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A witness walking to these shores in our time would not spy a single war-worn and sea-tossed Ithacan sailor returning to his homeland but rather thousands of woeful, current- day avatars of Odysseus, refugees who in the words of Homer find themselves ‘τῆλε φίλων καὶ πατρίδος αἴης’, ‘far from friends and home’.   The linkage of space, politics, and the humanities in the theme of this conference is something more than a matter of mere historical timeliness—and certainly not opportunism—but instead an expression of the deepest roots shared by Greek and American notions of language, literature, history, philosophy, and the arts, that for better or worse we have come to call by the increasingly awkward term ‘the humanities’.   ‘The humanities’ has become an awkward term not only because of a broadening definition of human beings’ reciprocal relationship with both the animal world and the inorganic quantum universe, but also on account of the convergence of techne and episteme in the networked world, factors that increasingly challenge the centrality of the human. But our humanity is also challenged on its face as the internal politics of nation upon nation across the globe turn misanthropic and the immigrant experience of an increasingly exiled global population of refugees becomes brutalized, hopeless, and dehumanized. We are all of us ‘estranged from that which is most familiar’, as the twentieth-century American poet Charles Olson frequently paraphrased and evoked Heraclitus.   If we gathered here have been both careful and caring during these days, perhaps we can leave here having renewed our familiarity in the root sense of not just our shared humanity but also what we mean by both politics and space. I hope by these remarks to make some suggestions toward that renewal.   ‘Politics’, of course, is a fine and ancient Greek word, at first meaning the affairs of the city, the polis, but where the meaning of polis in time came to be understood not just as the concentrated and fortified high place—the citadel—but the surround which the city state encompassed and whose extent the polis gave a view to. ‘Polis is eyes’, Olson—himself a one-time politician—declared in his four-volume epic The Maximus Poems , whose prototypic hero is modeled upon not Odysseus but the second-century Greek rhetorician and philosopher, Maximus of Tyre (M I 26).[1]   By ‘Polis is eyes’ Olson meant a quality of attention—a caring attention to the what, the whom, and the when of the world—possessed by those women and men who had eyes to see their relation to both others and otherness. For Olson politics was a poetics, what he called ‘the attention, and the care’ with which ‘each of us/chooses our own/ kin and/ concentration’. He attributed this quality of attention not just to poets—but perhaps unsurprisingly to a Greek audience—to fishermen, those whose eyes we might say could discern the kinship between the ship of the returning hero on the horizon and a raft teeming with Eritrean refugees nearing Kos.

Conventional wisdom tells us that the first civilisation to be governed in a manner comparable to our own was Ancient Greece—the world’s first democracy.[1] Such discourse has contributed to popular belief that earlier civilisations, of which Egypt is probably the best-known example, might be interesting in myriad ways but surely have little to offer scholars of modern government. Egypt, according to established narrative, was an absolute monarchy, where Pharaoh did as he pleased and all else fell into place around this.[2] Yet was this really so? In this article, it will be demonstrated that the reality was not so simple, with the Ancient Egyptian framework for government and justice being based on far more than the will of one man. This argument for Ancient Egypt having what may be termed an early constitution—however embryonic it may have been—rests on four key premises: evidence for the distinction between the notion of ‘State’ and ‘Government’; the rule of law; the right of appeal; and the separation of executive and judicial power. Each of these shall now be briefly discussed in turn, with the article then concluding with a discussion of the implications of such observations for studies in constitutional history going forward.   The distinction between state (Pharaoh) and government (Vizier)   Almost everybody knows that Ancient Egypt was reigned over by Pharaohs, but to what extent was it actually governed by them? In theological terms, the monarchy was indeed absolute—Pharaoh was a living incarnation of the god of kingship, Horus, seen by his subjects as the ‘good god’ ( ntr nfr ) occupying the middle ground between this world and the next and  ex officio  serving as the high priest of every cult in the land.[3] He was the supreme guarantor of right order ( M3c.t ), tasked with defending Egypt from all enemies foreign and domestic. And yet, the practical task of overseeing the daily running of the country in fact fell to a different individual: the Vizier.[4] This high official was appointed by Pharaoh as a de facto head of government, not unlike the appointment of a Prime Minister by a modern-day head of state. According to the Installation of the Vizier , a text of the fifteenth century BCE setting out royal expectations at the time of a new vizieral appointment, a Vizier could expect to be told the following by his sovereign:   Look to the office of the Vizier, be vigilant concerning all that is done in it, for it is the mainstay of the entire land. Now as for the Vizierate, it certainly is not pleasant; indeed it is as bitter as gall. See, he is copper enclosing the gold of his master’s house.[5]   Thus, this text paints a picture where Pharaoh appreciates the unpleasantness of the job of governing the country, and offloads it onto his Vizier—the metaphorical ‘copper’ which serves to protect the ‘gold’ which is Pharaoh himself. In so doing, Pharaoh presumably freed up time which could be spent on his other prerogatives, such as foreign conquest, building work, and religious observances. However, this did not mean that the work of Pharaoh and Vizier became disjointed, with the latter being duty-bound to regularly report to the former. Clear evidence for this can be found in another text of the same period, the Duties of the Vizier , which states that a Vizier was obliged to act as follows:

1. The fish are alright   Historically and presently, the United Kingdom has identified and presented itself as a maritime nation.[1] Fisheries, historically a significant source of employment, cultural identity, and economic output, are a vital component of the UK’s seafaring character. Amidst the decline of other British coastal industries, fishing, also in a state of ‘managed decline’,[2] is perhaps the UK’s final remaining material link to this maritime heritage.   Our article posits that the interplay of fishing, national politics, and British international affairs over several centuries engendered a fishing iconography rooted in place, power, and identity. Fishers, fishing communities, and the political class gained differing utilities from this iconography. Even as the industry’s size and productivity has declined (to 0.02% of the economy)[3] and knowledge of fishing’s adverse environmental impacts has become widespread, fishing iconography remains germane to major events in contemporary British politics.[4] We use EU membership generally, and Brexit specifically, to highlight how conceptions of national identity influenced by the fisheries-politics-law nexus can ‘bite back’ to shape the activities of a political class instrumental in affording fisheries this power in the first place.[5]   Brexit is an example and an outcome of these interlocking forces. Since the UK joined the European Union in 1973, fishing policy challenged key British constitutional principles, and precipitated UK-European conflicts. This fomented pro-Leave rhetoric and ultimately directed the course of Brexit (2016-20) and the Transition Period (January-December 2020). Yet Brexit may also prove to be a critical juncture in fisheries policy, as it offers the UK an opportunity to break from perversely subsidised and unsustainable path dependencies that defined EU-era UK fishing policies.[6]   We proceed as follows. §2 articulates a historical and material foundation for British fishing iconography, arguing that it arose from the fishing communities’ socio-economic and political activities to become part of British national identity writ large. We characterise this as a romanticised national iconography of fishing as a noble, distinctively British profession. In §3, we consider the implications of this by examining how fishing iconography was effectively deployed by sections of the British political elite to capture national attention during the referendum campaign, before assessing how fishing directed political events during Brexit. Having evaluated the past and present of British fishing, §4 turns to the future. Building on previous work by marine scientists, we highlight pathways to recast extractivist fishing iconography as an iconography of flourishing marine ecosystems conserved in service of public welfare interests.[7]

Introduction   This article sets out the case for taking future generations seriously through our political institutions. We make three central claims. First, future people matter, and political institutions ought to reflect this. We make this case by appealing to the importance of broad political enfranchisement, and then to the more general moral significance of future people. Second, our political institutions do not yet take the interests of future generations sufficiently seriously across a range of issues, especially relating to managing risks—and considerations from economics and psychology explain why she should expect this to be the case. Third, institutional reform toward representing future people is both promising and feasible. To this end, we describe four kinds of reform which we hope will broaden the discussion. Throughout, we draw on work by Tyler John.[1]   Future generations matter for politics   Representation matters for politics   A core part of today’s Western understanding of democracy is that governments derive their legitimacy from adequately including the people they affect in their decision-making processes.[2] The American Revolution led with the slogan ‘no taxation without representation’,[3] and the subsequent Declaration of Independence affirmed that ‘governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed’.[4]   Yet, a government being democratic in name does not imply it represents everyone it ought to represent. Indeed, the history of Western democracy is a history of subjugated groups struggling for political enfranchisement.[5] Women were not granted the vote until well into the twentieth century; US Congress only passed the Civil Rights Act in 1967; and today fierce discussion continues on how constitutional issues like gerrymandering discriminate in practice against certain groups.[6]   We may care about representation because we value equality, diversity, or fairness, and believe broader representation is necessary for these abstract ideals. But we should also care about representation because of its practical effects—because it shapes laws and policies. When groups are underrepresented in democratic systems, politicians have weaker incentives to consider their interests in constructing policy, and are exposed to a narrower range of perspectives. When groups are not represented at all, governments do not have to internalise the externalities imposed by this policy.   Consider the ‘median voter theorem’.[7] Given some basic assumptions,[8] the optimal strategy for a political party seeking to win power in a two-party system is to always cater to the median voter. Extending suffrage will shift the median voter, and by extension the voters politicians will cater to. There is large empirical literature documenting this phenomenon. For example, John R Lott and Lawrence W Kenny showed that US states that gave women the right to vote before the Nineteenth Amendment saw immediate increases in government expenditures and progressive divorce laws.[9] Likewise, Toke S Aidt, Jayasri Dutta, and Elena Loukoianova showed that the gradual lifting of class restrictions on the voting franchise in Europe between 1830 and 1938 caused more spending on infrastructure and internal security.[10]

Since 15 August 2021, the Taliban Government continues to suppress the progression of women’s basic human rights in Afghanistan, resulting in their systematic oppression as a result of state sponsored crimes against humanity which has also encompassed gender apartheid. Gender apartheid has been defined as the economic and social sexual discrimination against individuals because of their gender or sex. This manifests itself as a system enforced by using either physical or legal practices to relegate individuals based on their gender to subordinate positions. [1] While I certainly believe that the de facto government is engaged in gender apartheid on a daily basis against all women and girls in Afghanistan, the focus of this paper shall be on arguing the legal case that can specifically be brought against the Minister of Justice and the Minister of Interior of their committing crimes against humanity to the over two hundred and seventy women and girls detained in Pul-e-Charkhi prison. These women and girls are victims of gender apartheid, torture, imprisonment, sexual slavery, and other inhumane acts, intentionally causing great suffering as well as serious injury to their bodily and mental health, all in violation of the Rome Statute Article 7.   In October 2023, I visited Pul-e-Charkhi prison in Afghanistan and talked with numerous guards, administrators, detainees, and children. I have worked as the only foreign attorney litigating cases in Afghanistan since 2008. As part of this work, for over 15 years I would routinely visit the prisons and have litigated numerous cases in both criminal and civil courts, particularly for women and girls. Certainly, before the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan’s government on 15 August 2021, the legal system was far from perfect in meeting conventional rule of law standards. However, there was at least some attempt in following a system where women were treated more humanely, and certain basic standards of human rights were adhered to. Between 2022 and 2023, however, Afghanistan was deemed one of the countries with the largest decline in human rights.[2]   Since the 2021 takeover of the government, the legal system and the landscape of Afghanistan has dramatically changed, and things have gotten dangerously worse for women and girls—especially those in prison. Due in large part to the conservative cultural political ideologies and the uniquely conservative and inflexible doctrines imparted by the zealots of the de facto government, who have deprived women of their basic human rights, the country is one of the worst for women.[3] Since 2021, through over sixty-five decrees the Taliban has cemented and normalized its gender-apartheid practices, by denying females the right to secondary education, forbidding them to work in offices, denying them the right to travel alone without a ‘suitable’ mahram, banning them from working for international NGOs, and invalidating thousands of legally validated divorces, often due to abuse by their husbands.[4] According to the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan’s Constitution, Article 22 notes that:   any kind of discrimination and distinction between citizens of Afghanistan shall be forbidden. The citizens of Afghanistan, man and woman, have equal rights and duties before the law.[5]     Furthermore, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, which Afghanistan remains a state party to, obliges:   State parties to respect, protect, and fulfill women’s rights to non-discrimination and the  enjoyment of de jure and de facto equality.[6]

Introduction   On 30 June 2020, the National People’s Congress Standing Committee (NPCSC) in Beijing imposed its ‘National Security Law’ (NSL) on the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region.[1] Its provisions—drawn up in complete secrecy—criminalise conduct (including conduct outside Hong Kong) that would elsewhere be recognised as ordinary civic and political participation. Under the NSL, the territory is subject to two distinct state security apparatuses—one made up of Hong Kong police, prosecutors, and judges; the other of Mainland Chinese state security agents—neither of which are subject to meaningful legal or democratic accountability. Despite the lip service paid to fundamental rights in Article 4, the content of the NSL[2]—and the way in which it was imposed—conveyed one clear message: any such rights could be abrogated at will.[3] More than three years after the imposition of the NSL, Hong Kong’s political and legal orders have been transformed beyond recognition. Opposition parties, civil society groups, and independent media have been shut down by a combination of police raids and intimidation; authorities increasingly inveigh against mere expressions of dissent as acts of ‘soft resistance’ threatening ‘national security’.[4] Pro-democracy politicians and activists have been incarcerated, exiled, or otherwise forced out of the public arena. As of 1 July 2023, a total of 264 people have been arrested, and 148 charged, with NSL-related offences or colonial-era sedition offences; of the latter, 70% have been denied bail.[5] Even exiles are not immune from the reach of the NSL: on 3 July 2023, the Hong Kong government announced HK$1M (approximately GBP 104,800) bounties on eight politicians and activists in exile, including barrister and former legislator Dennis Kwok and solicitor Kevin Yam.[6] As I have argued elsewhere,[7] Hong Kong’s post-NSL legal order is now a dual state[8]—one in which the security apparatus is not subject to any legal restraints, and in which the ordinary, ‘normative state’ can be displaced merely by invoking the deliberately nebulous concept of ‘national security’.[9]   All of these developments[10] are a matter of public record. Yet the Hong Kong Court of Final Appeal (‘HKCFA’) continues to boast ten Overseas Non-Permanent Judges (‘overseas judges’), all of whom have held high judicial office in the UK, or in other Commonwealth jurisdictions. More than three years after the NSL was imposed, only three overseas judges have resigned from the HKCFA.[11]   Some of the overseas judges who have chosen to remain[12] have sought to rationalise their continued presence on the HKCFA. Speaking to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation in 2022, former Canadian Chief Justice Beverley McLachlin asserted that the HKCFA remained ‘completely independent of the regime in Hong Kong’ and that she was not ‘doing anything negative to prop up that regime’.[13] Similarly, Robert French, former Chief Justice of the High Court of Australia, publicly defended the continued presence of Australian judges on the HKCFA, claiming that he supported ‘their commitment to maintaining judicial independence’.[14]   These defences portray Hong Kong’s legal system as the Rechtsstaat (of sorts) they still imagine it to be, rather than the dual state it has become. In particular, they suffer from two inter-related misunderstandings. First, they do not take into account the HKCFA’s decreasing ability—and willingness—to exercise a moderating influence on the post-NSL judiciary. Second, they misapprehend the role and significance of overseas judges on the HKCFA. I consider each in turn below.

Vladimir Osechkin is a Russian-born human rights activist and founder of Gulagu.net, an NGO that documents and exposes crimes committed by Russian officials and the FSB. In November 2021, Osechkin was placed on a wanted list by the Russian state after leaking a large archive of documents, photos, and videos with hundreds of cases of rape and torture of inmates in Russian prisons directed by prison officials. Since August 2022, Osechkin has urged former Russian soldiers and dissidents to flee the country with the help of Gulagu.net, in exchange for exposing information about the war crimes committed in Ukraine. Osechkin continues to risk his life every day to gather evidence that will one day hold Russian officials accountable for their crimes. CJLPA : I would like to begin by reflecting on your background. What inspired you to become a human rights activist who was willing to risk everything in order to expose the cases of torture and rape committed by Russian officials?   VO : I grew up in a household where we struggled with money. It was a difficult time in our country. I wanted to go to university and get a job in order to give my family a better life. I thought I would be a lawyer or perhaps an officer in the prosecutor office. Then on one day at university, a crime had occurred nearby where someone was killed. The police came to our campus and when they saw me, they invited me to the police station. I did not think anything of it and thought they simply wanted to ask questions and see if I had witnessed anything. I had trust in the police. I soon began to realise it was an interrogation and after about 30 minutes of dissatisfaction with my answers, the police beat me for six hours because they wanted me to give a false confession and sign paperwork stating that I killed the man. They then arrested my close friend at university and tortured him until he signed the testimony against me claiming that I was responsible.   This was my first-hand experience of torture and made me understand the corruption in the force. I was soon after arrested and put in prison. My father was a journalist and worked with a lawyer to gather all the evidence to demonstrate it was impossible for me to be related in any manner to the murder. After presenting the case the prosecution, the prosecutor realised their mistake and released me from prison. I then returned to university, realising that actually my peers did not understand what really occurs in the system under the Russian Federation. After university, I worked very hard and created a big car business in Moscow that I would run for the next seven years. The business model was to work with other regions outside of Russia, including Europe, the US, and Japan.

François Zimeray is a prominent French diplomat, lawyer, former politician, and human rights activist. Zimeray previously served as France’s Ambassador-at-Large for Human Rights. He later became the French Ambassador for the Kingdom of Denmark in 2013.   This interview was conducted on 14 September 2023.   CJLPA : Welcome, Mr François Zimeray. We would like to begin by thanking you for taking the time to come and interview with The Cambridge Journal of Law, Politics, and Art . Your extensive political career as an MP in the European Parliament, being the French Ambassador-at-Large for Human Rights appointed by President Sarkozy, and serving as the French ambassador to Denmark, combined with your experience as a lawyer in international criminal and human rights law, provides a valuable perspective on pressing international law and political questions. We would specifically like to examine key legal and political issues in respect to the Russia-Ukraine War, but also more broadly, in the name of human rights. I wanted to begin by asking you to briefly outline your career. Having begun as a commercial lawyer, you transitioned into successful career in politics, and then started a leading law firm specializing in international human rights. What prompted your decision to delve into the field of human rights law?   François Zimeray : Thank you for inviting me, it’s a privilege for me to have this opportunity to share some thoughts and maybe experiences with the students you represent. Human rights has always been a commitment in my life, even before I became a lawyer, before I got involved in politics. I was in high school when I heard about Cambodian genocide, and I was very troubled, because my generation was raised with one motto, inspired by the tragedy of the Second World War, and this motto was ‘never again’. And we were obsessed about what to do in order to avoid a new perpetration of the crimes and atrocities of the mid-20th century. I realised when I was a very young student that this was happening again. I thought that indifference is a crime without forgiveness. So, I got involved in human rights through the schools by welcoming and supporting Cambodian refugees. This put me in contact with the realities of the world. Before, I didn’t know because I was not configurated or confronted to these realities, living in a protected environment in Paris. After meeting the Cambodian refugees and discovering what they had seen and endured, this inspired the rest of my life.   You mentioned a career, but this is a word I never used. In fact, I never had a career plan. When I look into the rear mirror, as it were, it’s only then that I can see something which looks like a career path.   CJLPA : What do human rights mean to you personally?   FZ : That’s a good question. I learned from experience that words have not the same meaning depending on the person who listens to them. And human rights is a very important example, which deserves extended consideration. Because when you say, human rights, most people hear ethics, values, principles, moral virtues. And I have to say that human rights are not ethics. Human rights are not morals. Human rights are not very views, which is a very vague term. Human rights are rights that exist or don’t exist; rights that are enforced or violated.   From this divide, it could lead to two different interpretations and attitudes vis-à-vis human rights. If you think that human rights are the synonym of morals, ethics, virtue, you are then dealing with symbols, posters, statements saying that human rights are perfect because ethics, by definition, are perfect. But, if you think that human rights are rights, which mean compromises or virtues, then human rights are, by definition, imperfect. Why do I say this? Because in democracies, rights are adopted by Parliament, after ideas are traded and discussed by different political parties and ultimately voted for by resolutions. These are therefore rights adopted from compromises which are inherently imperfect. As a former diplomat, I know that if you consider human rights as morals, then it is absolute and there is no possibility for compromise. It becomes a question of morals against other morals. Let’s say for example, we consider women’s rights and their right to religious freedom in wearing a veil, or the burqa, or other aspects. If you stand with moral arguments, you will face people with another vision of morality. I don’t see where a compromise or an agreement can be made if you have different morals. But, if you say human rights are not about morals, but actually about rights, then a dialogue is always possible: Where should we put the limit? What is allowed? What is forbidden? On which criteria should we agree to set a standard?   So this is my personal vision of human rights. Human rights are rights and it’s very demanding. It’s very demanding because sometimes the ‘right’ the law says can imply different solutions, opposite to what morals should inspire. Let’s try to find a very concrete example. Let’s say that in a criminal procedure, you have an accused criminal who is more likely than not guilty, but the criminal procedure is not fully respected. This means that the criminal’s right to a defence and the right to a fair trial is not fully respected. This leads the court to declare a mistrial due to the lack of respect for the rules. This outcome is in accordance with having rights. However, if you ask someone in terms of moral ethics, you have criminal that should be in jail. So, I don’t believe in fixating on morals and the justice that comes with it. I believe in rights, which is different and a very demanding discipline. It is a discipline which requires to think against oneself.

In January 2018, veteran actress Caroline Lagerfelt stepped into the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City. She was there to see ‘Ode to the Sea’, an exhibition of artwork by detainees at Guantanamo Bay, which at that point had been open for 16 years, with no end in sight.   Lagerfelt had known about the atrocities committed at Guantanamo for some time. In fact, she had played British human rights lawyer Gareth Peirce in a play about Guantanamo 14 years earlier, and became a staunch advocate of the facility’s closure. As she walked through the exhibition, she was stunned by the beauty and intricacy of the works—Moath al Alwi’s ‘meticulously crafted ship’ from bits of cardboard and other found materials within the detention facility, Muhammad Ansi’s painting of two hands grasping the bars of a prison window with flowers.[1] Ms Lagerfelt later recounted that ‘one of the most powerful paintings is Vertigo at Guantanamo  by Ammar al Baluchi, a multi-coloured swirl that he painted to reflect the brain injury he suffered as a result of the brutal torture he underwent’.[2] Fig 1. Vertigo at Guantanamo (Ammar al Baluchi). Vertigo at Guantanamo  was, literally and figuratively, the product of years of torture, detention, interrogations, and ‘prosecution’ without end, all without basic medical or physical care. Ammar al Baluchi disappeared in Pakistan in April 2003. Soon thereafter, the CIA rendered him to the infamous ‘black sites’, where he would spend the next three and a half years entirely incommunicado, in violation of long standing international law.[3] His family had no idea where he was, and he had no news of them during that time. Former detainee Muhammad Ansi depicted the agony of incommunicado detention in his artwork. Mr al Baluchi’s journey towards art creation, like Mr Ansi and many of the Muslim men brutalized in US custody, began with his torture. Fig 2. Crying Eye: Mother (Muhammed Ansi).

Mazen Darwish is a Syrian Human Rights lawyer, freedom of expression activist and the president of the Syrian Centre for Media and Freedom of Expression. He was arrested in 2012 by the intelligence forces in Syria along with fifteen other journalists, one of whom was his wife Yara Bader. During his imprisonment he was subject to a forced disappearance and his whereabouts were unknown. Following his release and escape from Syria, Mazen has continued to advocate for freedom of expression in Syria by representing the victims of the Syrian Revolution and giving them a chance at justice. CJLPA : Good afternoon, Mr Darwish. It’s an honour to have an opportunity to interview you for The Cambridge Journal of Law, Politics, and Art.  Throughout the last few decades you have been an inspiring figure, defending the human rights of all Syrians around the world. Much of your work has revolved around protecting freedom of expression for Syrians. What was your motivation to start practising in human rights knowing that the Syrian regime is quite oppressive when it comes to freedom of expression?   Mazen Darwish : Thank you very much. It’s a pleasure and honour to be with you. First of all, I want to start with my family, because both my father and my mother were detained and disappeared. This is something I was born into; seeing this situation and how it affected the families and all the civilians in Syria. For me, freedom of expression is a basic right that any society needs to have to build a democracy and all other freedoms. It’s an essential right, especially in a regime like the one in Syria, where a lot of people are detained and are suffering for expressing their opinion.   CJLPA : Can you tell us more about why your parents got detained?   MD : For their opinions, actually; both of them acted as political opposition in different parties or groups. This is not something special, a huge number of families or Syrians were detained because of their opinion in general. This is something that always happened in Syria, even before 2011. Again, this is a dictatorship regime, Stalin style. This regime tries to build the people from childhood, through propaganda, to have the same view, same enemy, same opinion. One opinion and one ideology. This is a part of the regime and how they control the people. If anyone tries to think about other opinions, about other ideologies, about other lifestyles, they are treated like they are destroying the regime itself.   CJLPA : When we spoke to Anwar al-Bunni about the legal justice system in Syria, he mentioned how there isn’t such a thing as a legitimate legal system in Syria. Can you tell us more about your time working within the Syrian legal system and the challenges you had to face representing clients in Syria?   MD : We need to put in consideration that the country from 1963-2011 was under emergency law. If we go to the Constitution, or if we go to the criminal law, criminal code, or the code for criminal procedure, in general, there are a lot of good words or good articles. The problem is that it is used in an impractical way. Since 1963, especially the Security Service, they have had a legal excuse to not use the law, to act above the law. They don’t need to have a warrant from any jurisdiction to arrest someone. They don’t have in the procedural law a legal limit to keep someone under investigation before sending him to the court. Due to the emergency law, legally, they are free to do what they want. They don’t have any limit. Some people stay 24 years, I know them, without being listened to by any judge or court due to the emergency law. This is the situation in Syria. We need to understand that this is an environment where maybe there is a legal code or some articles in the Constitution to protect the freedom of the people, but the reality is that we also have the emergency law, which gives all the authority to the Security Service or to the police.

KV Duong was born in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, in 1980. He emigrated to Toronto, Canada with his family in 1987 and moved to London, UK on his own in 2010. His art practice spans painting, sculpture, installation, and live performance. In 2022, KV had a solo exhibition titled ‘Too Foreign for Home, Too Foreign for Here’ at the Migration Museum in London, followed by ‘No Place Like Home’ at the Museum of the Home in 2023, a group exhibition of eight artists from the Vietnamese Diaspora that KV co-curated and artistically led.   Originally trained as a structural engineer, KV enrolled in the MA in Painting Programme at the Royal College of Art, London, in September 2023 to further push his artistic investigations and was awarded the Vice Chancellor’s Achievement Scholarship from Royal College of Art in 2024. He is presently exploring latex as a painting medium. Gabriella Kardos: You’ve always been fascinated by material exploration, experimenting with concrete, fibreglass, and polystyrene in the past. Why did you turn your attention to latex?   KV Duong : Latex holds a complex web of connotations deeply rooted in the historical dynamics of rubber plantations during the era of French colonisation in Vietnam, where I was born. Latex also embodies a queer individual’s experience, evoking sexual fantasies and intimacy. Laden with symbolism, I’m using this glue-like substance to act as a signifier and protagonist, fusing together materials of importance in my life to help shape and contextualise my identity and ancestral past.   By using latex as a conceptual material to do the heavy lifting of the two main narratives of my life, this has allowed me more freedom of expression to focus on painterly explorations.   GK: How did growing up in Canada as a Vietnamese-Chinese person shape your identity and worldview?   KVD : I moved to Canada with my family when I was seven years old. We were fortunate that there is a sizeable Vietnamese-Chinese community in Toronto where we settled. Despite the culture and climate shock initially, I assimilated well as a young person. It wasn’t until adulthood, travelling abroad to Europe, that I faced scrutiny for my appearance and origin. This realisation of being perceived as ‘the other’ expanded my worldview and fostered a commitment to understanding diverse perspectives, particularly amidst escalating cultural tensions worldwide. Fig 1. KV Duong’s Family Portrait Ho Chi Minh City 1986. Image courtesy of KV Duong. GK: Ethnicity aside, you also had to come to terms with your sexuality. How was your coming out experience, and how did this inform your artistic voice?   KVD : I came out to my close friends and siblings when I was 28, then to my parents when I was 32. To date, the latter is still the most challenging and high-risk situation that I’ve had to navigate in life. I had laid everything on the line and prepared myself for the worst-case scenario, which thankfully didn’t happen. But because I had this mindset going in, everything else afterwards seems like a bonus. This experience gave me the courage to stand up for social injustice and shaped my voice as both a person and an artist.

Tschabalala Self (b. 1990 Harlem, USA) lives and works in Hudson Valley, New York. Tschabalala is an artist and builds a singular style from the syncretic use of both painting and printmaking to explore ideas about the black body. She constructs depictions of predominantly female bodies using a combination of sewn, printed, and painted materials, traversing different artistic and craft traditions. The formal and conceptual aspects of Self's work seek to expand her critical inquiry into selfhood and human flourishing. Recent solo and group exhibitions include: Espoo Museum of Modern Art, Espoo (2024); Highline, New York (2024) Brooklyn Museum, New York (2024); FLAG Foundation, New York (2024); Barbican, London (2024); CC Strombeek, Grimbergen, Belgium (2023); Desert X, Coachella Valley (2023); Kunstmuseum St Gallen (2023); Le Consortium, Dijon (2022); Performa 2021 Biennial, New York (2021); Haus der Kunst, Munich (2021); Kunsthalle Düsseldorf, Düsseldorf (2021); Baltimore Museum of Art, Baltimore (2021); ICA, Boston (2020); Studio Museum Artists in Residence, MoMA PS1, New York (2019); Hammer Museum, Los Angeles (2019); Frye Art Museum, Seattle (2019), amongst many others. Gabriella Kardos : The Fourth Plinth commissions make us look at the world in different ways, addressing issues of importance for British society. They point a mirror to our contemporary world, they embody ideas which need to be expressed in concrete form to remind us of important issues we are facing today. How do you view Lady in Blue within this context?   Tschabalala Self :   Lady in Blue is a sculpture that pays homage to a young, metropolitan woman of colour—a quotidian figure, like many one might encounter in contemporary London. Lady in Blue is not a figure from the historical or political past, but rather a symbol of our shared present and future ambitions. She reflects equity through representation, acknowledgement, and action, where all global citizens are exalted and appreciated for their unique contributions, and a future where the ordinary individual is recognised for their extraordinary capabilities. She expresses resilience and grace through the complications of our ever-evolving modern world.   Inspired by a desire to bring a contemporary woman to Trafalgar Square, Lady in Blue adds a new perspective to the public space. Unlike Henry Havelock, Charles James Napier, or George Washington, this anonymous woman is not a real person but an icon; she represents many individuals rather than the adulation of one. This symbolism allows all who interact with the sculpture to imbue her with their own personal relationship and take meaning from her placement.   This figure would be the first sculpture of mine to depict a walking figure. Movement and walking are associated with agency in my work. The fact that my figures are often ‘on the move’ speaks to their ability to assert their own will and exist within their own reality, rather than existing solely for the edification of the viewer. Similarly, I feel there is great political power in showing a woman walking in the public sphere as opposed to being posed or static: the gesture illuminates the forward moment of all women collectively. Fig 1. Lady in Blue (Tschabalala Self) Model for Fourth Plinth Commission, Trafalgar Square, London 2026 © Tschabalala Self, Courtesy of the artist and Pilar Corrias, London