This piece was fist published in Bidoun magazine&nbsp;Noise, Winter 2010.

In 1974, the children’s publishing house Dar El Fata El Arabi was launched in Beirut. Over the next decade, Dar El Fata — staffed by artists, designers, and writers devoted to bringing attention to the Palestinian cause — produced some of the most visually striking and progressive children’s books in the region.&nbsp;Bidoun&nbsp;sat down with Mohieddin Ellabbad, one of the cofounders of the publishing house and its first and most influential art director, as well as Nawal Traboulsi, a leading expert on children’s literature and reading habits, who got her start as an amateur illustrator hand-picked by Ellabbad to work with him making books.

Mohieddin Ellabbad:&nbsp;I remember the first time I walked into the Dar El Fata offices. Right away I noticed how plush the office was — wall-to-wall carpeting, a long row of telephones, fresh coffee and orange juice. I had come to Beirut under the assumption that conditions would be very difficult. In Egypt we had a fantasy that all things Palestinian automatically meant suffering. I imagined I would be sleeping in an iron bed with six other people in the room. But I was willing to suffer considerably for the cause. I had just scrapped a long-planned sabbatical in Paris, in which I had invested all of my savings, to come to Beirut and work with a novice publishing house linked to the Palestinians.

My first meeting was with Nabil Shaath who was the director of the Palestinian Planning Center and also in charge of the publishing house. He was also a member of the Revolutionary Council of Fatah; later he would hold various positions in the Palestine Liberation Organization and the Palestinian Authority. In Shaath’s office, I immediately noticed a stack of typewritten papers on the corner of his desk. In response to my inquisitive look, he told me that it was material he had approved for publication, and proceeded to dramatically ask one of his aides why it had not already been sent to the print shop. Another employee interjected that it was necessary to first design and prepare the manuscript. And of course, there was no designer. That was how I came in.

Nawal Traboulsi:&nbsp;Dar El Fata was the PLO’s cultural program, though there was no direct political guidance. Dar El Fata was very creative and progressive, although of course there was a definite, and genuine, enthusiasm for the Palestinian revolution. But the money came from the PLO.

ME:&nbsp;Actually, that’s not true. The money came from private businessmen. At the time, it was common for projects like this to be launched with private donations. But it was founded by Abu Ammar — Yasser Arafat’s nom de guerre — after Black September and the expulsion of the Palestinians to Lebanon. An Egyptian doctor who had been imprisoned by Nasser in the fifties, a Marxist, donated a sum of money to Fatah with the suggestion that it be used to fund something that would signify the revolution’s persistence — its ability to take the long road when necessary. A document for the education of children was being drafted at the same time, and thus the idea of launching a publishing house geared toward making books for children started to gain currency.

NT:&nbsp;I was twenty years old, and I was studying philosophy at the French university in Beirut, drawing on the side as a hobby. I had some work in an exhibition at a cultural center in the city, and I was very lucky that Ellabbad saw it. Though they informed him that I was only a student, he insisted on meeting me anyway. He asked if I was interested in doing drawings for children’s books. To be totally honest, at the time I had never done any drawings for children. What’s more, he said that the publishing house was to be primarily about and for Palestinian children, and at the time I had no relationship to Palestine or the Palestinians. But Ellabbad told me not to worry, he would guide me in the process. And in fact, he was so authoritarian! We called him Monsieur Millimeter because of his sharpness and precision. I ended up illustrating around ten books. I got to meet artists like Nazir Nabaa, Kamal Boullata, and Helmi El-Touni. All these Arabs then living in Beirut, “foreigners.” For a Lebanese French-speaking student from the 1968 generation,&nbsp;Dar El Fata opened my horizon onto the Arab world. I was interested in where they came from, their conversations, their painting. But I preferred to stay in the shadows.

ME:&nbsp;When I started, it wasn’t clear what we were going to do. There was no marketing or distribution plan. I decided that if the publishing house was to survive, I’d have to come up with one. What soon became clear was that we needed to establish several distinct series for various ages, in different formats. I made our official goal to publish sixty-seven books by the end of that first year. It was a large but necessary number. We needed to have an extensive and diverse back catalog for the publishing house to establish itself, and to find retail outlets in the Arab world willing to carry our books. I had arrived in May 1974, and I wanted sixty-seven books by December. It was crazy. Somehow we actually, miraculously, met our target.

NT:&nbsp;Yes, and you managed to publish original works! At the time, the few existing children’s publishing houses were busy translating already published books and copying their images. Even more impressive was that you published modern texts about modern children, the children of the 1960s and 70s. Furthermore, Dar El Fata was an Arab publishing house with authors and illustrators from every Arab country, which was a totally new and progressive practice. It was not a publishing house that merely reflected the owners’ tastes, as is common now, and at the same time it was not the property of any one country. Because it was dedicated to the Palestinian cause, which especially at that time was the cause of many Arabs, it was truly a pan-Arab endeavor. And it paid attention to children. Writing and publishing quality books for children was not common or trendy in those days — to even think about children was revolutionary!

ME:&nbsp;After the first year we conducted an internal assessment that pointed out the utter failure of our administrative and distribution system. What I suggested as a remedy was to become a much smaller operation, a sort of&nbsp;atelier de création, focusing only on the production of content. Nabil Shaath was very unhappy with my proposal, he wanted us to be something big, like&nbsp;Akhbar El Yom, the Egyptian newspaper giant, with their huge nine-story building. He wanted to be a big corporation that produced video for broadcast. I thought, “We can’t produce a sixteen-page book for children and distribute it properly.” He tried to convince me to stay, but I decided to leave after the second year. I returned to Egypt after the civil war erupted. Two of the office boys had already been killed in the fighting. But I did keep working with Dar El Fata through a project that I initiated in Cairo, the Arab Workshop for Children’s Books. We coproduced several books together.

NT:&nbsp;After Ellabbad left, nobody from Dar El Fata contacted me again. So it was a brief but influential two years for me. It was clear how crucial Mohieddin Ellabbad had been to the project. He was demanding about which artists he chose to work with, and he refused to have any artists forced upon him because they were Palestinian, or had certain political convictions. I remember that I was astonished to find that I was being paid exactly the same as other illustrators, although I didn’t consider myself a professional like they were. Ellabbad told me that he paid for the work, not the “name” of the person. It was a new and fair way of dealing, and I was proud to work in an institution that operated under such rules. Ellabbad gave Dar El Fata its Arab face — he made sure that it didn’t just become another tool for propaganda. He sought out writers and artists from Sudan, Morocco, Yemen, everywhere in the Arab world.

ME:&nbsp;To ensure my independence, and in order to keep the administration from interfering too much, I consciously made a point of doing my work away from their offices. I would keep the entire process under my control until I presented them with the final results. At this time, Hegazy, Adly Rizkallah, and Mahmoud Fahmy all came from Cairo and stayed at my house — four beds in a row, we lived and worked together. We worked so hard that we didn’t really have a chance to experience the Beirut you hear about, the Beirut of nighttime pleasures and good food. When we Egyptians went to Beirut in the Seventies, we made a bigger impact than is usually acknowledged.

One thing I remember unconsciously doing was to use the publishing house’s catalog as an opportunity to publish a visual manifesto of sorts. I collected different drawings and juxtaposed them to produce a cover for the catalog that represented the kind of visual world we were interested in. We got rid of Mickey Mouse&nbsp;and Tom &amp; Jerry type drawings. The idea was to present a new “rough” aesthetic that was at the same time visually powerful and artistically complete — something that was local and that rejected the sentimental and bourgeois nature of the dominant form of illustration at the time. What we wanted were rats, dogs that looked like the ones you see walking down the street, cats smoking cigarettes. That was what I was looking for, not to be just driven by the demands of creating images for propaganda. Anyway, everything I suggested was accepted!

NT:&nbsp;I remember during the civil war a meeting that Mohieddin and I participated in where some colleagues voiced the opinion that instead of drawing killings and corpses we should be drawing optimistic and hopeful things. I was quite critical of this position, as I believed we should be drawing what’s around us, the terrible reality we were living. I had also become involved in the Palestinian cause by that point, and I agreed with Mohieddin that art should exceed reality so that the audience could register reality itself. The whole period was marked by revolutionary ideas everywhere.

ME:&nbsp;Dar El Fata being connected to a political organization still meant that there were pretty sticky situations sometimes. People I had never seen before would suddenly show up and stand there, watching us while we were working. In such situations, I tried to be both polite and firm. After the customary but curt greetings I would find out who they were, usually people from the Palestinian Planning Center, on some kind of investigation to find out what we were up to exactly.

In 1975, the Emirates paid for the media campaign that accompanied Abu Ammar’s historical address to the UN, and suddenly there was funding for us to do something cultural to accompany his trip. The decision was taken to translate a few of our books into different languages to demonstrate the kind of books Palestinian children were being exposed to. The mere existence of a children’s publishing house was already an achievement, but fortunately the books chosen were of an aesthetically high standard, not mere propaganda. But the problem with the administration was that they couldn’t always differentiate between propaganda and art. Our efforts were always bound up in propaganda, so in a sense we never fulfilled our true potential.

NT:&nbsp;Another artist and I made a postcard for the tenth anniversary of the Palestinian revolution. The image was also published in the&nbsp;An-Nawar&nbsp;newspaper, but it was attributed to a twelve-year-old Palestinian girl called Nawal Abboud, who didn’t exist. Although I felt like the Palestinian girl secretly existed inside me, like another secret me, and though I was&nbsp;happy that my work was selected and used for the Palestinian cause, as a poster and as a background for a Palestinian children’s play, it was ultimately an act of theft that didn’t respect the artist’s rights. But I didn’t say anything. I have a draft of the original illustration, and it seems, in retrospect, like a prescient illustration of the children of the Intifada in the late Eighties and early Nineties.

ME:&nbsp;It’s important to note that the experience of working in such close proximity to a political machine also influenced my practice positively, because it mixed up all the different channels. I used to work as a designer, a cartoonist, and illustrator — after Dar El Fata I started exploring the possibility of mixing all these different strands. There was a story by Zakaria Tamer called&nbsp;<a href="https://arabicdesignarchive.com/collection/9196">The Cat’s Banquet</a>&nbsp;that I designed the cover for. At the time I was doing lots of caricatures about the&nbsp;infitah&nbsp;— Sadat’s economic open-door policy in the seventies — in which a vicious-looking cat is in the process of seducing a bird. I gave the cat a pack of Marlboros and a bottle of Coke.

This was the image of the enemy: extremely well dressed but with claws, like the West. Our original publications, while actually quite cheap, looked lavish. I felt that this was not fitting — to walk into a refugee camp with open sewers and to present such an expensive-looking book, which indeed cost 25 pt — a lot at the time. I did an analysis that showed that it was possible to produce a book for a quarter of the price, if we got rid of the cover. But that never happened. I also initiated a wall journal, in public, with spaces left for locals to fill in. We produced six of them. Other formal innovative and rewarding experiences include the work I did on a book by Zakaria Tamer, which was a sort of comparison between a free, wild horse and a domesticated, servile one. At the time, I came across an exhibition of paintings of horses in Yemen by Laila Shawa. So I asked her if she would like to illustrate this book for me. When she hesitated, I told her that we could do the book together. I said, “You do the paintings in whichever form you like, and just leave me some space for the text.” We laid out the book together, and it was really beautiful. I was always interested in finding new unknown or unprofessional artists who had something strong about their work. Like Nawal, Laila had just graduated from university and had a wonderfully free and naive style. But you need time to discover people, and time to work with them. Unfortunately, things were run quite erratically, and we also worked with people who were not really able to go beyond the dominant aesthetics of the time. Also, the goal of producing sixty-seven books that I had set for the publishing house dictated some of these choices. Sometimes you are not as big as your dreams, and the people you’re dealing with are not up to it. And maybe I wasn’t able to achieve the aesthetic criteria I had set forth in the manifesto.

NT:&nbsp;For me, my experience with Dar El Fata and the war afterward put me on the path I am on now. At the time it was part of a general ambience of revolutionary movements. I am from the generation that dreamed of creating a new world, a new Lebanon as a country of freedom and rights&nbsp;for all citizens, independent of religion, gender, or social class. The war went on to destroy everything in my life, but my work at Dar El Fata was the seed of everything I am doing now. For over ten years I have been engaged with children’s literature, libraries, and public reading. I’m one of the founders of the first NGOs in Lebanon to focus on the establishment and development of public libraries. Right after the war ended, Rafik Hariri was rebuilding the country in a bourgeois way, and a group of friends and activists began working on how to find alternatives through which to reconstruct this damaged country. So we focused on children, public schools, and libraries.

ME:&nbsp;After I left Beirut in 1976, the publishing house continued until the Israeli invasion of Beirut in 1982, when it left with the mass exodus of the Palestinians. It then came to Cairo, and a significant change took place. I guess politics finally became absolutely dominant. I am only guessing here, but I think that the house acted as a secret channel of communication between the PLO and the Egyptian government, who at the time were not officially communicating. I continued to design some books, and did some stamps for them, like the now iconic Falasteen Arabiyya (Palestine is Arab) stamp. When Israel participated for the first and last time in the Cairo Book Fair, with a pavilion next to the Dar El Fata pavilion, we volunteered to hold different events to support the publishing house and to celebrate Palestine. Later on we discovered that the PLO had allocated a budget for these activities. I wonder where the money went. By then, in the mid-Eighties, it was really over. Every couple of years a book might be published. The house was finally closed down sometime in the early Nineties. No one ever called to let us know.

Notes on republishing

First published in Bidoun, issue 21 ("Noise"), Winter 2010. The Arabic Design Archive republishes it here with a revised image program.

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Revolution For Kids: Dar El Fata El Arabi, Recollected

Mohieddine Ellabbad

Nawal Traboulsi

Hassan Khan

Children's Books

Decoloniality

Print Media

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Five Algerian Postcards: A Brief History of ‘Images Populaires’ in Maghribi Chromolithography

Ava Katarina Tabatabai Hess

Islamic Imagery

Colonialism

Chromolithography

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Into the Feline's Den A Journey Through Mohieddine Ellabbad’s Wondrous World of Animals

Moe Elhossieny 

Pedagogy

At a young age, I developed a profound interest in politics, which made me observe how political expression has taken different forms in Egypt throughout the past few decades. Freedom of expression and censorship have been constant factors shaping the political climate; utilizing humor and satire to critique politicians, heads of state, and state policies have become inevitable. Humor and satire can express what is forbidden or whose voicing is feared; they can defy all forms of authority and ignite grassroots change. Political humor and satire also have the power to mask the intensity of what is communicated. On the surface, they could appear as a simple joke, meme, or cartoon, but on a deeper level they are loaded with bold, oppositional, and revolutionary stances and ideologies.

Since the late 19th century, satirical political expression has taken numerous and diverse forms. In each period, artists, designers, writers, musicians, and even the general public have utilized the media and technologies, as well as degrees of freedom of speech; they have had to creatively communicate their political stances while avoiding censorship.

The existence of censorship and creative control in Egypt is not foreign, since it has been used by the state to shape public opinion and ensure that only state ideologies and narratives are propagated. Not only has censorship been applied to the publishing sphere, such as books, magazines, and newspapers, but has extended also to cinema, theater, and music productions. One of the earliest traces of censorship in the history of modern Egypt dates back to 1823, when Muhammad Ali (Ottoman ruler of Egypt) commanded that his permission was necessary for the Bulaq Press (also known as the Amiriya Press, that he had initiated three years before) to print any books. Years later, a nationalist uprising known as the 'Urābī Revolution ignited in 1881, revolting against Ottoman governor of Egypt, Khedive Tewfik Pasha, as well as the foreign control over Egypt. Consequently, a new government was formed that issued a law in 1881 for censoring publications and forcing limitations on the press.

This general climate of state censorship did not hinder the creative outputs aimed at political critique and expression. In fact, in 1876 a satirical anti-British and antiestablishment newspaper Abou Naddara (Man with Glasses) was founded by Yaʻqūb Ṣannūʻ. Ṣannūʻ was an Egyptian-Italian-Jewish journalist, nationalist activist, and playwright, and one of the pioneers of political satire in Egypt. The newspaper was discontinued after publishing 15 issues, and resumed again in 1878. Through its uniquely crafted cartoons that consisted of fine-line monochrome drawings coupled with handwritten Arabic and French descriptive captions, Abou Naddara was a strong opposing voice to Khedive Ismail and his regime. Ṣannūʻ developed a series of fictional characters that denoted the Khedive and other politicians as a way to critique them.

Abou Naddara was a massive success, widely popular among the Egyptian public from various social and educational backgrounds, even being spotted in government offices. In addition, the bilingual nature of Abou Naddara made it easier to reach a global audience. The newspaper’s sharp critique of Egypt’s leadership resulted in tension with Khedive Ismail, two failed assassinations, and accordingly Yaʻqūb Ṣannūʻ’s exile to Paris where he resumed publishing the newspaper. To avoid being banned, Ṣannūʻ changed the newspaper’s name several times and began to print Abou Naddara on tiny sheets of paper which were then placed in other publications and luggage to be secretly sent to and distributed in Egypt.

Al Kachkoul is another satirical magazine founded by Sulayman Fawzi in 1921, standing against the British occupation of Egypt, with a distinctive voice critiquing the local political scene, and especially the Wafd Party and its leader Saad Zaghloul. Al Kachkoul was iconic, with its bold colored caricatures drawn by the Spanish artist Juan Sintès. Unlike Abou Naddara, Al Kachkoul targeted the local audience, having Arabic as the only descriptive language. At this time, the rate of illiteracy in Egypt was significantly high, which made publications such as Abou Naddara and Al Kachkoul influential since they were heavily visual and deployed cartoons, making it possible for anyone who could not read or write to grasp the intended political message. Furthermore, the accompanying explanatory text in both publications was in colloquial Egyptian Arabic, which made it familiar and relevant to the general public.

Further censorship took form in laws: first, the Censorship Law no. 430 issued in 1955 during Gamal Abdel Nasser’s rule, that also applied to movies, songs, plays, disks, and sound recording tapes. Second was the Censorship Decree no. 220 issued in 1976 during Anwar Al Sadat’s presidency, that aimed to regulate censorship on audio and audiovisual outputs. The presence of these laws did not intercept the attempts of various writers and artists to express their dissenting political stances. It was, in fact, a golden era for political cartooning, led by prominent Egyptian caricaturists as Mustafa Hussein, Bahgat Osman, and Ahmad Hijazi. They all wittily employed humor and satire in their caricatures to address and criticize a wide range of sociopolitical issues concerning the Egyptian population. A common approach taken by these caricaturists was to create fictional characters that creatively and indirectly challenged the status quo. An example of that is Kambura, an extreme opportunist and a corrupt parliament member, who was the outcome of a longstanding collaboration between Mustafa Hussein and Ahmad Ragab, a prominent Egyptian satirist and journalist. Hussein and Ragab’s iconic partnership resulted in numerous satirical cartoons that vibrantly captured daily Egyptian chronicles and humorously depicted its figures. Another great example is Bahgatos, a character created by Bahgat Osman for the book titled al-Diktaturiya lil-Mubtadi’in (Dictatorship for Beginners), published in 1989. Bahgatos was depicted as an absolute dictator ruling the fictional republic of Bahgatiya, through a series of caricatures which employed a great deal of satire and hammered on issues like corruption, lack of freedom, and poverty.

Moreover, the book covers of Qiṣṣat Malik wa-rbaʻat Wizārāt (A Story of a King and Four Ministries), ‘Abd al-Nāsir (Abdel Nasser), and Layālī wa-Nazawāt Fārūq (Farouk’s Nights and Whims) reveal the evident satirical visual approach in depicting Egypt’s former president Gamal Abdel Nasser, King Farouk, and former Prime Ministers Ali Maher, Naguib al-Hilali, and Hussein Sirri. However, these books were published at times when all the criticized individuals were no longer alive; this could be indicative of the longstanding limits of visual representation of political figures in Egypt, especially in the case of presidents or heads of state.

Many years later, a graphic novel called Metro was created by Magdy El Shafee and published in 2008, tackling corruption, poverty, and social injustice. Metro’s story unfolds through the chronicles of two young Egyptians, Shehab and Mustafa, who navigate their way around the brutal nature of their surroundings. To defy the corrupt system and channel their persistent frustrations, they resort to crime and plan a bank heist to steal five million dollars. It was not well received by the authorities and was banned for “offending public morals” and for its bold political critique, in addition to the inclusion of a sexual scene. El Shafee and the publisher also received charges and were fined by the court.

Later in 2011, a satirical comic magazine named Tok Tok was founded by a group of Egyptian artists: Shennawy, Makhlouf, Hisham Rahma, Andeel, and Tawfik. Tok Tok and Metro, on both visual and literary levels, were clear in their insurgency toward hegemony, patriarchy, and authoritarianism. Unique in both publications was their authentic artistic representation of the bustling Egyptian life and population. The characters in Metro and Tok Tok were truly local and were inspired by personas one could easily stumble upon on the Egyptian streets. The smart use of ʻĀmmīyah (slang Egyptian dialect), coupled with vivid depictions of contemporary sociopolitical struggles, made both publications successful in portraying and relating to the Egyptian public, especially the youth who were the main catalyst of the 25 January revolution in 2011.

In 25 Jan 2011 there was an unprecedented shift in the Egyptian political scene, and accordingly all visual and literary tools aimed to represent it. For the first time in years, there was a physical space where people could chant and create banners, posters, and street art to express their political stances and demands. It was an opportunity for anyone to employ whichever visual language and elements they chose, which resulted in numerous visual outputs dense with dark humor and satire. A large percentage of those visual outputs were targeted toward Hosni Mubarak, Egypt’s former president, whether banners demanding him to leave, or posters making fun of his long-lasting corruption.

Egypt’s 25 January revolution was among the Arab Spring protests and uprisings that took place in other countries in the region, impacting their climate of political expression. One of these examples is the Syrian revolution that ignited in 2011, and more specifically the small town of Kafranbel in Idlib province. This town became most known for its protest banners with a great deal of dark humor and sarcasm. The banners included sharp-witted messages criticizing the Syrian government and president, as well as countries like the U.S., Russia, and Iran. The simplicity of the banners’ visual language was a primary reason behind their power, consisting of just black and red type neatly handwritten in capital letters on a huge white canvas. The main statement was mostly written in black, while red was used for the caption: The Syrian Revolution – From Kafranbel, followed by the date the banner was created. Moreover, the usage of English made the banners smartly result in a wide global reach and awareness about the situation in Syria. Kafranbel’s residents presented a solid manifestation of how one can creatively utilize the limited resources available to effectively communicate political stances and evoke change.

The spring of freedom in Egypt did not last for long, and over time, censorship continued tightening its grip over visual, audio, and literary productions aiming at political expression and critique. The Supreme Council for Media Regulations Law (SCMR) also referred to as the Press and Media Law no. 180, was issued in 2018 to control the press, media outlets, published audio and video content, and broadcasting; this control even extended to electronic media, websites, blogs, and satellite channels. The Press and Media Law stated that media outlets and institutions founded and operating in Egypt required an SCMR license to perform their activities. It was also possible to be subjected to imprisonment, fine payment, and banning in the case of spreading “false news” or producing content that infringes the constitution, public morals, and public order. Beside this, there were various attacks between 2015 and 2019 on publishing houses and bookstores such as Merit publishing house, Al-Karama community library, Alef bookstore chain, and Al-Balad bookstore. 

Meanwhile in the digital sphere, the Global Network Defending and Promoting Free Expression, IFEX (formerly known as International Freedom of Expression Exchange) reported in 2020 that around 600 websites were blocked, including 394 virtual private networks and 116 news outlets. In parallel, social media platforms became more and more popular in Egypt. The youth reverted to being marginalized with little opportunity to express their political views or lead an active role in the political landscape. 

I believe that this was a key factor in a rise in the creation of memes and web comics charged with political satire, since their metaphorical nature makes them more immune to censorship. For example, indirect references and critiques could be made of political figures without having to literally visualize them. Another direction taken by famous Egyptian meme pages like <a href="https://www.facebook.com/asa7bess">Asa7be Sarcasm Society</a> has been to focus more on societal and economic issues rather than producing memes targeted at specific political figures. Asa7be (“my friend” in slang Egyptian) was founded by Shady Sedky and Ahmed Abdel Aziz in 2012 and currently has almost 16 million followers on Facebook.

What is interesting about a meme is how it is an open-source output that allows for creative repurposing and recycling of elements from movies, music videos, TV shows, the football world, and basically any visual asset on the internet. It is strikingly evident how most of the visual and textual references are drawn from popular Egyptian movies, a reflection of how cinema has been an integral force in shaping the culture of humor in Egypt for many decades. When the Egyptian pound was severely devalued in October 2022, the country’s economic situation declined, and the price of almost everything increased dramatically. And as this crisis affected the whole population, a huge number of memes created during that time addressed and criticized this pressing issue.

Other than Asa7be, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Gawish.Elwarka">al-Waraqah</a> (The Paper) is a popular comic page on Facebook with almost 3.2 million followers. It was initiated in 2014 by Islam Gawish, a prominent Egyptian cartoonist and webcomic producer. al-Waraqah employs a great deal of sarcasm and satire targeted at political and everyday societal encounters. The visual language and system of al-Waraqah’s comics is evidently consistent, from the beige-colored paper background to the black-lined sketched illustrations accompanied by handwritten scripts/captions. Even though al-Waraqah has adopted an indirect approach in critiquing the social and political situation, its founder was detained by the Egyptian authorities in January 2016 and released a day later.

Notable about memes and web comics is how they can attain higher dissemination of political expression and therefore reach a wider audience, both on local and international scales. Furthermore, unlike publishing, memes and web comics require minimal funding to produce; this resolves a huge obstacle various artists, designers, and writers have faced throughout the years because the production of creative and satirical political expression has mostly relied on independent or even self-funding, challenging to achieve up till now.

Another case of utilizing the digital sphere to shed light on the struggling political landscape in the Southwest Asia and North Africa (SWANA) region is <a href="https://alhudood.net/en">AlHudood</a>. Translated as “The Limits,’ AlHudood is a bilingual satirical news website created by Jordanian-Palestinian Isam Uraiqat in 2013. It consists of a series of articles, caricatures, and comics heavily infused with dark humor and satire to address issues like corruption, injustice, lack of democracy, and freedom, in addition to ridiculing Arab presidents and politicians. Initially, AlHudood’s focus was only the Jordanian political and social landscapes; however, it later shifted to report on the entire region and even the whole world.

Its publication in the formal Arabic language (al-Fuṣḥá) has been a key factor in the high engagement and consumption of AlHudood's content by countless Arab-speaking nations. An example of AlHudood’s prevalence is when a satirical piece reported that Santa Claus was caught and had his presents seized by Jordanian authorities as he did not pay customs duty. The story went viral, with several local news platforms reporting this as a real incident, which led the Jordanian Public Security Directorate to make a public announcement to clarify that this incident did not occur and that Santa had not been arrested.

The notion of utilizing humor and satire, and new media and technologies, as well as creatively adapting to the constantly changing boundaries of censorship, to produce political expression is always astounding. In 30 or 40 years from now, new forms of creative political expression might evolve, in Egypt or elsewhere in the world. And I believe that these evolving forms can act as a measure for a country’s political landscape—which is a truly remarkable phenomenon. 

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Between the Lines: The Evolution of Creative Political Expression in a State of Perpetual Censorship

Nada Ezzeldin

Censorship

Satire

Caricature

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The Folk Fighter: Fiercely Decolonial

Folk Culture

Reverse Glass Painting

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Al Kachkoul: A Decade of Changes—Politics and Design in an Illustrated 1920s Publication

Engy Aly

Nationalism

A MANIFESTO DECLARED BY: THE ARABIC COVER DESIGN ARCHIVE

We are designers, artists, and thinkers from the Arabic-speaking lands with an intertwined foundational thread that connects us.

Our supposed identity is in a dormant state. Even the pursuit of what it might be has been obscured and obfuscated. Even the scarce traces of our history have been distanced from us, fragmented, scraped, and dumped. The challenge for us is far greater than it has ever been and, thus, will be far more glorious when overcome.

Once again, we are coerced into witnessing our identities being shaped by a Western gaze upon our societies and cultures. Forces are dictating what and how we should learn, what has aesthetic value, what framework to use to extract meaning from our own experiences, what is interesting, what is accepted, what is civil, what sounds nice in our language, how to think, thus, shaping both our identities and our cultures. These forces are not currently being contested in any effective way.

“Can we intervene and affect the variables that contribute to the formation of our being?”

This manifesto is a promise that we will, at the very least, TRY. To our future selves and future generations, we will resist, counter, and subvert the current order of things which is far more ingrained and damaging than it may appear. We then hope to hand you over something a little more tolerable. We promise we will try to regain our ability to represent and define ourselves. We will be gregarious, relentless, passionate, skeptical, critical, and vigilant and invite everyone to be too.

The reality being mass-produced daily is hideous: the language doesn’t belong to us; we don’t even like it in that it doesn’t feel like it’s ours – it’s alien and crude. It assaults us as it is imposed upon us by the current unmediated flow of visual, textual, and conceptual hyper-production.

We have become mindless consumers of our identities, a by-product of a new hybrid form of colonialism. A form; far more intrusive and pervasive that shape-shifts on the body it inhabits, infects it, and incrementally terraforms it. Think of it as The Thing of social phenomenons, an extremely hostile shape-shifting organism with the ability to exploit the specific systems of its host to survive and proliferate.

Everyone is to blame, including ourselves.

The definition of we in this context is used loosely

Thus, we are detached from reality and forcefully shaped into something that we deem ugly. We have looked into the mirror and we are horrified by the spectacle of our being. Yet it’s also the reason for our awakening.

We declare rejection of these things in their totality, and we will look for something that belongs to us. What is ours is out there; we have seen it, touched it, and heard it. It’s calling for us, when we pay enough attention, we can hear it scream. Locked from the public eye, it lies in cold, deserted rooms, mistreated and/or inaccessible. Between it and us are the WALLS of bureaucracy, discrimination, paranoia, exploitation, rigidness, classism, regressivism, suspicion, oppression, hypocrisy, commercialism, and distrust.

Our inherent right is for that material to be preserved and made accessible to all those it may concern, THE PUBLIC.

When we started, there were little to no archiving initiatives, but since we’ve progressed, we have seen a burst of similar regional approaches. This makes us thrilled and hopeful about the future. But we need more.

Methods For Others Who Are Aiming to Archive:

Start to gravitate, cluster, group, collaborate and unify.

For Practicing Designers, Artists, or Their Relatives:

If you have work that is yours or of one of your family members, get in touch with us; we can redirect you or help you preserve it.

For Private Collectors, Institutions, and Universities:

Some of you are using cultural heritage material that originally belonged to EVERYONE, and you are locking it away.

For Designers, Researchers, Educators, Thinkers, and Artists:

We need all of you

For Students:

For Cultural Institutions, Non-profits (National and International), and Philanthropists:

We are finding ways to reconnect and assemble a response beyond borders and the physical. Together we will harness what is ours. We will free history from its archons, hypocrites, and dictators of documents and information.

What We Need:

We need a change in protocol. A collective mindset shift. A radical rethinking of how we look at history and the criteria we use to define historical or cultural heritage materials.

Call to Action:

We are calling for a regional movement for creating both physical and digital archives and a reimagining of the existing ones. We are calling for a reconfiguration of how we define cultural heritage material; a preservation of not just archaeological finds, but language itself, books, magazines, art, and culture. We should perceive all printed matter as historical documents.

An Open Ending:

Archives are not just the past; they constitute the present and help us form the future.

Archives are a way for us to gain sovereignty of and autonomy over who we are and heal.

* To sign this manifesto, send your name and location in Arabic and English&nbsp;<a href="mailto:moe@arabicdesignarchive.com">HERE</a>

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