Survival Signs
Nonfiction, Art & Architecture, General Art, Art History, Conceptual, Collections, Catalogues, & Exhibitions
| Author: | Mounir Fatmi | ISBN: | 9791090680029 |
| Publisher: | Mounir Fatmi | Publication: | February 2, 2018 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Mounir Fatmi |
| ISBN: | 9791090680029 |
| Publisher: | Mounir Fatmi |
| Publication: | February 2, 2018 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
I haven’t changed nationalities. I still travel with my Moroccan passport, which is a work of art in itself. That passport is filled with visas from several countries where I’ve shown my work these last few years. Traveling with a Moroccan passport is an adventure. I’m never sure I’ll get through customs. In addition to the fatigue of traveling, I have to face the stressful interviews by customs agents. One of the most traumatizing experiences I’ve had was with American customs, a few years back. After three hours of questioning and getting my fingerprints and my picture taken, the agent presented me with a bible and asked me to swear that everything I had told him about me and my relatives was the truth. I told him that the reason I was in this situation in the first place was because I’m supposed to be a Muslim and therefore I didn’t see why he was giving me a bible to swear the truth.
Without acknowledging the remark I had just made, he asked me again to swear on the bible, looking straight at me this time.
I put my hand on the bible. He asked me to raise the other hand and say: I swear. I swore. I just didn’t want him to send me off to Guantanamo under any pretense. That instant was for me a moment of extreme lucidity. No more illusions. I live in a world I am not able to understand.
Of course the customs agent was only doing his job, and his job required him to be afraid of me. His fear wounded me, and I carry it like a scar to this day.
I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t. The more I tried to reassure him, the more suspicious I grew to him.
I know that I am just a speck of dust in this machine. A black leg grafted on the body of another man. What I’m relating in this letter is nothing compared to what thousands of refugees endure, dodging death as they hope for a better world for them and their children. I’ve always believed that America could be a part of that world. That heart capable of welcoming us all and warming us. My illusions were shattered the night the result of the latest election was announced. My disappointment was huge. I realized that we may never see again this free world we dreamed of so much.
Today, I don’t have the strength nor the courage to offer myself to a terrorized customs agent faced with a poor Arab artist. I know the situation of immigrants in the USA has gotten worse since the latest immigration laws. That getting through the border is more and more difficult. This time I would be incapable of swearing on any holy book or of accepting any more humiliations. I must protect whatever little hope I have left. That hope is my survival.
I trust you in presenting my work to the gallery’s public. I hope one day I can find the courage to come and see you.
Mounir Fatmi, August 18th, 2017
I haven’t changed nationalities. I still travel with my Moroccan passport, which is a work of art in itself. That passport is filled with visas from several countries where I’ve shown my work these last few years. Traveling with a Moroccan passport is an adventure. I’m never sure I’ll get through customs. In addition to the fatigue of traveling, I have to face the stressful interviews by customs agents. One of the most traumatizing experiences I’ve had was with American customs, a few years back. After three hours of questioning and getting my fingerprints and my picture taken, the agent presented me with a bible and asked me to swear that everything I had told him about me and my relatives was the truth. I told him that the reason I was in this situation in the first place was because I’m supposed to be a Muslim and therefore I didn’t see why he was giving me a bible to swear the truth.
Without acknowledging the remark I had just made, he asked me again to swear on the bible, looking straight at me this time.
I put my hand on the bible. He asked me to raise the other hand and say: I swear. I swore. I just didn’t want him to send me off to Guantanamo under any pretense. That instant was for me a moment of extreme lucidity. No more illusions. I live in a world I am not able to understand.
Of course the customs agent was only doing his job, and his job required him to be afraid of me. His fear wounded me, and I carry it like a scar to this day.
I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t. The more I tried to reassure him, the more suspicious I grew to him.
I know that I am just a speck of dust in this machine. A black leg grafted on the body of another man. What I’m relating in this letter is nothing compared to what thousands of refugees endure, dodging death as they hope for a better world for them and their children. I’ve always believed that America could be a part of that world. That heart capable of welcoming us all and warming us. My illusions were shattered the night the result of the latest election was announced. My disappointment was huge. I realized that we may never see again this free world we dreamed of so much.
Today, I don’t have the strength nor the courage to offer myself to a terrorized customs agent faced with a poor Arab artist. I know the situation of immigrants in the USA has gotten worse since the latest immigration laws. That getting through the border is more and more difficult. This time I would be incapable of swearing on any holy book or of accepting any more humiliations. I must protect whatever little hope I have left. That hope is my survival.
I trust you in presenting my work to the gallery’s public. I hope one day I can find the courage to come and see you.
Mounir Fatmi, August 18th, 2017
