“I’ve been studying in the Netherlands for four years now, and I have a student visa that expires in three months. I have an amazing job opportunity in Graz, Austria – they need my documents to procure a contract. I need to get my residence permit extended within two to three weeks or else there will be complications with the job offer.” – F
The passport I hold in my hand bears a maroon colour. Radiating an imposing presence, the government coat-of-arms on its cover lays bare three equidistant stars and a sun with eight rays. I learned that heraldry – all things armory design and display – call these star shapes “mullets.” (I thought that mullets are just about haircuts). Engraved images of an eagle and a lion sit side by side, the stewards of power that they are. As one flips this passport’s pages, each lyric line of the national anthem appears in elegant handwriting on every double-fold spread.
If you have no clue about this passport, these words are copper-engraved in Trajan font: “Pilipinas.” “Pasaporte.”
Even with the increasing visibility of Filipino presence in the greater global community, this passport doesn’t enjoy the privilege of mobility. The Arton Capital’s Passport Index gave it a mobility score of 80 – the sum of 37 countries that don’t require visas from Filipinos, and 43 countries that issue visas on arrival. Indonesia has a higher score of 91, while Singapore is the fairest of them all with 174. The northern neighbour Taiwan scores at 136 but with a caveat: mainland China’s One-China Policy prevents Taiwan from gaining international recognition in spite of its economic, cultural, and geopolitical presence.
Entering Europe with a Philippine passport requires a stamped Schengen visa. That was the case when I went to the Darmstadt Summer Course for the first time in 2010. Thirteen years later, being a Canadian permanent resident worked favourably in getting another one. It felt like reserving the best seats in the theatre – working in Canada granted me more currency value than earning a measly ₱10,000 (Philippine peso, equivalent to US$200) monthly wages in the Philippines. Of course, not every Filipino could just pack their bags and move to Canada. It was a privilege, granted after years of hardship and invisibility. With the way things are, it’s convenient now to pool resources in Canada and prove I’m not “one of those desperate migrants” that Europe apprehensively watches over.
However, this passport I hold betrayed any chances of proving my worth. As per border control measures, I still needed a travel visa. I may not be a desperate migrant, but I’m still among the lesser folk, a second-class visitor.
==
“I have a German passport and for some reason, I always wondered how we are among the Top Three passports in the world when we used to be Nazis. How come we got it good? But also, I did not have a privileged life in the past because I grew up in East Germany behind the Wall. There was no way to travel anywhere outside the Eastern Bloc. When the Berlin Wall came down, everything changed for me. From being poor and restricted, suddenly we were part of the West.” – A
“I don’t like the colours of passports. They look depressing.”
C-drík (Cedrik Fermont) sits across the table in a classroom at the Lichtenbergschule, where this year’s Darmstadt courses were taking place. We sit beside the window, where the gloomy afternoon emanates whatever sunlight can penetrate through our senses.
C-drík spills the beans: his Belgian passport is full of entry stamps from everywhere! He’s hopped from one place to another, mapping out an extensive network of the world’s electronic punk, ambient, and noise music scenes. As a noise artist and producer, he has produced numerous records under his record labels Syrphe and Textolux. Not only does he do research on such scenes – he instigates collaborations between them. Alongside Dimitri della Faille (a scholar who goes by the moniker “Szkieve”), C-drík co-published Not Your World Music: Noise in South East Asia that drew Southeast Asian music scenes away from the imaginary and exotic, and into the modern, real musical worlds that they always have been.
Yet he complains about this burgundy-coloured document that brought him the world. “The colour is sad and not positive, there’s a militaristic look to its display of power.” The engraved coat-of-arms on the passport cover bears the Belgic lion, a representation of the former Low Countries that constituted the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, and northern France.
I find it funny that this proud symbol of power is tamed down with practical concerns: “I keep a plastic covering over it,” C-drík says. “My previous passport got wet once when I went to Indonesia, and it got ruined.” Was it because of tumultuous rainy weather patterns in the tropics? Or an inevitable trek across a river? I’m not surprised at hearing this either way.
As consolation, he keeps his old stamp-filled passports because they hold good memories. “One day, I might want to do something with them,” he tells me. If a collage artwork made out of torn passport pages came out in the future, that would be his autobiographical statement. Perhaps even a diary or a photo album.
C-drík (Cedrik Fermont). Photo by Magda Bondos
===
Having Greek, Belgian and Congolese roots, C-drík recounted his teenage years during the 1980s when there was little knowledge of industrial and EBM (electronic body music – not to be confused with electronic dance music or EDM) outside Western Europe and North America.
It became an obsession: “If I could find music coming from Japan or the USA, then surely I can find those coming from Mexico or Indonesia.”
This particular search proved difficult at first, a formidable climb to Mount Everest. As a young artist, he joined an arts network that traded tapes and circulated fliers from obscure places. “Oh, there is punk music in the Philippines!” he exclaimed once.
He tried contacting indie and underground artists abroad by snail mail – one must remember that this was during the pre-internet era. Many efforts were met with silence, but some bands did answer back. Inching his way up, he started connecting with people from South Africa, Brazil, and Japan throughout the 1990s. Thanks to the internet of the 2000s, exploration and music sharing became easier through P2P (peer-to-peer) networks.
I remember my first forays into English bands like Radiohead and Porcupine Tree through Limewire – a now-defunct and controversial P2P haven for music downloads. Icons that they are now, Radiohead and Porcupine Tree were unknown figures in the Philippines of the 2000s. For all its faults, Limewire ushered me into the world of progressive rock and beyond. The impact of P2P platforms was immense that battle arenas against music piracy revolved around online spaces like Napster and Limewire.
C-drík is stubborn not to play dumb: “I wanted to visit places because people were insisting that there are no experimental scenes there.” Pooling resources, he traveled to Turkey and Thailand to perform and meet people, eventually meeting other experimental artists like Yan Jun from China. Serendipity acted in his favour as he landed a gig in Bangkok through forum posting at Soulseek – yet another P2P network.
A six-month tour in 2005 finally landed him in East and Southeast Asia: visits to Malaysia, Vietnam, Singapore, China and South Korea planted long-lasting attachments to the region. He kept returning since then, extending his reach to the Philippines, Taiwan, Macau, Cambodia, Myanmar…
“Even Myanmar?!” Astonished, I interrupted him.
“Yes, I was convinced that there were things happening in Myanmar, despite what people told me,” he answers. Unsurprisingly, even Southeast Asian friends didn’t have Burmese contacts. There was (and still is) a military junta in power – it’s highly unlikely to find anything underground. But C-drík believed otherwise: “I’ve heard of politically active hip-hop and punk bands in the country. And where there is hip-hop and punk, there’s definitely more.”
Of course, he had to prove his theory first. Google searches were battlegrounds for days. Keywords gushed out one after another: Myanmar experimental music. Burma experimental music. Yangon experimental music. The last search pinned down a video. “Oh!” I exclaimed – that happy ending surely felt rewarding.
Nathalie Johnson (now director of Myanm/art) was in Yangon, the Serbian sound artist Rastko was there, DJ Kavas and the Javanese improviser Ko Jeu were there all along. C-drík wrote to them in 2014 and they were all enthusiastic in mobilizing a sound event, complete with children and the hustle and bustle of Yangon urbanity.
===
“It was a rigmarole. Getting my new US student visa took two months to complete, from lengthy online forms and ID photos to passport retrieval. With a seven-hour round trip on land, I went through four interviews with consulate staff. I gambled on scheduling a flight to the States without the assurance of a visa, taking the risk of being trapped in Europe. In the past years, there were kinks in the system where I wouldn’t know if I had to suddenly leave the US. But this was nothing compared to what other international citizens face. It is, for instance, extremely time consuming and costly to visit from Southeast Asia or Oceania, which I don’t think everyone fully comprehends.” – J
Sabrina is all smiles as we walk towards a quaint Asian restaurant at Darmstadt’s Mina-Rees-Straße. Annisa is also giddy, but nothing beats Sabrina’s enthusiasm for rice. “You saved our lives!” their rice-starved selves declare with passion, even though I simply invited them to dinner nearby their hotel. It is a taste of home away from home.
The Duo Sarana has been making noise on their own terms since 2015. Originally a trio, the group now comprises Annisa Maharani and Sabrina Eka Felisiana: bubbly characters encapsulated with Indonesian lightheartedness. Contrary to their personalities, nightmares and horrors fuel the duo’s improvisations with dark ambient sounds from synthesizers (Korg Kaossilator, Korg Volca Keys), softwares (VCV Rack, FL Studio), guitar effects pedals, and sounds like handbells and voices captured by microphones.
Their debut track release Binatang (Animal) caught my attention as Annisa’s opening lines penetrate the darkness: Aku adalah binatang. Kamu adalah binatang. Dia adalah binatang. (I am an animal. You are an animal. He/she/it is an animal).
It was a call reaching into one’s innermost primal being. We are all beasts not just of our making but also of the world we live in.
I can imagine Samarinda as its backdrop – the capital city of Indonesia’s East Kalimantan in the island of Borneo where the duo resides. Its tropical climate of uber-hot sun and rain has become the duo’s butt of jokes through word play: “Summer-Rain-Da.” The city’s blanket of noise is compounded with ferry and cargo traffic, as Samarinda is strategically located along the Mahakam River. Coal mining fuels the city’s import and export trade – unsurprisingly, environmental and welfare issues have been at the forefront of protests among its residents.
As an example, the Jaringan Advokasi Tambang (JATAM) has raised voices against illegal mining for years, citing incidents including poisoned water, landslides, and numerous deaths from drowning as companies dug mines, sometimes without proper authorization, in dangerous proximity to residential zones.
Duo Sarana’s presence in Darmstadt prompts me to ask them: “Would you mind if you could show me your passports?” Annisa and Sabrina oblige – their passports are always with them.
Turquoise green. Their passports reflect the calmness and clarity amidst human resilience. (The known corruption of the Indonesian government ironically negates this character). The cover wields the Indonesian coat-of-arms, a golden burung garuda (eagle) that embodies not only Hindu and Buddhist mythologies but also the national ideology pancasila. Similar to many passports, a page notifies a request for granting the passport holder the right of passage and protection.
Rich, neighbouring Singapore is an easy target for comparison. “Looking at my passport reminds me that Singapore always has the strongest one,” Annisa says. She has always been the more outspoken one. “There are actually two kinds of passports in Indonesia – one is the regular document and the other one is an electronic one.” Both of them only have the regular ones. Getting an e-passport costs double the fees, but it gets you into border and immigration databases faster. Going to Japan, they say, is more convenient with a biometric passport.
Duo Sarana with their Indonesian passports: Annisa Maharani (left), Sabrina Eka Felisiana (right)
===
“Since April, I’ve tried booking appointments with the German embassy to get a visa, but slots are always full. I kept checking until July, and the pressure started setting in. Regine (of IMD Darmstadt) has been advising me, and I’m sure she has been communicating directly to the Embassy. After numerous attempts, I successfully snagged a slot and hurried to Harare (capital city), a two-day journey from my hometown. I had to spend US$250 out of my pocket to travel there. My sisters helped me afford a passport. And the two-day trip back after the appointment was difficult. I can’t even collect my passport at the Embassy in person – a classmate living in Harare had to pick it up and send it to me via DHL.” – L
“How can we deal with situations when embassies refuse someone a visa?”
C-drík poses this question midway through our chat. As globalization rolls out – for better in some facets, worse in others – collaboration has fueled the world’s artists and creative thinkers. Artists also pursue formal studies abroad as their means of partaking in a more global network. Applying for a visa then requires significant resources, and a refusal usually doesn’t lead to any alternative.
The Indonesian hardcore techno band Gabber Modus Operandi is a case in point. With its numerous gigs in electronic music festivals across the world, they were booked to appear once in a festival in Greece through the auspices of an agency affiliated with Germany’s CTM Festival. They were refused Schengen visas, and so they couldn’t participate.
“I don’t know why the Greek Embassy did not allow them. They have already visited Europe before. Is it because they think they come here too often?” C-drík speculates. Their affiliation with a larger organization functioned to guarantee their intent of entering the Schengen Area. There was neither any sign of moving permanently to Europe nor any malicious intentions.
Unfortunately, embassies often withhold their reasons for refusing border admission. It’s always a game of second-guessing.
Freedom of movement is more than a coveted prize; the United Nations upholds the freedom to leave and return to one’s country as a universal right. Travel visas, on the other hand, transfigure this right into a privilege that wields power. They become weapons and commodities that other people can have, while others (usually the economically challenged) can’t. It’s the invisible “dark matter” upon which First World citizens don’t resign themselves.
We can collectively sigh over the fact that travel didn’t require passports back in the day. Steamships of migrants moving to the United States in the 1900s come to mind. First- and second-class passengers are exempted from inspections at New York’s Ellis Island, the epicentre of immigration processing for people coming from Europe. Affording a luxurious ticket is proof of status worthy enough for entering the country without a hitch, exposing the bias into a classist argument.
International travel was also on the rise in the early 1900s, but the former League of Nations started implementing a worldwide passport standard after World War I. The passport itself is not a modern invention – the earliest dates back to biblical times as the prophet Nehemiah acquired royal letters of “safe passage” to Judah around 450 BC. Some people protested the dehumanizing reduction into an identity document two millennia later, but the passport remained as an institution.
Discriminatory restrictions aren’t new either. The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 barred Chinese immigrants into the United States. Canada followed suit with its revised Chinese Immigration Act in 1923, all of this amidst Chinese labour exploitation that built the Canadian Pacific Railway in the 1880s.
While Canada has enacted reparations and issued formal apologies (2006-2018) at all government levels, the United States has yet to implement a larger reparative effort aside from those by the Senate and the House of Representatives (2011-2012). Hidden histories remain invisible unless made visible and tangible.
A workshop session at the “Sonic Writings and Soundings” residency of the Darmstadt Summer Course 2023. Front (L-R): C-drík, Sabrina Eka Felisiana (of Duo Sarana), Lindatumune Mudimba. Back (L-R): Annisa Maharani (of Duo Sarana), Farzané, AGF.
==
“We are far from everything…
And we are far from fine…
Dunia yang jahat ini… [This evil world we are in… ]
We are forced to face everything we don’t want to see…”
One afternoon, I sit in on a workshop session. Annisa speaks through the microphone, her poetry pushing its way out of electronic mush. Working on computer code using Supercollider, Farzané generates plucks and clicks, intensifying into denser clouds. Sabrina does live processing on motor boat sound samples, reminiscent of Samarinda’s shipping traffic along the river. C-drík adds manipulated, swirling textures: the spiral movements seen in his laptop screen tell much about how it sounds.
Agee (“AGF”; Antye Greie Ripatti), as she is fondly called by everyone, takes charge of the mixing as she prepares samples on the go. Linda (Lindatumune Mudimba) initially scrubs a contact microphone on surfaces to create noise, but C-drík proposes working with a tumbler for sounds of pouring water instead.
To everyone’s surprise, a clay jug and two ceramic glasses magically appears with him when he comes back in the room. After some experiments, Linda settles into pouring water using the glasses in front of a directional microphone. Flowing waters sets the political backdrop, the mise-en-scène of Annisa’s manifesto.
Agee exclaims afterwards: “We now have a piece!” A wave of relief washes over the room. I nod in agreement. C-drík has a comment: “Weren’t the boat sounds too loud? We couldn’t understand what Annisa was saying.”
Daily workshops are intense. With the support of the Goethe Institut, both Agee and C-drík conceived the Sonic Writing and Soundings residency as they invited female electronic artists and musicians of diverse origins: Lindatumune Mudimba (Zimbabwe), Farzané a.k.a. Farzaneh Nouri (Iran, based in Den Haag), Duo Sarana (Indonesia), [M] a.k.a. Monrhea (Kenya), Mira Tulenova (Kazakhstan, based in Berlin), and Zelal Ekinci (Turkey, based in Kranichstein).
Originally slated in 2020, the residency was postponed and they managed to reconvene online in 2021 to start preliminary work. The Darmstadt Summer Course 2023 finally gathered them in person as they workshopped a full set for a concert at the city’s historic Centralstation.
The sessions are not all about making sound. Hefty discussions run about the worlds they came from: ongoing protests in Iran, illegal mining in Borneo, the language of women empowerment in Zimbabwe. The political has to sound out, and the sounding has to be political.
Agee brings up the subject of coal mining – Annisa immediately showed a photo of ship traffic congestion in the Mahakam river as a result of increased economic trade. While mining corporations provided jobs in Samarinda, they also killed the land and adversely affected ecological systems. C-drík takes a shot at China’s encroaching geopolitical influence, with adverts and signs all over as one flies out of the airport at Lusaka (Zambia’s capital city). Linda confirms this as well: “Chinese businesses, shops, mining…they’re all over Zimbabwe too.”
==
I arrive at Centralstation with anticipation. House lights in gold and blue transform into red hues as we are drawn in, swimming through the tides of atmospheric electronic sounds.
And swimming, we listeners have to do! These are not just sounds but streams of consciousness: rivers where ships venture to distant lands in the name of capitalism; mother tongues that fight – even scream – to be remembered; neglected territories that need reviving; wandering across the sparse steppes (alan), underground water canals rising up the surface (qanat), field recordings of dissent.
Eight pieces form the whole set, each one a complex journey that birthed political soundings: Territory, chaosBEET, Alan (Steppe), Mothertongue, Water Cycle, Hidup Perempuan, Mumakwatano, Vengayiş.
Each player improvises with the overall soundscape while following composed roadmaps. We hear spoken word and found objects from Linda, Annisa, Agee and Mira; field recordings from Farzané, Sabrina and Agee; digital processing from C-drík, Farzané, Annisa and [M]; coding from Farzané and [M]; analog synthesizers from Sabrina; accordion drones from Zelal; instrumental flute and jaw harp interjections from Mira. Continuous tapestries unfurl on top of each other as Agee mixes them live. Dark ambient worlds abound: industrial and menacing at times, atmospheric yet breathing at best.
This totality is difficult to unpack – each individual is a universe, and the ecosystem an organic assembly of all universes.
Electronic textures weave together like entangled seaweeds floating on oceans. And yet they’re never imposing. Sounds jostled for space at times, but Agee’s mixing takes great care to create contours. We hear samples of saxophones, crowds in protests, motor boats. We hear handbells and yelling in Bahasa Banjar, calling out into the void. We hear water, wind and the lonely vastness of the prairies.
Spoken word is a weapon of choice where redress from injustice flows out. Jessie Cox unpacks Charles Uzor’s take on languages in his work Mothertongue – audiences hear Cox’s text in different languages: English, Tonga, Bahasa Indonesia, Kazakh, a little bit of German. Cox’s “Stories of the Mothership: Charles Uzor and Mothertongue” is an enlightening study, found in Composing While Black (2023, eds. Harald Kisiedu and George Lewis). Linda, Annisa, Mira and Agee use language for redemption as if to say, “Out of the fringes, we claim our space: right here, right now!”
Mira plays the shanqobyz (jaw’s harp) and I smile with fascination, only to stop myself: why am I smiling at stories of oppression? “She remains hidden from the day she was married,” Linda ends her poetry not long after. Zelal’s accordion episode in a minor key closes the set, somewhat disjunct from the rest.
If there is anything worth demanding more, Annisa’s yelling would be the voice of the weary. There’s a greater need for more rage from today’s relentless oppressions. (“My throat would kill me if I yelled more,” Annisa admits later).
I have only one complaint after the concert. The richness of discourse, reflection and sound making all transpired within a bubble. C-drík confirms that the seclusion was intentional. Besides preserving the space from external pressures – “It would have been boring to see the daily workshops,” he says – it also insulates them from potential inequities in space access. After all, both paid participants at Darmstadt and the general public – passersby, in other words – have had access to lectures and events.
Nonetheless, the Sonic Writing and Soundings workshop holds an “open house” afternoon days after the concert. At least ten folks stop by at different times while the resident artists engage with them. Agee explains the notes posted on the white board: “We all came from different places, and so we had to find common ground with our worlds to start work. All the set pieces took off from these notes.”
The interest in ten people with electronic cultural impulses outside Euro-American-centrism remains miniscule. Double that number and it still speaks volumes about non-reciprocity: the less developed world always has to catch up with the trends of the rich. Visas and passports become moot – foreign cultures and politics might as well appear onstage in an invisible, faraway land. Far from everything.
The Sonic Writing and Soundings workshop contingent in performance at Darmstadt’s Centralstation
==
“With support from the Goethe Institut, Agee and C-drík invited me to perform in Darmstadt and learn from the workshops. I applied for a Schengen visa, and the Embassy insisted on seeing payslips even though I am self-employed. They demanded proof of my return even though all dates, booked flights, and financial remuneration were on print. Despite showing everything, I got refused. I informed IMD Darmstadt and Goethe Institut Nairobi of the situation, and they made efforts to find a solution. I was advised to reapply rather than appeal the decision, which will take longer. G.I. Nairobi procured additional letters in support alongside Santuri East Africa. The Embassy finally granted me a visa, and I’m thankful for the effort from everyone involved.” – [M]
“Traveling is convenient once you’re part of this European fortress, even with Eastern Europeans who might find it a bit more difficult,” C-drík tells me. If you come from the so-called “global South” – the developing and poorer side of the world – it feels like infiltrating a fortress. And rich countries see it this way as well. Infiltration.
Protectionism governs public funding for the arts. It injects investment to ensure cultural production while also standing guard over its resources. From my vantage point, Canada clearly draws out the invisible borders from its funding principles. While the Canada Council for the Arts distances itself at arm’s length from the government, taxpayers’ interests always take precedence. Provincial and municipal arts funding agencies act the same way: the “Canadian” becomes both the stakeholder and the beneficiary. If you’re not a citizen or permanent resident, you can’t partake in funding as an artist.
Diversity is then often conjured within the locale. Diasporas and migrancy in the global North create this perception that diversity is within reach. In post-national Canada, many people have hyphenated identities – an individual is both Canadian and another nationality. It’s an instant recipe for diversity.
This bordered illusion excludes the rest of the world, and yet, there lies the heart of arts diversity. When we exclude the world, we silence and erase diversity’s essence.
The rich and powerful infiltrate the poor, but the poor can’t access the rich. An artist in the First World can choose to create art wherever and whenever they want. What about the African? The poorer Asian? The Latin American? They have to compete with expensive living standards and get travel visas first before acquiring visibility.
If there’s a lack of new music scene diversity, it’s not because equitable artistic curation is absent – important work as it is. What is curation when geopolitics are implicated in hiding the already invisible? Thousands of euros could be spent, only to go down the drain once someone in power simply says “no” to a visa application.
“It’s not just the artist’s loss, it’s also the countries’ loss,” C-drík says during his lecture on global collaboration. Cultural exchange and the compounding of economic interests disappear. I publicly raise a question: “We’re dealing with government policies here. Is there any call to action directed at governments or mobilization from the arts sector to address this?” C-drík struggles to answer – no, he’s not aware of any effort to mobilize.
Global networks do exist to partially address this difficulty. As a multinational network, Artists at Risk advocates for the safe passage and relocation of artists who face high security risks like persecution, unjust arrests and political harassment. They relocated Ukrainian artists fleeing from the ongoing war between Ukraine and Russia in 2022, as well as Afghan artists during the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan in 2021.
Sociologist Benedict Anderson flipped nationalism on its side when he thought of “imagined communities” in the 1990s. Comradeship is imagined, and this exists outside national borders as well. We see this in networking among experimental music and noise scenes across the world. They thrive in diverse situations: from punk DIY individual approaches to initiatives funded by organizations like the Goethe Institut and the Japan Foundation. And also those in between.
However, I go back to C-drík’s bigger question: “How can we make networks sustainable once funding disappears?” Budget cuts on culture are rampant as the world witnesses a shift towards the political right, he said. It’s a grim scenario: the money for artistic work disappears, and the hardlined borders remain. Global mobility may have increased, but the resources to sustain artistic mobility are in danger.
An Argentinian attendee thanks C-drík during the Q&A. “When you’re on the other side of the fence, you don’t realize what you’re benefiting from,” she says. (Argentinian passports have a high mobility score of 162, according to the Arton Capital’s Passport Index). She concludes that as artists, it’s important to acknowledge that, take responsibility, and even apply that awareness in making art.
==
It is August 2023. I like telling this bizarre story: if I hadn’t travelled to Europe today, I would now be a Canadian citizen.
However, Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada (IRCC) scheduled my oath of citizenship nine days before my departure. Nine days isn’t enough to get both my citizenship certificate and a Canadian passport. I’ll lose my Permanent Resident card that solely grants me re-entry to Canada if I proceed. (They require cutting it up in front of an officer before the ceremony).
IRCC advised me to postpone the oath taking, which I did. Because I still hold a Philippine passport, I had to apply for a Schengen visa to enter Europe. If Canada scheduled it way earlier, I wouldn’t subject myself to such frivolous waste. This required printing countless pages of nine documents aside from my passport, a photo and a fee of CA$118.
Add the pressures of booking an appointment at the German Embassy. Months have gone fully booked. I desperately emailed the Embassy in June, and they granted me an emergency appointment on short notice – no ifs or buts. This is post-Covid recovery, with staff shortages and travel-starved people wanting to travel again.
Both Annisa and Sabrina needed Schengen visas to show up to Darmstadt using their Indonesian passports. It’s not their first time doing so. But unlike in Canada, the diplomatic mission in Indonesia now outsources consular services to VFS Global. This reflects the volumes of visa application processing that happens compared to Canada – another salt in the wound.
“It was easier the first time since Goethe Institut Jakarta sponsored us,” Annisa tells me. She refers to their Berlin act at the CTM Festival 2019. “This time, there were lots of rules and documents. We had troubles with our kartu keluarga,” – the Family Identity Card is a registry document that lists family members – “because we learned on our appointment day that they needed the English translations.” Sabrina adds: “They also wanted a cover letter from us this time.”
“But you had to translate the kartu keluarga yourselves?” I ask. They both answer, “Yes! And someone from G. I. Jakarta helped us again.” It wasn’t any consolation that the visa fee amounts to Rp1,300,000 – an inexpensive meal in Samarinda can cost around Rp35,000.
Taking a two-hour flight to Jakarta (Indonesia’s capital city) from Samarinda was a chore. Everything should be planned way in advance. Missing their appointments meant wasting a lot of time, money and chances of repeating the whole procedure again.
It was a lot worse for Linda: “Harare is a two-day journey by bus from my hometown Binga,” she tells me. Even Agee feels like asking her the hard questions – she was there alongside Linda. It costs US$250 to reach the German Embassy in Zimbabwe’s capital city and back home, and one still has to book an appointment regardless of location. As Linda’s sisters contributed money to even get her a passport, it’s unimaginable to pay for travel and the €80 visa fee in US dollars with average monthly salaries of $200-300.
“I paid everything from my pocket,” she confides. “I’m a civil servant. I’m not well-paid, and so I have to sacrifice for it.”
Booking an appointment was the most challenging part. The Embassy has been fully booked since April. July came, and IMD Darmstadt had to start intervening. Linda just kept missing close calls in communication lines. “I was tipped to check online at specific times of the day. Many times I just can’t find an empty slot.”
The Embassy was understanding when Linda finally made it work. Since she can’t return to pick up her passport in person, a classmate living in the city had to do it on her behalf and send it to Binga by DHL.
The troubles weren’t over yet. “There were last-minute changes to my flight to Frankfurt,” Linda continues her story. “I landed in Frankfurt at 05:00 in the morning without anyone to pick me up.” Agee reacts at this: “A colleague was supposed to pick up Linda. But the changes were too short notice – the airport also refused to exchange her money because they’re old currency.” At that time, Agee woke up in Finland at 06:00 to shocking messages of Linda having no money at the airport.
“It turned out that Annisa and Sabrina were arriving at 10:00, and I asked Linda to meet up with them,” Agee continues. Annisa butts in: “We’re supposed to find Linda, but the airport is huge!” Agee was boarding her flight from Finland then, only to find that both parties still haven’t met at all and Linda had no money to buy food. It was a nightmare for someone’s first time outside Africa.
A “rainforest” of cables and electronic circuitry in the workshop room of Sonic Writing and Soundings
==
“A lot of people told me I was lucky to do what I do.” C-drík reflects. We are back in this classroom at Lichtenbergschule, his soft-spoken demeanour poring through the haziness.
He continues: “I always say I don’t believe in luck because I struggled a lot. But among the very small luck I’ve had in my life, it’s getting a Belgian passport because my father is Belgian.” That’s pure luck, one that can get someone anywhere.
The green colours of the stamped Schengen visa in my passport conjure mixed feelings. It authorizes my entry in a place. As if being an artist wasn’t enough, I had additional value bestowed on me. And yet it also brands me for needing permission in the first place. The validity date is a light switch that turns on one’s humanity the day it takes effect, and turns it off once it expires. The development of my artistic career has been linked to the weakness of my passport.
Flipping the pages one by one, I find the absurdity of having so many blank pages. After all, it’s a passport issued in 2022. Its worth only applies to acquiring one Schengen visa. I gawk more with its expiration year: the passport is valid until 2032. It’s all meaningless. I’m switching to an entirely different citizenship soon. I also heard that an artist friend wants to throw hers away for another.
If only infrastructures in place could finally end this curse. In the global arts scenes, invisibility strikes the already invisible while the glory of hypervisibility shines down on the mobile and visible. I cringe at the thought that people who are already privileged with greater mobility get more slices of the pie. The protectionism and exclusivity of nation-states enables this in the holy name of sovereignty.
It’s time to dismantle borders, one passport page at a time.
Words On Music 