Tigers: an essay on outrage

image courtesy of Aaron Fernandes

Two weeks have passed since I came down off the mountain, and to my disappointment two weeks is apparently more than enough time for the influences of fresh country air, lots of meditation and (surprisingly) good vegan food to wear off, and for reality to sink back in.

The reality, which settles over the spaces of my existence un-occupied by work and sleep, is one which seems to suitably complement the gloom of the Glasgow winter I have returned to.  It is a reality in which many of my friends are without a job – and quite a few are – for all intents and purposes – homeless as a result: it is a reality in which most of the people – asylum seekers and refugees – I work with, survive on near to nothing (if not nothing) daily, weekly, eternally; it is a reality in which anti-detention and deportation campaigners must work harder than ever before to keep up with the UKBA: it is a reality in which the Palestinian friends I stay in constant touch with (for who can deny the relevance of facebook in any discussion of reality?!) give me news of exams, frustration and arbitrary arrest: it is a reality in which Twitter tells of Tahrir and tear gas all over again; it is a reality in which I cannot find a deodorant brand that is does not use animal testing.

And as this social reality sinks back in, so to does my own internal reality: a reality of continuous, un-wavering outrage – sometimes furious sometimes smouldering – but always present.  It is the same outrage I felt almost a decade ago, when, as a 15 year old girl, I watched the UK march against the Iraq War to no avail.   It is the same outrage I felt, as I stood on the edge of a First Nations reserve and took in the stark inequality between the Indigenous population of Turtle Island, and their conquerors.  It is the same outrage that I felt as I watched Israel shower phosphorous on the open air prison that is Gaza: the same outrage I felt as I stood in the face of teargas and sound-bombs alongside the courageousness of a tiny occupied village in rural Palestine: it is the same outrage that I felt when I heard that yet another young Afghan man had been deported; it is the same outrage I felt when I came to understand the meaning of ‘dawn-raids’: t is the same outrage I felt when the news of  Donald Trump’s victory (and Aberdeenshire Councils cowardice) signalled the inevitable destruction a site of incredible natural beauty: It is the same outrage that I felt when I realized the true meaning of destitution – no roof, no food, no nothing.  I could go on and on (you probably think I already did).

That outrage – first articulated with the whistles and chants I learned as a 15-year-old on a packed-out high-street in Aberdeen – has changed little in its fundamental principles: in its desire for dignity and humanity, in it’s aversion to injustice and exploitation.   Yet whilst its inherent qualities remain, its strength seems still to grow, like a tiger I had taken for a house cat.  Despite the supposedly-exhaustive nature of my own internal resources, I do not feel less outraged (though I have learned that throwing crockery is an un-helpful and relatively expensive outlet).  As everyday my eyes open wider, so too my outrage seems to grow.

At times this outrage is an isolating beast – when you have a tiger not many people want to come round for tea.  Yet if one were to pay a moments attention to the world outside, to the streets, to the media, to facebook – one could see that the tiger has become a rather common pet.  As John Holloway rightly articulated it this has been a “year of rage”.   Solid and certain,  ferocious and magnificent – that rage is growing in hundreds of millions across the globe:  from the Arab spring, to the 99% movement, to the never-ending struggles in Latin America, to the shores and cities of Scotland.  And with it – with our tigers by our sides – millions strong now – we are beginning to feel invincible.  As the streets fill up, and the alternative messages – calls for humanity above greed, for the 99% – start reaching us, it becomes thinkable that dictators can be toppled, it becomes imaginable that wall-streets grip could at the very least be loosened, that the environment can be prioritized: change, finally, is becoming tangible.

Yet we must be careful not to confuse these manifestations of collective emotion expressed not inwardly now (not by shouting at the television, not by drinking too much whiskey, not by lashing out at those beside us) but outwardly on the streets, in the parks, in the symbolic locations of oppressive power as the means for change in and of themselves.  We must hope cautiously, act bravely and be prepared for the long haul.  As my Egyptian friend adamantly pointed out, two weeks after the revolution “we have completed the easiest step: we still have a very long way to go”.  He cited decades:  6 months later and Tahrir is packed out once again.

Whether the present rage and its associated actions, will fuel tangible change or merely contribute to our own slow and costly un-doing (through burn-out, internal conflict, manipulation) remains far from clear at this point.  It is not unknown for tigers to turn upon their owners – rage is no less an unpredictable beast.  Furthermore, despite the tigers natural power, it is still not top of the food chain: no matter how the tiger roars, no matter how much power she has within her jaws, no matter how well she knows the jungle, the armed-man still has the upper-hand (or arm…).

We only have to look to Syria, Bahrain, Yemen, to recognise that brutality is not in any danger of running out.   Even in the struggles which we had claimed as victories the story is not yet completed: the images that reach us via Al-Jazeera and Facebook from the Arab Spring are permeated with the eternal juxtaposition of mourning and celebration.  In Egypt the jubilation which followed Mubarak’s fall only months ago, has been overcome once again by the need to protest as the military responsible for the transition attempts to retain extra powers in the coming elections.  Anti-cuts protests and the occupy wall-street movement have moved millions onto the streets but they have not yet had any significant influence on policy (though these are early days).  Donald Trump got our beach, with only an independent film and a small ill-positioned ‘bunker’ to taint the sweet taste of victory he must be accustomed to by now.   In Glasgow, the dawn raids we thought we had seen the last of in 2006 once again threaten to de-humanize our streets before the sun has reached them: this month two young mothers have been raided – they’re small children detained along with them: they are guilty of no crime.

Yet, I do not intend to sound fatalistic: I do genuinely believe that “where there is power, there is resistance.” (Foucault: 1976): that such resistance is vital and worthwhile: I believe that today that resistance is more present and visible than ever.  No, do not mistake the caution I speak of for a call to retreat.  Far from that it is a call for resilience.  It is an urgent request that our outrage (our tigers) and our action shall not waver in adversity, shall not dwindle in the silence, shall not be overcome by the many miles we still must march.

I am not the first to make that request: for it is being voiced in Egypt, in Wall Street, in Europe, in Glasgow.    Once again batons and bullets rains down and the death-toll rise’s on the Egyptians in Tahrir.  Yet the protesters do not leave: the message remains clear: as Mostafa Youssef, a young Egyptian present in Tahrir declares: “What happened yesterday proves that we, the people, collectively and without leadership, have more solidarity in adversity, we will not be tamed after being fired at, injured, imprisoned, tortured, or killed. This only makes us more resolute in our purposes, and more sure of our objectives.”  In the US the police forcefully cleared the ‘liberty square, only to find themselves facing an Occupy Wall Street movement which had tripled in size by the following day: ‘you cannot evict an idea who’s time has come’ they chant.  Here in Glasgow, the return of government-sponsored brutality on our doorsteps as news of fresh dawn raids filters through the networks, and so once again we will make our way to the gates of the UKBA to say “not in this city”: once again we will organize, publicise, subvert and oppose until our message is heard and acted out.

Can our outrage outlive the brutality and the legitimacy of the Home Office, of Wall Street, of Military and Political tyrants, and of the many other manifestations of oppressive power?  And can it continue despite the exhaustive-nature of our internal resources and the many contradictions of the human spirit? Only time will tell.  But if ever there could be hope, it is now as cities across the world light up, and the status-quo begins – finally – to tremble.  It seems now, more than ever that, in the words of Dylan Thomas, we “rage against the dying of the light”.

Losing

Today I bumped into a friend on his way home from yet another ordeal with the home office.  The conversation passed through the usual descriptions of the UKBA official’s insolence, of my friend’s in-comprehension, of the Home Office’s arbitrary processes and decisions, of our frustration, and of my own futile apologies (I often feel as though the home office is my own dis-obedient son which I cannot get to behave when we have visitors): this time the conversation concluded unexpectedly though, with the sad news that he has decided to leave.

Speaking angrily and with obvious pain in his voice, he told me he is done with this country, with its politics, with a system based on business rather than humanity, with a policy which de-legitimizes him in every sense.  He is done with this.

No wonder. R has been subjected to a system which understands him not as a human – but as a statistic, as a political tool, as a business opportunity (Glasgow City Council profits from the dispersal program).  Despite the trauma he fled: despite the danger he is seeking sanctuary from here in the UK, the home office refuses to take his claim into consideration because the place he comes from is *not* (according to them) war-torn – it is not a site of human rights atrocities, it is not subjected to regular shelling, it is not one of the most volatile regions in the world at this time.  Yet without a claim – without legitimation from the big boys (this is what they call the Home Office officials) – he remains beyond the margins, excluded from any life worth living – and unlikely to ever feel safe in any real sense.

The invisible walls (for those who remain outside detention) of the asylum system can only be tholed for so long.  Watching so many go through it, it seems to me that it is too much for any woman or man to bear – and certainly too much to bear for a man who believes, passionately and unequivocally in the freedom of each man and woman.  And so R will leave in search of a place where freedom might live (though it’s scarcity in these times is likely to make this an endless search).  I can tell that he has made this decision with a very heavy heart – he will be sad to leave Glasgow – a city whose people have welcomed him in the small ways that they can.

I guess the home office believes they have won – another one gone.  I guess the Conservative Government believes they have won – reducing the burden on the state (and freeing it for other things like military war-fare).  I guess the tabloid press also believes that they have won – one less ‘competitor’ for jobs that don’t exist in this dog-eat-dog world – ‘charity begins at home mate’.

But I know better.  I know we have lost.  I know we have lost a brilliant mind, and a huge heart.  I know we have lost man with a sense of humour and playfulness which is in short supply in these dark times: I know we have lost a man with incredible artistic talent.  I know we have lost a fellow revolutionary in a time when such creatures are in short supply: I know we have lost the opportunity to learn from a man who could have taught us so much.

I also know that we have lost an opportunity to be what, in our national rhetoric, and in our personal discourses, we aspire to – a democratic people who uphold human rights and value human dignity.  I know that we have lost our opportunity to be more than a country of cold-hearted bureaucracy.

This loss saddens me deeply.  I am angry at this nation and it’s people for being so blind, so naive and so selfish.  I am angry at a system in which an arbitrary decision by a man in a suit has the power to de-humanize even the bravest and brightest of spirits.  I am angry at myself for not fighting the hypocrisy and callousness of the state harder.

But with no way to express this anger and no way to change these things, all I can say, with sorrow and futile hope, is ‘haste ye back my friend’.

I haven’t been very busy here…

but I’ve been busy here.…

Endless and lonesome is this sky,

when no other soul is free to fly.

Bolder Wings

Casting off the cold steel strings:

An escape that took much bolder wings,

Than any tiny fleeting swift,

Or any splendid swan could lift,

Well still w’ll sing of freedom:

Oh, won’t you sing with me of freedom.

 

Girls and boys

Up against the cruelty machines ignite,

With bloody noses from this Goliath fight,

Well we are still just girls and boys,

And love will always ache much longer.

 

And far above justice and perhaps despite,

Is a single wish that you’ll hold him tight,

Cause we are still just girls and boys,

Well, won’t you keep him standing stronger?

Loch-side

Standing on edge on ageless fading loch -

Still wearing two worn out second-hand shoes,

And two odd socks – undoubtedly stolen:

Water discovers these bruised and weary feet,

And the tops of my grubby borrowed jeans.

Well that journey home it took days and days,

And the load – now finally lifted -

Well I thought it might be forever on my back.

 

And the evening light it is not so grand,

Like “summer” nights really ought to command,

No, pastel colours will not parade tonight.

Yet I am surprised at the consolation to be found,

In shades of a more-earthly grey:

This body of water a more trusted friend

Than that bold city of bright lights and too,

too many fools, ever was willing to offer.

 

And in the stillness that tides convey,

There is little need for tears or terror,

No reliance on glass-half-empty conversation,

Nor the agonizing pretence that it might be full.

well  silence is still the legal tender,

down at this local watering-hole.

And the light, it only reflects – for now –

On this darkness-bound shore.

 

So I wait until the light grows weary,

And the other ‘punters’ call it a day:

In time the emerald-crowned ducks retreat,

And no more flat stones –destined for skimming -

Present them-selves on the mottled shore.

Now it’s time for smaller spaces,

for the placing of words on blank pages,

That bruised imaginations insist on shaping.

 

So lifting my life from the shore –

two wheels and a plastic bag of sodden clothes -

Make my way back along a long-time conquered river,

Wondering if the lilies are still flowering or faded -

So long since I turned the key,

In the door to a place that feels like home:

A place where gin and candles keep on,

With their soft promise to ease the aching.

Without Flinching.

If broken was a name,

Given only to delicate things and never to fragile souls.

If freedom was not merely anti-gravity,

Buried within dissident imaginations of the young and the lucky.

And if justice was ever solid and sure,

Never contorted away from the light, towards wickedness.

 

Then dear, we’d hold this world without flinching:

And I would never have to tell you that I’m so sorry for this mess.

 

Well if aching bodies were merely the cost -

A small price to pay – for great and memorable adventures.

And if blue was a just color,

Reserved for your smiling eyes: and never that beating heart.

If darkness was simply the home,

Of our sweetest dreams and our most graceful slow-dances.

 

Then dear, we’d sleep long and deep tonight:

And I would not utter a single word to you without kindness.

To my dear friend, because I wanted to say something that wasn’t sorry.  

‘Go Home’

Red Road: Photograph by Robert Ormerod

During Refugee Week, I have been working in a community flat in a 22 storey tower block, in the South-West of the city.  It’s been a brilliant week with interesting events and I can’t quite believe my luck at being paid to do worthwhile work I enjoy (not an easy thing to come by in these times).  But it has also been an eye opener.  I have enjoyed working alongside asylum seekers and refugees once again, but it is – as ever – difficult to hear the stories they tell, and to take in the situations they find themselves in; indeed to work in an environment, which – outwith the confines of this small and homely (if a little ikead) community flat – feels very isolated and desolate despite the many lives lived out there is draining on the soul (I can only imagine what it does who have no where else to retreat).   Yesterday I came across the work of photojournalist Robert Ormerod astutely captures a similar (though I suspect even bleaker) environment – Red Road, and the lives of the Asylum Seekers housed there.  He’s exhibiting at the Mitchell right now: well worth a visit.

On the second day, we had a workshop with the police on reporting crime.  Some of the visitors shared their experiences of racism whilst in Glasgow.  Meanwhile, one flight up racist graffiti has still not been removed by the Housing Association responsible for the building days after it was reported.  The following is a very immediate response I jotted down on the train back to my safe little cottage by the river.  I will write more on the issues I’ve been thinking on soon I hope.

’Go home’

In uninspired black spray-paint,

And a careless hand,

You paraphrased the teachings,

Of some dark ‘Sun’ you casually worship,

On the cold concrete that ‘houses’ us.

I don’t suppose pity is what you were going for.

And yet pity was the only response I could find.

Because it seems that 12-page ignorance,

Well that’s the only satellite you’ve got,

And this cold dark concrete place –

Well it’s the only home you’ll know.

But there’s a place where the sun -

Well it shines all the long time.

And the paintings that mark the walls -

Well they celebrate -

they don’t reject the colours.

And someday soon, I know,

I’ll be going home.

the visitor

With a visitor in my chest that I haven’t got the time for, I wanted to share this post written by a girl who has inspired me for a long time.

http://elliepant.wordpress.com/2009/03/18/escape-from-the-dragon-of-darkness/

To a world without dragons