Floyd’s Echoes: Afro-Arabs in the Middle East
Image credit: Dar al Mussawir
“I can't breathe” were the last words of George Floyd before his death at the hands of the Minneapolis Police on the 25th of May. For 8 minutes and 46 seconds , the world saw a handcuffed black man pinned down to the ground with a police officer kneeling on his neck, ignoring his repeated cries for help.
George Floyd's death sparked demonstrations across the US, which led masses to gather across the globe to protest the racism and police brutality that African-Americans suffer from every day. From the UK to South Africa, people took to the streets to show solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement. The mission of BLM resonated with Black people outside the US and Europe, highlighting their own struggles against both institutionalized and social racism. Reading familiar stories of discrimination from outside the Middle-East, Afro-Arabs began detailing their own tales of living with racism.
Black-Arabs have often felt that their experiences with racism and discrimination in the Middle-East are ignored and often dismissed out of hand. Previous attempts by Black-Arabs to start a serious dialogue about anti-blackness have gone nowhere, but, the impact of George Floyd's death is profound that it has ignited a different reaction in the Middle-East. Amplified by social media, Floyd's echoes are the voices of Black Arabs reverberating around the region louder than ever before. They will not be silenced now.
Afro-Arab: Living in the intersection of two identities
I was born in Saudi Arabia to a Sudanese family and I spent my childhood there, before moving to the United Arab Emirates and later to Qatar. In every country - each with its own diverse culture and customs - I was presented with a unique set of challenges to navigate.
It was in those countries I came to understand the negative connotation associated with the word 'Abda'. Abda means slave in Arabic but could also refer to a Muslim's submission to God. Other words like 'Takroni' or 'Khal' (Arabic terms for 'Black') are used constantly to describe Black people in the region. While some argue that those terms are innocent, many people in the black community disagree.
Growing up in the Gulf, most of the discussions I had about racism were with people from similar backgrounds to mine; fellow children of African / Black immigrants who lived trying to belong to societies that treated us as 'the other'. Only recently did it hit me that I have never thought of the experiences of Black-Arabs, those who are half Arabs but just like us - the black immigrants - are also looked at as 'the other'. I recall a time when a school counselor mistook me for another Saudi black girl and when I corrected her, she simply said with a dismissive voice 'you all look alike'.
Black Arabs in the region are generally the descendants of slaves, Black Immigrants, or African Muslims who stayed after religious pilgrimages. Despite living in the region for centuries, speaking Arabic, and being culturally Arab, they are still not fully accepted in Arabic societies and often treated as second class citizens. Poverty levels amongst Black Arabs are high and most of them have limited access to economic support or educational opportunities. In Iraq, for example, Black-Iraqis are still called slaves and are underrepresented in the government and public bodies, and despite their long fight to be fairly treated and protected as a minority group, they still feel like nothing has changed.
Falling on the intersection of Arab and African identities often makes Black Arabs feel like they don't belong. It is as if they are not African enough or Arab enough to claim either identity.
'Capri', lives in London and was born to a Somali mother and Emirati father. It was only when I spoke with him that he came to realize that he has never been in a situation where he had to merge both cultures. For a long-time Capri's identity was always one or the other, not because he wanted to but because it was an easier path to go down. When I asked Capri if he ever had a conversation with his family about the racism he faced growing up, he told me his family was normally dismissive and that ignoring the issue was a better option to avoid any family conflicts. My conversation with Capri ended with him feeling like his whole narrative had shifted and a new dialogue about his Afro-Arab identity needed to begin.
Words Hurt
'They call him “the black one” and there is nothing I can do to stop them.' Huda tells me as she recounts her 10-year-old son's discriminatory experiences within his own family. Huda is Sudanese but was born and raised in Qatar. Growing up she dealt with her share of racist behavior: from people calling her Abda (Arabic for 'slave'), to those commenting on her natural hair and skin color. However, through living in a neighborhood full of Sudanese people, she learned to love and celebrate her heritage.
Ten years ago, when Huda got married to a Qatari national, she never thought about the discrimination her children would face. After all, her husband's family is a mixture of different nationalities, ranging from Yemen to India. Little did she know that her son's skin color would be the subject of racist comments from her husband's family. 'My son is of a darker color and he looks like me; “Sudanese” with curly hair. They look at him as the ugly one. Even in family photos, they push him to the back '. Huda noticed her son's strong and angry reactions whenever someone calls him 'black' or 'Sudanese'. She also realized that his personality would change when he is with his Sudanese side of the family - he becomes calmer and more playful.
Huda's son was experiencing a phenomenon known as 'Colorism'. Colorism is defined as the act of favoring light skin tones over dark ones and is rarely discussed in the Middle East. It leaves the dark-skinned community not only fighting prejudice from the societies they live in but within their own racial group as well. It is not unusual to hear strong opposition from family members or society as a whole when a light-skinned individual marries a dark-skinned person.
Dark-skinned celebrities usually face scrutiny more than their counterparts, such as the case of Asayel Slay , an Afro-Arab rapper who was arrested for releasing a video celebrating the beauty of women in Mecca. Immediately after the video went viral, Asayel faced a storm of criticism. The video was taken down and Asayel faced calls for deportation accompanied by racist and sexist abuse. The hashtag ' #You_Are_Not_Mecca_Girls ' spread across social media platforms.
When I asked Huda how she is dealing with the situation, she spoke of her pride in his ancestry 'I always tell him to be proud of his blackness. I never let him feel like being called black or Sudanese is an insult '. Huda emphasized that she will push her son to study harder and become a doctor or an engineer in the future. 'His status and profession are what's going to force people to treat him with respect'.
Huda's story is not unique. Most of the people I have spoken to in writing this article have been on the receiving end of casual racism. Some have given up speaking out, feeling that such efforts are useless as Arabs would usually claim that their remarks are nothing but a light-hearted joke.
Maryam Abu Khaled , a black Palestinian actress and film director, addresses this culture of racism in a viral video through which she catalogs a litany of passive-aggressive comments Black people are exposed to constantly in the Middle East. In her video, Maryam shares one such example of a mother telling her daughter not to play in the sun for a long time or 'she would get sunburnt and become like Maryam'. She comments on the toxicity of such statements and their ability to destroy people's self-esteem.
I can't remember the number of times I was told that I'm beautiful but would look better if I was a shade or two lighter. Family members, friends, and even strangers at beauty salons took it upon themselves to convince me to bleach my skin. Phrases like 'You will be more attractive', 'Don't you want to find a husband?' or 'Just use this [... cream] to clean your skin and glow' have been repeatedly said to me. As a young black girl, I was lucky to have a support system that allowed me to love myself. When people discuss skin bleaching issues within the black community, they forget that the accumulated trauma that black people carry within themselves, because of racist remarks, manifest in such hateful practices.
How can we move forward?
The danger in dismissing Anti-blackness and racist comments on the appearance of the black body lies in the normalization of hate speech, which leads to self-hate and internalized racism. This is not an issue that can be ignored any longer. The culture of silence that is built around it has allowed these harmful effects to continue to this day. Using Islam or Bilal ibn Rabah (the Prophets black companion) as a tool to deflect accountability, allows this cycle of inherent racism to remain unsolved. The only way we can move forward is through an acknowledgement by the Arab world that racism exists within their community and to take responsibility. We need to see serious steps taken to protect Black communities from discrimination, and the introduction of new initiatives that provide them with financial, educational, and social opportunities.
Disclaimer: some names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.
