Hi, my name is Jamie Duncan. I was incredibly fortunate to represent the Digital Tattoo project at RightsCon 2019, the world’s largest conference on human rights in the digital age, in Tunis, Tunisia. I learned a ton and was asked to share some of this with the Digital Tattoo community through this blog post.
After the first day of the conference, I attended the Mawjoudin (‘We Exist’ in English) diversity party, which was one of the RightsCon After Dark events. On the way into the venue, attendees’ phone cameras were covered with stickers. Inside, we were greeted by a fabulous queer party. While there are no pictures of the party, I am pleased to report that there are some fierce queens in Tunis–it is just often harder to see them online.
Jamie displaying the stickers used to prevent party-goers from taking photos
It was the anniversary of the Pulse Nightclub shootings in Orlando and, for me, a really stark reminder about the politics of visibility. Homophobia is everywhere and is disproportionately experienced along the intersections of race and class. This is evidenced by the Pulse shootings and countless other incidents of violence against QTBIPOC (Queer, Trans, Black, Indigenous, and People of Colour) communities globally. In Canada, online visibility is often an advocacy tool for queer communities to claim space and craft narratives of resistance to this homophobia. In many places, online visibility like this puts queer folks at high risk of homophobic violence or, in Tunisia, of prosecution under the law.
This doesn’t mean that there is no activism or advocacy. Rather Mawjoudin and other organizations like them, must engage in different kinds of online awareness raising and offline community-building. They do this based upon threat models–contextual understandings of digital security risks–that reflect the situation in Tunisia. Individual queer-folks and allies must manage their online identities much more carefully than most of us in Canada.
RightsCon is the type of space where one crosses paths with human rights defenders that have been in situations unimaginable to most. They may have been imprisoned or exposed to state or community violence for their journalistic or activist efforts. Despite similar risks, Mawjoudin engages in powerful and extensive advocacy work and community building.
Jamie displaying an additional sticker placed on his phone for protection.
Their Facebook page features illustrated images and animated videos reflecting their advocacy efforts. There are also advertisements for offline advocacy efforts such as a series of ‘Ramadan-esque’ events they hosted and their Queer Film Festival, which has attracted the attention of a global audience. Mawjoudin also helps connect people with medical and psychological services, legal advice, and offers trainings and workshops on a variety of topics, including digital security. Their latest initiative takes the form of LILO (Looking In, Looking Out) identity training workshops oriented towards Tunisian allies like journalists, teachers, and lawyers to help them understand and contextualize the struggle for equality in Tunisia to help them be more effective as advocates.
Mawjoudin’s online presence reflects bravery. Nonetheless, aside from a few non-descript images of people at events, their messaging avoids publishing personally identifiable information about queer folks in Tunisia. They communicate that “we exist” while minimizing risk to community organizers and members. This involves sometimes refraining from the flamboyance I am accustomed to. Images of brassieres and blazers; bedazzled beards and bound chests on queer bodies seem right at home on my Instagram feed, mostly populated by friends in Canada who are currently celebrating Pride. What I have been reminded by Mawjoudin is that I have taken this for granted. My social media feeds are far from representative of reality; they are representative of privilege.
As researchers like danah boyd have noted, what is online is real. It is an extension of other social spaces and social dynamics. This resonates with some of the ideas of media philosopher, Jean Baudrillard who wrote about the ways in which the lives of many Westerners are hyperreal–completely saturated by intensely emotional media. Overwhelming access to information from our televisions, Internet connected devices, and social media feeds means that we often fall victim to the illusion that we have access to all the information we need to come to conclusions about the world–that the sea of content that we float in accurately reflects the world outside the internet. It doesn’t. In fact, it is often the most vulnerable people that are missing. It is those that don’t have access to the internet or simply cannot express their identities freely.
After RightsCon, I was invited to travel with some friends to a beach town near Tunis, called Gammarth for some relaxation after four hectic days. It was very bougey and not really my scene, but it added a layer of complexity to the insights I had taken from the Mawjoudin party. We found ourselves among what could be easily be described as the Tunisian elite–we joked that it felt like Jersey Shore.
It was at these beach clubs, blasting EDM and offering bottle service, that I saw familiar sights. I saw Western reality television-style hetero-normativity; huge sunglasses with tiny bikinis and muscly bros with slick hair. I also saw my first signs of public queerness as well. Without inappropriately speculating on the sexual preferences or gender identities of individuals I saw, there were clearly a few people in this mix engaging in the gender-bending behaviours I see at home–and that I’d seen at the After Dark party. Nobody seemed all that bothered by the many smartphones capturing videos of the party for social media, nor by the person with sparkles in their chest-hair prancing around with an adorable teacup Pomeranian in their arms.
The politics of visibility is a politics of privilege. The reminder that I, as a white guy from one of the wealthiest corners of the world, have the privilege to be visible online with low-risk has been my biggest takeaway on the topic of digital identity from my time in Tunisia. I do not need to remind people that I exist; no one tries to erase me. There are many risks to privacy and personal security online for all of us, yet I need not hide my Instagram or my Twitter profile like some to avoid harassment. I can be visible in relative safety. These are realities that one must be aware of both in crafting their personal digital privacy threat model and in coming to terms with their digital identity. One should not only ask ‘what risks am I subjecting myself to by sharing this information?’ but also, ‘how am I situated in relation to others in and outside of my local community?’
Digital privacy and security depend. They depend upon the who, how, where, what, and why of a situation. It pays to be aware of our own context as well as that of those around us. I will likely never be subjected to the kinds of sexual harassment endured by women and trans-folks online. I will likely never be legally prosecuted for being queer online or off. It is precisely this knowledge that allows me to situate myself and my identity so, when invited and when is necessary, I can serve as a more effective ally to those who do not share these privileges.
Written By: Jamie Duncan, guest contributor.
Edited By: Samantha Summers
Article Images By: Jamie Duncan, used with permission of Jamie Duncan.
Header Image: Pride Day Rainbow, by filmbetrachterin. Used under Pixabay License.
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