By Jesper Bjarnesen
The force of music to move, inspire, and comfort is
difficult to underestimate but also challenging to describe without abusing old
clichés or repeating the slogans of radio stations and record producers
everywhere. But the obvious appeal of music did inspire my chapter in Hope and Uncertainty in Contemporary African Migration to some extent. As immigration once more has become a political
minefield in so many parts of the world, I wanted to use music as an entry
point for exploring the hopes and aspirations of involuntary migrants in the
city of Bobo-Dioulasso in southwestern Burkina Faso. I try to show how a
particular genre of Ivorian pop music became central to young immigrants for
articulating a collective sense of worth in the face of exclusion and
in the context of the Ivorian armed conflict
During the decade 2000-2010, Burkina Faso received
hundreds of thousands, perhaps as many as one million, of its citizens who fled
persecution and armed aggression in neighbouring Côte d’Ivoire. As an enduring
political conflict became increasingly militarised, Burkinabe labour migrants
in Côte d’Ivoire found themselves at particular risk, being labelled by
nationalist rhetoric as the scapegoats for the growing financial and political
crisis. Côte d’Ivoire has been one of the region’s strongest economies for
decades and has attracted generations of labour migrants from its poorer
neighbours. It is estimated that more than three million Burkinabe citizens
still live in Côte d’Ivoire, in spite of the recent armed conflict.
You might expect the return of Burkinabe labour
migrants to their country of origin to be a straightforward trajectory – the
natural and expected end of a cyclical movement – but during the armed conflict
in Côte d’Ivoire, the overwhelming numbers of involuntary returns did pose
challenges to local communities and authorities in Burkina Faso. In both urban
and rural settings, the mass arrivals of returnees put pressure on housing and
livelihood, in the virtual absence of state support. These situations created
tensions, which brought out the ambivalence with which non-migrants perceived
of the new arrivals.
migrants in Bobo-Dioulasso
This ambivalence was particularly palpable in relation
to young adult returnees. Born and raised in Côte d’Ivoire, these children of
Burkinabe labour migrants had usually grown up with little or no appreciation
of their parents’ origins, and they arrived in Burkina Faso speaking French
with an Ivorian accent, and with rudimentary knowledge of the local languages,
at best. The perceived “Ivorian” behaviour, dress, and language of young adult
returnees became the target of much gossip and critique. On the hand, those who
had not (yet) undertaken the journey to Côte d’Ivoire themselves saw in the
returnees the alluring image of the regional metropole of Abidjan. On the other
hand, young adult returnees were perceived as matter-out-of-place; neither
genuinely Ivorian nor truly Burkinabe. The newcomers were criticised for being
show-offish and arrogant, and for having forgotten about their roots in Burkina
Faced with the hostility of their neighbours, young
adult migrants quickly found a sense of community with other migrants and many
of them came to internalise the images of them projected by non-migrants – of
representing the urban youth culture of Côte d’Ivoire and being more outspoken
and cosmopolitan than local youths. This subcultural style became known as “Diaspo”,
referring to the young migrants’ origins in the Burkinabe diaspora in Côte
d’Ivoire. One important aspect of being Diaspo was your preference for Ivorian
music and this is how Zouglou music gained a new prominence in places like
Of all the different genres of Ivorian popular music,
it is quite surprising that Zouglou became the style through which the Diaspos
in Bobo-Dioulasso expressed their newfound sense of community and reflected on
their hopes, dreams, and predicaments. Zouglou was originally a light form of
satirical entertainment, invented by university students in Abidjan in the
early 1990s. Within a few years, Zouglou expanded into several different
subgenres, with groups such as Magic System marketing a more danceable
version to a global audience, and artists like Siréet Yodé developing a
style directed more towards Ivorian listeners. Although even the narrower
versions were marketed through music videos as dance music, Zouglou kept its
image as representing a more reflective genre on the Ivorian music scene, with
songs treating the everyday concerns of social and political life in Côte
d’Ivoire, and in the financial capital of Abidjan in particular.
What made Zouglou an unlikely preference for the
Diaspos in Bobo-Dioulasso was the way in which the Ivorian elite gradually
reappropriated Zouglou music in Côte d’Ivoire. By the end of the 1990s, Ivorian
politics became increasingly centred on the issue of immigration and the
authorities exploited local grievances over the access to cultivable land to
incite xenophobic violence, blaming the so-called “strangers” for the country’s
declining economy. Burkinabe labour migrants, the largest group of foreign
citizens in Côte d’Ivoire, were particularly targeted. Zouglou artists
generally refrained from taking part in the xenophobic rhetoric of the regime
but instead chose to forward appeals for reconciliation and solidarity to both
sides in the increasingly divided political landscape, or to stay away from
politics and address other themes in their lyrics. This non-committing attitude
towards the rising tensions, incidentally, served the ruling elite well, as
President Gbagbo and his inner circle began promoting Zouglou music on local TV
and radio stations to downplay the atrocities they were committing and the
violence they were inciting.
Zouglou and Hope
Despite its affiliation with the very regime that
caused their displacement from Côte d’Ivoire, the Diaspos in Bobo-Dioulasso
valued Zouglou music more than any other genre of Ivorian music. Zouglou made
you think, they would say, and instil the strength and confidence that set the
Diaspos apart from local youths. Zouglou inspired a sense of hopefulness in the
face of adversity, in part from its lyrics and in part from the act of
listening to the music with others, commemorating their shared origins in Côte
d’Ivoire and affirming their sense of community in Burkina Faso.As Hirokazu
Miyazaki has suggested, hope can be understood as a method for inspiring social action. To
the Diaspos, Zouglou became a vehicle for this kind of inspiration.
This blog draws on Jesper’s chapter, ”Zouglou Music
and Youth in Urban Burkina Faso. Displacement and the Social Performance of
Hope”. Jesper is based at The Nordic Africa Institute.
Wednesday, 22 February 2017
Monday, 13 February 2017
By Thea de Gruchy
In December, in a post titled #Decrim: A call for evidence-based policymaking, I referred to work which I had done with Ingrid Palmary investigating the making of South Africa’s 2013 Trafficking in Persons (TIP) Act. This project formed part of a larger project, funded by the Migrating out of Poverty Research Consortium , which included three case studies.
The first was on the processes and decision making which led to the creation, passing, and implementation of the Trafficking in Persons (TIP) Act. The second case study was conducted by The Refugee and Migratory Movements Research Unit at the University of Dhaka in Bangladesh, and is an analysis of the Domestic Workers Protection and Welfare Policy, which was approved by the Bangladeshi government in 2015. And the third was undertaken by the Asia Research Institute at the National University of Singapore, and investigated the mandatory weekly day off policy for migrant domestic workers introduced by Singapore’s Ministry of Manpower in 2012.
The three case studies are obviously all quite different. They explore different contexts; different kinds of policy; and different political structures. However, what Ingrid and I were able to do in this working paper, which has just been published, is explore the similarities and differences that could go some way in helping us to better understand policy making in post-colonial settings.
To be clear, a lot has been written about policymaking and policy processes. However, most of this has centred on understanding policy making in European and North American contexts – for example 84 % of studies using the Advocacy Coalition Framework to analyse policy making between 1987 and 2013 were conducted in Europe and North America.
But aside from trying to address this gap in the literature, the work highlighted three important things to bear in mind when trying to advocate for policy change in these contexts.
The first is that when trying to make interventions in the policy making process, being able to either harness or successfully address ideas and panics about morality, and women, is powerful. For example, the anti-trafficking movement in South Africa was helped enormously by its ability to use pre-existing normative ideas, which many South Africans have, about sex work and the inability of women, particularly poor women of colour, to make decisions about their own lives and, particularly, sex lives. Whilst I certainly don’t agree with these ideas or this tactic, it is important to acknowledge that this is a reason that many, what I would call, socially conservative causes are able to gain traction.
Secondly, building coalitions and relationships with those involved in policy making is important. Social and political capital go a long way when trying to convince policy makers of your cause. Policy makers often have their own personal agendas – this was clear in both the case studies focused on domestic work. Policy makers were, by-and-large, also employers of domestic workers and, therefore, more sympathetic to maintaining the status quo than incurring additional personal cost through implementing policy which gave more rights to domestic workers. Building coalitions and relationships with other organisations and individuals, both locally and internationally, who agreed and sympathised with the efforts of civil society in Singapore and Bangladesh was incredibly important in the fight for the two policies.
And finally, more work needs to be done to build the trust of policy makers and the public in research, whilst insuring that they maintain a critical perspective and understanding of the limitations of the research with which they are presented. In other words, we need to improve research literacy so that people are better equipped to figure out whether the evidence and (alternative) facts with which they’ve been presented are sound (this is obviously something which many people are advocating for in the age of Trump). And, so that people, who aren’t familiar with how research and universities work, are better placed to understand what peer reviewed research is able to bring to the policy making table.
Thursday, 9 February 2017
by Sine Plambech
At the end of March, in London, MOOP is hosting the Migrating out of Poverty: From Evidence to Policy conference. Sine Plambech has been invited as one of our multimedia presenters. She will screen her film 'Becky's Journey' in the final plenary session.
Becky’s life represents the world in microcosm. She isn’t the first of the migrants I’ve worked with to have died and will unlikely be the last. Becky was 28 years old.
“Rest in Peace, Becky. You will always be in my heart”, it said on a Facebook page a couple of months ago. I often receive Facebook messages and posts, text messages and calls from the female migrants I have interviewed during my research as an anthropologist on migration and trafficking from Nigeria and Thailand to Europe.
Everything from travel plans, questions about the best routes to Europe, selfies with kissy faces and sunglasses, photos of new-born babies, food pictures, to quick messages on whether they can borrow money from me.
Death notices come up from time to time. A brother is dead in the Sahara desert on the way to Europe, a Thai woman was stabbed by a client in a brothel in Denmark, another one killed in a traffic accident in Thailand. A friend of Becky wrote the notice about Becky’s death.
I hadn’t heard from her in a few months. It wasn’t unusual. She had earlier lost her telephone to armed robbers, had countless new numbers, no money for internet, or had been in her village or the Sahara without coverage.
Last time we spoke Becky was about to cross the border from Nigeria to Niger. This was her third attempt to reach Italy through Niger and Libya. I had been waiting to hear from her. Then came this sad R.I.P. I asked her Facebook friend what had happened. I thought she might have died on the way to Europe – in the desert or the sea. But that’s not how she died.
Europe is real
I knew Becky for five years. She died aged 28. The first time I met her, she was laughing when she entered a small hot living room with red painted walls in a house on the outskirts of Benin City, Southern Nigeria. A city from which most of the Nigerian women who sell sex on the streets of Europe begin their journey.
In the living room I was interviewing Faith and her mother. Faith had just been deported from Italy after selling sex on the street for six years. She knew more women who had been deported from Europe and women who, like Becky, dreamed of going there.
After the first meeting with Becky, she and I spent a lot of time together. Becky was a driven zipped lip girl – a woman who, as Becky explained it, doesn’t say anything about anything to anyone, because that is the best way to protect yourself in Nigeria. But she did want to tell, vividly and with rich detail, about her life and her travels towards Europe to a harmless anthropologist.
We ended up making the documentary film Becky’s Journey with a small Nigerian film crew. Because Becky had a dream of becoming someone – to be famous – a dream of being seen and heard. She was fearless and sensitive. She had many and conflicting reasons for dreaming of Europe. Poverty was just one of them. One day Becky emptied the fridge for the chocolate I brought from Denmark for late field note writings. “Yes – I ate it all”, she admitted bluntly. “I love your chocolate. It’s real. Everything in Nigeria is fake. I love the shoes my aunt in Italy sent me too. They are real. That’s why I love Europe. Europe is real”.
Women’s migration from Nigeria
Becky travelled from Edo State in the Southern Nigeria. The number of asylum-seeking Nigerians who arrive in Europe has tripled in the last eight years, and even though the chances of being granted asylum are minimal for Nigerians, the numbers continue to rise.
What is unusual compared to other groups of migrants and refugees is that much more than 50 percent of the Nigerian migrants are women. The Edo State in Nigeria is thus one among a few places primarily in the Global South, from where women in particular travel to the Global North for marriage, the sex industry or to become involved in trafficking. From here women most often travel through so-called ’intimate migrations’ – that is, the migration is linked to contact with a man or men, sex clients or husbands.
The flows of intimate migrations are growing rapidly on a global scale. The research project I am responsible for, Women, Sex and Borders – Seeing Migration, Sex Work and Trafficking from the Global South, looks at this phenomenon through fieldwork in two sites – Edo state in Nigeria and Isaan in the North-eastern Thailand. In these areas, female migration is an everyday condition, a strategy, and an emotional state. Children miss their mothers abroad, old parents are dependent on the money being sent home, and everyone knows someone with a daughter in Europe.
Here, information on new migration laws are received over the phone from the people who already left, read on Facebook or heard through village gossip. In these areas, both families and development depend on the money migrants send. But things are getting harder, as migration control is blocking the usual routes to Europe. Becky is not the first migrant I have worked with, who has died as a result – direct or indirect – of migration and/or border control.
As long as the man pays
Becky didn’t want to go to Europe just because she was poor or wanted ‘real’ goods. She also wanted to be free. She wanted to free herself from her family’s and Nigeria’s shackles. Before she attempted to get to Europe the first time she converted from Islam to Christianity. She was raised in a Muslim family in the inland state of Adamawa, where Boko Haram are now raging. But “Muslim women don’t travel to Europe and do what I want to do”, Becky explained. So she travelled to Southern Nigeria and became a Christian. She wanted to decide for herself whom to date; her family didn’t want to meet her non-Muslim boyfriends. But as she explained, “I want to live like a white woman – I want to decide for myself’.
The first time she tried to reach Europe she used the money that her father had given for school to pay for her counterfeit travel documents. But she was stopped at the airport. Nigerian border control officers are trained by European police officers to detect counterfeit documents and in particular to prevent women who are under suspicion of travelling via a trafficking network. The women are stopped before they get on the plane – and this causes great frustration, costing them a ticket and the chance to reach Europe. They are often placed in counter-trafficking centres in Nigeria, paid for by donations from European countries, in an attempt to make them give up their dream of Europe.
This didn’t stop Becky – for her it meant that she couldn’t get on a plane, but had to choose a longer and even more dangerous and expensive journey through the Sahara desert. Becky knew that she was going to sell sex to make money if she came to Europe. “If you don’t want to sell sex, then stay away from Europe”. She knew someone who sold sex in Italy, and this woman told her: “We make love anywhere – as long as there is a man who will pay for it”.
Becky believed that migration and selling sex was the best option she had to improve her life. “The people I have met, who have sold sex, they have looked beautiful when they came back to Nigeria”. Thus, in 2011 she began her second attempt at migration. A female ‘madam’, who was already in Italy, now paid for the travel costs.
With 36 other migrants she travelled through the Sahara desert to Libya. From Libya they would cross the Mediterranean Sea to Italy. After 10 days in the desert there was no more food and water. A young man, sitting right next to Becky on the back of the truck, died.
When they finally arrived in Libya, the civil war broke loose, and it was no longer possible to cross the sea. After hiding in Libya for two months she had to go back to Nigeria. On the way back her friend died.
The friend was nine months pregnant with a Libyan man’s baby, a sex client she had met while they were waiting to cross the ocean. She went in labour in the desert, but the placenta was stuck. A fellow travelling woman told them that the placenta could be pushed out, if the woman giving birth bit hard in a spoon. The little group of women and men stood by helplessly and watched as she died.
Now Becky had a dead friend and a new-born baby in her arms. She delivered the baby to its grandmother in Benin City with a message that her daughter would call soon. Since then the film about Becky did well and sometimes it was possible to get money from screenings around the world. We sent the money to Becky. But the small amount of money and two failed attempts did not make her give up her dream of Europe, and towards the end of 2015 she tried again.
Women as smugglers
Becky’s third attempt was also through the desert. Before that she asked me if I knew whether boats were still arriving in Italy from Libya. “Yes, they do”, I said. “But Becky, it’s very dangerous. Don’t travel that way. Have you heard about all the boats that sink in the Mediterranean?”
“Yes, of course I know”, Becky replied, “I watch everyday on CNN. But I’m not afraid. If I die, I don’t care. If I get the opportunity to cross the sea, I will do it. I won’t stop before I reach Italy. I’ll do it for me and my family. But I hope that my madam can take me on a plane to Italy”. Becky’s madam wanted €60,000 to get Becky to Italy by sea. But then something happened – Becky negotiated the amount down to €30,000. In return, she would travel around Edo state and find five other women to bring along. Becky became an agent and a smuggler herself.
Typically, the images we see of trafficking or smuggling are dominated by tragedy, exploitation and death – and all are perpetuated by men. We see images of the trafficker – a man in handcuffs – and what arises are thoughts of the criminal, deviant man from the Global South.
Women, on the other hand, are portrayed as victims who are transported passively, and – as I have earlier written – often drown. But women are not just passive in this process. They may not be the captains of any ship, but research shows that women also take part in this and other parts of the ‘migration industry’. Women recruit, negotiate prices, instalment plans, collect wire transfers, clean the temporary housing where migrants sleep before they can be smuggled, cook the food, and some are drivers.
Research on human trafficking and smuggling shows that there are three typical ways into the world of smuggling: 1) via social networks or “the entrepreneurship of coincidence”; 2) the person seeks out or is at the place where the demand for smuggling exists; 3) the smuggling act is part of the woman’s own migratory journey – as it was for Becky.
One of the last photos she sent me was a selfie of her with four other woman – all of them all dressed up with make-up. These were the women who were going with her to Europe, and they were drinking beer at a bar on plastic chairs in Benin City to celebrate that they would begin their journey to Europe the next day. A farewell party.
Becky against the world
Becky’s life is a portrait of political and economic reality. A kind of microcosm of the world situation. Her life provides important insights into the many conditions that determine the routes of migrants, of small, lived and dreaming human life that is complicated and made impossible by conditions that are out of control.
Becky’s trajectories were entangled with everything from Islam (which she converted from); Boko Haram (who up until now have killed six of her family members); the fall of Gaddafi in Libya (which thwarted her second attempt to reach Europe); the EU’s migration controls (which forced her to indebt herself to get to Italy); and corruption in Nigeria (a rich country where wealth is not distributed fairly).
Becky asked me: “What do I say Sine when I get to Italy, if the police take me? Do I say that I’m a victim of trafficking or that I escaped Boko Haram?” The line between migrant and refugee is not always clear. Many are both at the same time.
Her third attempt to reach Europe did not succeed – she had to turn around, and was stopped in Niger. On the way back she got pregnant. The baby died in her womb, and she died, because the doctor’s attempts to get the baby out in a worn down clinic failed. Becky died of something as common as pregnancy. Just like her friend in the desert.
This blog was originally post by Open Democracy on 10 October 2016.
Dr Sine Plambech is a post-doc anthropologist at the Danish Institute for International Studies (DIIS) and a former research fellow at Columbia University in New York. Her research interests include Nigerian sex workers in Europe and their deportation, as well as the sex work and marriage migration of Thai women. She combines her academic work with directing documentaries, most recently Becky’s Journey. This has so far resulted in four award winning documentaries on the topics of international migration, sex work and human trafficking. Follow her on Twitter @sineplambech.