When Sha Sarwari arrived in Australia in 2000 as a refugee from Afghanistan, he found himself escaping a country that had descended into turmoil. The Taliban, a newly formed militia, had risen to power, promising prosperity to a nation that had endured decades of occupation, drought, food insecurity and poverty. However, these political promises remained largely unfulfilled and instead the group became notorious for their human rights abuses.
During Sarwari’s artist talk at Redland Art Gallery, alongside concurrent exhibiting artist Pamela See and interviewer (and artist) Tammy Law, Sarwari expressed his determination to reject the violence that surrounded him and instead actively embrace peace.[1] However, when seeking asylum in Australia, he found himself caught living between two worlds. He longed for the familiarity of home but felt distaste towards the unfolding conflict. He desired to settle and prosper in a country that has, at times, made refugees and migrants feel alienated and invisible, and historically has been outright xenophobic. Sarwari describes this state of betweenness as ‘liminal’, the title of his current solo exhibition. Paired with the Farsi term برزخ—Barzakh—which also refers to the experience of being in limbo—a purgatorial phase between death and resurrection—the exhibition features work created over a nine year period, all of which examine the artist’s lived experience as a refugee from Afghanistan attempting to make a home in Australia.
Opening the exhibition is National Icon (2015), a low angle photographic print of a man lying face down on the beach in a glaring red life jacket. It is a stark contrast to the image it appropriates—Max Dupain’s Sunbaker (1937)—where the central figure rests gently on the bleached sand, saturated by the blistering Australian sun, an analogue for inter-war nationalism, and the health, leisure and libido of a nation. Not surprisingly, it’s an image that has been frequently appropriated and recontextualised by diverse Australian artists. In Sarwari’s version, it appears as if the figure has been spat out of the ocean barely visible in the distant background. He is still and unmoving; it is difficult to determine whether he is alive, injured or dead, whether he will be welcomed and cared for or detained and labelled as a threat. Sarwari’s reinterpretation feels worlds apart from the original Sunbaker; in fact, when Sarwari first saw Dupain’s photograph, he thought the man in question had been saved from drowning.[2]
Many of the works in Liminal برزخ incorporate some form of the vernacular, including the Archaeology of Memory series (2020-23), where sinuous lines of Nastaliq script are elegantly carved into charcoaled timber, and Like a Moth to a Flame (2019), which features a black and white silk garment whose pattern is a patchwork of newspaper articles relating to stories of asylum seekers.
Sarwari has a clear interest in language as it offers a critical pathway through loss and displacement. As German philosopher Jürgen Habermas describes in Theory of Communicative Action (1981), discourse is thought to be a path to true understanding and knowledge sharing. At its finest, language facilitates connection, unity and social cohesion.
Moving further into the gallery, Sarwari has lined the walls with a singular row of postcards and in a spiral pattern on the floor. Silent Conversations (2015-ongoing) began when Sarwari dropped 3000 postcards into suburban letterboxes, posing members of the public a question: What do you think of asylum seekers? Of the thousands delivered, only twelve returned. The absent responses could be interpreted as a lack of interest on the issue of asylum seekers or, rather, an unwillingness to engage in conversation.
The opening of Liminal برزخ facilitated an opportunity to resume the project, inviting gallery visitors to respond to the question, with responses continuing to be collected throughout the exhibition. Community responses from previous exhibitions of this work, which have grown to over 120 postcards, have been collected and displayed here. While reading the community responses on display, I notice most messages are imbued with love and empathy: ‘I wish for the whole world to be in love and peace. Asylum seekers are part of our world. They need to be treated with love, respect as any human…’ and ‘Welcome to Brisbane and your new life.’ The only blatant exception I encounter is a postcard scrawled with the words: ‘Fuq off!’
I admire Sarwari’s courage to explore the unpredictable potential of language in this artwork. However, while the negative responses are certainly a minority, it did make me wonder if Sarwari had handed too much power over to the public? Does everyone have the capacity to contribute valuably to this conversation? Do we want everyone’s response to inform the language and stories surrounding refugees and asylum seekers, particularly in a forum that could (arguably) prioritise ideas to empower a community or imagine alternative possibilities and lead social change?
After the withdrawal of US troops in Afghanistan in 2020, the Taliban has once again regained power, forcing 3.6 million people to flee Afghanistan between 2021 and 2022. Devasting conflict in other parts of the world, such as Palestine, Ukraine, Sudan and Myanmar, are contributing to the highest levels of displacement since World War II. For these reasons Sarwari’s exhibition feels particularly poignant, and his willingness to discuss the complexity of living as a refugee in Australia is exceptionally generous. Amidst the catastrophic stories of upheaval and displacement, Sarwari prompts us to reflect on our own attitudes and actions toward the current refugee crisis.
