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Last modified: 17 Dec 2013 02:05
Tegucigalpa has become one of the world's deadliest cities and one artist wants to highlight the problem through paint. |
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'American Gothic' graffiti with the farmer holding a M-16 instead of a pitchfork [Urban Maeztro/Al Jazeera]
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Tegucigalpa, Honduras - It's
almost sundown and a small sport utility vehicle glides through one of
the most dangerous cities in the world which has been overrun by rival
gangs and organised crime. During the drive, dozens of Hondurans are seen making their way home, wary of the time to ensure they get there before dark. The SUV crosses a bridge and parks on the sidewalk, just two blocks away from the capital Tegucigalpa's red-light district. It is here where Urban Maeztro, a 27-year-old ad agency employee turned street artist is preparing to send a message about violence in this Central American country. Armed with two boxes of spray paint cans, a notebook, and a Sharpie marker, he plans to take over the six-metre long wall. "Every 87 minutes someone dies in Honduras from a firearm, and there are over 650,000 illegal weapons. This piece will speak to that," Maeztro tells Al Jazeera. Tegucigalpa has become one of the world's deadliest cities with more than 87 homicides per 100,000 people - 10 times the rate considered an epidemic of violence by the World Health Organisation.
The figure has increased more than 232 percent since 2005, according to the Autonomous National University of Honduras's Observatory of Violence. "The one and only thing that people know about my country is the violence. It is what paints our reality," says the graffiti artist who began his project a year ago. Maeztro only uses his street name, a pun of "Urban Master", to protect his identity, saying his work is illegal and dangerous. Maeztro says he's been fired at with a weapon from a moving pick-up truck while performing his artwork. "It's a culture of intolerance. I disagree with you and I just kill you," he says. Usually the artist dons a ski mask or a bandana to hide his identity, however, on a recent afternoon he agreed to show his face to during a graffiti assault. New advertising In a matter of seconds, Maeztro slaps on a thick coat of white paint on the wall as primer. He delineates a grotesque head with a green spray can - an outline reminiscent of Colombian figurative artist Fernando Botero's characters with an exaggerated and disproportionate volume, as well as scathing criticism. He continues spraying on layer after layer. The head is now bright orange with coiffed hair and a moustache. The figure is biting a bullet. "This character represents so many Honduran politicians," Maeztro says, pausing to smoke a cigarette and wait for a layer to dry. Dozens of cars slow down before the traffic light to observe the visual intervention. A deliveryman suddenly pulls up on a motorcycle and asks Maeztro for his phone number; he has friends that are interested in learning how to do street art.
When asked why he decided to make the jump from an advertising agency to graffiti, Maestro says it was actually marketing and working at a company that taught him how streets could be used to send all kinds of messages. "In advertising, I was taught billboards condition human behaviour. So as an artist, I take to the streets to engage, and attempt to generate a social consciousness". Touring other works Many other graffiti displays are scattered all over Tegucigalpa, and not all are political. Maeztro's first series was a set of mixed paintings where he used internationally renowned works such as Leonardo Da Vinci's "Mona Lisa" and Grant Wood's "American Gothic" to capture pedestrians' attention. He then contrasts these images with a neon drawing of a weapon; the Mona Lisa holds a 9mm pistol, while in the Gothic piece, the farmer holds a neon magenta M-16 assault rifle instead of the iconic pitchfork. "The 9mm gun is the most used handgun by the country's police," says Maeztro. Like many Hondurans, Maeztro has been a victim of this country's increasingly problematic police force. This country's police and army have come under fire in recent months with allegations that they have carried out and covered up extrajudicial assassinations targeting youths as part of so-called social cleansing campaigns. A recent US State Department report said corruption and impunity continued to be serious problems within the national police, including allegations of violent crime, extortion, kidnappings and illegal detentions committed by officers. At the abandoned street corner emblazoned with Maeztro's Mona Lisa with a gun, Eliezer Cruz, a 23-year-old bodyguard, walks by the painting.
New movement While Maeztro's work began as a solo act, two other urban artists are now tagging and staging graffiti interventions alongside him. Together, they have created the Garawa Collective. Garawa is a type of bird in the Garifuna language, an African-descended ethnic minority in Honduras. Code, 38 and Caraqui, 27, both say they had been working in obscurity and independently until they met Maeztro. "We saw the opportunity to do something together," says Code, who also spoke about Maeztro's work trying to recruit young gang members to keep them out of trouble. Maeztro says urban artists will eventually take back Honduran streets. "The movement is growing. It's about people waking up and demanding something more, something better." |
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The scholar recounts his brief detention and interrogation at JFK airport.
Last updated: 19 Nov 2013 05:25
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Getting through US borders has become more difficult for American Muslims [Getty Images]
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On
the evening of November 13, I flew back from Gwangju, South Korea -
where I was invited to participate in Gwangju Biennale - to JFK airport
in New York. Upon exiting the airplane I was met by two CBP (US Customs
and Border Protection) agents who collected my passport and escorted me
to their headquarters at the airport. I was then asked to empty all my
pockets, and my small handbag was thoroughly searched. The agent in
charge then picked a number of items in my possession - including my
credit card receipts, driver's license, Columbia University ID, iPhone,
iPad, and a handbook in which I write my various notes. "Have you ever been with us," one of the two officers asked me at the airplane door. No sir, I said. They had come all the way to the very door of the plane, and were looking at people’s passports until they reached me and the instant they had me, they let the others pass unhindered. They were obviously looking for me. This was no random search. This was a deliberate and targeted search for me. I was made to sit down while the CBP officers filled out forms for which they asked me detailed questions including my parents’ names, my height, weight, the colour of my hair and eyes, my home address, etc. Then photocopies of the items the officers had taken from me were made - including a full photocopy of my notebook in which I write anything from the daily chores I need to do, to the outline of a lecture I have to give to my class, the outline of my columns for Al Jazeera or other venues, and the outlines of arguments for more extended essays or even books. It is the closest thing a writer has to a Catholic confessional box - I pray, I play, and I think in the notebook.
Travelling while Muslim I make a note of this event because I am not the only Muslim being thus harassed when travelling from and to the US - a country I have called "home" for more decades than the entire lifetime of the officers who were interrogating me - as I told them so, and they did, in fact, acknowledge. "Getting through United States airports and border crossings," according to a recent New York Times, report, "has grown more difficult for everyone since the terrorist attacks of September 11. But Muslim Americans say they are having a harder time than most, sometimes facing an intimidating maze of barriers, if not outright discrimination. Advocacy groups have taken to labelling their predicament 'travelling while Muslim', and accuse the government of ignoring a serious erosion of civil rights." Against these discriminatory behaviours, Muslims are taking collective action through various civil liberty venues. But I believe public awareness is the single most important course of action for us - and sharing the moral and psychological damages we and our families have to endure every time we face such ordeals. Public awareness is our only haven As soon as I came home I sent out an email informing a number of my friends, family, and colleagues of this incident - Kafkaesque incarnate - and the following day, I posted a note on my Facebook page and shared the incident with the wider world. I have no idea what might have triggered this incident. Over the last almost 40 years that I have lived in the US, nothing like this has happened to me. I have no reason to believe or disbelieve the officer’s assertion that this might be a case of mistaken identity. The officer who was copying my notebook and who happened to be Muslim, asked me if I were critical of Israel - for, he said, he had seen "this happening before". Perhaps a warning of what was about to happen, or perhaps not, was when I received my boarding pass from Korea Air at JFK, I was given a "SSSS" designation, which I understand stands for "Secondary Security Screening Selection", and meant an intrusive and far tighter screening by the security officers before I entered the gate areas. The same thing happened to me on my way back from Seoul to JFK. Initially, I thought that this was perhaps a random designation by the airline's computer, but for sure, the agents at the airplane door could not have been from the airline. Perhaps the most memorable moment of the entire incident was when the officer who had escorted me from the airplane informed me, with an air of indifference, that he needed my "consent" to photocopy the items he had collected from me. I just looked at him in incredulity. "Consent?" How could I give or deny him consent? He was a federal officer, standing over my tired bones and heavily jetlagged body with a gun and a handcuff and the full authority to do with me what he pleased. I was homo sacer incarnate, reduced to my zoë, full of fear and loathing - how could I grant or deny him "consent"? Apothecary box of my mind When I came home I looked at the notebook they had copied. It is typical of all my notebooks - of which I have many. On one page there was my colourful drawings of flowers for my little children; on the next, a line of Rumi’s ghazals to practise my Persian calligraphy. On the next page, a rant in Persian, against former Iranian President Mohammad Khatami, as to why he dismissed Shirin Ebadi’s Nobel Peace Prize as irrelevant and insignificant. On the following page, I had the outline of a lecture I gave to my class on Malcolm X, James Baldwin, and linked it to the "liberation theology" of Bartolomé de las Casas in A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies. On the page after that I thought through an argument as to why US President Barack Obama initially thought to attack Syria and then changed his mind. Turning to the next page, there is a comparison of Kurasawa, Lean, and Ford’s epic cinema - before coming upon pages in which, after reading sections of Hannah Arendt’s On Revolution, I had written extensively on her strength and blind spots. What would a Homeland Security bureaucrat make of all these pages, will he or she think me mad, insane, or will she think these were the coded content of some grand conspiracy? Nothing, not my laptop, my iPhone, my iPad, etc, is as innate to me and to my thinking and who and what I am, as these notebooks, they are my inner sanctums - where I fear, where I tremble, where I think, where I hope, where I dream and dread. Only a few days ago I wrote on my Facebook page: "I have always thought of myself as a potter - and what I do (writing) as pottery - and of publishing just putting on my window one of the pots I have made and think it ready for display - when a pot is done and dried and on display, I scarcely look at or think about it - my heart, hand and soul are always in the clay I am moulding now." These notebooks open and read like my crowded workshop, where I write and reason myself through the earth and water of my thinking. They are the varied corners of my pottery shop. At one point, the officer who was copying it, turned to his colleague and not knowing I was watching, said, "I have to copy this whole shit." "Sir", I inadvertently shouted, "those are my thoughts please don’t call them shit!" He apologised. I was not in a position to accept or reject his apology. It is the anonymity of your accusers and the total power "it" or "they" have over your being that is the most frightful part of this entire ordeal. Nobody tells you what you have done or not have done. "Someone has spotted you," the first officer who picked me up from the airplane told me, "and I must do certain things," he added, almost apologetically but dutifully. "Why, I don’t know," he added. And he kept saying he was tired and wanted to go home. Soon, after he was done with me, he did leave the office without saying goodbye to me, or even looking at me, and left me in the hands of another officer who finished copying all he had from me and then let me go. Why, by what authority, and for what reasons? I have no clue. I am reading Kafka’s Before the Law and it scares me even more. | ||||||

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