thenation--2020-10-30--Making Room for the Real

Making Room for the Real

The halal cart operator at 65th Street and Broadway used to get a lot of business from me in late September and early October , even though his fare , to be candid , was less than superb .
( “ How is that even possible ?
” passersby have heard me ask .
“ You ran out of falafel ?
” ) But this year , with the New York Film Festival being presented online and at drive-in screenings , I had no need to sit on the steps of Alice Tully Hall gulping cheap meals between shows , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he survive these hard times ) .
I missed even the heartburn and the crush in the lobby , the chairs that jiggle when someone shifts weight five seats down , and the smartphones that are never turned off .
I missed old faces , conversations on the fly , and the hope , when the hall goes dark , that the next thing to spring into view will be a revelation .
I missed feeding myself on films .
Displacement and loss were built into NYFF this year ; and so it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me the most , out of those I had time to stream at home , was Chloé Zhao ’ s quasi-fictional , quasi-documentary road trip to nowhere , Nomadland .
Zhao found her subject in Jessica Bruder ’ s book of the same title , which reports on older Americans who can not subsist on their Social Security benefits and have lost their fixed abodes and so choose to travel the Great Plains and West in vans and campers , resting in RV grounds and the more congenial parking lots and picking up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the movie version , Frances McDormand does not star as one of these people .
Zhao has no desire to make her , or anyone , shine brighter than the shifting community of nomads or stand out from the texture of the landscape—shown in twilight and mist much of the time , but always changing and always enthralling .
Nor does McDormand betray a shred of the self-regard that usually goes with a lead performance .
Hair cropped short and plastered flat to her head , the lines around her eyes and mouth @ @ @ @ @ @ @ McDormand listens as much as she talks , watches as much as she takes action , in the role of Fern , a widow whose town of Empire , Nev. , became an empty shell after its sole employer , US Gypsum , pulled out .
Zhao prefers to observe such abandonment rather than comment on it—except late in the film , when she articulates Bruder ’ s sociological themes with maybe a little too much punch .
She ’ s also inclined to let viewers decide for themselves that they care about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sympathy with a plot .
An understated drama do es gradually emerge , about a tentative attraction between Fern and another wanderer ( the ever-reliable David Strathairn ) .
For the most part , though , Nomadland captures you in the simplest and most difficult way possible : by catching you up in the rhythms of its people ’ s lives , the fullness of their existence ( focused at one moment on plastic buckets of excrement , at the next on the night sky ) , and above all the interactions between @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , bearing the indelible faces and voices they took years to earn .
These people have no place to call their own , and yet they made Nomadland the most inhabited film in the festival .
The NYFF slate has a history of making room for fiction films that incorporate the real , and documentaries that play out with the fluidity of fiction .
( Think of the work of Mohsen Makhmalbaf and Abbas Kiarostami or the Hoop Dreams team .
Think of Hou Hsiao-hsien and Agnès Varda . )
Such hybridity was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Carry You With Me , Heidi Ewing ’ s first narrative feature , made without her documentary codirector , Rachel Grady .
It ’ s the story of life partners Iván and Gerardo , undocumented immigrants from Mexico who today , in middle age , run a successful restaurant in New York City and are longtime friends of Ewing .
You see them as they are now , in unscripted moments at work and at home ; and in extended sequences shot in Mexico , intercut with the present-day scenes like long , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Armando Espitia and Christian Vásquez re-create the lives of Iván and Gerardo as young men , clandestinely falling in love , deciding to take their chances in the US ( first one , then the other ) , and struggling once they ’ re in New York to rise out of abject poverty .
More than once during their hardest years , Iván and Gerardo say to each other , “ They hate us here , ” a galling judgment that continues to linger in the present day , with its punitive immigration @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , turns out to be Ewing ’ s theme .
For all the sadness at the heart of the story she ’ s composed , love conquers all—and the young Iván turns out to be justified when he tells Gerardo that America makes room for talent .
Hope and love surviving against all odds is also the theme of the festival ’ s outstanding not-quite-documentary feature by Garrett Bradley , Time .
A title that ’ s cunning in its brevity : she means “ time to be served , ” as in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s Angola penitentiary to which Robert Richardson was sentenced in 1999 for a desperate , botched armed robbery , but also “ time passing , ” as in the years of family life without husband and father that Rob ’ s devoted wife , Fox Rich , painstakingly recorded on videocassettes so he might see his children grow up .
The videos also condense a kind of growing up for Fox over some 20 years , as she matures from an ebullient and love-struck young woman into the triple identity of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ business , a motivational speaker advocating for criminal justice reform , and a tireless fighter for Rob ’ s release from prison .
Fox has a personality big enough to burst most documentaries , so Bradley wisely does not try to contain her .
She combines material from Fox ’ s videos , to which she was granted access , with exquisite present-day black-and-white footage and a soundtrack of remarkable vintage piano music by Emahoy Tsegué-Maryam Guèbrou , creating a free-flowing montage that moves in response to emotion rather than the calendar .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Time to RaMell Ross ’ s already-classic Hale County This Morning , This Evening as an impressionistic immersion into Black life in the South , or to Richard Linklater ’ s Boyhood as a daring humanistic experiment in making duration a subject in itself .
But Bradley is her own artist .
The big finale she ’ s devised for Time—cathartic , imaginative , almost shockingly intimate—makes something ecstatic out of the social justice documentary , while establishing her as one of the festival ’ s new standard-bearers .
One of the world @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rosi ( Sacro GRA , Fire at Sea ) , returned to the festival this year with his astonishing Notturno , an almost handmade film for which he recorded the images and sound himself , traveling for three years among Kurds , Sunnis , Shiites , Alawites , and Yazidis on the war-ravaged borders of Syria , Lebanon , Iraq , and Kurdistan .
It ’ s a film of aftermaths .
You witness only what remains from battle : black-draped women mourning in a now-empty citadel where their sons died , children @ @ @ @ @ @ @ terrors of the Islamic State , patients in a psychiatric hospital rehearsing a play about war , a unit of Peshmerga women scanning the horizon , jump-suited former ISIS fighters crammed into a cell , a boy going out to the roadside each dawn to be hired as a day laborer for hunters ( or poachers ) so he can bring home a few coins for his mother and sisters .
In the film ’ s no-time , these scenes , many of them recurring , don ’ t unfold so much as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s disconcertingly elegiac landscapes of low horizon lines and muted light .
He makes Notturno almost too pretty—but since he lacks the confidence in human resilience that infuses the work of some other NYFF directors , pretty is as much solace as he can give .
As for Steve McQueen : this year ’ s festival was all in for him , selecting three of the films in his made-for-BBC Small Axe series about London ’ s West Indian community from the 1960s to the 1980s .
I caught two : the festival @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , about blossoming romance at a house party on Ladbroke Road , and Mangrove , based on the true story of a restaurant in Notting Hill that became a rallying place for its neighborhood and a target of relentless police violence .
Neither of these films is a disaster , like McQueen ’ s earlier festival selection Shame or his barely competent gangster picture Widows .
Neither rises above pretty good .
As the less ambitious of the two , coming in at just over an hour ’ s running time , Lovers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Martha ( Amarah-Jae St. Aubyn ) to the house party she crashes , where she catches the attention of smooth-talking Franklyn ( Micheal Ward ) , McQueen is content to spend much of his time roaming through people packed into close quarters ( with no space to back up , the camera can show little more than body parts ) as they dance to the DJ ’ s anthology of early ’ 80s soul hits .
The effect , though attenuated and far from novel , is steadily engaging .
It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that McQueen has felt obligated to sprinkle throughout , each laboriously foreshadowed and then thuddingly achieved .
Mangrove is the greater disappointment , as the full-length picture addressing a more urgent subject .
To be clear , there are many good reasons to revisit an episode of Black resistance to police repression in the late 1960s and early ’ 70s .
But there are also many approaches to making historical films .
In Polonius mode , I could list the sub-genres as spectacular , romantic , melodramatic , satirical , fantastical , counterfactual @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) The Scarlet Empress .
McQueen , unfortunately , pursues none of these , defaulting to the didactic .
Why he thinks somebody elected him to be teacher I can ’ t say , but he has treated the exchanges of dialogue in Mangrove , and even the physiognomies of his chosen cast , as so many blackboards on which to print his lessons .
In case you miss a block-lettered point , he pushes the actors to convert it into telegraphy .
( In the role of a Black Panther leader , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to signal a moment of despair by wrinkling her chin up and down for half the scene , as if she were a 5-year-old trying not to bawl . )
To compensate for this pedestrianism , or perhaps assert his claim to being a galleries-and-museums artist , McQueen then diverts your attention with showy but arbitrary shots : an overturned restaurant colander rolling endlessly on the floor , cigarette smoke pouring and pouring out of a man ’ s nostrils , the out-of-focus belly of a prisoner bumping back and forth against the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mishmash with a 40-minute trial sequence complete with heroic speeches , it ’ s clear that he hopes to be rousing—and I ’ m sure plenty of people will go along with being roused .
When audiences want to stand up and cheer , almost nothing will stop them .
Permit me to keep my seat .
And permit me to mention , in passing , two relevant but contrasting festival selections : Ephraim Asili ’ s The Inheritance and David Dufresne ’ s The Monopoly of Violence .
The first , another @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the exhilarating and frustrating course of young Julian ( Eric Lockley ) , who has received the bequest of his grandmother ’ s house cum Black liberationist bookstore in Philadelphia and is converting it , perhaps a bit ingenuously , into a radical collective , encouraged by his maybe girlfriend , Gwen ( Nozipho Mclean ) .
Made under the influence of Godard ’ s La Chinoise , a poster for which hangs on the kitchen wall , The Inheritance features lectures and testimonies from Black revolutionaries of the recent past ( including @ @ @ @ @ @ @ collages into the often amusing flailings of his fictitious collective .
Offering a perspective on an uprising outside the US—the yellow vest movement in France—The Monopoly of Violence confronts selected protesters , social scientists , and historians with large-scale video images of clashes with the police , eliciting the viewers ’ readings of exactly what happened and how the dynamic of legitimate versus illegitimate violence has played out between the state and the public .
Because it ’ s French , The Monopoly of Violence is roughly twice as theoretical as any English-language @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eloquent .
It demotes McQueen ’ s lessons to kindergarten level .
Since I don ’ t want to make it seem as if this year ’ s festival had no regard for pure fiction , let me give thanks for Isabella , which as Matías Piñeiro ’ s latest foray into Shakespearean themes and the truth of playacting is as pure as it gets .
This time , Piñeiro imagines that a self-serious Buenos Aires troupe is preparing to produce Measure for Measure .
Mariel ( María Villar ) , pregnant , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ career , may or may not want to play the lead , may or may not trust the brother who is embedded in the troupe , and may or may not feel rivaled by her friend Luciana ( Agustina Muñoz ) , who already seems to have landed the role .
It ’ s all very labile and multilayered , and despite that is as fresh as the breeze .
Congratulations as well to Chaitanya Tamhane ( Court ) for his second feature , The Disciple , a subtly mordant tale about willing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the world of Indian classical music .
Making his film debut , the open-faced , watchful Aditya Modak plays 20-ish Sharad , twice oppressed as the son of an obsessively failed musician and the apprentice of a master singer who supposedly is too ascetic to accept worldly success .
Making Sharad ’ s situation all the worse , he ’ s living in contemporary Mumbai .
As a decade and more grinds on , Sharad ’ s persistence looks less and less admirable and more and more like holy foolishness , until at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ modernity itself : the image of a blond model , her lips parted , who beckons to him in slow motion from a row of video billboards .
Two cheers for the flesh and one more for commercialism !
The New York Film Festival serves neither of those masters , of course ; but despite its high-mindedness , it has once again paid them their due , mixing pleasure with social conscience in its selections , and just a tad of low fun with intellection .
I ’ m as satisfied as I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at the halal cart .

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The halal cart operator at 65th Street and Broadway used to get a lot of business from me in late September and early October, even though his fare, to be candid, was less than superb. (“How is that even possible?” passersby have heard me ask. “You ran out of falafel?”) But this year, with the New York Film Festival being presented online and at drive-in screenings, I had no need to sit on the steps of Alice Tully Hall gulping cheap meals between shows, and I missed my guy (may he survive these hard times). I missed even the heartburn and the crush in the lobby, the chairs that jiggle when someone shifts weight five seats down, and the smartphones that are never turned off. I missed old faces, conversations on the fly, and the hope, when the hall goes dark, that the next thing to spring into view will be a revelation. I missed feeding myself on films.
Displacement and loss were built into NYFF this year; and so it seems fitting that the selection that moved me the most, out of those I had time to stream at home, was Chloé Zhao’s quasi-fictional, quasi-documentary road trip to nowhere, Nomadland.
Zhao found her subject in Jessica Bruder’s book of the same title, which reports on older Americans who cannot subsist on their Social Security benefits and have lost their fixed abodes and so choose to travel the Great Plains and West in vans and campers, resting in RV grounds and the more congenial parking lots and picking up seasonal work along the way. In the movie version, Frances McDormand does not star as one of these people. Zhao has no desire to make her, or anyone, shine brighter than the shifting community of nomads or stand out from the texture of the landscape—shown in twilight and mist much of the time, but always changing and always enthralling. Nor does McDormand betray a shred of the self-regard that usually goes with a lead performance. Hair cropped short and plastered flat to her head, the lines around her eyes and mouth exposed to the light without embarrassment, McDormand listens as much as she talks, watches as much as she takes action, in the role of Fern, a widow whose town of Empire, Nev., became an empty shell after its sole employer, US Gypsum, pulled out. Zhao prefers to observe such abandonment rather than comment on it—except late in the film, when she articulates Bruder’s sociological themes with maybe a little too much punch.
She’s also inclined to let viewers decide for themselves that they care about the characters, rather than prod their sympathy with a plot. An understated drama do es gradually emerge, about a tentative attraction between Fern and another wanderer (the ever-reliable David Strathairn). For the most part, though, Nomadland captures you in the simplest and most difficult way possible: by catching you up in the rhythms of its people’s lives, the fullness of their existence (focused at one moment on plastic buckets of excrement, at the next on the night sky), and above all the interactions between McDormand and a cast of real nomads, bearing the indelible faces and voices they took years to earn. These people have no place to call their own, and yet they made Nomadland the most inhabited film in the festival.
The NYFF slate has a history of making room for fiction films that incorporate the real, and documentaries that play out with the fluidity of fiction. (Think of the work of Mohsen Makhmalbaf and Abbas Kiarostami or the Hoop Dreams team. Think of Hou Hsiao-hsien and Agnès Varda.) Such hybridity was especially prominent this year—for example in I Carry You With Me, Heidi Ewing’s first narrative feature, made without her documentary codirector, Rachel Grady. It’s the story of life partners Iván and Gerardo, undocumented immigrants from Mexico who today, in middle age, run a successful restaurant in New York City and are longtime friends of Ewing. You see them as they are now, in unscripted moments at work and at home; and in extended sequences shot in Mexico, intercut with the present-day scenes like long, contrasting flashbacks, you see the actors Armando Espitia and Christian Vásquez re-create the lives of Iván and Gerardo as young men, clandestinely falling in love, deciding to take their chances in the US (first one, then the other), and struggling once they’re in New York to rise out of abject poverty. More than once during their hardest years, Iván and Gerardo say to each other, “They hate us here,” a galling judgment that continues to linger in the present day, with its punitive immigration policies. But hope, not despair, turns out to be Ewing’s theme. For all the sadness at the heart of the story she’s composed, love conquers all—and the young Iván turns out to be justified when he tells Gerardo that America makes room for talent. Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann
Hope and love surviving against all odds is also the theme of the festival’s outstanding not-quite-documentary feature by Garrett Bradley, Time. A title that’s cunning in its brevity: she means “time to be served,” as in the 60 years without parole in Louisiana’s Angola penitentiary to which Robert Richardson was sentenced in 1999 for a desperate, botched armed robbery, but also “time passing,” as in the years of family life without husband and father that Rob’s devoted wife, Fox Rich, painstakingly recorded on videocassettes so he might see his children grow up. The videos also condense a kind of growing up for Fox over some 20 years, as she matures from an ebullient and love-struck young woman into the triple identity of a tough, poised entrepreneur with a used-car business, a motivational speaker advocating for criminal justice reform, and a tireless fighter for Rob’s release from prison.
Fox has a personality big enough to burst most documentaries, so Bradley wisely does not try to contain her. She combines material from Fox’s videos, to which she was granted access, with exquisite present-day black-and-white footage and a soundtrack of remarkable vintage piano music by Emahoy Tsegué-Maryam Guèbrou, creating a free-flowing montage that moves in response to emotion rather than the calendar. Grasping for comparisons, I might liken Time to RaMell Ross’s already-classic Hale County This Morning, This Evening as an impressionistic immersion into Black life in the South, or to Richard Linklater’s Boyhood as a daring humanistic experiment in making duration a subject in itself. But Bradley is her own artist. The big finale she’s devised for Time—cathartic, imaginative, almost shockingly intimate—makes something ecstatic out of the social justice documentary, while establishing her as one of the festival’s new standard-bearers. Current Issue View our current issue
One of the world’s already recognized standard-bearers, Gianfranco Rosi (Sacro GRA, Fire at Sea), returned to the festival this year with his astonishing Notturno, an almost handmade film for which he recorded the images and sound himself, traveling for three years among Kurds, Sunnis, Shiites, Alawites, and Yazidis on the war-ravaged borders of Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, and Kurdistan. It’s a film of aftermaths. You witness only what remains from battle: black-draped women mourning in a now-empty citadel where their sons died, children making drawings for a teacher-therapist about the terrors of the Islamic State, patients in a psychiatric hospital rehearsing a play about war, a unit of Peshmerga women scanning the horizon, jump-suited former ISIS fighters crammed into a cell, a boy going out to the roadside each dawn to be hired as a day laborer for hunters (or poachers) so he can bring home a few coins for his mother and sisters. In the film’s no-time, these scenes, many of them recurring, don’t unfold so much as take place, filtering into Rosi’s disconcertingly elegiac landscapes of low horizon lines and muted light. He makes Notturno almost too pretty—but since he lacks the confidence in human resilience that infuses the work of some other NYFF directors, pretty is as much solace as he can give.
As for Steve McQueen: this year’s festival was all in for him, selecting three of the films in his made-for-BBC Small Axe series about London’s West Indian community from the 1960s to the 1980s. I caught two: the festival’s opening-night feature, Lovers Rock, about blossoming romance at a house party on Ladbroke Road, and Mangrove, based on the true story of a restaurant in Notting Hill that became a rallying place for its neighborhood and a target of relentless police violence. Neither of these films is a disaster, like McQueen’s earlier festival selection Shame or his barely competent gangster picture Widows. Neither rises above pretty good.
As the less ambitious of the two, coming in at just over an hour’s running time, Lovers Rock is also the better. Following Martha (Amarah-Jae St. Aubyn) to the house party she crashes, where she catches the attention of smooth-talking Franklyn (Micheal Ward), McQueen is content to spend much of his time roaming through people packed into close quarters (with no space to back up, the camera can show little more than body parts) as they dance to the DJ’s anthology of early ’80s soul hits. The effect, though attenuated and far from novel, is steadily engaging. It’s also preferable to the moments of drama that McQueen has felt obligated to sprinkle throughout, each laboriously foreshadowed and then thuddingly achieved.
Mangrove is the greater disappointment, as the full-length picture addressing a more urgent subject. To be clear, there are many good reasons to revisit an episode of Black resistance to police repression in the late 1960s and early ’70s. But there are also many approaches to making historical films. In Polonius mode, I could list the sub-genres as spectacular, romantic, melodramatic, satirical, fantastical, counterfactual, crypto-contemporary, or (in combination) The Scarlet Empress. McQueen, unfortunately, pursues none of these, defaulting to the didactic. Why he thinks somebody elected him to be teacher I can’t say, but he has treated the exchanges of dialogue in Mangrove, and even the physiognomies of his chosen cast, as so many blackboards on which to print his lessons. In case you miss a block-lettered point, he pushes the actors to convert it into telegraphy. (In the role of a Black Panther leader, the usually electric Letitia Wright is forced to signal a moment of despair by wrinkling her chin up and down for half the scene, as if she were a 5-year-old trying not to bawl.) To compensate for this pedestrianism, or perhaps assert his claim to being a galleries-and-museums artist, McQueen then diverts your attention with showy but arbitrary shots: an overturned restaurant colander rolling endlessly on the floor, cigarette smoke pouring and pouring out of a man’s nostrils, the out-of-focus belly of a prisoner bumping back and forth against the lens. Considering that McQueen concludes this mishmash with a 40-minute trial sequence complete with heroic speeches, it’s clear that he hopes to be rousing—and I’m sure plenty of people will go along with being roused. When audiences want to stand up and cheer, almost nothing will stop them. Permit me to keep my seat.
And permit me to mention, in passing, two relevant but contrasting festival selections: Ephraim Asili’s The Inheritance and David Dufresne’s The Monopoly of Violence. The first, another hybrid of fiction and documentary, follows the exhilarating and frustrating course of young Julian (Eric Lockley), who has received the bequest of his grandmother’s house cum Black liberationist bookstore in Philadelphia and is converting it, perhaps a bit ingenuously, into a radical collective, encouraged by his maybe girlfriend, Gwen (Nozipho Mclean). Made under the influence of Godard’s La Chinoise, a poster for which hangs on the kitchen wall, The Inheritance features lectures and testimonies from Black revolutionaries of the recent past (including veterans of MOVE), which Asili collages into the often amusing flailings of his fictitious collective.
Offering a perspective on an uprising outside the US—the yellow vest movement in France—The Monopoly of Violence confronts selected protesters, social scientists, and historians with large-scale video images of clashes with the police, eliciting the viewers’ readings of exactly what happened and how the dynamic of legitimate versus illegitimate violence has played out between the state and the public. Because it’s French, The Monopoly of Violence is roughly twice as theoretical as any English-language documentary would be, and twice as eloquent. It demotes McQueen’s lessons to kindergarten level.
Since I don’t want to make it seem as if this year’s festival had no regard for pure fiction, let me give thanks for Isabella, which as Matías Piñeiro’s latest foray into Shakespearean themes and the truth of playacting is as pure as it gets. This time, Piñeiro imagines that a self-serious Buenos Aires troupe is preparing to produce Measure for Measure. Mariel (María Villar), pregnant, broke, and perpetually blocked in her career, may or may not want to play the lead, may or may not trust the brother who is embedded in the troupe, and may or may not feel rivaled by her friend Luciana (Agustina Muñoz), who already seems to have landed the role. It’s all very labile and multilayered, and despite that is as fresh as the breeze.
Congratulations as well to Chaitanya Tamhane (Court) for his second feature, The Disciple, a subtly mordant tale about willing subjugation, generation after generation, in the world of Indian classical music. Making his film debut, the open-faced, watchful Aditya Modak plays 20-ish Sharad, twice oppressed as the son of an obsessively failed musician and the apprentice of a master singer who supposedly is too ascetic to accept worldly success. Making Sharad’s situation all the worse, he’s living in contemporary Mumbai. As a decade and more grinds on, Sharad’s persistence looks less and less admirable and more and more like holy foolishness, until at last he comes to a stop before modernity itself: the image of a blond model, her lips parted, who beckons to him in slow motion from a row of video billboards.
Two cheers for the flesh and one more for commercialism! The New York Film Festival serves neither of those masters, of course; but despite its high-mindedness, it has once again paid them their due, mixing pleasure with social conscience in its selections, and just a tad of low fun with intellection. I’m as satisfied as I can be, for now—but next year at the halal cart.


Catasterism

Many a night I saw the Pleiads , rising through the mellow shade , Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.–—Lord Tennyson Winter is my nightlong field .
Cruel , yet yet after leaving my mother ’ s warm water , I wept snow .
And when my tongue tastes the first flake , I quiet .
Sometimes , I pull from my pocket a telescope .
In the sky , light collapses , the moon cranked up like a cry signal .
Last January , beneath a sky of scorpions , fish , the bull @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s body .
Seven bodies .
Sister bodies .
Grieving for the fate of their father , Atlas , forced to carry the heavens forever , they kill themselves .
Zeus pins them as a clot of winter stars .
On the third day , my mother ’ s fat tongue flexes as she sounds the ink blue glyphs of my name , each letter rattling her knucklebones as she writes it .
A fearful undertaking , God-like task .
Yet the stars were named by people like us .
Choose one word @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a blaze builds in the basin of your mouth : لنّظم Alnilam , String of Pearls راقصة Ar-Raqis , The Trotting Camel اخرج من النهر Achemar , End of the River I could have been called after seven anythings : seven seas , seven heavens , seven ahruf the Holy Qur ’ an was revealed in .
Instead I am named after seven hot orbs of gas , the ghosts of goddesses , daughters dangling in sorrow .
When I sleep , God threads me through a catasterism .
I am embraced as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ backdrop of blackness .
We evade المنطقة Mintaqa–— Orion ’ s pursuit for our love , flash paths for the lost , catch and groom the wish a little girl whispers .
I wish we could bless ourselves into fast comets , firecrackers , the pearled wilderness of the moon .
And our fathers tie us in a knotted braid : both work too hard , carry so much weight on their shoulders .
Fifty years ago , my father learned resistance is found above , in the stars held together by their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the whole night , yet a boy can ’ t even keep his home .
Since our last move he told me , Each of my wounds carries a wounded man , and–—snow in my eyes , snow in my mouth , wet hands iced speech , snow soaking my socks red–— I believed him .
I want to ask him about the scar .
And when do you feel most weary ?
Do you find yourself holding up ceilings , sweeping crumpled lifespans off the floor the way I do ?
Lorca @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , says , Place these in your father ’ s heart .
Says , The rose is as white as his pain .
I see my father ’ s rush : time hugs him tight as he stuffs a suitcase before fajr , sneaks into a smoky slipstream from tanks at the corner , stiff-thin shoulders shrouded in morning mist .
When he first met snow his words became corpses .
There was no name for it .
In the blizzard his eyes never shut , face pressed into the ground , cold @ @ @ @ @ @ @ smell its history .
Before he wakes I leave a bowl of melted snow by his bed .
The winter water coils him into his own constellation .
From my window , his soul dives into darkness scissor kicking into a pool of space .
For once , he is held : erected mosque , mountained , inexhaustible .
In the sky , he isn ’ t a body anymore–— endless and ethereal , waiting to be noticed , waiting to be named .

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.–—Lord Tennyson
Winter is my nightlong field. Cruel, yet
yet after leaving my mother’s warm water, I wept
snow. And when my tongue tastes
the first flake, I quiet. Sometimes, I pull from my pocket
a telescope. In the sky, light
collapses, the moon cranked up
like a cry signal. Last January,
beneath a sky of scorpions, fish, the bull all scintillating–—
I found a girl’s body.
Seven bodies. Sister bodies. Grieving
for the fate of their father, Atlas,
forced to carry the heavens forever, they kill themselves.
Zeus pins them
as a clot
of winter stars.
On the third day, my mother’s fat tongue flexes
as she sounds the ink blue
glyphs of my name, each letter
rattling her knucklebones
as she writes it. A fearful undertaking, God-like task.
Yet the stars were named
by people like us. Choose
one word. Say it over
and over until a blaze builds
in the basin of your mouth:
لنّظم Alnilam, String of Pearls
راقصة Ar-Raqis, The Trotting Camel
اخرج من النهر Achemar, End of the River
I could have been called
after seven anythings:
seven seas, seven heavens,
seven ahruf the Holy Qur’an was revealed in. Instead
I am named after seven hot orbs
of gas, the ghosts
of goddesses, daughters dangling
in sorrow. When I sleep, God threads me through a catasterism.
I am embraced
as their eighth sister
burning brightly
in the backdrop of blackness. We evade المنطقة Mintaqa–—
Orion’s pursuit
for our love,
flash paths for the lost,
catch and groom the wish a little girl whispers.
I wish
we could bless ourselves
into fast comets, firecrackers,
the pearled wilderness of the moon. And our fathers
tie us in a knotted braid:
both work too hard,
carry so much weight
on their shoulders.
Fifty years ago, my father learned
resistance is found above, in the stars
held together by their own gravity.
How their heat owns the whole night, yet a boy
can’t even keep his home.
Since our last move
he told me, Each of my wounds
carries a wounded man, and–—snow in my eyes,
snow in my mouth, wet
hands iced speech, snow
soaking my socks red–—
I believed him. I want to ask him about the scar.
And when do you feel
most weary?
Do you find yourself
holding up ceilings, sweeping crumpled
lifespans off the floor
the way I do?
Lorca gives me
a vague trembling of stars, says, Place these
in your father’s heart.
Says, The rose is as white
as his pain.
I see my father’s rush: time hugs him
tight as he stuffs a suitcase
before fajr, sneaks into a smoky slipstream
from tanks at the corner, stiff-thin shoulders shrouded
in morning mist.
When he first
met snow
his words became corpses. There was no name
for it. In the blizzard
his eyes never shut,
face pressed
into the ground, cold avalanche up his nostrils
so he can smell
its history.
Before he wakes
I leave a bowl of melted snow by his bed.
The winter water
coils him into his own
constellation.
From my window, his soul dives into darkness
scissor kicking
into a pool of space.
For once, he is held:
erected mosque, mountained, inexhaustible.
In the sky, he isn’t a body anymore–—
endless and ethereal,
waiting to be noticed, waiting to be named.
N


thenation--2020-10-30--For Persian Gulf Migrant Workers, the Pandemic Has Amplified Systemic Discrimination

On March 20 , Susmi Gurung , a 29-year-old migrant worker from Nepal , began her day as usual .
She awoke in the room she shared with nine other employees of Transguard Group , the United Arab Emirates–based company that had placed her in customer service at the Dubai International Airport nearly three years prior .
The room was one of many , packed and utilitarian , that made up the Al Quoz 10 labor camp , one of many such camps in the industrial zone south of the city center .
Before long , Gurung ’ s routine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her supervisor , who informed her that her employment—and salary—would be suspended indefinitely because of the rapidly deepening Covid-19 crisis .
Overnight , Gurung found herself stranded without income , nearly 2,000 miles from her husband and 7-year-old daughter , as the world descended into a pandemic .
“ We were all very scared , ” she recalled to me in a phone call , describing the swift lockdown that followed , adding that the company ’ s Covid-19 protection measures were minimal .
“ They put hand sanitizer out and gave each @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to keep washing and reusing for months .
But they weren ’ t testing us.
” Some of the workers were still required to report for duty , leaving Gurung terrified that they ’ d “ bring the virus back with them ” and spread it around the camp .
She recalls that these workers were given temperature checks upon return—a measure that detects only those cases in which a fever is present , but can miss many others .
She started to hear rumors of infections breaking out in the camp , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were sure we ’ d get sick.
” Gurung ’ s terror of falling ill was compounded by the loss of her monthly salary of 1,100 AED ( the Emirati dirham , roughly equivalent to $ 300 ) .
Although Transguard continued to offer free food , she quickly ran through her meager savings , most of which she ’ d already sent to her family in Nepal .
“ I had nothing left , ” she said .
“ Even though the food was terrible , I couldn ’ t even go @ @ @ @ @ @ @ smallest thing.
” In April , unable to wait any longer without pay and fearing for her safety , she submitted her resignation .
The company denied her request .
As the global lockdown tightened , Gurung felt trapped—under the terms of her Transguard contract , the company retained possession of her passport .
“ There was nothing I could do .
They kept telling me , just wait , just wait.
” ( Transguard did not respond to a request for comment . )
Gurung was far from alone .
In the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by economic extremes , the Covid-19 pandemic has amplified systemic discrimination against migrant workers to life-or-death proportions .
While the governments of the six Gulf Cooperation Council ( GCC ) countries of Bahrain , Kuwait , Oman , Qatar , Saudi Arabia , and the UAE scrambled to respond to the coronavirus , millions of migrant workers found themselves abruptly deprived of income , and in many cases trapped in crowded accommodations with little access to health care or even food .
Others were shunted to quarantine or detention facilities , often in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ disease outbreaks even before the arrival of the coronavirus .
This New Book Highlights Arab Women Reporting From the Arab World ‘ On Her Shoulders ’ Honors the Courage and Tenacity of Nobel Peace Prize Winner Nadia Murad Not surprisingly , these conditions led to outbreaks among many migrant communities , says Ryszard Cholewinski , senior migration specialist for the International Labour Organization ’ s Regional Office for Arab States .
“ Through no fault of their own , many migrants were unable to observe basic precautions to protect themselves from the virus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ these communities were among the most vulnerable in these Gulf countries , even before the pandemic.
” Despite spotty testing and data collection , experts suggest that migrants have constituted the majority of Covid-19 cases in several Gulf countries , especially in the early months .
Often , such spikes were interpreted as the confirmation of xenophobic , scapegoating narratives , including claims that migrants were simply too dirty or reckless to avoid infection .
While some governments tried to move migrants from crowded accommodations into empty buildings or offer free testing , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” the virus amounted to simple abandonment .
“ Systemic racism and discrimination against migrant workers in the Gulf has been a problem for decades , ” says Rima Kalush , director of Migrant-Rights.org , a human rights group that focuses on the GCC .
“ What this crisis has made clear is that migrant workers have never been considered true members of these societies—they are viewed as temporary sources of labor , nothing more.
” Many of these “ temporary ” workers , who are estimated to number over 20 million , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ years or even decades , and their labor has been integral to the Gulf ’ s rapid , oil-backed development since at least the 1950s .
They have labored in sweltering constructions sites , staffed sprawling retail complexes , worked in restaurants , and provided round-the-clock domestic work in millions of homes .
Yet , despite their overwhelming numbers—foreign nationals make up roughly a third of the population in Saudi Arabia , 40 percent in Oman , the majority in Bahrain and Kuwait , and more than 80 percent in Qatar and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of precarity .
Even after decades of employment , these workers remain subject to the kalafa system , a carefully engineered legal limbo that , at its worst , has been likened to modern-day slavery .
Migrant workers remain at the mercy of their employer throughout their employment , and most are unable to change jobs , take a leave , or exit the country without explicit permission of their kafeel , or sponsor .
Labor laws almost uniformly favor the employer , while the scant protections afforded workers are poorly enforced , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sheer numbers of migrant workers makes them , on the one hand , ubiquitous , the kalafa system maintains the status of the migrant worker as a unit of provisional labor , categorically separate from the national population and the benefits of nationality .
During her nearly three years in the UAE , Gurung says she has rarely interacted with Emiratis .
“ I never saw Dubai , ” she recalls .
“ I only saw the airport and the camp .
You feel like the UAE citizens don ’ t even know @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her company repeatedly denied her attempts to terminate her work and return home , her isolation felt overwhelming .
“ There is no one to ask for help , ” she says , adding that she would never have dreamed of going to Emirati authorities with her complaints .
“ The UAE government ?
What do they have to do with me ?
” Kalush says this is the experience of the vast majority of migrant workers in the Gulf , even among the many who face egregious violations such as wage theft @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ Access to justice isn ’ t even a question for most .
Even if a country theoretically allows you to file a complaint , it is very rare that a worker will have the courage to do so .
Usually it leads to nothing—at the very least , you will spend months waiting for a ruling , usually without pay .
And that is in the best of times—not in a pandemic.
” Nepali “ Rasheed ” Tamang ( he asked that I use his nickname to protect his privacy ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Dammam , Saudi Arabia , and said he routinely witnessed his coworkers accepting abusive treatment .
“ If we didn ’ t work fast enough , they would yell at us and threaten us .
I saw them beating some people .
If something went missing , we got charged huge fines .
Once , a worker was hit by a forklift and broke his leg—and all we worried about was how they would punish us.
” Fed up with this treatment , Tamang , 27 , left at the end of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ Now I am so glad I left.
” Gurung , still stranded in Dubai , got word that her husband had fallen suddenly , seriously ill. She petitioned Transguard again to let her leave Dubai .
The company continued to stall , but Gurung said she never considered going to the Nepali embassy for aid .
She ’ d heard from fellow Nepalis that their government was unwilling , or unable , to help .
In the midst of the pandemic , embassies across the Gulf were swarmed with citizens applying @ @ @ @ @ @ @ midst of airport shutdowns , canceled flights , and domestic lockdowns , overwhelmed staff fielded demands from workers needing everything from Covid-19 testing to food aid to help negotiating their termination .
“ People were lining up day after day in front of the embassies , and still not being seen , ” says Kalush .
In some cases , the migrants were caught in limbo , having been jettisoned by their employers but unwelcome in home countries that were unprepared to receive a massive wave of returnees .
In some cases , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anyway—at times sending back packed flights that included passengers who tested positive for Covid-19 upon arrival .
This revealed another troubling dynamic in the migrant labor equation : the delicate balance embassies must strike between taking care of their citizens while appeasing their oil-rich hosts .
“ For many nations , there is more than a labor exchange going on—it ’ s a whole complicated power balance , ” notes Kalush .
“ Some are nervous to defend their citizens too much—they ’ re afraid if they push too hard , or ask @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wealthy countries will just take their business elsewhere.
” Other nations , such as Ethiopia , have been actively seeking more investment from Gulf nations , she adds , further freighting the repatriation debate .
“ They don ’ t want to lose those opportunities by getting into a diplomatic clash.
” For countries like Nepal and Bangladesh , which are heavily dependent on remittances from the Gulf , such fallout could be disastrous .
Last year , half of Nepal ’ s remittances and 73 percent of Bangladesh ’ s came from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on remittances has doubled in recent years , up to 30 percent of its GDP .
Countries like India and the Philippines , which have a longer history in the Gulf and a stronger diplomatic presence , says Kalush , enjoy a little more clout , but the power dynamic still favors the employing nations .
Meanwhile , countries with weaker or newer relations with Gulf countries , including most African nations , are at a severe disadvantage .
“ Their embassies are less resourced , they are less able to assist their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to accept whatever low wages or poor conditions the Gulf countries offer them.
” In the midst of the Covid crisis , even this tenuous balance has unraveled .
After months of lockdowns , many migrants have gone from supporting families back home to struggling to feed themselves and keep off the streets .
“ After all this time without an income , even the middle-class migrant workers are running out of money , showing up in lines needing food aid , ” says Kalush .
“ These are people who for years @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Cholewinski of the ILO says the impact of this crisis has upended global networks of labor and wage flows .
“ The World Bank has estimated that global remittances will drop 20 percent this year , ” he says , falling by over $ 100 billion .
This comes after years of increasing dependence on foreign-earned wages worldwide—remittances to developing countries rose from an estimated $ 76 billion in 2000 to $ 498 billion in 2018 .
Remittances from the GCC totaled about a quarter of this amount , with Saudi Arabia @ @ @ @ @ @ @ third-highest global remittance outflow .
Now , says Cholewinski , some migrants in the Gulf are actually finding themselves becoming a financial burden on their relatives back home .
“ It ’ s gotten to a point that we ’ re even seeing reverse remittances—these workers are having to ask their families to send them money so they can keep themselves fed and housed.
” Gurung found herself in a similar position , relying on small loans from friends to cover her minor expenses .
“ I had just returned from vacation in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ money , ” she says .
“ Soon , it was completely gone.
” Meanwhile , she lost precious time , and in August received devastating news : Her husband had passed away , leaving behind their 7-year-old daughter .
Gurung grew desperate .
By then , the company had begun sending some employees home—including , says Gurung , some who didn ’ t want to be repatriated .
She returned to her employers and informed them of her husband ’ s death , begging to be added to one of the Nepal-bound @ @ @ @ @ @ @ see her husband ’ s death certificate .
After submitting proof of his death , the company agreed to let her leave—but said she ’ d have to pay her own way or wait an indefinite amount of time to be put on a company-booked itinerary .
She asked to receive the end-of-service settlement due to her under her contract , but the company said they ’ d transfer the money to her after her return to Nepal .
Unable to wait , she asked her friends to lend her the money for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for August 6 .
For Mahendra , a fellow Transguard worker and Nepali citizen currently still stranded in Dubai , buying his own ticket is out of reach .
Mahendra , who declined to use his legal name to protect his safety , was placed on unpaid leave on March 21 but held out hope he ’ d be able to return to work .
For months , he passed the time between his small , shared bedroom and the compound cafeteria , where , he says , the company has provided free @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He has not been tested for Covid .
In August , exasperated , he and his roommate submitted their resignation and requested repatriation .
The company repeatedly denied their requests , along with those of scores of fellow Nepalis , citing the expense of flights back to their country .
Exasperated , Mahendra and his colleagues finally decided to take drastic action : On September 10 , they gathered roughly 200 Nepalis outside Transguard ’ s human resources office to demand action .
The same anger that fueled these Transguard employees has sparked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Gulf .
In May , for example , more than 100 construction workers in Qatar who had been completing projects for the 2022 World Cup protested unpaid wages .
The outbreak of such protests underscores the desperation felt by migrants in the Gulf—historically , their precarious legal and economic status has made unionizing and demonstrating almost unthinkable .
This despite the fact that migrant workers make up over 90 percent of private-sector employees in the UAE and Qatar , and 80 percent or higher in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait .
Mahendra says his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ security guards , but they eventually got a hearing with an HR manager .
“ They realized they couldn ’ t hold so many people for so long , ” recalls Mahendra , who is 27 .
“ They promised to do their best to send us home.
” Since then , says Mahendra , many Nepalis have been repatriated with company-booked itineraries .
He hopes his turn will come soon , but adds , “ I still have a problem .
When I get back to Kathmandu , I won ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ waiting for him , he says , are his elderly parents , whom he was previously supporting with his salary .
“ My home is very far from the city , and I don ’ t know how I ’ ll buy a bus ticket .
This is the scariest moment.
” The chaotic , shifting roles of companies , embassies , travel agencies , and individuals in the repatriation process make it difficult to determine just how many migrant workers have departed , says Kalush .
“ It ’ s clear there @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Gulf—hundreds of thousands of migrants have returned home—but the majority are still there .
In some cases , it ’ s people who have lost jobs and can ’ t get back , and in other cases , people are holding out , hoping work will resume.
” In this limbo , Gurung and Mahendra , whose lodging and food is provided by their company , might be considered the lucky ones .
For many others , says Kalush , worries about starvation eclipse fears about the virus .
“ Getting food @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” he says , “ and there has been no comprehensive plan to distribute aid .
It ’ s been piecemeal , and after all these months , whatever momentum that was there to supply aid has dwindled.
” These ad hoc efforts , carried out by private charities , individual donors , and embassies , highlight the near-total lack of civil society in the GCC .
Nongovernmental organizations are often heavily suppressed in the region , and the social services that do exist tend to cater to nationals .
While some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ workers who have tested positive , their access to other medical care , such as prenatal care for pregnant women , has been lacking , says Kalush , who adds , “ When the government fails to take care of migrants , there is often no one else to step in and plug in the gaps.
” These gaps are not incidental—they are integral to the structure of the kalafa system itself , which positions the worker as the charge of his or her sponsor , rather than a member of a social @ @ @ @ @ @ @ absolve employers of any real responsibility to their employees , says Hiba al-Ziyadin , Gulf researcher for Human Rights Watch .
“ The whole point of the kalafa system is to keep these communities controlled by employers , with as little accountability as possible , ” she says .
When problems arise , says Kalush , “ the attitude is just ship them off , and then ship them back when you need their labor again.
” As the bottleneck in repatriations continues , more migrant workers are facing the possibility of homelessness @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unpaid rent at the beginning of the pandemic , says Kalush , many are beginning to demand payment : “ Again , the government is pretty hands off—they ’ re not evicting anyone , but it ’ s left up to the individual landlords , and some are beginning to take their tenants to court and win.
” She cites Bahrain as a primary example of this troubling new trend , adding that being prosecuted for unpaid rent can result in a person being prohibited from leaving the country .
Those forced onto @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scant , even for nationals .
Throughout the crisis , the region ’ s nearly 4 million domestic workers , the majority of whom are women , have faced a unique set of challenges .
Many of them provide live-in services , including round-the-clock cleaning , cooking , child care , and elder care .
The all-encompassing nature of their work renders their condition more vulnerable , and more difficult to monitor .
For years , human rights groups have raised concerns about physical , sexual , and mental abuse of domestic workers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has only exacerbated such conditions .
“ Domestic workers are always the most at risk , ” says Kalush , “ but it ’ s also hard to know what they ’ re experiencing , given the lack of transparency.
” Even so , reports indicate that quarantine has led to increased pressure on domestic workers , whose employers are often demanding more cleaning and care as they find themselves stuck at home and fretting over contamination .
Some may be trapped indoors during lockdown , while others have been forced “ onto @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ They would be the ones accepting deliveries , going to the grocery stores , or taking the children to schools once they reopened.
” Other domestic workers , such as drivers , are likewise exposed .
The long-term mental health effects of the pandemic on migrant workers is another potentially lethal , but much-neglected , aspect of the crisis .
Even before the coronavirus , depression , anxiety , and suicide were both rampant and under-treated among migrant workers in the Gulf .
Now , after months of uncertainty , frustration @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be suffering from undiagnosed psychiatric ailments , notes Kalush .
“ This experience has been extremely traumatizing for many , and that ’ s something almost no one is talking about , let alone treating.
” As the pandemic drags on and GCC nations transition toward partial reopening , the vulnerabilities of their migrant communities remain .
For some , reopening offers at least the chance of income , but much of this work may come on a contingent or contractual basis , with even less security than former arrangements .
For many @ @ @ @ @ @ @ worked in travel , tourism , or the Gulf ’ s many now-halted development projects , the future is far more uncertain .
Much depends on oil prices , says Cholewinski .
“ Many migrant workers were in construction that was planned in accordance with [ high ] oil prices that are long gone .
Many projects have been postponed , including developments like FIFA [ the 2022 World Cup in Qatar ] and the Expo 2020 in Dubai .
That ’ s thousands of jobs .
It ’ s difficult to say @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and when that will translate back into work.
” Kalush says that even returning to work could be problematic for migrants .
“ They ’ re always on the front lines , whether in hospitals or restaurants or retail , so reopening will also mean more risk of infection.
” It remains to be seen whether the upheaval caused by the pandemic will translate into structural changes for migrants .
Meaningful change would require a fundamental reconfiguration of the relationship between host countries and the migrant laborers on whom they so critically rely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ treating migrant workers as disposable , interchangeable units of labor , and transition toward a more humane system that ensures their dignity and rights and includes them in the social fabric .
That would be a tall order , says Kalush .
“ When it comes to migrant workers , I ’ m afraid there are no lessons being learned.
” While the exposure of structural inequities in the GCC ’ s Covid-19 response has led to some promises of reform , Kalush says it is difficult to know how much actual impact @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is generally limited , and it will be difficult to monitor implementation .
“ Are we seeing societies actually plan for a future in which migrant workers are better included in society , more protected ?
So far , we ’ re not.
” The real hope , Kalush adds , comes from the sporadic incidents of activism and collective organizing .
“ The best moments have been those where migrants have found ways to mutually support one another .
That ’ s not how it should be—they shouldn ’ t have to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that at least these networks will help empower them with more knowledge on how to work the system and protect themselves.
” Back in Nepal , Gurung continues to reel from the loss of her husband .
She has not found a new job yet , but she says she has no plans to return to the Gulf .
The memories of her time in lockdown still haunt her , and though she has few prospects in Nepal , she is focusing for now on the one thing that matters most : her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the young girl ’ s voice flits in and out of range .
At one point , she clambers onto her mother ’ s lap , chattering .
Gurung ’ s voice warms as she holds Aaniya close .
“ She is a beautiful gift from my husband .
”

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On March 20, Susmi Gurung, a 29-year-old migrant worker from Nepal, began her day as usual. She awoke in the room she shared with nine other employees of Transguard Group, the United Arab Emirates–based company that had placed her in customer service at the Dubai International Airport nearly three years prior. The room was one of many, packed and utilitarian, that made up the Al Quoz 10 labor camp, one of many such camps in the industrial zone south of the city center. Before long, Gurung’s routine was brought to a sudden halt by her supervisor, who informed her that her employment—and salary—would be suspended indefinitely because of the rapidly deepening Covid-19 crisis. Overnight, Gurung found herself stranded without income, nearly 2,000 miles from her husband and 7-year-old daughter, as the world descended into a pandemic.
“We were all very scared,” she recalled to me in a phone call, describing the swift lockdown that followed, adding that the company’s Covid-19 protection measures were minimal. “They put hand sanitizer out and gave each person just one mask that we had to keep washing and reusing for months. But they weren’t testing us.” Some of the workers were still required to report for duty, leaving Gurung terrified that they’d “bring the virus back with them” and spread it around the camp. She recalls that these workers were given temperature checks upon return—a measure that detects only those cases in which a fever is present, but can miss many others. She started to hear rumors of infections breaking out in the camp, and her apprehension grew. “We were sure we’d get sick.”
Gurung’s terror of falling ill was compounded by the loss of her monthly salary of 1,100 AED (the Emirati dirham, roughly equivalent to $300). Although Transguard continued to offer free food, she quickly ran through her meager savings, most of which she’d already sent to her family in Nepal. “I had nothing left,” she said. “Even though the food was terrible, I couldn’t even go to the grocery store to buy the smallest thing.” In April, unable to wait any longer without pay and fearing for her safety, she submitted her resignation. The company denied her request. As the global lockdown tightened, Gurung felt trapped—under the terms of her Transguard contract, the company retained possession of her passport. “There was nothing I could do. They kept telling me, just wait, just wait.” (Transguard did not respond to a request for comment.)
Gurung was far from alone. In the Arabian Gulf, a region already defined by economic extremes, the Covid-19 pandemic has amplified systemic discrimination against migrant workers to life-or-death proportions. While the governments of the six Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) countries of Bahrain, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, and the UAE scrambled to respond to the coronavirus, millions of migrant workers found themselves abruptly deprived of income, and in many cases trapped in crowded accommodations with little access to health care or even food. Others were shunted to quarantine or detention facilities, often in unsafe conditions that had been linked to disease outbreaks even before the arrival of the coronavirus. Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann More From Sarah Aziza This New Book Highlights Arab Women Reporting From the Arab World Sarah Aziza Yemen’s Human-Rights Defenders Are Fighting Increasingly Desperate Odds Sarah Aziza ‘On Her Shoulders’ Honors the Courage and Tenacity of Nobel Peace Prize Winner Nadia Murad Sarah Aziza
Not surprisingly, these conditions led to outbreaks among many migrant communities, says Ryszard Cholewinski, senior migration specialist for the International Labour Organization’s Regional Office for Arab States. “Through no fault of their own, many migrants were unable to observe basic precautions to protect themselves from the virus” he told me. “And these communities were among the most vulnerable in these Gulf countries, even before the pandemic.” Despite spotty testing and data collection, experts suggest that migrants have constituted the majority of Covid-19 cases in several Gulf countries, especially in the early months. Often, such spikes were interpreted as the confirmation of xenophobic, scapegoating narratives, including claims that migrants were simply too dirty or reckless to avoid infection.
While some governments tried to move migrants from crowded accommodations into empty buildings or offer free testing, many of the efforts to “contain” the virus amounted to simple abandonment. “Systemic racism and discrimination against migrant workers in the Gulf has been a problem for decades,” says Rima Kalush, director of Migrant-Rights.org, a human rights group that focuses on the GCC. “What this crisis has made clear is that migrant workers have never been considered true members of these societies—they are viewed as temporary sources of labor, nothing more.”
Many of these “temporary” workers, who are estimated to number over 20 million, have been present in the Gulf for years or even decades, and their labor has been integral to the Gulf’s rapid, oil-backed development since at least the 1950s. They have labored in sweltering constructions sites, staffed sprawling retail complexes, worked in restaurants, and provided round-the-clock domestic work in millions of homes. Current Issue View our current issue
Yet, despite their overwhelming numbers—foreign nationals make up roughly a third of the population in Saudi Arabia, 40 percent in Oman, the majority in Bahrain and Kuwait, and more than 80 percent in Qatar and the UAE—most migrants exist in a constant state of precarity. Even after decades of employment, these workers remain subject to the kafala system, a carefully engineered legal limbo that, at its worst, has been likened to modern-day slavery. Migrant workers remain at the mercy of their employer throughout their employment, and most are unable to change jobs, take a leave, or exit the country without explicit permission of their kafeel, or sponsor. Labor laws almost uniformly favor the employer, while the scant protections afforded workers are poorly enforced, leading to rampant exploitation.
While the sheer numbers of migrant workers makes them, on the one hand, ubiquitous, the kafala system maintains the status of the migrant worker as a unit of provisional labor, categorically separate from the national population and the benefits of nationality. During her nearly three years in the UAE, Gurung says she has rarely interacted with Emiratis. “I never saw Dubai,” she recalls. “I only saw the airport and the camp. You feel like the UAE citizens don’t even know you’re there.” But when her company repeatedly denied her attempts to terminate her work and return home, her isolation felt overwhelming. “There is no one to ask for help,” she says, adding that she would never have dreamed of going to Emirati authorities with her complaints. “The UAE government? What do they have to do with me?”
Kalush says this is the experience of the vast majority of migrant workers in the Gulf, even among the many who face egregious violations such as wage theft, sexual harassment, or physical abuse. “Access to justice isn’t even a question for most. Even if a country theoretically allows you to file a complaint, it is very rare that a worker will have the courage to do so. Usually it leads to nothing—at the very least, you will spend months waiting for a ruling, usually without pay. And that is in the best of times—not in a pandemic.”
Nepali “Rasheed” Tamang (he asked that I use his nickname to protect his privacy) worked for two years at a warehouse in Dammam, Saudi Arabia, and said he routinely witnessed his coworkers accepting abusive treatment. “If we didn’t work fast enough, they would yell at us and threaten us. I saw them beating some people. If something went missing, we got charged huge fines. Once, a worker was hit by a forklift and broke his leg—and all we worried about was how they would punish us.” Fed up with this treatment, Tamang, 27, left at the end of his first two-year contract, in 2018. “Now I am so glad I left.”
Gurung, still stranded in Dubai, got word that her husband had fallen suddenly, seriously ill. She petitioned Transguard again to let her leave Dubai. The company continued to stall, but Gurung said she never considered going to the Nepali embassy for aid. She’d heard from fellow Nepalis that their government was unwilling, or unable, to help. In the midst of the pandemic, embassies across the Gulf were swarmed with citizens applying for help with repatriation. In the midst of airport shutdowns, canceled flights, and domestic lockdowns, overwhelmed staff fielded demands from workers needing everything from Covid-19 testing to food aid to help negotiating their termination. “People were lining up day after day in front of the embassies, and still not being seen,” says Kalush.
In some cases, the migrants were caught in limbo, having been jettisoned by their employers but unwelcome in home countries that were unprepared to receive a massive wave of returnees. In some cases, however, the Gulf countries deported workers anyway—at times sending back packed flights that included passengers who tested positive for Covid-19 upon arrival.
This revealed another troubling dynamic in the migrant labor equation: the delicate balance embassies must strike between taking care of their citizens while appeasing their oil-rich hosts. “For many nations, there is more than a labor exchange going on—it’s a whole complicated power balance,” notes Kalush. “Some are nervous to defend their citizens too much—they’re afraid if they push too hard, or ask for higher wages on their behalf, wealthy countries will just take their business elsewhere.” Other nations, such as Ethiopia, have been actively seeking more investment from Gulf nations, she adds, further freighting the repatriation debate. “They don’t want to lose those opportunities by getting into a diplomatic clash.”
For countries like Nepal and Bangladesh, which are heavily dependent on remittances from the Gulf, such fallout could be disastrous. Last year, half of Nepal’s remittances and 73 percent of Bangladesh’s came from the GCC. Nepal’s dependence on remittances has doubled in recent years, up to 30 percent of its GDP. Countries like India and the Philippines, which have a longer history in the Gulf and a stronger diplomatic presence, says Kalush, enjoy a little more clout, but the power dynamic still favors the employing nations. Meanwhile, countries with weaker or newer relations with Gulf countries, including most African nations, are at a severe disadvantage. “Their embassies are less resourced, they are less able to assist their citizens, and they feel they have to accept whatever low wages or poor conditions the Gulf countries offer them.”
In the midst of the Covid crisis, even this tenuous balance has unraveled. After months of lockdowns, many migrants have gone from supporting families back home to struggling to feed themselves and keep off the streets. “After all this time without an income, even the middle-class migrant workers are running out of money, showing up in lines needing food aid,” says Kalush. “These are people who for years have been the breadwinners for entire networks.” Cholewinski of the ILO says the impact of this crisis has upended global networks of labor and wage flows. “The World Bank has estimated that global remittances will drop 20 percent this year,” he says, falling by over $100 billion.
This comes after years of increasing dependence on foreign-earned wages worldwide—remittances to developing countries rose from an estimated $76 billion in 2000 to $498 billion in 2018. Remittances from the GCC totaled about a quarter of this amount, with Saudi Arabia and the UAE representing the second- and third-highest global remittance outflow. Now, says Cholewinski, some migrants in the Gulf are actually finding themselves becoming a financial burden on their relatives back home. “It’s gotten to a point that we’re even seeing reverse remittances—these workers are having to ask their families to send them money so they can keep themselves fed and housed.”
Gurung found herself in a similar position, relying on small loans from friends to cover her minor expenses. “I had just returned from vacation in November, so I had very little money,” she says. “Soon, it was completely gone.” Meanwhile, she lost precious time, and in August received devastating news: Her husband had passed away, leaving behind their 7-year-old daughter.
Gurung grew desperate. By then, the company had begun sending some employees home—including, says Gurung, some who didn’t want to be repatriated. She returned to her employers and informed them of her husband’s death, begging to be added to one of the Nepal-bound flights. They stalled, asking to see her husband’s death certificate. After submitting proof of his death, the company agreed to let her leave—but said she’d have to pay her own way or wait an indefinite amount of time to be put on a company-booked itinerary. She asked to receive the end-of-service settlement due to her under her contract, but the company said they’d transfer the money to her after her return to Nepal. Unable to wait, she asked her friends to lend her the money for the ticket, finally booking a flight for August 6.
For Mahendra, a fellow Transguard worker and Nepali citizen currently still stranded in Dubai, buying his own ticket is out of reach. Mahendra, who declined to use his legal name to protect his safety, was placed on unpaid leave on March 21 but held out hope he’d be able to return to work. For months, he passed the time between his small, shared bedroom and the compound cafeteria, where, he says, the company has provided free but “very bad” food. He has not been tested for Covid. In August, exasperated, he and his roommate submitted their resignation and requested repatriation. The company repeatedly denied their requests, along with those of scores of fellow Nepalis, citing the expense of flights back to their country. Exasperated, Mahendra and his colleagues finally decided to take drastic action: On September 10, they gathered roughly 200 Nepalis outside Transguard’s human resources office to demand action.
The same anger that fueled these Transguard employees has sparked similar, sporadic demonstrations elsewhere in the Gulf. In May, for example, more than 100 construction workers in Qatar who had been completing projects for the 2022 World Cup protested unpaid wages. The outbreak of such protests underscores the desperation felt by migrants in the Gulf—historically, their precarious legal and economic status has made unionizing and demonstrating almost unthinkable. This despite the fact that migrant workers make up over 90 percent of private-sector employees in the UAE and Qatar, and 80 percent or higher in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.
Mahendra says his group was initially held off by hired security guards, but they eventually got a hearing with an HR manager. “They realized they couldn’t hold so many people for so long,” recalls Mahendra, who is 27. “They promised to do their best to send us home.” Since then, says Mahendra, many Nepalis have been repatriated with company-booked itineraries. He hopes his turn will come soon, but adds, “I still have a problem. When I get back to Kathmandu, I won’t have any money.” The only family waiting for him, he says, are his elderly parents, whom he was previously supporting with his salary. “My home is very far from the city, and I don’t know how I’ll buy a bus ticket. This is the scariest moment.”
The chaotic, shifting roles of companies, embassies, travel agencies, and individuals in the repatriation process make it difficult to determine just how many migrant workers have departed, says Kalush. “It’s clear there’s been a mass exodus from the Gulf—hundreds of thousands of migrants have returned home—but the majority are still there. In some cases, it’s people who have lost jobs and can’t get back, and in other cases, people are holding out, hoping work will resume.”
In this limbo, Gurung and Mahendra, whose lodging and food is provided by their company, might be considered the lucky ones. For many others, says Kalush, worries about starvation eclipse fears about the virus. “Getting food to people has been a huge concern,” he says, “and there has been no comprehensive plan to distribute aid. It’s been piecemeal, and after all these months, whatever momentum that was there to supply aid has dwindled.”
These ad hoc efforts, carried out by private charities, individual donors, and embassies, highlight the near-total lack of civil society in the GCC. Nongovernmental organizations are often heavily suppressed in the region, and the social services that do exist tend to cater to nationals. While some nations have offered free treatment to migrant workers who have tested positive, their access to other medical care, such as prenatal care for pregnant women, has been lacking, says Kalush, who adds, “When the government fails to take care of migrants, there is often no one else to step in and plug in the gaps.”
These gaps are not incidental—they are integral to the structure of the kafala system itself, which positions the worker as the charge of his or her sponsor, rather than a member of a social contract. However, most contracts also absolve employers of any real responsibility to their employees, says Hiba al-Ziyadin, Gulf researcher for Human Rights Watch. “The whole point of the kafala system is to keep these communities controlled by employers, with as little accountability as possible,” she says. When problems arise, says Kalush, “the attitude is just ship them off, and then ship them back when you need their labor again.”
As the bottleneck in repatriations continues, more migrant workers are facing the possibility of homelessness. While some landlords showed leniency for unpaid rent at the beginning of the pandemic, says Kalush, many are beginning to demand payment: “Again, the government is pretty hands off—they’re not evicting anyone, but it’s left up to the individual landlords, and some are beginning to take their tenants to court and win.” She cites Bahrain as a primary example of this troubling new trend, adding that being prosecuted for unpaid rent can result in a person being prohibited from leaving the country. Those forced onto the streets will find few options—shelters are scant, even for nationals.
Throughout the crisis, the region’s nearly 4 million domestic workers, the majority of whom are women, have faced a unique set of challenges. Many of them provide live-in services, including round-the-clock cleaning, cooking, child care, and elder care. The all-encompassing nature of their work renders their condition more vulnerable, and more difficult to monitor. For years, human rights groups have raised concerns about physical, sexual, and mental abuse of domestic workers in the region—and the advent of Covid-19 has only exacerbated such conditions. “Domestic workers are always the most at risk,” says Kalush, “but it’s also hard to know what they’re experiencing, given the lack of transparency.”
Even so, reports indicate that quarantine has led to increased pressure on domestic workers, whose employers are often demanding more cleaning and care as they find themselves stuck at home and fretting over contamination. Some may be trapped indoors during lockdown, while others have been forced “onto the front lines,” says Kalush. “They would be the ones accepting deliveries, going to the grocery stores, or taking the children to schools once they reopened.” Other domestic workers, such as drivers, are likewise exposed.
The long-term mental health effects of the pandemic on migrant workers is another potentially lethal, but much-neglected, aspect of the crisis. Even before the coronavirus, depression, anxiety, and suicide were both rampant and under-treated among migrant workers in the Gulf. Now, after months of uncertainty, frustration, and fear, many migrants may be suffering from undiagnosed psychiatric ailments, notes Kalush. “This experience has been extremely traumatizing for many, and that’s something almost no one is talking about, let alone treating.”
As the pandemic drags on and GCC nations transition toward partial reopening, the vulnerabilities of their migrant communities remain. For some, reopening offers at least the chance of income, but much of this work may come on a contingent or contractual basis, with even less security than former arrangements. For many others, such as those who formerly worked in travel, tourism, or the Gulf’s many now-halted development projects, the future is far more uncertain.
Much depends on oil prices, says Cholewinski. “Many migrant workers were in construction that was planned in accordance with [high] oil prices that are long gone. Many projects have been postponed, while the future of such developments as FIFA [the 2022 World Cup in Qatar] and the Expo 2020 in Dubai are uncertain. That’s thousands of jobs. It’s difficult to say how slowly these economies will recover, and when that will translate back into work.” Kalush says that even returning to work could be problematic for migrants. “They’re always on the front lines, whether in hospitals or restaurants or retail, so reopening will also mean more risk of infection.”
It remains to be seen whether the upheaval caused by the pandemic will translate into structural changes for migrants. Meaningful change would require a fundamental reconfiguration of the relationship between host countries and the migrant laborers on whom they so critically rely. GCC nations would have to stop treating migrant workers as disposable, interchangeable units of labor, and transition toward a more humane system that ensures their dignity and rights and includes them in the social fabric.
That would be a tall order, says Kalush. “When it comes to migrant workers, I’m afraid there are no lessons being learned.” While the exposure of structural inequities in the GCC’s Covid-19 response has led to some promises of reform, Kalush says it is difficult to know how much actual impact these proposals will have. Their scope is generally limited, and it will be difficult to monitor implementation. “Are we seeing societies actually plan for a future in which migrant workers are better included in society, more protected? So far, we’re not.”
The real hope, Kalush adds, comes from the sporadic incidents of activism and collective organizing. “The best moments have been those where migrants have found ways to mutually support one another. That’s not how it should be—they shouldn’t have to rely on one another alone—but we hope that at least these networks will help empower them with more knowledge on how to work the system and protect themselves.”
Back in Nepal, Gurung continues to reel from the loss of her husband. She has not found a new job yet, but she says she has no plans to return to the Gulf. The memories of her time in lockdown still haunt her, and though she has few prospects in Nepal, she is focusing for now on the one thing that matters most: her daughter, Aaniya. During our call, the young girl’s voice flits in and out of range. At one point, she clambers onto her mother’s lap, chattering. Gurung’s voice warms as she holds Aaniya close. “She is a beautiful gift from my husband.”