they will be drowned.” The Qur’an (Hud 11:37) 
The film: Noah lives in fear away from civilisation and has virtually no interaction with the community before the flood. 
  
2) Noah is mocked before the flood 
The Qur’an: Noah’s community gets fed up of his warning message and threatens to stone him to death. 
“So he began to build the Ark, and whenever leaders of his people passed by, they laughed at him. He said, ‘You may scorn us now, but we will come to scorn you.’” The Qur’an (Hud 11:38) 
The film: As Noah appears to be fulfilling his mission in the most brutal of ways, his own family begin to lose faith in him and ask if he is a madman. This is all after the flood (when they really should have more conviction after seeing what has just manifested itself). 
&nbsp; 
3) Noah boards the ark with more than just his family 
The Qur’an: God saves all the people who believe in Him and His message alongside Noah. The animal couples are mentioned briefly in the Qur’an (11:40) but this is not where the emphasis lies. 
“So We saved him and his followers in the fully laden ship, and drowned the rest. There truly is a sign in this, though most of them do not believe.” The Qur’an (The Poets 26: 119-121) 
The film: Noah boards the ark with his supportive wife, his sons and Ila. The rest of the townspeople cling on to the boat, their last moments spent screaming in agonising horror, while Noah sits silently inside. 
&nbsp; 
4) Noah’s son disbelieves from the outset 
The Qur’an: In a deeply painful moment for Noah, his only mentioned son dismisses his father’s warning and says he will retreat to the highest mountain to avoid the flood. He and his mother are considered among the evildoers and are drowned. 
“It sailed with them on waves like mountains, and Noah called out to his son, who stayed away, ‘Come aboard with us, my son, do not stay with the disbelievers… Today there is no refuge from what God has commanded…’” The Qur’an (Hud 11: 42-43) 
The film: The middle son, Ham (Logan Lerman), is a troubled character who, similar to the biblical narrative, decides to put a backpack on and head off after the deluge is over. 
&nbsp; 
5) Noah is not protected by fallen angels 
The Qur’an: Angels in Islam do not have free will and exist to execute the worship of God. The most dominant parable of a fallen worshipper is that of Iblees, a creature of the jinn who had acquired the elevated status of an angel, but then became Shaytan (Satan). 
“When We told the angels, ‘Bow down before Adam’, they all bowed. But not Iblis, who refused and was arrogant…”. The Qur’an (The Cow: 2: 34) 
The film: Whether the guilt-ridden fallen angels, or ‘The Watchers’ as they are called, are based on the Nephilim in the Bible or apocryphal myths, they are possibly the film’s biggest flaw in visual conception and in plot choice. 
&nbsp; 
6) The earth is meant for mankind 
The Qur’an: The earth is inherited by the believers of God and the advent of the flood remains as a sign of God for everyone who follows. 
“Remember how He made you heirs after Noah’s people, and increased your stature: remember God’s bounties, so that you may prosper.” The Qur’an (The Heights 7: 69) 
The film: The ending presents a depiction of both the biblical rainbow and Noah’s moment of weakness. In the lead-up to this, Noah emphasises the Creator’s wish that mankind cease to continue on earth. His immediate family are intended as the last people on earth… until the twins come along. 
&nbsp; 
Where Aronofsky’s Noah sinks into post-flood depression, dishevelled and defeated, the Qur’anic Noah sees the outcome of the thousand-year strife finally balanced and turns to God re-assured and enlightened. So although the film may be a more human account of Noah, the Islamic Noah is a more humane account. 
The film’s flood leaves a world stripped and hollow, whereas the Qur’anic flood allows the earth to re-enter clothed with the truth of God and an abundance of hope. 
The Qur’an translation is taken from the Oxford University Press version by M. A. S. Abdel Haleem (2010). With thanks to <a href="https://www.myvue.com/">Vue Cinema</a>, Harrow, London. 
<pre>Image from: http://teaser-trailer.com/movie/noah/</pre>

The Noah Catastrophe

The ‘Rwanda in Photographs: Death Then, Life Now’ exhibition highlights Rwanda’s new era of development 
&nbsp; 
“You have to go and see Rwanda. Put it as your number one when visiting Africa. It’s up and coming, it’s exciting &#8211; it’s like a land reborn.” 
This is how photographer Andrew Esiebo reiterates his message to me, already imprinted in my mind from the photos I’d just seen in the next room. His character is as colourful and warm as the pictures he presents of the ‘Returnees’. 
Whether intentionally or not, the curators have picked their launch timing well. The throes of spring in London are dotted, almost accidently, with spots of sunshine, and are more relevant to the message of this project than any other season. This is the Rwanda of renewal. Of construction. Of bloom. Of stylish entrepreneurship. Of women. Of rubble upon rubble. 
The Returnees are bold and beautiful characters, the children of refugees and political exiles who arrived in Rwanda around 1994 “kicking and screaming” in the arms of their parents, entering with vast expectations and settling down with different discoveries altogether. They include high-end fashion designers, choreographers, DJs and filmmakers, and their photographs are full of bright lights and daring patterns. 
But just on the adjacent wall we’re introduced to families from enduringly poor areas of North-Western Rwanda, images drained from all colour, as if a painter has intervened by brushing across the photos with grey-brown mud. We are acquainted with the modest interior or their homes, dark and sparing, and eyes which tell of their enforced continuity in this environment. 
<a href="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/Room-3-long_JB_child-from-below_60-by-40-alu.jpg"><img loading="lazy" class="wp-image-10163 alignleft" style="border: 2px solid black;" alt="Room 3 long_JB_child from below_60 by 40 alu" src="http://www.the-platform.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/Room-3-long_JB_child-from-below_60-by-40-alu.jpg" width="359" height="239" /></a> 
Photographer Mussa Uwitonze demonstrates, however, that with neglect and tragedy comes hope. His insightful journey into the Imbabzi orphanage – where he was raised himself after losing his parents in Congo just after the genocide – shows a backdrop of steep slums and alleys and a variation of expressions, from natural smiles caught off guard to teenagers troubled with the slow internalisation of the reality of their position. This, after all, is a country whose history has burdened <a href="http://www.savethechildren.org.uk/where-we-work/africa/rwanda">its children</a> with the premature role of looking after the household. 
Similarly driven by the personal experience of losing his niece to a traffic accident, Cyril Ndegeya takes pictures of road incidents strewn with heat and the rush of people forming clusters around the object of disaster. He uses his photos to campaign for better road systems, alongside his work for the East African newspaper group which publishes Rwanda Today. 
Just as the photographs focus on people, they also focus on raw materials and objects found in factories and markets. We are faced with plenty of metal in the Gakinjiro workshop in Kigali, scattered toys in the Imbabzi orphanage, and CDs and plastics in Rwanda’s products for sale lining the streets. This is coupled with the familiar surfacing of a globalised society, one which we witness seeping out of the narratives of other developing countries, including images of barber shops with African American icons plastered on the walls, placing a global African identity within Rwanda’s popular culture. 
The exhibition succeeds in presenting Rwanda’s fresh new chapter. But although it aims to extricate the view of Rwanda as a country of war and pain, it is almost entirely dependent on this depiction. As Linda Melvern states in her book <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Conspiracy-Murder-The-Rwandan-Genocide/dp/1844675424">Conspiracy to Murder</a>: “In the years between 1959 and 1994 the idea of genocide, although never officially recognised, became a part of life.” Filmmaker Eric Kabera says that he arrived in Rwanda “in the white heat of the aftermath of the genocide” where the whole country “smelled of death”. From the ashes comes life – but ashes there are plenty. 
Rwanda is making more progress towards the Millennium Development Goals than any other African country. But the next part of this chapter is yet to tell us if “life now” will be different for those in dire need or whether the economic boom will disproportionately benefit the Kigali elite, thereby widening the gap between the nature of the urban and rural challenges that Rwanda is facing. While the country is making huge leaps forward, as demonstrated by this exhibition, it continues to repair the damage and relieve the scars of the past. 
<a href="http://www.kcl.ac.uk/cultural/culturalinstitute/showcase/current/whatson/exhibitions/rwanda.aspx">‘Rwanda in Photographs: Death Then, Life Now’</a> runs until Wednesday 30 April 2014 in the Inigo Rooms, King&#8217;s College London, Somerset House East Wing, Strand Campus. It is open daily, 12 noon &#8211; 6pm (until 8pm on Thursdays). Free admission. Exhibition presented by the Cultural Institute at King’s College London.
<pre>Photo Credits: Andrew Esiebo (featured) and Jean Bizimana (body)</pre>