1 Prologue: The Journey to This Book
My first research on the Awlad ‘Ali Bedouin in the borderland of Egypt and Libya took place in the early 1990s. My fellow student Olin Roenpage and I had been engaged by the German al-Qasr Rural Development Project (QRDP) in Marsa Matrouh to conduct a study on the Bedouin economy in the project region. The days were filled with conversations and discussions about filus (money), dakhl (income), masarif (costs), maksab (profit) or dara’ib. (taxes). Although talking about economics and business was a daily routine in the marbu‘a (the room in which men and guests are received in the Bedouin house), these issues became quite sensitive when we attempted to document numbers and facts in order to calculate the gross national product of the project region between Marsa Matrouh in the west, Sidi Barrani in the East, and Hagfit al-Gallaz in the south.
Our Bedouin informants, hosts and friends felt awkward about delivering facts and numbers that could eventually end up in the hands of the Egyptian authorities .1 At that time the Egyptian side of the borderland was still a restricted military area. The Bedouin farmers had no official deeds to the land they worked on with which they could claim land ownership, and the state officially owned all desert territories in Egypt. Bedouin businessmen had to deal with arbitrary taxation procedures imposed by the authorities , and the governorate was more interested in the development of domestic and international tourism than in investing in desert agriculture or Bedouin enterprises. It took some time and personal commitment, which involved living with and among people (as participant observers), to gain trust for our study. However, some issues were never entirely resolved. This was particularly true for the scope of the trans-border connectivity of the Awlad ‘Ali economy and the social and political implications of this connectivity. Libya was always present in conversations about economics and huwwa fi Libya (he is in Libya) became a sort of catchphrase for all sorts of trans-border activities. Many of these activities were considered illegal by the authorities . This was true not only for trade (smuggling) and labor migration, but also for the political relations between Egyptian and Libyan tribal politicians. Our chances to explore these practices were limited by the sensitivity of the issue. However, the fact that the Awlad ‘Ali as a tribal population of a remote borderland (seemingly an almost perfect example of a periphery) had a long-standing and active cross-border relationship, despite the limitations caused by both authoritarian rule and military control in Egypt and the arbitrariness of Muammar Gaddafi’ s regime in Libya, became a source of academic and personal fascination for me. The local tribal politicians who had for the most part supported our research played a central role in this setting, and this impression was consolidated even further when I came back to Marsa Matrouh for my doctoral study on the relationship between development experts and local politics (Hüsken 2006). During these studies, my attitude toward the alleged “rule of experts” (Mitchell 2002) or the “anti-politics machine” (Ferguson 1994) of development that renders politics technical in order to process it within the framework of development cooperation profoundly changed. It became obvious that development experts I got to know in Marsa Matrouh (and other Arab countries) were not the masters of change but actors in the dynamic and controversial process of development cooperation. This process was shaped to a much greater extent by local actors and local politicians than many studies suggest. It became clear that global development models or standards—created in the development headquarters of the West or forged in international conferences and meetings of experts—were appropriated (or rejected) by or translated into local development spheres by these local actors. This was also the case in the borderland where, in addition, a longer history of local and regional development endeavor promoted by local tribal politicians and their partners existed. This experience triggered my interest in the complex role of non-state actors within a setting seemingly dominated by states and international organizations.
In 2007, I began my research (together with Georg Klute) on emerging forms of non-state rule in African borderlands funded by the German Research Association. At the same time, I became involved with an international group of researchers dealing with African borderlands led by Paul Nugent, Gregor Dobler and Wolfgang Zeller. This network developed into the African Borderlands Research Network (ABORNE, http://www.aborne.org), received funding from the European Science Fund (2008–2013), and is today one of the “Collaborative Research Groups” of AEGIS (Africa–Europe Group for Interdisciplinary Studies). Although I had been working in a borderland for some time, it was ABORNE and its protagonists who introduced me to a whole new perspective on borders and borderlands. However, conducting research on local non-state forms of politics in the borderland of Egypt and Libya developed into a challenging undertaking. In the era of Hosni Mubarak’s regime (1981–2011), with its clandestine arrangements and secret modes of conduct, an open discussion on politics was potentially dangerous because it could be overheard and reported to the authorities by a legion of informants. For the Awlad ‘Ali in the borderland of Egypt and Libya, the term siyasa (politics) was particularly sensitive because it pointed to the complex relationship between the tribal society and the central state. To obtain official research permission was impossible for both foreign and Egyptian social anthropologists, and thus I traveled to Marsa Matrouh with a tourist visa and a recommendation letter from the German Society for International Cooperation (GIZ). The governor agreed to meet me, and it was the reputation of the GIZ (and my previous stays in the region) that granted me the sort of patrimonial tolerance toward foreign research typical of the Egyptian authorities in the era of Hosni Mubarak. From then on, I was lucky enough to (more or less) disappear into the deep shelter of Awlad ‘Ali hospitality. The protection of my research and also my personal protection was skillfully arranged by a number of tribal politicians and elders with the right contacts among the authorities . The proficiency and the sovereignty of this conduct were remarkable. The families and kinship associations who hosted me became a peaceful haven and also a sort of home to me. This was particularly true during the revolutions in Egypt and Libya in 2011, and I can only express my deepest gratitude here.
In Libya, on the other hand, politics, political thought and discussion were almost entirely monopolized by Gaddafi’s regime with its continuous mobilization campaigns and the pressures of instruments like the revolutionary committees. My attempt to carry out research on tribal politics in the remote borderland around Tobruk caused irritation among most of the colleagues I contacted. Doing research in Libya was difficult, and projects dealing with sensitive issues in sensitive regions had few prospects. In fact, in around 2007 the number of people who had actually worked on politics and economics inside the country itself was quite limited, and most of their work was gathered in the volume Libya since 1969. Qadhafi’s Revolution Revisited edited by Dirk Vandewalle, which was published in 2008. The issue of politics beside the state and the role of tribes and extended families was frequently addressed in this volume by authors like Hanspeter Mattes and the Libyan political scientist Amal Obeidi. In 2001, Obeidi had presented a unique study of the political culture in Libya (Obeidi 2001) that indicated the renaissance of tribal identities, partly brought about by Gaddafi in order to create a loyal tribal elite but also as a revitalization of tradition by the Libyan people against the impositions of the revolutionary regime. However, an anthropological monograph on the relationship between tribe and state in Libya had not appeared since the seminal study presented by Davis in “Tribe and Revolution” (1987). Unfortunately, many Libyan social scientists (particularly in the east of the country) had and still have a very critical opinion of Davis’ book. This critique does not focus on the content of the book but is rather based on allegations that Davis did not handle the anonymization of his hosts and informants well enough. As a consequence people were confronted with political problems and even prosecution. I cannot comment as to whether these allegations are true or not. However, they influenced the general attitude toward Western researchers attempting to work on tribes in the eastern Libyan region of Cyrenaica. On a more practical level, research permission for a study in the borderland was impossible to obtain, and again I had to rely on the recommendation of the GIZ in Libya, who actually arranged my visa and also invited me to the country. My first field study in Libya began in 2007. The end of the sanctions against Libya and the beginning of the country’s reintegration in the international community had had positive economic effects, and had also resulted in a certain increase in political opportunities represented by Saif Al Islam, Gaddafi’s second son, who had managed to become the face of political reform. However, Libya was still under the rule of an arbitrary dictatorship that used its unpredictability to discipline and control its people. During my first visit to Benghazi, I had the honor of meeting Amal Obeidi in person. We had a lively discussion in a small Italian restaurant, where most of the waiters (and the cook) were Egyptians from the Nile Valley. In this meeting Amal Obeidi made it very clear that I was walking on extremely thin ice, and that any Libyan researcher supporting me would also risk problems with the regime. Her argument touched one of the core peculiarities that anyone who conducts research in countries ruled by authoritarian regimes has to face. This peculiarity is not so much about personal risk but rather about one’s responsibility for colleagues, hosts and informants, who may get into trouble for cooperating with a foreign researcher.
The following day I was invited to the house of Suleiman Mahmoud Obeidi (Amal Obeidi’s father), commander of the Libyan border military in Tobruk. Suleiman belongs to the generation of the free officers, the colleagues and followers of Muammar Al Gaddafi , who stirred up the revolutionary sandstorm (Vandewalle 2006) against the monarchy to create a new Libya in 1969. The invitation to Suleiman’s house was in many ways remarkable for me. After tea and a bit of small talk Suleiman started to question me about my project, my background and my motivation for coming to Libya. He did this with the authority...