Le Dragon Déchaîné

Belgrade’s Balancing Act

by Fyodor Dmitrenko

Andrej Isakovic/AFP via Getty Images, Politico.eu

On my recent visit to Serbia in July of 2024, on the way from the airport to the centre of Belgrade alongside the stark Genex tower, I witnessed an interesting display. The highway to the centre was lined with small Serbian tricolour flags but also a stranger sight – that of a line of equally numerous blue flags with yellow stars.

While seeing EU flags in Paris or Bucharest wouldn’t be that strange, their presence in Belgrade mere blocks from the location of the Yugoslav Ministry of Defence Building damaged in the NATO bombings of 1999 seemed bizarre, especially considering many Serbs still feel lukewarm at best towards EU member states like Germany, France, and Italy who participated in the air campaign against them – a sentiment illustrated clearly by the fact that EU accession is still seen more negatively in Serbia than in their Western Balkan neighbours according to IRI, with 44% of poll respondents stating they would vote in favour of joining, compared to 89% in Kosovo and 92% in Albania more than 2 decades after the event. So, what was going on?

Unbeknownst to me, the flags had been put up for an interesting ‘trade summit’ on July 19^th between German chancellor Olaf Scholz and Serbian President Aleksandar Vučić which led to the re-opening of the Jadar valley lithium mine project in Western Serbia by British-Australian mining and refining firm Rio Tinto. According to Reuters, this project could fulfill up to 90% of Europe’s current lithium needs, a material used in the manufacturing of lithium-ion batteries and thus critical to the Union’s aim of achieving net zero emissions by 2050. This also falls in line with other major EU objectives such as the current endeavour at securing more secure raw material procurement from partners – due to mistrust of Chinese suppliers and volatile supply chains owed to waning European influence in African nations like Niger – and playing catch-up to China and the US in high tech industries such as the manufacturing of electric vehicles.

I found the reopening of the mine project especially interesting given that less than 2 years ago, Serbia had shut down the project after mass protests over environmental concerns. The complete U-turn in policy has unsurprisingly raised eyebrows yet also revealed an increasing trend in Serbian politics – a desire to mend ties with the EU.

Despite the aforementioned mistrust towards the EU from the Serbian population (one further supported by a similar 2024 poll by Balkan Barometer), Vučić seems increasingly interested in developing ties, in large part due to the economic payoffs that these could yield.

The most prominent manifestations of this interest are Serbia’s repeated attempts to join the Union itself, with its first formal request being submitted on the 22^ndof December 2009. The EU granted Serbia official candidate status in 2012 following recommendations from both the European Commission and Council to do so. A further step towards closer integration has come in the form of the recently ratified Stabilisation and Association Agreement (SAA) establishing a framework to bring the country into closer political and economic relations with the bloc.

The main drivers for this shift in policy appear to be the economic incentives offered by both membership of and outside forms of economic cooperation with the EU. For example, the EU has invested heavily in Serbia as part of official multilateral aid initiatives like the Instrument for Pre-Accession Assistance II (IPA II) – a financial policy tool used to support countries aspiring to join the union, with 1.5 billion Euros in grants being made available to the country between 2012 and 2022 according to the Delegation of the EU to Serbia, and significant private sector support for Serbia’s economy with the EU being Serbia’s largest trade partner with $4bn (13.2%) worth of its exports going to Germany alone in 2022 according to OECD data. Furthermore, without Serbia’s being a member of the Union, travel for Serbian nationals in the EU was made visa free from December 2009, with Serbia returning the favour shortly thereafter, making cross border exchanges significantly easier and thereby supporting labour migration and creating a system of remittances that have supported EU soft power in Serbia.

Another example of more symbolic political engagement with the EU has been Serbia’s toeing of the EU foreign policy line vis-à-vis the Russian war in Ukraine, a feat notable given Serbia’s initial support of the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014. Serbia furthermore voted to suspend Russian membership of the UN human rights council in April 2022, a move which shows a general trend of Serbia’s distancing itself from Russia in favour of closer ties with the EU.

And yet cosying up to the EU doesn’t mean Serbia has abandoned ties with its traditional partners – if anything it has intensified them. This is especially true for relations with the People’s Republic of China (PRC). The root of the recent relationship stems from the 1990s when China supported SFR Yugoslavia which would later become Serbia against the NATO bombing campaign because, as Peking University and University of California San Diego graduate Dr. Suizheng Zhao points out, it saw the NATO-backed secession of Kosovo as a dangerous precedent that could inspire armed separatism in the provinces of Tibet and Xinjiang as well. The stance of China was further intensified by the destruction of the PRC embassy in Belgrade which killed 3 Chinese nationals, and injured a further 20 others.

Since then the two have cemented their relationship through political efforts including the affirmation of a strategic partnership in 2009, which was subsequently upgraded to a ‘comprehensive strategic partnership’ in 2016. This relationship and its origins were showcased recently by Chairman Xi’s visit to Belgrade in May of 2024 to commemorate the anniversary of the aforementioned NATO bombings that he said China will “never forget.”

More importantly however, China has invested heavily into economic cooperation in an official capacity with over US$10.3 billion in bilateral aid being provided between 2009 and 2021 within the China-CEEC (Central and Eastern European Countries) program alone – a whopping 70% of all spending within that initiative, and Serbia being the first country to sign a free Trade Agreement with China in October 2023, with 90% of products traded between the two parties being exempted from tariffs, 60% of which would be exempted as soon as the agreement came into effect on July 1^st 2024.

In a more unofficial, private sector capacity, Chinese firms have also invested an estimated 5.6 billion euros into the country’s economy in the last decade according to an article by Forbes Serbia published in May 2024. The latter point is especially important given that according to the same report over 1,500 companies currently operating in Serbia are majority owned by Chinese stakeholders, with Chinese entrepreneurs being involved in numerous operations including mining (‘Zijin mining’ in Bor), heavy industry (‘Hesteel’ steel making plant in Smederevo) and automotive parts (Minth factories in Šabac and Loznica).

This is all excludes the significant foreign direct investment in Serbian infrastructure including but not limited to sections of the A2 Miloš Veliki Highway linking Belgrade with the south of the country built by publicly owned Chinese construction giants like Shandong Hi-Speed Group and China Communications Construction Company (CCCC). Cumulatively these investments (both public and private) make China the single largest investor in Serbia according to China briefing, rendering it unsurprising that the two are such cordial partners.

Interestingly, however, Serbia has not yet cut ties with its longtime ally Russia despite statements supporting Ukraine in 2023. While bilateral relations are less manifest in recent years than those with China and the EU (at least in economic terms), the two nations still share relatively cordial relations.

Perhaps the most significant reason for this enduring bond stems from a long history of shared interests and support, with the Russian empire being a firm supporter of Slavic and Orthodox nationalist movements in the Balkans against the Ottoman empire as early as the formation of Serbia and other Balkan nations under the 1878 treaty of Berlin.

This support would be expanded in 1914 with Russia entering WW1 in defence of Serbia against Austrian aggression, a fact that Serbs have not forgotten with Czar Nicolas being revered in Serbia as a canonised saint. Monuments distilling the centrality of Russo-Serbian relations in Serbia’s national imagination are plentiful, especially in Belgrade, in which there lie the Church of Saint Sava and a bronze statue of the Czar unveiled in November 2014, less than 100 m away from Novi Dvor, the seat of the Serbian President) in the centre of Belgrade.

While there was a partial break in relations between the two during the cold war due to SFR Yugoslavia wishing to exert greater independence from its larger communist ally following major disagreements between Tito and Stalin in 1948, relations would improve following de-Stalinisation yet remain tepid as Yugoslavia pursued a policy of non-alignment in the cold war, staying out of Soviet organisations like the Warsaw Pact and maintaining relations with Soviet rivals like the USA.

Despite this, the modern Russo-Serbian relationship would be restored and cemented due to the collective hardship endured by the simultaneous collapse of both states in the 1990s, and the NATO bombing campaign against Serbia which Russian President Boris Yeltsin called “open aggression,” according to an article by the BBC. This contributed to the development of strong bilateral relations – a trend that Vučić has worked hard to maintain despite his increasing EU alignment.

However the current relationship between Serbia and Russia rests not only on historical, but also economic and military considerations. Russia still comprises an approximate 3.95% of Serbian exports and 7.18% of imports in 2022, with crude petroleum being Serbia’s primary import from Russia, aiding in the diversification of Serbian energy sources and thus reducing its reliance on coal and hydropower. Moreover, the Serbian Armed forces use primarily former Yugoslav and Soviet military equipment and still purchase numerous weapon systems from Russian manufacturers due to their perceived reliability and similarity to weapons already in service. In this vein, Russia has also gifted Serbia several vehicles including 30 modernised T72 tank variants, 30 upgraded BRDM-2 reconnaissance vehicles and 6 MIG 29 fighter jets to facilitate military cooperation, further underscoring Russia’s vested interest in maintaining strong bilateral relations with Serbia through their combined military ties.

Given all of this information, why the idiosyncrasy? More specifically, why is Serbia trying to have a foot in all camps, a strategy which seems at odds with its strategic interests? The simplest explanation to this seems to be that Vučić is increasingly trying to leverage Serbia’s historical connections and geographical position at the centre of the Western Balkans to make Serbia a ‘middle power’ – a sort of geopolitical conduit and client state between the EU, Russian, and Chinese blocs while asserting Serbia’s independence and deriving certain benefits, such as diversified sources of investment.

Whether this will continue to work in the future is debatable, given the increasing polarisation of the world order into geostrategic blocs like those of the EU and China and its allies, each with their own (possibly competing) supranational structures. One day Serbia may be forced to choose a side, but for now it seems set to continue the balancing act, walking a tightrope between the national interests of Russia, China, and the EU. After all, why should a nation limit itself to one partner, when it can have its cake and eat it too?

A Love Letter to the Friends I Don’t Miss

by Carmen Leong

The call had taken a text correspondence of two weeks to arrange. When Verlene turned on her camera, we both broke into a cheer. Her make-up pouch was unzipped on the table, and behind her, the morning sunlight illuminated the white walls of her Boston dorm. “I missed you!” she burst out. “I missed you too,” I replied, three thousand miles away in the late Le Havre afternoon. It was true – it had been more than a month since I bid goodbye to her and the other girls at Changi Airport – but missing her was not something I felt particularly strongly in that moment.

As she got ready for her day, I listened to her talk about her new life in Berklee, and shared in return about mine at Sciences Po. About an hour in, she finished her routine and took me along as she walked downstairs to the cafeteria; I heard the voices of her friends calling for her off-screen and gathered that it was probably time for us to end the FaceTime. After that, it was three weeks before she texted me again, with an update on the cute guitar-playing boy from upstairs she had mentioned briefly during our call.

One night before I left for France, the six of us squeezed into a booth in an American-themed bar, trying to prolong the night as best as we could. On the wall beside us was a huge American flag that hung from the ceiling; as the four girls who would be going to U.S. universities posed for a picture with it, I ducked lazily behind one of them, arms around her waist and drunk on the easy joy of being with my favourite people. It was a good night; we cycled around the same few questions of the recent hangouts and repeated our answers in different words, but meant them all the same. I love you. I am who I am now because of you. I’ll miss you, but I’m so excited for you. Promise we’ll all meet again in New York after two years. The beginning strums of ‘Kiss Me’ by Sixpence lifted us from our seats, and in the empty bar, we danced. I was a little awkward, not completely comfortable in my body that night for some reason, but my best friend noticed and pulled me into a spin that had me smiling. A few days later, we had a big family gathering: the girls and their parents, and some of their siblings, in my living room – some of our dads hitting it off with guy talk about planes and work, my brother fiddling with the speaker, us girls sprawled on the carpeted floor and discussing a potential karaoke event with our parents in some eventual future. It was then that it occurred to me to describe what we had built for ourselves as sisterhood.

I did think we would call often, despite our universities being in different countries and continents. At one point, I think someone had even put forward the idea of our having bimonthly group meetings to catch up on one another’s lives. It’s strange to me now, therefore, that I don’t miss them, but I miss, rather, the friends here that I see nearly every day.

On the FlixBus back from Paris, I tell this to Audrey, who is sitting beside me. A sleepy quietness has settled in the bus, disturbed only by our low-voiced conversation and the indecipherable one that JJ and Zo-Ren are having some rows of seats ahead of us. I feel like I need to see you guys at least once a week or I’ll die, I say. The sentiment is only half a joke. Just before that, the six of us watched the Eiffel Tower light up for the first five minutes of the hour from the top of Montmartre, and realised just how little time we had before our time together at Sciences Po would end. My cheeks are sticky with the aftermath of tears, and my eyes are especially dry. Audrey takes a while to think. Then, she says, maybe it’s because we’re so far away from home that we’ve had to build our own one here. Even our activities as a group – grocery shopping, cooking – what else but a family does that?

I’m reminded again of her words as we lie on my makeshift couch (two folded futons) after dinner, the tatami mat below our legs thinly protecting them from the chilled floor of late autumn. One of them is on my right, Audrey on my left, and another one has been lulled to sleep in his sleeping bag beside her. Two of them had left earlier, and the remaining unwashed dishes are stacked on the dining table for now, sticky and powdery from the boa loy we made earlier that night, pinching sweet pumpkin flour with the tips of our fingers and rolling them into tiny balls on our palms. Our three-way conversation drifts to the topic of friends back home. As I tell them about the five girls from my life before, I think about the new friends beside me that I’ve begun to open my heart to. I don’t miss them, I say, but it’s not because they’ve been replaced by you guys. Maybe you’re just in another period of life, Audrey suggests, and I agree.

When I was young, my dad used to nag at me for buying and reading multiple books simultaneously. I would fold the upper right-hand corner of a page in a book, close it, and open another one. When the time was right, though, I would come back to it, and continue where I’d left off. There was always space for multiple stories in my heart, and the characters in them shared the imagination of my mind, even if they switched between being at the forefront of it.

There isn’t really a reason to miss these girls, I suppose, since I know with certainty that they will always be a part of my life. Sometime later, we will sit in another American bar – a real one this time, in New York – and reopen the book we’ve written together, with new ideas, new stories, new people from the time we spent apart. And perhaps a few drinks in, we’ll be joined by my friends, these friends, and I’ll be lucky enough to see the past and the present, the old and the new – but all my favourite people – meet at the beginning of a new story.

Découverte du Havre lors des Journées européennes du patrimoine

par Romane Cartier

Les Journées européennes du patrimoine, célébrées chaque année durant la troisième semaine de septembre, sont un événement incontournable pour les passionnés d’histoire et de culture. Créé en 1984, cet événement vise à sensibiliser le public à la richesse du patrimoine culturel européen. Pendant deux jours, des milliers de sites, souvent fermés au public, ouvrent leurs portes, offrant une occasion unique de découvrir l’histoire qui se cache derrière ces monuments emblématiques. Que ce soit des châteaux, des musées, des églises ou des bâtiments publics, chaque lieu raconte une histoire, un morceau du puzzle culturel qui compose notre héritage commun. Journées Européennes du Patrimoine 2024 - Maison des Sciences de l'Homme Paris Nord

Crédit : Ministère de la culture

Cette année, j’ai eu le plaisir de participer aux Journées au Havre et je vous invite à m’accompagner dans ma découverte de plusieurs lieux fascinants, où l’histoire se mêle à l’architecture moderne dans un cadre maritime. De la Maison de l’Armateur à l’Hôtel de Ville, en passant par l’Appartement Témoin, chaque visite est une immersion dans le passé, une exploration des récits qui ont façonné cette ville portuaire et je vous amène avec moi pour les découvrir.

La Maison de l’Armateur

Mon premier arrêt de la journée fût la Maison de l’Armateur, un véritable trésor du XVIIIe siècle, érigée entre 1774 et 1781 pour Jacques-Antoine de Puy, un armateur havrais prospère. Conçue par l’architecte François de la Chevalerie, cette demeure est un exemple remarquable de l’architecture néoclassique, avec ses façades en pierre de taille et ses élégantes corniches. Classée monument historique depuis 1926, la Maison de l’Armateur témoigne de l’importance de l’histoire maritime du Havre.

À l’intérieur, j’ai été frappée par l’élégance des salons, ornés de meubles d’époque, de tapisseries et d’œuvres d’art, dont certaines proviennent de l’atelier de l’artiste havrais Jean-Baptiste Lamy, célèbre pour ses marines. Chaque pièce évoque le quotidien des armateurs, véritables pionniers du commerce transatlantique. Les expositions temporaires mettent en lumière des aspects fascinants de leur vie, comme la construction navale et les échanges commerciaux au XVIIIe siècle. Une visite ici permet non seulement d’admirer des objets d’art, mais aussi de comprendre le rôle crucial de cette maison dans le développement économique du Havre, qui était alors le principal port français pour le commerce avec les colonies.

L’Hôtel de Ville et sa Tour

Je me suis ensuite dirigée vers l’Hôtel de Ville, un chef-d’œuvre de l’architecture moderne conçu par Auguste Perret et achevé en 1964. Ce bâtiment monumental a été érigé pour la reconstruction du Havre, presque entièrement détruit durant la Seconde Guerre mondiale.

Construit en béton armé, l’Hôtel de Ville reflète le style architectural rationaliste, avec ses lignes géométriques et son utilisation innovante de la lumière. À l’intérieur, j’ai admiré la salle des mariages, ornée de fresques réalisées par le peintre Roger de La Fresnaye, représentant des thèmes de liberté et de paix. Ces fresques rendent hommage aux victimes de la guerre et symbolisent le renouveau de la ville.

La montée à la tour de 107 mètres, emblème de la renaissance havraise, offre une vue panoramique imprenable sur la ville et son port, l’un des plus importants de France. Le guide a même souligné qu’en temps clair, il est possible d’apercevoir les côtes anglaises au loin. Cependant, de mon côté, je n’ai rien vu ! Peut-être devrais-je envisager une consultation chez un ophtalmologue, car mes yeux n’étaient visiblement pas à la hauteur de cette promesse visuelle.

L’Appartement Témoin

Enfin, ma dernière visite m’a conduit à l’Appartement Témoin, situé dans un bâtiment de la période de reconstruction, construit dans les années 1950. Ce lieu est captivant car il reconstitue l’intérieur d’un appartement typique des années 1960, une époque marquée par les ambitions de la France d’après-guerre. J’ai exploré les différentes pièces, du salon à la cuisine, et j’ai été impressionnée par les choix décoratifs, caractérisés par des meubles aux lignes simples, un design fonctionnel et des couleurs pastel.

Cet appartement illustre les décisions architecturales de l’époque, influencées par le mouvement moderne et l’urbanisme de Perret, qui prônait des espaces à la fois pratiques et agréables à vivre. Par exemple, cet appartement dispose d’une salle de bain, un véritable luxe pour l’époque. Cette modernité visait à favoriser le confort des habitants tout en intégrant les avancées technologiques de la période. Elle avait pour objectif de récupérer l’attractivité de la ville, face à la forte diminution de la population qui avait fui les bombardements et les ruines de leur ville natale. La répartition des espaces et l’aménagement des lieux reflètent ainsi les aspirations d’une société en pleine mutation, cherchant à se reconstruire sur de nouvelles bases après les horreurs de la guerre.

Crédit : Pays d’Art et d’Histoire

Ces visites m’ont offert une perspective enrichissante sur le patrimoine du Havre, mêlant histoire, architecture et culture. Je vous encourage vivement à participer aux futures Journées européennes du patrimoine et à découvrir ces lieux chargés d’histoire par vous-même. Chaque site a une histoire à raconter, et c’est une opportunité rare de plonger dans le passé fascinant de cette ville, qui peut sembler un peu moche en surface, mais qui regorge en réalité d’histoires captivantes.

The Sama Dilaut: Nomads of the Seas

By Gemma Tabet

Today, the Sama Dilaut or Sea Nomads, remain one of the world’s last ethnic communities living solely on water. For centuries they have made their livelihood amongst the seas of Maritime Southeast Asia, travelling between the coasts and islands of Malaysia, Indonesia, and the Philippines (Lenhart, 1995). They rely on sea-based activities, such as fishing and trade, and live on their boats (called lepa) or on stilt houses above water (Borneo History, 2017). The Sama Dilaut even developed unique skills that allowed them over the centuries to live in harmony with their aquatic environment. For example, they developed physical advantages such as a 50% increase in spleen size, allowing them to stay underwater for 10 minutes at a time at depths of 70 metres (Sieber, 2023). But modern times have brought harsh challenges, from over-tourism to climate change, that threaten the Sama Dilaut’s centuries-old way of life.

The Sama Dilaut peoples are part of a larger ethnolinguistic group known as Sama, which consists of two other categories: the land-based Sama Dileya/Dea and coastal Sama Lipid/Bihing (Maglana, 2016). Commonly, these populations fall under the category “Sama-Bajau”, but many groups self-designate themselves using toponyms based on place of origin (Maglana, 2016), such as Sama Sitangkai (Sama of Sitangkai Island). Further distinguishing this community is the presence of 10 major languages and a variety of religious systems (Maglana, 2016). The Sama Dilaut, unlike their land-based counterparts, are less influenced by Islam (the main religion in the region today), due to the remaining impacts of ancestral beliefs based on animism (Saat, 2003). The exact land origins of the Sama Dilaut remain still unclear, but first references can be traced back to 840 CE in the Darangen (Borneo History, 2017), an epic oral poem by the Maranao (an Islamic cultural-linguistic group in the Philippines), which mentions a love story between a Sama Dilaut princess and Maranao prince. Since then, the Sama Dilaut have settled in the waters surrounding Sabah, the Sulu Archipelago, Sulawesi, Maluku, and Nusa Tengarra (Lenhart, 1995), leading to a unique cultural identity tied to the seas.

Yet today, this historic culture and community face modern challenges linked to political marginalisation, discrimination (Moreno, 2023), and environmental degradation (Musawah, 2024), that threaten to erase centuries of traditional knowledge and practices.

The marginalisation of the Sama Dilaut can be traced back to European colonial rule, which led to the establishment of maritime borders that disrupted the Sama Dilaut´s way of life (Sieber, 2023). For example, trade networks for the procurement and exportation of turtle shells, sea cucumbers, and general fishing existing since 1000 BCE (Jeon, 2019) were no longer viable, greatly affecting one of the main sources of income for the community. The Sama Dilaut have only further lost access to their traditional fishing sites, exacerbating their economic vulnerability and contributing to rising levels of poverty (Moreno, 2023). Particularly, the modern ´stateless status´ of the Sama Dilaut has increased levels of alienation and marginalisation by limiting their legal privileges (Moreno, 2023). Due to unclear legislation distinguishing asylum seekers, irregular migrants, and undocumented or stateless individuals, Sama Dilaut are not often granted citizenship (Sieber, 2023). For example, in the Philippines the Indigenous People´s Act (Act No. 8371) covers only peoples from ancestral lands and not oceanic waters. This reflects the wider political realities the community is subjected to, leading to direct lack of access to essential services, such as education, formal employment, and healthcare (Sieber, 2023).

Beyond a lack of legal recognition and policies for ensuring the economic and political protection of this vulnerable ethnic minority, the Sama Dilaut face centuries old discrimination that has eroded their culture and traditional knowledge (Moreno, 2023). The Sama Dilaut in the Sulu Archipelago are still today victims of historic cultural prejudice (Saat, 2023) originating from dominant land-based groups (like the Tausūg, a Muslim ethnic group in the Philippines and Malaysia). These groups viewed boat dwelling and un-Islamic animism practices as inferior and uncivilised, earning the Sama Dilaut a low social status (Saat, 2003). For example, the Tausūg people have a derogatory name for the Sama Dilaut that translates to “spat out” (Nimmo, 1968). This history of discrimination still ripples into the modern world, leading to the cultural assimilation of the Sama Dilaut, who more and more migrate to land, abandoning their sea-faring way of life (Sieber, 2023). A rising number of Sama Dilaut have converted to Islam over the years (Maglana, 2016), a key example of cultural conformation due to social pressure. The preservation of the Sama Dilaut´s unique customs has severely declined, impacting their traditional languages, religions, and practises.

Moreover, the nomadic ways of the Sama Dilaut have further been challenged by overfishing and climate change (Musawah, 2024). Due to their economic difficulties, many Sama Dilaut have small and underdeveloped boats and fishing tools (Jeon, 2019, pg. 50), already placing them at a disadvantage when competing with modern fishing corporations. Climate change has only exacerbated the situation, leading to ocean acidification that causes fish migration, forcing various Sama Dilaut to settle on land as they lose access to their primary source of livelihood (Musawah, 2024). There, they may turn to seaweed farming, but because of exploitation by intermediaries, the Sama Dilaut fail to earn enough income (Musawah, 2024). In their struggle against poverty, some Sama Dilaut introduce chemicals and fertilisers into their farming, harming sea life and their own connection to the ocean (Musawah, 2024). The Sama Dilaut are placed further at risk due to extreme weather changes caused by global warming, such as rising sea levels and typhoons (Moreno, 2023).

In conclusion, it is evident that the Sama Dilaut face a variety of challenges that threaten to erode and erase their nomadic cultures and lives. From political marginalisation and discrimination rooted in the past, to modern perils caused by climate change, the Sama Dilaut are socially, politically, and economically vulnerable. These indigenous peoples have centuries old knowledge of currents, marine ecosystems, star charts, and wind patterns (Maglana, 2016, pg. 78) that could be critically important for better understanding the impacts of and solutions to climate change. A variety of organisations have worked over the years to ensure the political and socio-economic protection of the Sama Dilaut. For example, Rosalyn Diwala´s Indigenous Children’s Learning Centers aim to organise education courses led by native teachers for Sama Dilaut children. On a larger scale, in February 2024, during the World Conference on Statelessness, an understanding was made between the Philippines, Malaysia, and Indonesia to address the Sama Dilaut situation. More concentrated efforts and policies to deal with the specific plights faced by this community are needed urgently, in order to ensure the preservation of not only a unique culture, but to also ensure the protection of a critically vulnerable ethnic community.

Disclaimer: As a student, I don’t have the full capacity nor time to delve into the complexities of each ethnic community. My intention is to create a space dedicated to introducing readers to different minorities and their plights, to raise awareness and to encourage further readings into such topics.

Le Studio: un retour au devant de la scène

par Manon Patouillet

Source : Paris Normandie

Nombreux, sans doute sont les étudiants du campus du Havre de Sciences Po, qui, au détour d’un scroll sur Instagram un soir de printemps 2024, sont tombés sur une pétition intitulée“Sauvegardons le Studio que nous aimons !”. Destinée à la sauvegarde du cinéma Le Studio au Havre, celle-ci a été initiée par un alumnus du campus, Elias Cantone.¹Partagée par la suite, par quelques-uns de nos camarades, la monosalle, qui traversait une période de crise à ce moment-là, était grandement soutenue par les « Mushus ». Alors que des rumeurs de tensions au sein de la gouvernance, menant à une possible fermeture du cinéma se propagent, l’été arrive et les « sciencespistes » fuient Le Havre pendant plusieurs mois. Au retour des vacances, la résolution quant à l’affaire concernant le Studio reste tout aussi floue.

La monosalle, située au 3 rue du Général Sarrail, a vu le jour en 1999 sous l’impulsion du réalisateur Christian Zarifian. Composée d’une salle de 84 places, sa petite taille n’a pas empêché le créateur du Studio d’afficher de grandes ambitions. Zarifian souhaite que la monosalle devienne un “lieu de mémoire”², au Havre, alliant classiques et films moins connus. Vingt cinq ans plus tard, l’objectif reste le même selon le programmateur David Lheureux, qui continue à “présenter le cinéma dans toute sa diversité”. Au fil des années, le Studio entretient également de nombreux partenariats avec d’autres organisations havraises, tels que les Ancres noires, ou Du grain à démoudre, et organise des événements pour enfants.³

Cependant, selon les reportages de Paris Normandie, début 2023, une querelle éclate au sein de la direction du cinéma. Deux camps s’opposent, se revendiquant chacun comme le bureau légitime : d’un côté, les « anciens », composé de Patrick Gravé, président du Studio depuis 20 ans, André Fouché, le trésorier, ainsi que David Lheureux présenté précédemment ; de l’autre, la veuve et la fille du défunt créateur du Studio. Alors que la famille Zarifian organise une assemblée générale pour élire un nouveau bureau, le groupe présidé par Pierre Gravé porte plainte contre celle-ci. Cette plainte sera alors le début d’une longue bataille judiciaire, aboutissant aujourd’hui à la nomination d’une mandataire provisoire.⁴

Ce conflit a semé le trouble au sein de l’équipe, déchirée par des perceptions et des ambitions différentes pour le cinéma. Pour David Lheureux, cet épisode a été rude, frustré que son travail qu’il exerce depuis 22 ans, soit remis en questions par des membres inactifs jusqu’alors.⁵La situation a même mené jusqu’à mettre en péril certains partenariats précieux que le cinéma entretenait depuis longtemps. Alors que la banque bloque certains comptes, plusieurs salariés envisagent même de remettre leur démission.⁶

Bien que le calme semble être revenu au 3 rue Général Sérail, la situation demeure incertaine. L’affaire est-elle complètement résolue ? Quelles sont les répercussions du conflit aujourd’hui ? Une série de questions nous viennent à l’esprit. Pourtant, interrogés sur ce sujet, David Lheureux et l’administratrice provisoire Cécile Dur ne souhaitent pas en parler. Il ne fait aucun doute que cette affaire marque une période difficile pour le cinéma, même s’il est encore trop tôt pour en tirer des conclusions. Ce havre de partage et de rencontre autour des films était devenu un terrain de querelles. Peut-être que des contraintes légales les empêchent d’aborder le sujet, ou bien cherchent-ils simplement à éviter que ce conflit, aux issues encore incertaines, ne vienne perturber la rentrée tant attendue du cinéma.

En effet, David Lheureux ne cache pas son désir d’aller de l’avant, et se concentrer sur la réouverture et les projets à venir. Le Studio reprend une activité inchangée, avec son incontournable programmation mensuelle. En septembre, la monosalle a proposé une sélection de films variée à ses adhérents, que ce soit le classique du cinéma argentin Que la bête meure de Roman Vinoly Barretto, ou la Nouvelle Vague avec Les deux anglaises et le continent de François Truffaut.

En parallèle, tout au long de l’année, le fil conducteur du Studio sera le cinéma asiatique contemporain. Comme tous les ans, le cinéma choisit un « cycle » de septembre à juin sur un thème défini, présenté depuis 2002 par Youri Deschamps, rédacteur en chef de la revue « Eclipses ». Au programme, des films tels que Tel père tel fils du réalisateur japonais Hirokazu Kore-eda, mais encore A touch of sin de Jia Zhang-ke, pourront ravir les spectateurs.

L’objectif encore une fois est de faire découvrir au public havrais des cinéastes peu vus en France. Interrogé sur les raisons pour lesquelles il avait choisi ce thème, David Lheureux répond : « Je m’étais fait la réflexion (…) que dans le cinéma français actuel on est beaucoup dans le verbe, on est beaucoup dans la parole mais pas beaucoup dans l’image ». Au contraire, le cinéma asiatique contemporain est certes peu bavard, mais fort au visionnage. « Le but de ce cycle là est aussi de remettre en l’honneur le cinéma comme un art visuel ». Pour David Lheureux, ceci est « l’essence » même du cinéma.

Ainsi, gâtés par une programmation de telle qualité, les Havrais n’auront d’autres choix que de se rendre au Studio pour savourer ses films. Or, le cinéma d’art et d’essai a besoin de la fidélité de son public, qui doit privilégier l’expérience immersive en salle plutôt que le confort d’un film Netflix à domicile. Car une fois disparus, ces lieux de culture ne renaissent jamais.