I was humbled to be asked to respond to the latest issue of BlackFlash magazine, Infinities. As I read through the articles written by or about BIPOC artists from the S.W.A.N.A region, I began to reflect on my own journey of self-identity and how that has evolved throughout my life.
Upon receiving my copy of the print edition, I was greeted with a work by Palestinian artist Samar Hejaz on the cover. The work was a manipulated section of Palestinian tatreez (embroidery) from The Intricacies of Wholeness (2021) series. Seeing this cover image kick started my thoughts about being Palestinian, about identity exploration in art, and about being an Othered artist in the Western world. I also began thinking about my adolescent years. In particular, I was thinking of the time leading up to my family’s immigration from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia to Canada.
Image Description: the corner of a woven textile, with threads and wire coiling and extending away from a patterned weave. The threads and wire suggest the textile is undergoing a process, either reaching completion or being taken apart.
I can recall my expectations of what life would be like for me shortly before we immigrated. I was told that Canada was similar to the United States, but with more snow. Well lucky me, I thought, because America was a subject I was very familiar with. I had gained knowledge and understanding about America from my favorite TV shows and Hollywood movies. The ten-year-old me felt this was sufficient information needed to navigate my new path in Canada. The news about our moving to Canada brought on a feeling of relief. Relief that I was about to move to a place where I felt I could truly fit in, or at least fit in better than I did in Saudi Arabia.
I was an English-speaking Palestinian child living in Riyadh, the capital of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia: a country in which the societal hierarchy was abundantly clear, where a Sunni Muslim Saudi man was at the top of this hierarchy. To many, the place of birth can also be how one identifies. However, this is not the case in Saudi Arabia. Being born there did not mean we were from there, nor did we ever get Saudi citizenship. The fact that we are an Arabic-speaking family from a Muslim background meant that we could blend in as locals while being outsiders at the same time. Now, I describe us as an Arabic-speaking family from a Muslim background, which is not entirely accurate, as my siblings and I spoke English much more fluently than Arabic. And as for the Muslim background, lets just say we weren’t as devout or strict as one is expected to be in Saudi Arabia. Our parents could not express to us their own lax view of the religion, worrying it could have negative repercussions from the authorities. I remember a time when I felt very connected to Islam; I had the fear of god instilled in me. I used to consider how the importance of being a good Muslim would factor into the afterlife.
Being a curious child, I kept asking questions about god and the rules and guidelines of Islam. However, my attitude shifted over time as I began to observe how the laws in Saudi Arabia weren’t just inspired by religion (such as an alcohol ban), but were also largely anti-woman. For example, I knew my mother couldn’t legally drive there despite having learned when she was living back in Gaza. Another blight that the government of Saudi Arabia had was the police that enforced religion. The mutawa, as the force is also known, instructs shops to shut during prayer time and keeps a lookout for any slips in strict dress codes. I loathed hearing their daily megaphone announcements telling the citizens to go for prayer. All of this pushed me to distance myself from identifying as Muslim.
By the age of eleven, I was leaving Riyadh for good and on my way to Canada. My parents had moved to Mississauga, Ontario. Since all of my expectations of what was to come during my first school year in this new country came from my TV consumption, I was under the impression that I would be the token Arab kid in my new classroom. Little did I know then of the history of immigration to the country, let alone the city of Mississauga. I did not feel like I was visibly out of place when at school with a mix of diverse backgrounds. And when the other students tried to get to know more about me, I found myself, for the first time, having true difficulty stating my identity because of the questions I was asked: “Where were you born? Are you Muslim? Why is your English accent good? Where is Palestine?” When it came to discussing religion with other curious classmates, I found it easier to say I’m non-religious, or non-practicing. I also held back about showing my criticism of life in Saudi Arabia as I feared this would further add to the misunderstanding and bigotted thoughts some held about the region. For a while I would tell people I was born and raised in Saudi Arabia, but my parents are from Palestine. And overtime, as I noticed how people reacted to hearing “Saudi Arabia,” I would say I’m Palestinian, leaving out the place of my birth.
I have always been proud to tell people I am Palestinian. Depending on their knowledge of what it means to be of the Palestinian diaspora, many people I encounter are misinformed on the history and present realities of the Palestinian people. The only people that I could connect with on the subject of Palestinian liberation were people who belonged to the S.W.A.N.A region and other people of colour, as well as those who understood the long history of the displacement of the Palestinian people and ongoing apartheid.
Image description: The artist wears a multi-shade denim throbe and stands in front of snow-covered trees.
For the last decade or so I have been more vocal about my Palestinian heritage, and I even bring it into my art practice as subject matter. Back in 2013 for my undergraduate thesis final, I presented a body of video and photography work titled Al-Kanady الكندي. Al-Kanady is Arabic for “the Canadian.” In the series, I performed a series of staged self-portraits in a custom-made denim thobe. The denim was a nod to the so-called “Canadian tuxedo,” and the thobe is a garment commonly worn in many parts of the SWANA region.
As part of a commission to accompany an interview I did for Newest magazine, I decided to honour my lineage by making paintings of my great grandfather, Sheikh Hussein Abusitta. One of the photographs I referenced was of the Sheikh among a group of spectators at a horse and camel racing event organized in Biʾr as-Sabʿ (Beersheba) in 1930 to celebrate the success of a huge campaign to fight an unprecedented locust infestation.
More recently, I created a series of paintings titled If You Were a Horse (2021). This series of acrylic paintings is based on found historic images (from approximately the 1930s–40s) of Palestinian boys and men on horses. By eliminating most of the details from these scenes, I focus on the subjects’ actions rather than their discernible features. The title of the series is borrowed from a short story of the same name by Palestinian activist and novelist Ghassan Kanafani.
In 2021, the world witnessed a major and disproportionate attack on Palestinians by the Israeli government, and for the first time in my life, I felt there was greater global solidarity than what I had known in the past. Watching social media posts and comments on the subject, I noticed how many people see the plight of the Palestinians inflicted by Israel as a religious conflict or land dispute. In fact, the issue is a long history of ongoing settler-colonialism and an enthno-nationalist movement that favours one group while displacing and ethnically cleansing another with the support of the imperialist Western states.
Even in writing these words I know there will be Zionist/anti-Palestinian people who will discredit and manipulate these statements. In the past, I may have been very fearful of sharing these thoughts to a wider public, however, this is no longer the case. We’ve reached a moment in our history where many, from both within and outside the Palestinian diaspora, truly believe that there will be justice and liberation for the people of Palestine in our lifetime.
We will persevere.
Ibrahim Abusitta is a Palestinian-Canadian visual artist that lives and works in Toronto. He graduated from the Fine Art Photography program at Ontario College of Art & Design (OCAD U). After graduation, his practice shifted from photography as he evolved into a self-taught painter.
Ibrahim’s paintings delve into themes of colour, texture, memory, and time. His work has been exhibited in several Canadian cites as well as a 2021 solo presentation of painting at Smoke The Moon in Santa Fe, NM. https://www.ibrahimabusitta.com/
Related links:
https://swanaalliance.com/about
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/2399885.stm
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