Since Israel’s invasion of Gaza on October 27th, launched in response to an attack on Israel by Hamas on October 7th, there have been thousands of demonstrations held worldwide. Some of these demonstrations have included LGBTQ+ groups, voicing their support for a free Palestine, calling for a ceasefire and an end to the occupation. Pundits and laymen alike have reacted to this, often portraying queer solidarity with Palestine as a contradiction, calling it “bizarre” or jokingly comparing it to “chickens for KFC.”
These reactions prompted a group of more than 300 Swedish LGBTQ people to write a response, published in the Swedish newspaper Sydsvenskan, explaining that their support for Palestine may only appear bizarre to those who view human rights as conditional. The article is published in Swedish, but what follows here is a summary in English.
The group highlights the strategic rhetorical manoeuvre of equating support for Palestine with support for Hamas, similarly to how critique of Israel is equated with antisemitism. In fact, many LGBTQ groups have criticised Hamas and brought attention to the marginalisation of LGBTQ people in Gaza. Meanwhile, those pundits who ridicule Queers for Palestine have rarely showed any interest in LGBTQ rights in the past, and only do so now in order to defend Israel against its critics rather than to defend queer Palestinians.
Furthermore, the argument that queer Palestinians can find refuge in Israel is at best a half-truth. Israel has long banned any Palestinian – regardless of sexuality or gender identity – from working or settling permanently in Israel. Only in 2022 they decided to permit LGBTQ Palestinians from the West Bank temporary work permits. These, however, are short term and need to be renewed every other month, with the intention that Palestinian LGBTQ migrants eventually move to a third country. Israel does not recognise Palestinians’ right to asylum, although a court order in January 2024 ruled that LGBTQ Palestinians may request asylum. This decision is something that the current Interior Minister wants to see reversed.
The article also responds to the claim that Israel supports LGBTQ rights. This is part of what is called “pink washing,” meaning that Israels actions are justified with reference to their LGBTQ politics. This claim does not account for how the Israeli Defence Force (IDF) has been blackmailing queer Palestinians, forcing them to act as informants under threat of being “outed” (that the person’s sexuality or identity is revealed to others without their consent). In other words, Israel has been using LGBTQ people as pawns, constituting a direct threat against their lives but also contributing to a distrust against the queer community in Palestine, worsening their situation.
Notably, same-sex relations were decriminalised on the West Bank some 37 years before Israel (1951 compared to 1988), and it was due to Israeli occupation and application of Israeli law that same-sex relations were criminalised again on the West Bank. Of course, today it is easier to live openly as a gay person in Tel Aviv than it is in Gaza or the West Bank, but it is not on equal grounds. There are also several Palestinian organisations working to improve LGBTQ rights in Palestine whose works are impeded and made immensely more difficult by Israels continued and intensified occupation.
Lastly, the article affirms that queer support for Palestinians’ right to live in peace and free from occupation is not conditional on Palestinians’ views on LGBTQ rights. It is irrelevant whether or not those suffering under Israel’s invasion and blockade of Gaza and occupation of the West Bank believe homosexuality is immoral and should be banned. Neither Israel nor any outsider may dictate which party should rule in Palestine. However, the war, blockade and occupation constitutes the biggest obstacle to the liberation of LGBTQ Palestinians. The signatories of the article say that no liberation can be achieved under war and occupation.
This exquisite film was produced in 1973 and filmed in 1972, thus representing Yemen half a century ago. It is now available on Youtube. The filmmakers were Karen and Alain Saint Hilaire. The camera was a bolex ebm electric. It has filmed when Qadi al-Iryani was the head of government. There are scenes from the Tihama, Sanaa, Sa‘da, Ma’rib, etc, including many crafts, fishing, agriculture, a funeral, celebration of the end of the civil war and much more. It is well worth spending two hours to watch this archival film of a Yemen now largely past but not forgotten.
Qadi al-Iryani in 1972Celebration in Sanaa on the anniversary of the end of the civil war
Disclaimer: This is a reworked paper, originally written for a course called "Post-Colonial Perspectives on Audiovisual Media" at Stockholm University, in which I explore orientalism and pinkwashing in the Israeli film HaBuah [The Bubble], 2006, directed by Eytan Fox.
Edward Said begins his landmark text Orientalism (1978)with a statement on “the Orient” as an invention of European, colonial powers, used to define Europe itself: “The Orient was almost a European invention, and had been since antiquity ‘a place of romance, exotic beings, haunting memories and landscapes, remarkable experiences” (p. 9). One part of Said’s critique against orientalists and their work was the construction of “the Orient” as inherently different, opposite even, of that which was considered European, or “Western”. This forms a dichotomy between “the East” and “the West”, in which West is always seen as superior to East. Oftentimes, this perceived superiority would be legitimised through a linear, evolutionistic, and developmental perspective, in which advancement is represented by European academia, and ideals constructed as western (a concept often overlapping liberal ideals) were considered modern. Since development was seen as linear, it was expected that the rest of the world would follow the same path as Europe and to end up in the same place. In other words, modernisation often translated to westernisation.
Said exemplifies how this schism was upheld, and expand on its colonial consequences, by pointing to one of the earliest works of French impressions of Egypt; Description de l’Égypte. He means to say that this work, despite its name, is not an objective account of Egypt, but a placement of Egypt in the orientalist discourse. This worked to establish the French as the height of civilisation and sophistication, i.e. modern as opposed to traditional (understood in this context as uncivilised, unsophisticated and undeveloped). That way it would be almost an act of charity and humanity to colonise the Egyptians, so that the Europeans can educate them and eventually, if they are susceptible to modernisation, they might one day themselves govern, administer and care for their civilisation and its arts and culture.
Said’s own student and protégé, Joseph Massad, has carried on his legacy, and in the book Desiring Arabs (2007) he explores the “influence and impact that Orientalism has had in shaping the Arabs’ own perceptions of themselves and each other since the Arab Renaissance to the present” (p. 48). Furthermore, the book is an elaboration of an earlier essay, offering a critique of what he calls the “universalisation of gay rights:”
Like the major U.S.-based human rights groups (Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International) and many white Western feminist organizations, the Gay International has reserved a special place for the Muslim world in both its discourse and its advocacy. This orientalist impulse, borrowed from predominant representations of the Arab and Muslim worlds in the United States and Europe, continues to guide all branches of the human rights community. (Massad 2002, p. 362)
While Massad’s work is somewhat controversial and has received plenty of critique, for example by Frances S. Hasso and Dror Ze’evi, it provides a framework and foundation for exploring the intersection of orientalism and sexuality studies. Drawing inspiration from Massad – yet staying away from his more controversial arguments about “the Gay International” – I would here like to explore the topic of how Queer Arabs and Muslims are represented in audio-visual media, especially film, as well as how this representation informs the orientalist trope of a sexually repressive Middle East. This paper focuses particularly on the Israeli film HaBuah [The Bubble], directed by Eytan Fox and released in 2006.
HaBuah is a Romeo and Juliet-story (in fact, the original title of the film was Romeo and Julio), depicting the forbidden love between two men: Noam, an Israeli-Jew, and Ashraf, who is Palestinian and Muslim. As such, the forbidden-ness of their relationship is multi-layered, as it deals with forbidden sexuality, religion, nationality, and identity. However, this is in the film made into a point, where Palestine is presented as mostly homophobic, and Ashraf is forced to move to Tel Aviv to live openly. Although it is also made into a point that Ashraf will have to pretend to be Jewish, and flees back to (Palestinian city) Nablus when his true identity is revealed, this is still a typical example of so called “pinkwashing.” This refers to how crimes committed by the Israeli state, as an occupier of the West Bank, are glossed over and justified by portrayal of Israel as a liberal, democratic state and as a sort of safe haven for gays and lesbians. In comparison, Palestinian society is seen as backwards, conservative, and homophobic. This binary portrayal is furthered in HaBuah when Ashraf and Noam are caught kissing by Ashraf’s Islamist brother-in-law, Jihad, who blackmails Ashraf into marrying his cousin. Jihad – now acting as the filmic representation of religious (Muslim) intolerance and homophobia – then plans and executes a bombing in “liberal, gay-friendly” Tel Aviv.
From left to right: Alon Friedmann, Daniela Wircer, Ohad Knoller, & Yousef “Joe” Sweid.
In an Op-Ed in The New York Times, Schulman (2011) writes that pinkwashing is “a deliberate strategy to conceal the continuing violations of Palestinians’ human rights behind an image of modernity signified by Israeli gay life.” This film is a perfect example of this strategy, and also shows its dual functions; on the one hand prop up Israel and the Israeli society as a protector of human rights, rather than a violator, and on the other hand to portray Palestinian society as anti-gay – and thus anti-liberal. As such, it also acts as an ideological justification for Israeli occupation and militarism, since that is portrayed as in defence of “liberal” values. This can be understood in terms of securitisation – a term from the Copenhagen School of International Relations (see Buzan 2015) – whereby Palestinian presence is deemed inherently dangerous.
The myth (in Barthesian terms) of an Arab security threat is so prevalent in HaBuah that not only is Jihad and other Islamist Palestinians portrayed as threats, but, after his sister is killed in a raid by Israeli soldiers, even Ashraf becomes a potential threat, taking the place of Jihad as a suicide bomber. Ashraf kills himself and Noam. While the audience to some extent is invited to empathise with Ashraf, it is clear from the start that Noam, whom is first introduced doing military service at a check-point, is the “proper” protagonist. Ashraf on the other hand is only favourably portrayed when he is in Tel Aviv, living his life as an Israeli Jew, and him returning to Nablus is an upsetting event for the audience, who by now should want Ashraf to stay in Tel Aviv.
This context provides perfect opportunity to reflect Butler’s (2004) book Precarious Life, in which she discusses how only certain lives are considered “grievable.” In the book, Butler examines the ambiguities of terms such as “terrorist” and points out that this is used by “the Israeli state to describe any and all Palestinian acts of resistance, but none of its own practices of state violence” (p. 4). This, she argues, is a means of precluding historical inquiry and to morally justify retaliation. In HaBuah, the death of Ashraf’s sister is portrayed as a direct result of her husband’s involvement in the Tel Aviv-bombing, thus providing a frame in which her death is less grievable. The same goes for the death of Ashraf, in comparison to Noam. While, as mentioned, Ashraf’s decision to take Jihad’s place is somewhat explained with the death of his sister, the audience is not invited to empathise with this decision; it is seen as a tragedy, the final failure of the Palestinian queer to assimilate in liberal Tel Aviv. In a sense, it is the failure of Ashraf’s gayness, in the orientalist discourse understood as Western-aligned/liberal/modern, exactly because of his Palestinian identity, in the orientalist discourse understood as religious, anti-Western, or even inherently violent. Ashraf’s turn to suicide bombing and his subsequent death is inevitable rather than grievable, while Noam has no part in this bombing, and simply becomes a victim.
Another relevant text here is Boggs’ and Pollard’s (2006) “Hollywood and the Spectacle of Terrorism,” in which they write about portrayals of terrorism in media:
The main political and media discourses stress an epic struggle between (Western, democratic, modern) “civilization” and (Jihadic, Muslim, primitive) “barbarism”—a self- serving, hypocritical grand narrative that frames political violence as a monopoly of cultural/national Others whose modus operandi, mostly local attacks, contrasts with the “legitimate” military actions of powerful governments launching high-tech missile strikes and bombing raids. (Boggs and Pollard 2006, p. 336)
This, in HaBuah, is evident in the contrast between the rationalised, justified, and organised military operations of the Israeli soldiers, as opposed to the emotionally and religiously driven violence of the Palestinian Islamists – whose headbands reveal their association to the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades, the armed wing of Hamas. It is worth noting that it is Ashraf who is killed off (by the director), rather than Jihad or any of the other members of the Hamas brigade. Thus, in the film universe, the threat is still alive and well, allowing for continued justification of Israeli military securitisation.
Ashraf, as a queer person, is in HaBuah a victim of his own cultural identity, and the plot could be described as revolving around Noam’s failed attempt to “save” Ashraf. But, his being saved then, is reliant upon two orientalist ideas: one is that Ashraf is without agency and thus cannot save himself, and the other is that his very being, as a queer Palestinian, is an unresolvable contradiction, requiring erasure of the (less favourable) national identity in favour of his sexual identity. In this manner, HaBuah symbolically, through the blowing up of Ashraf, promotes the erasure of Palestine. A counterpoint to this argument could be that the protagonist, Noam, is actively engaged in the anti-occupation movement. However, this fact does nothing to promote the actual anti-occupation movement, but rather only acts to show Noam as empathetic, and nonetheless he is still murdered by a Palestinian, thus making his anti-occupation stance portrayed as naïve at best.
Lastly, it must be mentioned, as is emphasized by Shohat and Stam (2014), that Israel is commonly imagined as a Western country (while Turkey, located to the West of Israel, is usually Eastern). This idea is further perpetuated by the type of pinkwashed binary portrayal as can be seen in HaBuah, wherein Israel is portrayed as modern, liberal, free, democratic, gay-friendly, as opposed to Palestine, which is then portrayed as illiberal, unfree, undemocratic, and most importantly, far from gay-friendly.
References
Boggs, Carl, and Tom Pollard. “Hollywood and the Spectacle of Terrorism.” New Political Science, 2006: 335–351.
Butler, Judith. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London: Verso, 2004.
Buzan, Barry. “The English School: A neglected approach to International Security Studies.” Security Dialogue, 2015: 126–143.
Massad, Joseph. Desiring Arabs. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007.
Massad, Joseph. “Re-Orienting Desire: The Gay International and the Arab World.” Public Culture, 2002: 361-385.
Said, Edward. Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books, 1978.
Schulman, Sarah. “Israel and ‘Pinkwashing’.” International New York Times. November 22, 2011.
Shohat, Ella, and Robert Stam. Unthinking Eurocentrism: Multiculturalism and the Media. London: Routledge, 1994.
Music videos in the Arab world, and not least in Egypt, are at the same time widely viewed, popular and relatively understudied. They can reflect pressing contemporary issues, controversial political topics, and, which I aim to explore here, express idealised forms of gender performance. Evoking the literary character Si Al Sayed, created by Egyptian Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz, artist Tamer Hosny aims to reproduce a traditional masculinity, marked by a patriarchal position of men as “head of the household.”
Si Al Sayed is a reference to a literary and cinematic character, created by the late Egyptian writer and Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz. The character is known for his controlling and tyrannical demeanor, thinking that his position as “the man of the house” means absolute authority, and because of this he is also a respected and revered character by many men. In fact, as odd as it may sound, the unequal marriage of Al Sayed is often seen as a model marriage. An example of this is the eponymously titled “Si Al Sayed” by Egyptian artist Tamer Hosny, who compares himself to Mr. Al Sayed, and featuring American rapper Snoop Dogg.
Tamer Hosny in the music video for “Si Al Sayed” (dir. Tarik Freitekh)
In an analysis of Egyptian actor Farid Shauqi, Walter Armbrust (2000) writes that the tough guy ideal took ultimate form as family patriarch and as national hero, and concludes that “it was a short step from defending the honor of one’s woman to defend the honor of the nation.” While conducting field studies in Egypt in 2014, aimed at exploring men and masculinities in Egyptian media, I reached a similar conclusion. In that study, the respondents associated masculinity as much with family obligations – men as providers and protectors – as they did with a national obligations – men serving the nation – emphasised through ideas of strength, courage, and honor. The position of “the patriarch”, as such, relates to both the family and the nation.
In the song and music video for “Si Al Sayed,” Tamer Hosny makes use of the literary figure, visually attempting to evoke this form of masculinity. As such, he also reproduces and reinforces an enactment of masculinity that relies on marital inequality, male dominance and female oppression.
The music video begins with a text explaining the title: ‘An Arabic term referred to an old movie character that likes to control everything in his life.’ This is followed by a camera panning down on Tamer Hosny sitting in an egg chair suspended from a high ceiling, swiping on an iPad, in front of a huge window overlooking Beverly Hills. Cut to a woman painting her toe-nails in bed, in another part of the house. She is wearing big bracelets, and the bed is covered with jewelry and fashion magazines. She yells loudly at Hosny, using a high pitch, scolding him for inviting a friend over, saying that she wanted them to go out to have sushi. Hosny answers by saying “sushik? Allah yiraam!” literally meaning “sushi? God have mercy!”
After dismissing his partner as crazy, he gets up to let in his friend, Snoop Dogg. They greet, and the woman, still in her bed, yells “TAKE YOUR FRIEND AND LEAVE RIGHT NOW!!!” Hosny goes through a series of facial expressions, beginning with a sort of shock, followed by embarrassed confusion. He looks at Snoop who nods at him in a way that asks “what are you going to do about this?” She yells again, and it is captioned: “TAMERRRR!!!!!!!!” He looks at Snoop again, who points and nods towards her room. Hosny raises his eyebrows, as if to say “I guess I need to do something,” and goes to speak with her.
In Egyptian cinema, there is a common trope of “masculinity in crisis,” wherein the protagonist has his masculinity challenged in some way, either through harassment from corrupt authority officials, an inability to provide for his family, or being controlled by his partner. This acts as a set-up for the protagonist to reassert himself, “as a man.” This introductory scenario in Hosny’s music video functions in the same way, portraying a masculinity in crisis.” Hosny is portrayed as a man without control of his partner, thus propping him up to reassert himself and “earn” his masculinity, by taking the role of the ultimate, authoritarian patriarch, symbolised through the character of Si Al Sayed.
There’s only one man in the house, baby. And he wears the pants, so dance. (Snoop Dogg, in “Si Al Sayed”)
Hosny repeats his claim that she is crazy, following it up by asking how she can talk to him “that loud in front of the guy?” She responds that she will talk to him however she likes, and that he should not act like he’s Si Al Sayed. The music starts playing and Hosny thinks for a short while, before the camera cuts to him locking the door to her room, leaving her inside. This is immediately followed by several shots showing a house party, apparently hosted by Tamer Hosny.
The music video reveals that behavior and expression can be used to assert a social position, or at least evoke a characteristic (authoritative masculinity) that was not there initially. This does not mean that masculinity can be reduced to behaviour and expression, but that they functions to reproduce popularly held ideas about what it “means to be a man.” In some ways, Hosny alludes to the already established role saayia’, meaning “bad boy,” or “tough guy.” On the one hand, his claim to masculinity is based on the control of his partner, which is not saayia’ since it means he is not independent, but on the other hand, he appears to represent himself as a womanizer, which definitely is related to saayia’. In the party scenes, he is surrounded by women, who are seemingly only there to affirm his sex appeal and heterosexuality, although his direct engagements with the women of the music video are few. He rarely touches anyone, and most of the attention is presented as one- sided, as admiration of Hosny from the side of the women. This could be a way of both highlighting the sex appeal of Hosny, while portraying him as an honest, faithful and monogamous man.
Snoop Dogg and Tamer Hosny in the music video for “Si Al Sayed.”
The typical crisis of masculinity, at least in Egyptian sha’abi cinema, is the inability for a man to support a family. Unemployment, poverty and the inability to make a living is used to represent this crisis. It could therefore be argued that the extravagance of Hosny’s party is meant as another confirmation of his masculinity, represented through economic power, and thus his ability to provide. His masculinity, in other words, is far from challenged in this regard, making the many signs of wealth into deliberate indices of social, masculine status, meant to counteract the initial crisis. Furthermore, this casts his partner as greedy or ungrateful for not appreciating his ability to provide for her economically. But, it also means that Hosny is clearly separated from sha’abi, blue collar masculinity. Instead, he chooses to aim for an upper class masculinity, part of a capitalist culture placing value in material things and an urbane or suave character.
Usage of English and the fact that the video is set in Beverly Hills are signs of cosmopolitanism, further separating the enactment from the Egyptian public, although the music video is clearly meant to address an Arab audience. Si Al Sayed is a decidedly Egyptian cultural reference, the dialogue is almost entirely in Arabic, even between Hosny and Snoop Dogg, and the lyrical references are more Egyptian than American. It is primarily in the Egyptian context that Hosny’s performance becomes meaningful, not least because of the reference to Si Al Sayed. As such, there seems to be an internal struggle, between the mass appeal of popular, sha’abi, low brow culture, and the flair, extravagance and idealisation of upper-class cosmopolitanism.
It could also be argued that the collaboration with Snoop Dogg, the setting in Los Angeles, and the mixture of English and Arabic (although with a clear preference for Arabic) can be seen as a struggle between an aim for a globalized audience while keeping the massive popularity and following amongst an Arabic-speaking audience. The alternative interpretation would be that these aspects appeals to an Americanised music scene, or acts to highlight Hosny’s successes, which in turn also works as an indexical sign of masculinity. Beverly Hills and Snoop Dogg, after all, do represent the very elite of the music industry, and what better way to highlight one’s economic/material power than to associate oneself with the elite?
In this manner, the representation of Hosny and his reiteration of the masculine ideals portrayed in the video also work within a cultural reproduction of class society. There is a relation between power and cultural ideals, as pop culture can work to naturalise power relations and making inequality seem normal, or even desirable. The association of Hosny’s material gains – which are shown off in the party thrown in his big LA mansion – with the success in resolving his crisis of masculinity, works to make the strive for a certain high-power social and economic position an essential part of him “being a man.” His position and status is reduced to cultural ideals of manhood rather than politics.
The Cairo Trilogy, where the character of Si Al Sayed first appeared.
While Si Al Sayed, as a character, originally comes from the so-called Cairo Trilogy by Egyptian author Naguib Mahfouz, he is in the music video introduced as a movie character. Furthermore, there are few actual and direct references to the character in the music video, either visual or lyrical. Two things could be interpreted as references; the locking of his partner in her room – Si Al Sayed rarely let his wife leave the house – and the party itself – Si Al Sayed himself indulged in things he taught his family were forbidden, such as music and alcohol. However, the genre of the music video does not lend itself to the same structure as the literary genre, nor the cinematic genre to which the Cairo Trilogy movies.
While Si Al Sayed, as a character, originally comes from the so-called Cairo Trilogy by Egyptian author Naguib Mahfouz, he is in the music video introduced as a movie character. Furthermore, there are few actual and direct references to the character in the music video, either visual or lyrical. Two things could be interpreted as references; the locking of his partner in her room – Si Al Sayed rarely let his wife leave the house – and the party itself – Si Al Sayed himself indulged in things he taught his family were forbidden, such as music and alcohol. However, the genre of the music video does not lend itself to the same structure as the literary genre, nor the cinematic genre to which the Cairo Trilogy movies.
Therefore, Si Al Sayed could be seen as nothing more than a trope, a narrative tool that is used simply to drive forward the storyline of Hosny resolving a crisis of masculinity. But, as Si Al Sayed is associated with a certain type of authoritarian, patriarchal family-role, the usage of his character can be seen as a part in a larger process. Hosny associates himself with ideals and expressions considered connected to masculinity, which in turn makes it possible for him to make the claim ‘ana Si Al Sayed,’ meaning ‘I am Si Al Sayed.’ This, then, becomes the penultimate assertion of masculinity, being able to claim the same role as Si Al Sayed. This also means an approval and legitimization of this enactment of masculinity, which relies on the socially powerful position of men, both in public life and, more importantly, in private relationships with women. The result, of course, is a celebration of gender inequality.
The image of an Islamic scholar engaged in memorization, collection or engagement with the many traditions (hadith, singular) of the Prophet Muhammad is invariably that of a male. After all, one of the most important collections is that of the Persian Muhammad b. Ismail al-Bukhari (d. 870 CE). But over the centuries there have been thousands of Muslim women who studied these traditions. For example, one of these scholars, Zaynab bint al-Kamal, is reported to have taught some 400 hadith works in 13th century Damascus. Many of these women are known, but most have not been recognized outside biographical sources.
Earlier this year Dr. Mohammed Akram Nadwi from the Cambridge Islamic College published a 43-volume work, al-Wafa’ bi-asma’ al-nisa’ (Biographical Dictionary of Women Narrators of Hadith) on over 10,000 female hadith transmitters and scholars. The text is currently in Arabic, but there is an English translation of the first volume available on Amazon.
For a talk in Arabic on Youtube about his book, click here.
Absher, which means “good tidings”, is a smartphone app that was released by the Saudi Ministry of Interior in 2015, available both in the Apple App Store and Google Play Store. The app can be used to renew passports, apply for Hajj-permits and to make appointments and all sorts of other government errands. However, the app has also been the topic of some controversy, particularly in English-speaking media. There are mainly two features that have elicited criticism: the ability for men to file for divorce, after which their now ex-wife will receive a text message informing her of her new marital status, and the ability to grant and revoke travel permits for female dependants, and to get notifications when she uses her passport.
It is hardly news that the Saudi monarchy seeks to restrict and repress Saudi women, but American companies should not enable or facilitate the Saudi government’s patriarchy. By permitting the app in your respective stores, your companies are making it easier for Saudi men to control their family members from the convenience of their smartphones and restrict their movement.
International human rights organisations like Amnesty and Human Rights Watch also called on the American companies to investigate the issue and potentially take down the app. Google then announced that they would look into it, but did not find the app to be in violation of their terms and conditions, and therefore did not remove it.
The critique against Absher led the Saudi authorities to launch a social media campaign aimed at gathering support for the app, using the hashtag “#i_support_ABSHER”. They also posted infographics, emphasising the aspect that they wished Absher to be associated with, such as how it may help the elderly, disabled people, or those who otherwise have difficulty physically going to a government office (see below).
Interestingly, the backlash against Absher only reached English-speaking media in January 2019, despite that fact that many of the features that were criticised, such as the possibility to file for divorce, had been announced almost six months prior. The feature to issue and revoke travel permits had been around even longer, at least since 2016, when the stories of the “Saudi Wife-Tracking App” started circulating in early 2019.
Perhaps even more interesting, in 2016, Saudi journalist Rym Ghazal wrote about how the app offered Saudi women more mobility compared to before, and used it as an example of women’s rights improving in the country:
If a Saudi woman wants to travel, it is quite easily arranged via Absher, an e-service from the interior ministry listed under “travel permits for dependents”. A few of my Saudi relatives and friends said that their male guardians even gave them the login and password so they could set it up themselves.
Similarly, some have argued that the divorce-feature solves an issue of women having been divorced without their knowledge. There had up until then been a number of cases in which men withheld alimony support by simply not informing their ex-wife that they had divorce. One particular case was a woman who lived with the same man for 15 years after he had divorced her, only finding out after his death because she went to collect the inheritance and was told that she had no right to inherit him.
Now, this obviously does not mean that everything is right and well in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. The critique against the guardianship system is valid, and it is not without reason that young women, like Rahaf Mohammed al-Qanun or the sisters Wafa and Maha al-Subaie, decided to flee the country. However, the guardianship system (although it has been somewhat reformed since the debates of 2019) exists with or without Absher. Furthermore, in many of the cases of women fleeing the kingdom, the app has actually been a tool for them to grant themselves travel permits. As such, if the calls for Google and Apple to remove the app from their stores are heard, how likely is it that it will lead to an improvement of women’s lives in Saudi Arabia?
