One month of hunger

How thirteen Sudanese asylum seekers starved their way to fairness.

Asylum seekers are often treated like criminals in the UK. Their claims are processed slowly, little effort is taken to ensure that translators are provided at key legal and medical briefings, and there is little or no pastoral help for those suffering the mental effects of torture and conflict in their own countries.

On 24 May thirteen Darfuri men at an immigration detention centre, named Campsfield House, went on hunger strike in protest of their treatment. Each with pre-existing health conditions which made the hunger strike incredibly dangerous, they continued on, refusing to take any nutrients or vitamins into their bodies until they were given the help which they needed to process their asylum claims, gained better treatment and were moved to safer institutions. They did not demand asylum, or threaten the UK should they not be immediately released, but they did ask for a safe resting place, legal representation and immediate healthcare.

Those with pre-existing health conditions, as diverse as HIV and gunshot wounds, were denied access to basic healthcare; legal assistance is minimal; and there is no reliable expectation about when detainees will be released.

Exactly one month later, with waning health and worrying weight loss, Malik, the last of the protestors, was released on bail awaiting his appeal hearing. Others remain in detention but, having been moved to other facilities, are willing to eat again.

These men represent just a handful of those held in detention without any idea of when they will be released; on 31 March 2012, of those in detention, 160 asylum seekers had been held for over a year. A Joint Committee on Human Rights report has pointed to a number of flaws in the detention system, showing that the hunger strikers are not alone in their discontent. The stories of the Campsfield protestors would resonate with many other detainees.

Malik was detained in the UK over six months ago, and was moved between Campsfield and similar centres in London. A Sudanese Arabic speaker with very little English, he could not communicate with his lawyer and was not provided with a translator. His case was dropped, without any member of the legal team or detention centre staff informing him. Legal representation must be properly provided to detainees before their cases can be listened to and they can regain the freedom which they have lost, often without crime.

Those facing a hearing on their asylum status are put in positions like Malik’s, unaware of their own circumstances and unable to influence their own situation. Mental instability and fragility can result from the circumstances under which they are held, combined with the tortuous situations from which they have fled. Detention centres are designed simply to house detainees, not to act as a welfare system for those facing mental health difficulties.

Asylum can only be granted to those who are in danger and any argument for full amnesty for asylum seekers would require far more space than we have here. Instead, this is a plea for the fair treatment of those who have sought help from our nation. In the words of the Joint Committee, those seeking asylum should be treated with “humanity and dignity”, not with strict bureaucratic allegiance. They should be helped and cared for as we would our own until the final verdict is offered. They should not be treated as criminals.

Malik’s release came as welcome news for protestors and supporters outside the camp, but this happy outcome is only a short-term victory. The stories of these men should serve as motivation to change the system of asylum which has been broken for years. These people and their month of hunger deserve to be remembered. These men starved for their fair treatment. For the sake of their, and other’s, human rights, dignity and justice, we need change.

UPDATE 28.06/2012 10.30 Malik is not the 'last of the protestors', as stated above. Two men remain on hunger strike in Harmondsworth Detention Centre, with one more having been released since Malik’s release. Finally, one man had to call off the strike for medical reasons but remains in Campsfield and continues to protest against his treatment.

 

Protestors at Dungavel Detention Centre in Edinburgh in 2005. The system has long been broken. Photo: Getty Images

Helen Robb reads PPE at Oxford University where she is deputy editor of ISIS magazine.

Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko
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Ruin porn: the art world’s awkward obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture

Deserted fairgrounds, disused factories and forgotten military bases may look cool, but are we fetishising the remnants of such a cruel history?

Armenia, where one side of my family is from, was one of the first members of the USSR, annexed by Russia in 1922. A few years ago, when I visited this little country that perches precariously in the south of the Caucasus, I was struck most by its Soviet architecture.

Although its landscape is a hotchpotch of medieval Orthodox churches, a smattering of Persian-era domes, and brutalist concrete, it was the latter that particularly stuck out. From unfelled statues of Stalin to giant tower blocks spelling out the letters “CCCP” from a bird’s-eye view (well, half spelt-out – construction stopped partway through, with the fall of the Soviet Union), I’ve never forgotten it.

Perhaps it was so compelling because such stark physical symbols make recent history all the more tangible. A history still profoundly affecting the country of my ancestors (and all post-Soviet and communist states). But also, it just looked really cool.


Mixed air corps, Mongolia. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Eric Losito

It’s a bit passé now to mock the hipster obsession with reclaimed industrial detritus, exposed pipes and bare concrete. An aesthetic – that of a post-industrial wasteland, but a chic one – which has gripped western cities for years, and crept worldwide.

But it could be this tendency to find disused stuff visually intriguing, and a morbid fascination with cruel regimes, which has led to the art world’s obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture. A whole wave of artists and photographers have been poking around the eastern bloc’s architectural graveyard in recent years.

Late last year, we saw the hugely popular disused Soviet bus stop series by photographer Christopher Herwig, echoing photographer Sergey Novikov’s equally absorbing collection of abandoned Soviet cinemas from 2013.

Following Russian filmmaker and photographer Maria Morina’s “Atomic Cities” project four years ago, London-based artist Nadav Kander explored the “aesthetics of destruction” in his exhibition, Dust, in 2014, snapping “radioactive ruins” of secret cities on the border between Kazakhstan and Russia. The same year, Moscow photographers Sasha Mademuaselle and Sergey Kostromin travelled to the disputed region of Abkhazia, capturing fragments of its deserted infrastructure.


Fighter aviation regiment, Mongolia. Photo: Eric Losito
 

And photojournalist Anton Petrus’ now iconic pictures of Chernobyl’s abandoned amusement park have long been an internet favourite, as have numerous haunting images of Pripyet – the city famous for lying deserted following the nuclear disaster.

Jamie Rann, a lecturer in Russian at Oxford University, has written that the quality and technical accomplishment of most of this photography make the style more “ruin erotica” than “ruin porn” (the tag being used by some critics), but argues: “The enormous online popularity of this genre . . . combined with their voyeuristic, almost exploitative feel, certainly has something porny about it.”

The latest exploration of Soviet society’s skeletons can be found at the Power & Architecture season at London’s Calvert 22 Foundation. In an exhibition called Dead Space and Ruins, we see abandoned military bases and formerly mighty monuments, forgotten space ports freezing in the tundra, the ghost of an entire unused, unfinished city in Armenia lying derelict.



The unfinished "ghost city" built in Armenia to house earthquake survivors (water added by artist). Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Vahram Aghasyan

The works are beautiful, but do they feed in to this zeitgeisty lust for Soviet ruins?

One of its curators, Will Strong, laments this trend. “I was keen that this didn’t become like a kind of ‘ruin lust’, ‘ruin porn’ thing; this slightly buzzwordy term that there is at the moment, this kind of fetishisation of dead space,” he tells me.

“This history is incredibly loaded, and it did not end in 1991. To sort of fetishise it in the very bourgeois western way of, ‘oh yeah, look at all this wonderful Soviet architecture, isn’t it fantastic?’ Obviously a lot of people who lived in that time hated it . . . a lot of people were very miserable under these regimes, so it’s important not to forget that.”


Gym at the Independent Radar Centre of Early Detection, Latvia. Photo: Eric Losito

He adds: “It’s more a point of reflection on how buildings were designed, what their legacy is, what their narrative is, and who the people are who live with that story. This show looks at the aftermaths of when utopia hasn’t been delivered.”

This view is echoed by the Moscow artist, Danila Tkachenko, whose work is featured in the exhibition. “It is rather a metaphor for the future, not the past,” he says. “It represents an image of a possible future. When there is a visualisation of this issue [utopia], it evokes a response in people; they see this utopia in their lives . . . There is disappointment in all utopias.”


The world's largest diesel submarine, in Russia's Samara region. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko

His Restricted Areas series explores great behemoths of European communism left to lie forgotten in the tundra of remote regions in and around Russia and Kazakhstan: the world’s largest diesel submarine, like a beached whale in the snow; a giant satellite, thatched with antennae, built to communicate with Soviet bases on other planets some day; the deserted flying saucer-like communist headquarters in a region of Bulgaria. The structures hover in blank, white space, making the photos appear black-and-white.


Deserted observatory, Kazakhstan's Almaty region. Photo: Danila Tkachenko
 

Anton Ginzburg is an artist who grew up in St Petersburg in the Eighties as the Soviet Union was disintegrating. He believes studies like his film, Turo, of disused modernist constructions in the post-Soviet bloc, appeal to people’s connection to history. After all, picking through the architectural carcasses of former societies isn’t exactly a new thing:

“Russian culture is still haunted by its Communist past, and constructivist architecture is a decaying shell for its ghosts. It is an active reminder of the recent history,” he reflects. “Perhaps [its appeal] is a mixture of memento mori, with its thrill of beauty and destruction, along with a Romantic tradition of contemplation of Greek and Roman ruins.”

(Anton Ginzburg Turo teaser from Visionaireworld on Vimeo.)

The Power & Architecture season is on at the Calvert 22 Foundation, London, from 10 June-9 October 2016. Entry is free.

Anoosh Chakelian is deputy web editor at the New Statesman.