If anybody doubts that Irony is a greek word, Syriza has apparently come out in opposition of the destruction of the refugee squats in Thessaloniki. In case you are not following greek politics very closely, Syriza is the major partner in the Greek coalition government. So Syriza is condemning their own government.
Hypocrisy is another greek word as well…
“Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given, than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.”
Muhammed Ali
At least 40 people drowned this morning off Turkey when their boat capsized and sank while they were trying to cross to Greece. At least 244 people have died while trying to make it to Europe so far in 2016…
When you wake up to news like that day after day it is easy (and not entirely illogical) to feel overwhelmed, to want to shut down, to give in to despair. I struggle with these feelings and thoughts all the time. Where I find hope and strength is in the solidarity of ordinary people who faced with this reality day in and day out, in the midst of the worst economic downturn outside of a wartime, choose to work together, to not let the apparent impossibility of the task at hand stop them from doing the little bit that they can. And I find particular inspiration in the fact that these efforts are not guided by feelings of pity or charity, nor are they focused solely on addressing humanitarian needs. Solidarity groups and efforts in Greece, among many many similar efforts throughout the world, stand together with our fellow human beings who are forced to flee their homes and seek a better life somewhere else, not only in providing the basics of food, water, clothing, medical care, housing, but also in opposing the very actions and ideologies that create the conditions from which they need to flee and which profit from their deaths along the way. But most importantly, we stand together so that we can build a better world, one where dignity and freedom are paramount values and realities, where human needs supersede those of the banks and the states, a world where our children, ALL of our children, are safe, happy, well taken care of.
“Another world is not only possible, she’s on the way and, on a quiet day, if you listen very carefully you can hear her breathe.”
I believe solidarity is the heartbeat of this world.
This is what my daughter jokingly told me after spending 12 hours in the women’s clothing tent, at the self-organized Platanos camp in Skala Sikamenias Lesbos. She had spent our first day here having helped fold and organize clothes and then working with women to find appropriate clothes among the sorted boxes and piles of donations and change into dry and warm clothing just after they arrived off the boats during the day and the night.
It sounded funny at the moment but it took a few days for the full significance of that comment to sink in with me. That she said “I could work in retail” and not “I could work in a shelter” or “I could work with an aid or a philanthropic organization.”
We always say that we do “solidarity, not charity” but the difference is sometimes hard to explain. The more I thought of her comment though, the more sense it made to me in that context. There is a significantly different relationship that you have with a customer if you work in a retail clothing store than you do with a “client” if you work in a shelter (not to mention power dynamics).
A young greek woman who speaks arabic and who has spent time in the Platanos camp told me, after an assembly, that she had been talking with a few of the people who had arrived at the camp and they too had pointed out to her how differently treated they felt here. “These people have travelled a long way through many different settings to get to this point,” she told me. “They have gone through official refugee camps, detention centers, have been helped by aid organizations large and small, by ordinary folks, by solidarity groups, have been threatened and beaten by police and military, have dealt with smugglers, traffickers, profiteers. Many of them are very educated. They may not have a choice of what help they receive, but they understand the difference.” An Arab woman told her one time “you don’t look like you are acting out of guilt. You don’t have a white saviour complex. You treat us as equals.”
My daughter asks me at some point if she is supposed to feel good about herself doing this work, because she didn’t (she didn’t feel bad either, she felt neutral, and mostly tired). “You are supposed to feel good about yourself” I answered, “but not because you are doing this.”
“Some people back home have said how pitiful those people are coming off the boats, wet, cold, hungry, scared” my daughter replied. “But they weren’t pitiful” she said. “Some of them are appreciative, some of them are demanding, some of them are picky. But none of them were ever pitiful.”
“They are just people” she said. “It is just that their situation sucks.”
There are a lot of different people with a lot of different organizations working in Lesbos, each with their own history, intentions, motivations and values. We are far from the only ones doing good and necessary work and I never want to disparage people who are doing hard work to help and save lives. Nor do I want to imply that everything is ideal in our own little camp. Anyone who has ever been a part of a self-organized and self-managed project knows very well all the problems we deal with, from working with minimal resources, few people and long hours, to all, and I mean ALL, the messiness of human relationships and interactions.
Yet “solidarity, not charity” is not a just a slogan. It is a way in which we try to live our lives and shape our relationships. It is about recognizing our common humanity while also respecting and honoring our differences. It is about choosing to stand together instead of kneeling under, or ruling over. It is not easy, it is never perfect, and we always struggle with tough choices and internalized assumptions and behaviours.
A young scandinavian woman, wearing the vest of her NGO sat next to a group of us at the camp, taking a much needed break after a hard night. She had been heading back to the village after her “shift” had ended, saw that we had about 100+ people who had just gotten off their boats and immediately joined our crew at the kitchen helping to make jam sandwiches. A woman from our group, who had noticed her when she had come to help on previous days as well, asked her why she came to work here when she already did work in the camp of her own NGO. “I like it here” she said. “I am not sure why. But I like how you treat people. And each other.”
Behind us, a few young men in our group were kicking a ball with some of the kids who had come in the boats earlier in the night, laughing and kidding around with each other.”
“I could work in retail.”
This is what my daughter jokingly told me after spending 12 hours in the women’s clothing tent, at the self-organized Platanos camp in Skala Sikamenias Lesbos. She had spent our first day here having helped fold and organize clothes and then working with women to find appropriate clothes among the sorted boxes and piles of donations and change into dry and warm clothing just after they arrived off the boats during the day and the night.
It sounded funny at the moment but it took a few days for the full significance of that comment to sink in with me. That she said “I could work in retail” and not “I could work in a shelter” or “I could work with an aid or a philanthropic organization.”
We always say that we do “solidarity, not charity” but the difference is sometimes hard to explain. The more I thought of her comment though, the more sense it made to me in that context. There is a significantly different relationship that you have with a customer if you work in a retail clothing store than you do with a “client” if you work in a shelter (not to mention power dynamics).
A young greek woman who speaks arabic and who has spent time in the Platanos camp told me, after an assembly, that she had been talking with a few of the people who had arrived at the camp and they too had pointed out to her how differently treated they felt here. “These people have travelled a long way through many different settings to get to this point,” she told me. “They have gone through official refugee camps, detention centers, have been helped by aid organizations large and small, by ordinary folks, by solidarity groups, have been threatened and beaten by police and military, have dealt with smugglers, traffickers, profiteers. Many of them are very educated. They may not have a choice of what help they receive, but they understand the difference.” An Arab woman told her one time “you don’t look like you are acting out of guilt. You don’t have a white saviour complex. You treat us as equals.”
My daughter asks me at some point if she is supposed to feel good about herself doing this work, because she didn’t (she didn’t feel bad either, she felt neutral, and mostly tired). “You are supposed to feel good about yourself” I answered, “but not because you are doing this.”
“Some people back home have said how pitiful those people are coming off the boats, wet, cold, hungry, scared” my daughter replied. “But they weren’t pitiful” she said. “Some of them are appreciative, some of them are demanding, some of them are picky. But none of them were ever pitiful.”
“They are just people” she said. “It is just that their situation sucks.”
There are a lot of different people with a lot of different organizations working in Lesbos, each with their own history, intentions, motivations and values. We are far from the only ones doing good and necessary work and I never want to disparage people who are doing hard work to help and save lives. Nor do I want to imply that everything is ideal in our own little camp. Anyone who has ever been a part of a self-organized and self-managed project knows very well all the problems we deal with, from working with minimal resources, few people and long hours, to all, and I mean ALL, the messiness of human relationships and interactions.
Yet “solidarity, not charity” is not a just a slogan. It is a way in which we try to live our lives and shape our relationships. It is about recognizing our common humanity while also respecting and honoring our differences. It is about choosing to stand together instead of kneeling under, or ruling over. It is not easy, it is never perfect, and we always struggle with tough choices and internalized assumptions and behaviours.
A young scandinavian woman, wearing the vest of her NGO sat next to a group of us at the camp, taking a much needed break after a hard night. She had been heading back to the village after her “shift” had ended, saw that we had about 100+ people who had just gotten off their boats and immediately joined our crew at the kitchen helping to make jam sandwiches. A woman from our group, who had noticed her when she had come to help on previous days as well, asked her why she came to work here when she already did work in the camp of her own NGO. “I like it here” she said. “I am not sure why. But I like how you treat people. And each other.”
Behind us, a few young men in our group were kicking a ball with some of the kids who had come in the boats earlier in the night, laughing and kidding around with each other.
Maybe he liked Lego or feared the dark.
Maybe he would have been the next Mozart or a good baker or an average Dad.
But he had a name: Aylan Kurdi, three, from Kobani.
via Alex Andreou. Photo by Reuters
#SayTheirNames #TearDownTheBorders
I don’t like the fact that this is the only photo of Aylan that we have. I don’t like that his death can become a sensational symbol or that it will simply be something “tragic.” Because it is not tragic. It is criminal. Aylan, and his brother Kuldip, five, who also drowned, are not dead because of some “accident.” They were murdered by policies that first made their homes uninhabitable and then by further policies that made their journey to safety deadly.
If Aylan was “european” we would have photos of him smiling, playing with his friends, blowing out the candles on his birthday cake, surrounded by family, and friends who loved him. We would have photos of him being a kid, not a symbol. But this is the only photo that we have. And we cannot just let him be one more nameless statistic.
So much of the rhetoric and the media coverage in and about the EU lately seems to be focused on a Greece vs. Germany narrative. The Germans are hardworking and thrifty or they are moralistic authoritarians bent on the Fourth Reich. The Greeks are oppressed and are fighting against the evil of austerity or they are lazy and corrupt and want a free handout. But this story line (intentionally) obscures the real divisions that are going on, the ones that have to do with values and ideology a lot more than they have to do with language and geography. The real struggle is not about Athens vs. Berlin and Brussels. It is about those who fight for human dignity, who want a Europe united for the best interests of everyone, not just the power elites (or just the “europeans”), and an economy that serves human needs and communities, not banks and corporations. If there is a geography to this struggle then it isn’t north or centre vs. south or periphery but it is conference rooms vs. neighborhood assemblies, corridors of power vs. the streets. If there is a language to this struggle it isn’t German vs. Greek, Anglo-Saxon vs. Latin but the language of greed vs. the language of hope, the language of power and authority vs. the language of mutual aid and solidarity. As the lines get drawn tighter and tighter let’s not lose track of what it is that we are fighting for, or forget who we are fighting with.
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Racism. Police brutality. Global warming. Never ending war. Students kidnapped and most likely killed. Refugees drowning in the mediterranean while looking for some hope of a future. Austerity. Rise of fascism and religious fundamentalism. State and corporate surveillance. Rape. Homophobia and transphobia and the violence that often accompanies it. Indiscriminate suppression of dissent. The list of news that can, and do, depress us and infuriate us seems to have no end. And today is thanksgiving in the USA, a day when we are supposed to give thanks for what we have, a day with its own very ugly history and context. Finding gratitude in the midst of all this can be, at best, a challenge.
Yet, it is precisely in the midst of all this that we need to remind ourselves what we are grateful for, otherwise we can just fall into a permanent state of cynicism, resentment, fear and anger. While these are understandable emotions and especially fear and anger can help motivate us to work for change, I generally find them not very good places in which to establish permanent residence.
A few months ago I was talking with a friend who is doing a lot of work in support of political prisoners, frankly an area where good news is not the norm. As we were talking about the stress and tension that she felt we walked outside under the night sky. Away from lights we looked up to see the stars and the milky way. We fell silent for a moment appreciative of the beauty above us and around us. It is at times like this that I am reminded that despite all the ugliness that we might encounter, it is beauty that is the norm in our universe. At times this beauty is hidden from us. Often we forget to look for it or fail to recognize it. And some times, like that night, we need to step deeper into the darkness in order to find it. But it is always there, always around us, always waiting to welcome us, to remind us that we don’t struggle because of the ugliness of the world but because of its beauty.
So today, like everyday, I am grateful for the beauty of the world. I am grateful for this earth and all that she provides for us. I am grateful for the indigenous peoples who welcomed the strange newcomers on their land and shared with them its beauty and its bounty. I am grateful for the indigenous peoples who fought and continue to fight and resist those who didn’t show gratitude in response but tried to conquer, exploit, control and own beauty and land and people as if they are not the gifts of the world but commodities to be used. I am grateful for all those, past, present and future, here and everywhere, who continue to fight and resist oppression, domination and exploitation and work to bring forward a world where everyone is free. I am grateful for the artists, the writers, the poets, the musicians in our midst who remind us what it means to be human. I am grateful for the workers who have built everything that we get to use in our daily lives. I am grateful for the farmers and all the people who make sure that we have food. I am grateful for the healers and the teachers amongst us. I am grateful for all the people who history has ignored or forgotten but who contributed in their own small and significant way towards a better world for future generations. I am grateful for my parents and their parents and all of my ancestors who made it possible for me to exist today. I am grateful for my kids, my family, my friends, my coworkers, and all my fellow travelers in this fascinating journey of ours.
And I am grateful for the sea and the night sky for never failing to remind me that beauty is all around us.
If you are truly interested in non-violence then you will ask and expect it from everyone. The government, the community, the police, the national guard, the KKK, the protesters. But if you are only asking for non-violence from the protesters and are ok with violence on the part of the state then it isn’t non-violence you really want. It is obedience.
“In becoming forcibly and essentially aware of my mortality, and of what I wished and wanted for my life, however short it might be, priorities and omissions became strongly etched in a merciless light, and what I most regretted were my silences. Of what had I ever been afraid? To question or to speak as I believed could have meant pain, or death. But we all hurt in so many different ways, all the time, and pain will either change or end. Death, on the other hand, is the final silence. And that might be coming quickly now, without regard for whether I had ever spoken what needed to be said, or had only betrayed myself into small silences, while I planned someday to speak, or waited for someone else’s words.
I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you.”
Audre Lorde