amateur ramblings

Have you had a chance to think much about borders, besides the pain of waiting in line to have your passport checked and visa approved? If not, take an hour or two out of your time to watch al-Hudud (“The Border”), a Syrian comedy starring Durayyid Lahham and Raghda, and written by esteemed writer, the late Muhammad al-Maghout. In al-Hudud, the aloof but incredibly perceptive traveler Abdel Wudud attempts to pass between two countries named Sharqistan and Gharbistan (in Arabic, sharq is “east,” and gharb “west”) when he ends up losing his passport somewhere between the two checkpoints marking the entrance to each country. Despite his numerous attempts to explain the situation to the senior guard at both ends, he is merely sent in circles back and forth, as each one promises to allow him in with the permission of the other side.

One of the themes running through this film is the relation between the human and the state, between one’s existence and the representation of that existence. Having lost his passport, Abdel Wudud finds himself in an impossible situation with no apparent resolution, unable to enter the new country or return to the old one. Even though his name is recorded in the logs of the originating country, the officer there will not give him a document stating as much because he requires proof that Abdel Wudud, the person, is in fact the same as Abdel Wudud, the entry in the log! Because that “proof” is apparently the passport itself, the condition is impossible to satisfy. The dilemma here is reminiscent of one of James Scott’s observations in Seeing Like a State, the passport (being the representation of the human to the state) is actually the primary concern of the state official, rather than the actual human. States and their infrastructures, after all, do not work with or on humans; they work with some representation of them, whether that is a passport, a census, or a birth certificate. The latter is probably the most entertaining of this set: it certifies to the state that you were, in fact, at some point in time, born in some place–as if a human can come to be by any other means! Soon enough, the certificate comes to be more important than the human, as we can see in Abdel Wudud’s encounter with the officer. The obstinacy of the officers involved along with the absurdity of the scenario offers what is probably an unbeatable example of one of the many inverted relationships of our world, where rather than the law serving the needs and wants of humans, humans are actually serving the law, often to the detriment of other humans.

But Abdel Wudud’s experience does not end there: he takes his dilemma out to its logical conclusion, building himself a small lodge in which to reside between the two checkpoints on the border. Unable to go in any direction, he settles on the border and makes a living providing food and refreshments to travelers in the roadhouse that he has built. Having painted a white line signifying the border literally through the middle of his house, he simply hops to the other side in order to avoid being captured or harassed by the few soldiers who are posted on each side (and with whom Abdel Wudud later develops a chummy relationship over a few drinks). When the soldiers issue mighty and bombastic declaratives that “the border is meaningless” to them and thus will not impede their pursuit of him, Abdel Wudud catches them in their lie, exclaiming desperately: if it is so meaningless, then let me pass! The soldiers are not moved. In what is yet another of the film’s brilliant moments, we see one of the many difficulties of the border: while it is easy and fashionable to pretend to “transcend” it or to belittle its “meaning,” it is, in actuality, a rather real presence and obstacle.

While some aspects of Abdel Wudud’s story can be generalized, insofar as the frustrating reality of a bureaucracy whose existence is premised on a world translated into papers is concerned, his experience should not be divorced from its specific context, since this is the framework which gives his dilemma meaning and imparts purpose upon the movie within its own social and political context. In many of his encounters with the soldiers and officers on both sides of the border, Abdel Wudud repeatedly remarks, but isn’t this all one country? Indeed, when he first loses his passport, he is certain he will have no problems for that very reason. The expression reflects a particular pan-Arab outlook, which historically has been supported by the fact that many of the borders that currently delineate the various Middle Eastern states were in fact decided upon by the colonial powers in the last century according to their own utilitarian desires, inventing states that did not even exist before.

But the romantic and political force behind the statement that it’s all one country is cheapened and challenged by the very people who declare it, as it is thrown around recklessly and meaninglessly by a number of characters. When a journalist crossing the border discovers Abdel Wudud’s rest area and learns of his story, she is infuriated and quickly publishes a story, organizes a press conference, and invites representatives from various Arab governments to a solidarity event. Her efforts and sympathies, along with those expressed by the government representatives railing away about the outrage, too, are explained by the sentiment that “it’s all one country.” This part of the story sets the stage for one of the film’s most important political critiques, as Abdel Wudud and his pregnant wife, very pleased by the show of support and certain that it has resolved their situation, attempt once more to cross the border. Expecting success, they are instead met with the same question: where is your passport? As Abdel Wudud tries to explain the situation for one last time, the officer shockingly exclaims: I know about the event, I was there supporting you! But I can’t do anything without your passport!

It seems that within the span of what cannot be more than a day or two, Abdel Wudud and his wife are forgotten by both the press and the governments, despite the earlier fanfare. This plot development is perhaps the most excoriating statement that the film makes against both the Arab governments and the press, exposing the bankrupt rhetoric of leaders who continually re-assert their “positions” but do not actually do anything about them, and in fact often exacerbate the situation. It is not a question of incapability: the capability is clear, but there is a downright arrogant refusal to exercise even what is within their means, lest their ultimate authority and superiority be undermined. The truth of al-Hudud‘s message resonates even today, two decades after the film was originally released in 1987, as a reminder that those obstacles that impede our movements in every sense, are placed by those who rule us. Parallels are easy to draw if we heed the travel bans many governments have imposed on their own citizens; the difficulties refugees from Iraq are facing in fleeing the cataclysmic violence that the US occupation has wrought; the crisis of the Kurdish people whose national identity is premised on and constituted by disruptive borders; and on the continuing plight of Palestinian refugees who face all sorts of barriers in every country in which they reside.

Disappointed but resolved, Abdel Wudud leaves the office and returns to his car where he unloads all the animals he had cooped up when he closed his lodge to prepare for travel. As Abdel Wudud and his wife embrace arms and begin to walk across, the soldier guard–who had befriended Abdel Wudud at the rest area–shouts that they must stop and show their papers. The duo does not waiver, sirens sound, the soldier raises his arm and takes aim at them. Just seconds before, the camera had panned along, following the animals to confirm the sad reality that at least the chickens were able to cross the border freely. Before we can see the fate of Abdel Wudud, the shot freezes, and the credits roll.

What happens? Who knows? But that is the important point: when you leave the legitimate channels that any system has designed and defined, there are no more certainties. With the system, when you have a passport, you get through; if you don’t, you can’t pass. It’s that simple, and Abdel Wudud’s static position between the borders is regulated by the same system, even though it is an anomaly. Even in lingo, there is some balance and understanding that Abdel Wudud reaches with the powerful border guards and officials who allow him to stay neither here, nor there, but in between, as long as he crosses no lines (here, another meaning of hudud comes to mind). There might have been much satisfaction in knowing whether Abdel Wudud and his wife were stopped or shot by the border guard, or if they were actually able to pass: but what happens when the line is crossed, it seems, is something to be discovered only when, and if, we, too, can mimic the courage of chickens.