Abstract
With her novel inspired by Kuwait’s dealings with blasphemy laws,
Books hang from trees outside the National Assembly building in Kuwait City in September 2018 in protest against the government’s censorship regulations on publications
CREDIT: Yasser Al-Zayyat/AFP via Getty
Numerous laws and amendments restrict these guarantees. They include potential prison terms or fines for speech and publications or online content that criticises the emir or regional leaders; disparages the constitution, public prosecutors or judiciary; threatens national unity and security; incites violence; or is treasonous. While there is no distinct blasphemy law, restrictions are embedded within various laws - namely, defaming Islam, Christianity or Judaism; inciting sectarian violence; and insulting the Quran, God or the prophet Muhammad and his wives.
Reading over these convoluted laws is sobering. They possess an element of ambiguity that allows them to be stretched to serve political or social interests. The cascade of amendments forms a net, potentially trapping those who have no intention of crossing any lines. This state of affairs breeds fear, which often results in self-censorship. Writers, journalists, academics and activists bear the brunt of censorial scrutiny, but a generalised dread inevitably trickles down to all citizens and residents, stifling expression and the possibility of a genuinely tolerant, civil and open society.
In 2013, Kuwait’s parliament passed an amendment to the 2012 National Unity Law, making blasphemy a capital crime. The government ultimately did not approve that decision. Nonetheless, the fact that a parliamentary majority would consider blasphemy worth condemning people to death over was an unprecedented development. While Kuwait practises capital punishment in rare cases, it is usually reserved for murder, drug trafficking or child molestation - never for anti-religious expression.
All this had a chilling effect on me as a writer and a teacher, although I did not allow it to curb my work. It ended up informing the plot of my novel, An Unlasting Home, in which the protagonist, Sara al-Ameed, professor of philosophy at Kuwait University, is accused of blasphemy and threatened with execution if convicted.
In 2014, I was up for promotion from assistant to associate professor at the university. My file included an article that proposed an “ethics of the missing” as a way to reckon with the disturbing aftermath of what befell the Palestinian community in Kuwait after its liberation in 1991. I was strongly urged by the chair of the departmental promotions committee to withdraw the article because it was politically controversial and not sufficiently literary. It became clear that even though the article was published by a peer-reviewed international journal in my academic field, I would not be promoted if I insisted on submitting it.
I decided to withdraw the article and replace it with another about Palestinian writer Ghassan Kanafani, which engaged similar issues but through literature. I secured my promotion.
In 2018, my collection of short stories, The Hidden Light of Objects, was banned along with more than 4,500 other books by a 12-member censorship committee in the Ministry of Information. The law that resulted in these sweeping bans was amended by parliament in 2020 thanks to activist pressure. While certainly a positive development, it did not resolve the problem altogether since publications remain subject to the censorship laws mentioned above, leaving writers, publishers and distributors vulnerable to receiving legal action.
My reaction to the university episode was rage. My reaction to my book being banned was exhaustion. I decided not to take either case to constitutional court, which I had every right to do. My decision could be interpreted as a form of self-censorship: by not actively challenging the powers that be, I was compounding the problem. But not everyone is made for legal wrangling. Court cases can take years and, in the process, take years off the lives of those of us with a low tolerance for bureaucratic absurdities. My choice not to contest the censorship enabled me to use my time to complete An Unlasting Home.
I write in English and publish outside Kuwait, so I did not have to consider how my novel would be received locally. Many writers, academics and artists in Kuwait take this route.
Rather than viewing this as self-censorship, I regard it as a form of cultural resistance with ramifications inside the country. Nothing can be hidden anymore. Culture moves along electronic circuits from the outside in, countering censorship in ways authorities cannot control. These cultural expressions are intransigent in the best possible sense, engaging the present while preparing the conditions for an alternative future - one in which censorship is no longer an obstacle.