Lavender, Avatar, Palestine, Nukes & Other Ramblings

By Starhawk | Published: February 23, 2010

Neta Golan, one of the founders of the International Solidarity Movement, which supports nonviolent resistance in Palestine, is a dear friend whom I no longer get to see, since the Israeli government has barred me from entry.  Fortunately, technology is not constrained by borders, and a few nights ago, while I’m noodling around Facebook I notice that she’s online.  Instantly, we’re chatting and then Skyping.

“What do we talk about first,” Neta asks.  “Gaza?  The movement?  You?  Me?”

I want to tell her about the idyllic last few days I spent up at the ranch in the Cazadero hills.  The sun has come out after the rains, at least for a brief moment.  The hydro is running happily.  The sky is marbled with clouds, with rays of sunlight peeking through and illuminating golden meadows on the hills far away.

And I’ve been planting lavender.  Over a hundred starts of Provence and Super—varieties that are especially high in oil.  Last summer, my neighbor Angie and I distilled some hydrosol from our Spanish lavender, which self-seeds here and grows in abundance.  Eventually, we hope to make essential oils.

There are few things more pleasant to plant than lavender.  The day was perfect—cool and moist, and your hands smell so good afterwards.  Lavender is not a needy plant—it likes dry and rocky soils just fine, needs minimal water.  Deer don’t graze it.  The only plant tougher out here is rosemary, which I have hedges of—big, upright Tuscan rosemary with its deep blue flowers just now beginning to bloom, sprawling prostrate rosemary with its paler blooms.  Most of them I started from cuttings that I took from Jim and Dave years ago, and now they are huge, fragrant bushes, topping the berms on my swales and spreading exuberantly.

Meanwhile, back in Gaza, the Israeli blockade has now stopped fuel from coming in to keep their power plants running, and one of the two has shut down.  Electricity has been cut to about half the population, and since cooking and heating gas is also in short supply, along with food, people are hungry, cold, and in the dark.  Yeah—Gaza is cold in the winter, damp and chill and most people live in concrete-block tenements that suck heat from your bones.

The problem with being a conscious person in this world of huge inequities is that you can never quite shut Gaza, or Haiti, or Darfur out of your awareness.  They cast a shadow over the brightest day.  How do I let myself truly experience the joy of planting lavender on my own land when I know how many homes have been bulldozed, how many lands destroyed?

And yet if I don’t let myself have these moments of joy, I’ll go mad.  I’ll become an obsessed, insufferable burned-out person, utterly ineffective in the struggle.  Well, I suppose there are those who would say I’m already obsessed and insufferable—but at least I’m not burned out!

We start to talk about strategies.  The nonviolent resistance in the West Bank is strong and alive—but how do we make it more visible to the rest of the world?

In Bil’in, where villagers and supporters mount a weekly demonstration against the wall, the protestors have decided to dress up as the Na’vi—the blue people from the movie Avatar.  You can see a video of the protest, and the barrage of tear gas that the Israeli soldiers fire back at the villagers, at:

http://palsolidarity.org/2010/02/11363

I’m amazed at the resilience and creativity of the protesters.  After five years of continuous protests against the wall, the villagers of Bil’in, Nil’in and all the sister villages of the West Bank would certainly have reason to give up in despair.  But they remain both steadfast and imaginative.  This is a quality I’ve noticed among activists everywhere:  no matter how grim the situation, as long as there is something you can do, you stay optimistic and cheerful, at least sometimes.

And after five years, Bil’in has something to celebrate:  the Israeli military is finally moving the wall, which confiscated sixty per cent of the villages farmland.  Ordered years ago to move the route of the wall by the Israeli courts, the government has been slow in complying.  But at last the village will get back thirty per cent of its land.  In Palestine, that’s a victory.

James Cameron doesn’t know it, but he and I have a relationship.  Back when his last blockbuster movie, The Titanic, came out, I was in Israel (this was before I became an activist for Palestinian justice, so I could still go there) and I dragged a couple of reluctant friends out to see it with me.  I wanted to see it on the big screen, and I was afraid it would be gone by the time I got back home from a long trip.  It colored the visit for me.  I was doing workshops on the Goddess and earth based spirituality, and I began to feel like one of those musicians on the deck, fiddling away while the lifeboats are lowered and the ship sinks.  When the trip was done, I said, “I can’t do this any more.  If I come back, I need to face the real issues going on here.  I need to see what’s happening in Palestine.”  And I didn’t return until I came back in 2002 to work with the International Solidarity Movement—and that’s another story.  (Which you can find archived at http://www.starhawk.org/activism/activism-writings/israel_palestine/israel_palestine.html)

Avatar has been criticized both by the right and the left—the right don’t like its anti-corporate politics and the left find it a too-simplistic story about white guilt.

http://io9.com/5422666/when-will-white-people-stop-making-movies-like-avatar

While white guilt is certainly a step beyond white callousness and greed, it still keeps the focus, the locus of Self, on the white character, while the indigenous folks remain the Other.

The fact that you can make that criticism of Avatar is a kind of back-handed tribute to how vividly Cameron created his imaginary indigenous culture.  And yeah, the white guy—albeit a disabled, wounded hero white guy—does end up riding the biggest bird in the sky and leading the charge—although in the end, it’s the blue-skinned woman who kills the enemy and saves the day.   But I think Avatar is a good thing.  Not just because it’s one of the most powerful, beautiful, evocations of the Goddess ever shown on the silver screen, but, like, politically a Good Thing.  Here’s why:

Fast forward a week or so (oh how hard it is to keep up with this blog!)  I’m sitting in an old church school in Chimayo, New Mexico, at a training/planning session for a group called Think Outside the Bomb, http://www.thinkoutsidethebomb.org/, a youth-based, antinuclear network of amazingly smart young people who are planning an encampment and action at Los Alamos, where Obama is supporting the construction of a new plutonium pit and a major expansion of nuclear research capabilities.  We listen to Gilbert Sanchez, former governor of the Tewa tribe and director of the Tribal Environmental Watch Alliance describe how the bomb tests at Los Alamos have contaminated the sacred sites of his people.

Kathy Sanchez, head of Tewa Women United, gives a presentation on working cross-culturally.  As she describes the cancers, the poisoned wells, the levels of historical trauma her people carry, suddenly she turns and smiles.

“Have you seen Avatar?” she says.

George Lakoff, in his book The Political Mind, makes the case that metaphors create actual neural links in our minds, and those links frame the way we see events.  We build a Los Alamos, bomb Hiroshima, contaminate groundwater with tritium, bulldoze a Palestinian neighborhood because we’ve framed reality in such a way that we think we’re doing something necessary and good.  We literally don’t have the links to grasp the level of damage and unspeakable pain.

What makes those links?  Sensory images, joined to strong emotion.  Every Witch knows that’s how we cast a spell.  Every activist knows that’s one reason why we create a dramatic crisis of action to shine a spotlight on a wrong.  “A week ago, no one knew what the WTO was,” Tom Hayden said in the midst of the blockade in Seattle in 1999 that shut the meeting down.  “Now, they still don’t know what it is, but they know it means tear gas.”

A movie can do that, too.  Movies, it is said, are collective dreams.

“The first thing people usually ask me,” Gilbert says to us, “is ‘Why don’t you just move?’”

I don’t think people who’ve seen Avatar will be quite so quick to ask that question.  Avatar is a kind of remedial white mind repair, making the necessary links—home, tree, connection, mother, ancestors, souls, color, beauty, soaring flight—poised against the bulldozers, the hard-edged military man/machine, the gray, dead destruction.  Which side are you on?

Can a movie change the world?  Those of us who make movies, or art, or write believe that we can—on odd-numbered days.  On even-numbered days we acknowledge that we’re probably delusional.  Sometimes I don’t write, because it’s an activity that seems so self-reflective, self-indulgent, narcissistic.  I can only write from myself, my own dreams.  On those odd days when I do, I write in the simple faith that if I am honest about myself, my own dreams may twine themselves around yours and link us in a truth that goes deeper than skin.

But this post isn’t really about art, or writing, or Avatar. It’s about what Avatar is about: what’s happening not on Pandora but here on earth, every day.  How do we live in a world of such horrific injustice?  What do we do with white guilt, or lavender guilt, or blue/brown/black guilt for that matter, the survivor guilt of merely being alive when so many are dead?

We can say, “I didn’t sign on for this,” and join the struggle for justice.

Avatar promises that when we join that struggle, we become linked to something much greater than ourselves, a web of love and common purpose that can help us withstand hardship and find great courage.

As Abdallah Abu Rahmeh, Palestinian human rights activist jailed for his beliefs by the Israelis, writes from prison:

“It is the support that I receive from my family and friends that helps me go on. I am grateful to the Palestinian leaders who have contacted my family, the diplomats from the European Union and to the Israeli activists who have expressed their support by attending my hearings. The relationship we have built together with the activists has gone beyond the definition of colleague or friend, we are brothers and sisters in this struggle. You are an unrelenting source of inspiration and solidarity. You have stood with us during demonstrations and court hearings, and during our happiest and most painful occasions. Being in prison has shown me how many true friends I have, I am so grateful to all of you.”

http://www.bilin-village.org/english/articles/testimonies/Letter-from-Abdallah-Abu-Rahmah-Missing-the-five-year-anniversary-of-our-struggle-in-Bilin-will-be-like-missing-the-birthday-of-one-of-my-children

I’m told that there are online support groups for those who can’t bear the thought that Avatar’s mythical planet Pandora doesn’t exist.  But Pandora is real.  Pandora is here on earth, in Bil’in, in Los Alamos, in a thousand places and struggles.  Link in, and open your eyes.  You’ll see a new world—or better yet, help to make one.

Posted in books and writing, political activism, social justice | Tagged , | 14 Comments

Pruning Time

By Starhawk | Published: February 3, 2010

I realize that I haven’t written for a while on this blog.  I came back from Cairo and jumped into teaching our Earth Activist Training—for me that’s two weeks of twelve-hour days, with setup and cleanup at the end, and no time or energy left for writing or anything extraneous except coping with the physical demands of life.  This year, they more demanding than usual as we had major storms in the midst of the course—a week of rain so intense that at times I wondered how we could still breathe.  The air itself seemed to be mostly water.

Me...pruning!

Me...pruning!

During that time, it seemed like the whole world fell apart.  I know it’s just my inflated ego and tendency to be codependent with the universe that makes it seem like somehow my lack of personal attention to the issue had anything to do with the Democrats losing Ted Kennedy’s Senate seat, not to mention the Haitian earthquake and the even more horrific response to it.  Or the Supreme Court decision affirming that corporations are people.  Father Louis Vitale, in the pictured in my last post on hunger strike in Cairo, has now been sentenced to six months in prison for protesting at the School of the Americas. Hell—I step out of the room for a moment and the kids trash the place!

Be that as it may, while I ponder what to do about it all, I’ve been pruning more than writing.  Here in Northern California, it’s pruning time—winter passes in a flash and already buds are swelling and trees are about to break dormancy.  The narcissus are popping up and the hills are green.  We’ve needed this rain, after years of low-level drought, and the land drinks it in.

Pruning and writing have a lot in common.  The key is decisiveness—at least, if you want to get the work done.  You can’t stand dithering for hours over every twig or potential rosebud—you’ve got to hold in your mind a firm intention, know what you’re doing, and snip.  Those hybrid tea roses need to come down to five main sticks—everything else goes.  Those climbers take more thought—just get the dead sticks and the crossing branches and the ones that will poke you in the eye as you come in the garden gate.  The apple trees and the Asian pear—take them down, open them up, let them breathe and be sure you know what a fruiting bud looks like.

Writing is much the same.  You create a structure—then you prune.  Take out what doesn’t work, what holds the thing back.  The crossed references and the entangling complications.  Let it breathe.

And then know when to stop.  When you’re pruning, you can fall into a kind of trance, and keep snipping and cutting and trimming until you’ve pruned the tree back to nothing and possibly harmed its vitality.  When you’re writing, at a certain point you always have to say, “Enough is enough,” and let it go.

Like now.

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Gaza Freedom March: Now What?

By Starhawk | Published: January 17, 2010

I had hoped to send this out a week ago, but life—in the form of our Earth Activist Training and its twelve-hour teaching days—intervened.  But I want to close off this series of narratives with some thoughts on what to do next.

Segregation in the south did not end because the civil rights movement won over the hard-core segregationists.  Bull Connor and his ilk never dropped their devotion to racial supremacy.  But the marches, the sit-ins, the jailings and beatings roused a larger public to become aware of the deep injustices of America’s own apartheid system, and they intervened to change the laws.

Along with their energizing though hard-on-the knees tradition of jumping up and down throughout a protest, the South African delegation brought us their experience with apartheid.  When the international community woke up to the horrific injustices of apartheid, when they began a global campaign of boycotts, divestments and sanctions, apartheid fell.

The Cairo Declaration, written with their inspiration, calls for such a campaign.  Boycotts, divestment and sanctions are the way the international community can tell Israel, “Stop!  Friends don’t let friends commit genocide.”

You can sign on at www.gazafreedommarch.com.

Two campaigns are already underway.  The first is a boycott of Ahava beauty products, produced on stolen Palestinian land at the Dead Sea.

The second is a boycott of Caterpillar, the heavy equipment manufacturers who make the house-crusher monster bulldozers, like the one that killed Rachel Corrie when she tried to prevent a home demolition in Rafah in 2003.  I don’t know how many of my readers have occasion to purchase a backhoe or a tractor—but for you permacultural swale diggers and keyline plowers, there are plenty of other companies who don’t have blood on their blades.

The repression of the Gaza marchers was part of a general crackdown on nonviolent activists and civil resistance on the part of the Israeli authorities.  Throughout the last months, Israel has arrested many of the leaders of the popular resistance campaigns against the apartheid wall in the West Bank.

Two of them, Jamal Juma and Mohammed Othman, have been freed by the Israeli courts, hanks to international pressure,  after months of detention and interrogation with no charges.

But many others who are less known are still in jail.  Abdallah Abu Ramah, a teacher and farmer from the village of Bil’in, has been a leader in organizing that community’s sustained resistance against the wall.  For five years, villagers from Bil’in and nearby Nil’in, along with international and Israeli supporters, have staged a nonviolent demonstration every Friday.  In the course of those protests, the Israeli Occupation Forces have responded with tear gas, rubber bullets, and live ammunition.  Nineteen demonstrators have been killed, nine of them teenagers, the youngest only ten years old.   Others, like my own dear friend Tristan Anderson, severely wounded.  Abdallah was arrested in December and continues to be held.  To raise your voice in support of his freedom, go to:

http://popularstruggle.org/freeabdallah

Israel has also targeted leaders of nonviolent resistance movements in Nablus and other Palestinian cities.   Wa’el al Faqueeh of Nablus has been detained without charges for over a month and faces trial on January 19.  He also needs our support:

* To write  to the American Consul General in Jerusalem, see

http://www.popularstruggle.org/content/send-letter-consul-daniel-rubinstein.

* To write to the High Representative of the European Union for

Foreign Affairs and Security Policy, see

http://www.popularstruggle.org/content/send-letter-baroness-catherine-ashton.

Obama and others have called on the Palestinian people to ‘adopt the tactics of Martin Luther King’—but ignored the tenacious, hard-pressed movement among Palestinians who do so, at the risk of their lives and liberty.  Where is the Palestinian Martin Luther King?  He’s being held in administrative detention by the Israelis, without charges or dates for release.  His name is Abdallah abu Raman.  His name is  Wa’el Faqueeh.

Occupation at the French Embassy

Occupation at the French Embassy

Hunger Strikers at the Journalists' Syndicate in Cairo.

Hunger Strikers at the Journalists' Syndicate in Cairo.

Father Louis Vitale from San Francisco on hunger strike!

Father Louis Vitale from San Francisco on hunger strike!

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Gaza Freedom March: Home At Last!

By Starhawk | Published: January 7, 2010

I’m home now, writing from the comfort of my own bed, with its supremely comfortable mattress that doesn’t sag in the middle.  Bless the invention of the laptop, that allows us to write in bed!  I’ve hardly sat at a desk since the mid-nineties.

I’m sorry for the hiatus in these blogs—events transpired that made it seem advisable for us to get out of Dodge, as we say in the west—or in plain English, to leave Cairo for a few days, during which internet access was hard to find.

Before we left, we attended the New Year’s Eve candlelight vigil in the Mogamma plaza on Tahrir Square, and saw the New Year in with a large, peaceful gathering of our friends that was heavily watched by the Egyptian secret police, but not interfered with.   The next day, we were at a spirited rally in front of the Israeli Embassy, which is high up in a ten-story building, its presence announced only by an Israeli flag on the roof.  The Egyptian police have now established their pattern—they herd us into a protest pen, keep us there for a while, eventually let people out and when the demo is over, we leave.

For me the highlight of the day was a long conversation with Hedy Epstein, an eighty-eight year old Jewish survivor of the holocaust who is here with us in support of justice for the Palestinians.  Hedy is small, with curling white hair and bright eyes and a ready smile, and tough in the fiber, as they say about hobbits.  She went on a hunger strike when she arrived, and went off it only when her doctor ordered her to eat.  She was in the melee with the Egyptian police in Tahrir Square, and managed to come through the pushing, shoving frenzy undaunted and unharmed.

Someone like Hedy makes it impossible for us lesser mortals to say, “I’m too old for this shit.”  Over dinner, I heard some of her story, which she tells in vivid detail—the terror of a child on Krystallnacht, when Nazi thugs broke windows of Jewish businesses and homes all over Germany, of being attacked and vilified by teachers and the principal of her school, coming home and finding her father and uncle gone, her mother in hiding.  She survived because her family was able to get her onto a kindertransport: the ships and trains that brought 10,000 Jewish children to Britain just before the onset of war.  Her parents were sent to the camps in France and ultimately to Auschwitz.

She grew up to work with the U.S. Government in Germany, among other things, as a research analyst during the Nuremburg Trials, investigating the doctors who performed cruel medical ‘experiments’ on inmates.  And out of her own pain and loss, she became an activist, fighting for civil rights and human rights.

We’re always on dangerous ground when we start talking about the Holocaust and Palestine in the same breath.   As Hedy herself says, “Each experience is unique.  You can’t compare them.”  Yet there are resonances that are hard to ignore.  I’m remembering being in the Balata refugee camp in the West Bank when all the men were rounded up and marched off, how I felt sitting behind closed doors with the women left behind.  We were taken in by one family who wanted us as witnesses to protect the son they’d managed to hide, a young student of psychology in his twenties who was still so traumatized by a former arrest and incarceration that he couldn’t leave the house on his own, work or study.  I’m thinking of the night I spent locked in a room with a family, singing funny songs to the children to distract them from the sounds of the Israeli soldiers methodically destroying their home, ripping the stuffing out of the chairs and prying the paneling off the walls, in the name of a ‘search.’

True, Israel has not set up gas chambers for Palestinians, nor ovens.  As Dov Weinglas,  an adviser to the Israeli prime minister, said, “The idea is to put the Palestinians on a diet, but not to make them die of hunger.”

But when you have to start arguing over the nuances of oppression, about whether the number of dead constitutes a massacre or just a slaughter, whether your policies are really genocide or just sorta like genocide, you have left the path of righteousness.

On the last day, I snuck away from a demonstration in support of a court case Egyptian lawyers are bringing against their own government to stop the construction of the steel wall that will seal up Gaza’s last lifelines.  I went to the pyramids, because I was determined not to leave Egypt without seeing the pyramids.  I did the shlocky tourist thing, and rode a camel.  And it was wonderful—to get out onto the stark desert and squint my eyes to block out the tour busses and just see camels moving over the sands with those pure shapes behind them, and young men racing Arab horses through the empty land.

And yet I couldn’t feel a spiritual connection there.  Looking at those great blocks of stone, thinking about the immense numbers of mud bricks beneath, the human labor and effort in raising these mountains, I kept imagining the lives of the slaves.  The Jewish people are my people, and this land is woven into our narratives.  “We were slaves in Egypt” goes the litany of Passover.  I build with mud myself—I know how much sheer, physical work goes into a small bench or a low wall.  We were slaves, and we escaped, and the land of Canaan was our refuge.  We were the victims of massive genocide, and the land of Israel was our consolation—at another people’s expense.

From a heritage of pain, you can draw a number of different conclusions.   You can say, “In a world of slaves and masters I choose to wield the whip rather than suffer the lash.  ”You can say, “Never again will I let this happen to me or mine!

Or you can stand with Hedy and all those like her, and say, “Never again will I let this happen to anyone.”  Not in my name, not to my benefit, not by my silence.

We are still wandering in the wilderness.  Over a far horizon, we can sometimes catch a glimpse of a new Promised Land–a place without walls, without checkpoints, without prisons, without masters and slaves, us and them, our tribe and their tribe—a place where everyone is free.  But we have a long journey still before we get there, and we do not know the way.

Posted in Gaza, Uncategorized, political activism, social justice | Tagged , | 2 Comments

Gaza Freedom March: Wrapping Up

By Starhawk | Published: January 3, 2010

Hello friends and all who have been following these events:  We celebrated New year’s with a candlelight vigil in Tahrir square, then spent New year’s Day at the Israeli embassy–or rather, across the street, at a last big protest.  That night we had a closing in Tahrir square.  I have a lot more to say and write and many final thoughts to share, but I’m out of time and internet access for the moment.  I’ll be travelling for the next few days, so the rest may have to wait until I’m home and have some time to catch up and think.  Thanks for all your comments and support

But let me just say this–the point of all our actions was to draw attention to the grave situation in Gaza.  If you have been moved by these posts, please write and call your representatives, also Obama and Hillary Clinton, and urge them to put pressure on the Israeli government to lift the siege!  Thanks–more soon on all of this, Starhawk

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Gaza Freedom March: A Powerful Day of Action 12-31-09

By Starhawk | Published: December 31, 2009

 

Occupying Tahrir Square

Occupying Tahrir Square

We did it!  Up until the moment we did, I didn’t quite believe we would, but we did!

 

In Tahrir Square

In Tahrir Square

 

 

Went to bed last night thinking, “Yeah, Starhawk, you’ve done this a hundred times, yawn, nerves of steel, sleep like a baby,” and of course I hardly slept at all, adrenaline racing, had to pee a hundred times.  Got up this morning ahd rumors were flying around that the Egyptian security forces were blocking the hotels, so we got out quickly.  Fortunately I had packed and organized my stuff the night before as that is the part of an action that is most stressful to me.  Nothing makes me more crazy than needing to get out the door in a hurry and not being able to find some crucial piece of gear, and I nearly always can’t find some crucial piece of gear, due to that plague of Snatchers that follow me around, hiding my keys, lining their burrows with my socks and decorating them with my ATM cards.

Some of the Canadian delegation who are staying here were saying that police were outside—but that turned out not to be true.  I was almost sorry, because Wendy had scouted alternative exits over the roofs of Cairo and what a story that would make!  But I was happy enough just to get out and not be stuck inside all day.  I can write novels another time.

Lisa had already left for a meeting at one of the hotels—turned out the security forces were blocking everyone into the Lotus, where the main Code Pink organizers were staying, but not the other hotels, including the one where the meeting was happening. 

I decided to sit down below, however, and keep watch.  Actually I didn’t see the need for going 9 flights up and probably having to walk back down all nine, and sitting in a smoky meeting where I wouldn’t be able to hear anything.  There was a chair against the wall near the entrance so I sat down to wait.  Actually, Cairo is a great place to people-watch and I had one of the most relaxing little bits of time I’d had here yet, watching the women in their various head=-carves and the men with liquid brown eyes that could have come off an old tomb painting.  Eventually people from our march began to drift by, stopping to share news and rumors.   One Policeman was watching the hotel, but I didn’t see any signs that groups of them were massing for a raid.  But the rumors were flying—the action was on, it was off, the locations was changed, the time was changed..

Eventually Lisa and the women from the meeting came down.  The plan was for shcok troops of women to be first out into the streets—for a couple of reasons.  The first—the cops are less likely to brutalize women.  Not entirely unlikely, but less.  The second—to shift those old gender dynamics where the guys do the brave and dangerous things and the little women stay behind.  The third—because these women are strong and smart and don’t run ego-dramas.

We began to filter around Tahrir Square.  I was following Lisa who moves at a really fast pace.  I am a slow walker but when I need to, I can keep up with her and she was in full-on battle mode and nothing was going to slow her down.

 We all drifted into the area around the Museum where our plan called for us to gather unobtrusively and then flash-mob into the streets.  I wasn’t sure this was going to work.  Nobody was sure this was going to work—but it was the plan and at this point that was all we had.  The police were out in force around the museum because we had organized this in classic nonviolent mode, openly and not secretly.  That was a good thing, because communication has been so excruciatingly difficult when we are trying to simply tell each other something that adding security culture and secret codes on top of it would have made everything utterly incomprehensible to most of us, while the secret police would still have known what we were going to do.    There they were…there we were.  The clock was ticking—it was almost ten.  An officer came towards Lisa, trying to move us further down the road.  The traffic opened…and she took the space, running out into the traffic and unfurling a flag.  We followed, and suddenly, from all over small groups of people were swarming and collecting and filling the road.

We began to march—for about ten yards.  Then the cops surrounded us, and they were mad.  They were pushing and shoving people, and I noticed a few run in and grab a guy who was filming with a video camera on a tripod.  They had hold of him and were pulling on his camera and others were pulling on him so I ran over to do what I do—which is insert myself into the middle and sweetly get in the way.  Between all of us we extricated him and his camera and now people were sitting down to hold the space.  And there I was, sitting on the ground staring at the knees of a line of Egyptian riot cops.  I had a little Talking Heads moment, you know the song, “And I asked myself…how did I get here?”  Then the cops moved in and started grabbing people.  They grabbed Michael from the media team and we grabbed him back and finally pulled him in toward us.  He was holding his ribs..a woman grabbed my arm and we linked up.

Then I saw Lisa being grabbed by five big cops.  They were pulling her away into the police lines and she was lying prone and being pulled by her wrists.  I thought, “Goddess, they’re taking her away and there’s too many of them.  There’s nothing I can do for her.”  And then I thought, “Fuck that!” and leapt on top of her, grabbing her waist and lying over her legs.  I can’t actually explain how I did that when usually it takes me ten minutes and a battle plan to get up, but adrenaline is a wonder drug.

Anotther couple of people piled onto me and her.  The cops were really mad, but also confused.  They kicked one guy and grabbed him really roughly to pull him off, but no sooner did they have him than someone else dove through five lines of police and launched himself onto the pile  Every time they got rid of one person, someone else appeared.  It was one of the most powerful moments of practical solidarity I’ve ever seen and I would have liked to savor it but almost immediately we were all being pushed, shoved, pummeled and pressed back onto the curb across the street.  Our pile of people on the bottom half of Lisa got pushed one way—the top half of her went another and I lost her.

I ended up on the curb smack in front of the lines of cops trying to shove us back, along with a mass of people.  I was happy there—holding ground when riot cops are shoving is one of the things I’m good at.  Most of the cops looked a bit sheepish and ashamed of what they were doing, but one or two were triggered and angry and out of control.  I saw one cop head butt a protester, others were beating and punching people with their nightsticks.  They were pushing other people onto the curb and roughly forcing them through the lines into a crowd that was already so tight there was hardly room to move.  I saw several of the women I’d trained and I just stayed there and grabbed them and pulled them through the lines of cops into our space.  I felt a bit like a midwife, birthing them backwards, into the womb of our community now contained by a circle of cops on a wide stretch of sidewalk.  Some of them were frightened, some were exhilarated.  All looked happy to see me.

And then the tension eased.  The cops formed their ring, we had our space, in the circle of Cairo’s largest, central square, and people were chanting “Free, free Palestine!” and singing “We Shall Overcome.”  I looked over and found myself standing next to Bill Ayers and Bernardine Dohrn, singing, “We are not afraid, we are not afraid, we are not afraid today.”

Then I saw Lisa, safe and relatively unscathed although she had a hurt wrist and sore ribs.  I gave her some homeopathic arnica and Bill Ayers gave her some chocolate.  Carrying chocolate—that mark of an experienced activist!

We all felt great about the action.  Against all odds, we had done what we set out to do—to say to the Egyptian authorities and the world, “if you won’t let us go to Gaza, we’ll simply start from here and walk.”  If you want to stop us, you’ll have to physically stop us—we won’t comply with your orders.  And if you physically stop us, then we will have brought Gaza to Cairo—we will dramatize for the eyes of the world the situation that the people of Gaza are in.  This pen, this improvised prison in the central square is another annex to the huge, open-air prison that Gaza has become, where a million and a half people live in the most densely crowded conditions on earth, where the Israelis control the borders and decide who can get in and who can get out, rationing out  the necessities of life, b;ocking the materials of reconstruction and the means of livelihood for the Gazan people. 

So we held the space throughout the day, with songs and chants and drumbeats, with shared food and water and an improvised pee station.  I even had a lovely nap in the sun, next to a beautiful French Algerian organizer with luminous green eyes. 

And now the New Year has come, and I must sleep!  May our new year be blessed with loving friends and strong comrades to strengthen us for all the work ahead the earth and for justice.

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Gaza Freedom March: A Day of Preparation 12-30

By Starhawk | Published: December 30, 2009

 

We’ve moved from the Old to the New Testament—from “Let my people go” to “Left Behind!”  Woke up this morning sure my choice to stay was the right one, but deeply regretting it anyway.  Lisa, who was also offered a seat, and I were talking ourselves into good political reasons to justify why we could have gone, when she got a call.  Code Pink and the Steering Committee of the Gaza Freedom March had just issued a statement saying that they’d made a mistake, and that they were no longer supporting the busses going.  The busses were loading a few blocks away, we were told the scene was chaotic and Lisa rushed down there to do damage control while I stayed to do the morning briefing 

By all accounts, the scene was a madhouse.  People were weeping on the busses, others were crying “Shame!  Shame!” at those who boarded.  Some were getting off the bus, then back on, then off again.  Father Louis Vitale, the starwart priest from San Francisco who has been arrested hundreds of times doing civil disobedience actions, got on, got off, got on again, and finally got off for good.  Lisa helped chill the situation out, and people ended by holding hands and remembering that we are in this for the same goals.

The Gazan coordinators, who originally said, ‘Come!” were now saying “Don’t come—it’s too divisive.  Stay together.  Several delegations has pulled their representatives out.  And I guess the crowning blow for Code Pink was when the Foreign Office released a statement that was not only counter to their agreement but an outright lie—that the hundred on the busses were the only ‘good’’ and truly peaceful demonstrators and that the Foreign Office had selected them.  In the end, one bus went.

And then everyone pulled together and went on with the work.  By the end of the morning meeting, new people were facilitating and work groups were formed.  The hotels were buzzing with the energy of activists organizing an action. 

I spent the day doing trainings.  For the first one we crammed into the downstairs hall of the Lotus Hotel, tipping the attendant and eventually negotiating with the manager to let us stay just a little longer  When we went around the circle, saying our names and where we are from, we had people from all over the world:  Jordan, Bulgaria, Holland, Scotland, the U.S., Australia, Canada.  For the second training we met out at the Mogamma, the big plaza on Tahir Square, with security guards thick around us and curious local people watching. 

With all the work and chaos and stress, I found myself almost losing sight of Gaza.  But the situation there is dire, and about to become lethal.  The steel wall the Israelis plan to construct with financing from Obama’s administration will cut off the tunnels from Egypt.  While the Israelis claim the tunnels are used to smuggle weapons—and that’s undoubtedly true—they are primarily a lifeline for food and the goods that Gazans need and cannot obtain because of the siege.  If they are closed, people will be reduced from hunger into starvation, from poverty into abject misery.

Meanwhile other people hammered out a plan for tomorrow  I don’t know if it’s a good plan or not.  It has some risky aspects.  If it works I may not have access to the internet to write for awhile  On the other hand, the police could blockade us into our hotels and I’d have time to write a novel.

Wish us luck, safety, and success!  More when I can…

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Gaza Freedom March–A Hard Choice

By Starhawk | Published: December 29, 2009

Way up—way down today. In spite of staying up writing far too late last night, I woke up early and began writing again.  It’s a scramble to both live and write at the same time—not to mention all the different ways I’m now hooked into cyberspace, all of which, like cheeping baby birds, demand attention.  I went down to the Lotus because I’d offered to write at least one press release,   And there are so many people on the internet at the same time that I am having trouble uploading pictures and sometimes even getting on.

But I finally escaped and went off to the French Embassy, with Elizabeth, the young anthropologist I met on the plane, and Max, a cheerful young man with a giant Palestinian flag which he has managed to unveil on the pyramids, the Eiffel Tower, other key monuments.  They were talking about Jewish organizing and friends who had burned out and Elizabeth said, “You just have to understand that your whole life is going to be about resistance”  And that made me profoundly sad.  “That worries me,” I told her.  “It sounds like a recipe for burnout.  You need to know what your vision is, keep focused on that.” “Yeah, yeah,” she said.

I wouldn’t say that my whole life has been about resistance.  Really, I’ve lived a charmed and privileged life, getting to do the things I most love and sometimes even get paid for them, getting to fight for the things I care about and create some visions of my own.  But a lot of my life has certainly been devoted to the creation of a world where, I’d hoped, a younger generation would simply be able to live out their dreams, without constantly battling the same old forces we’d been swatting at for generations,  I’m fifty-eight.  Seems like we should have won already.

The scene at the French Embassy was inspiring.  The French encamped there on the 27th, when their busses were cancelled, and have been there ever since.   They came with tents and sleeping bags and the police basically formed a barricade between them and the street and let them stay.  They are allowed the use of one toilet inside the Embassy, and supporters have been able to bring them food and water.  There was lively chanting (I’ve just resigned myself to the chanting.  Maybe if I stop resisting I’ll learn to enjoy it) and Max unfurled his flag and activists danced it up and down the sidewalk.  People of all ages were having animated conversations while the cops looked on.  Many were interacting with the police, who were dressed in riot gear but had their helmets propped open and were mostly smiling and friendly.  The French Embassy is in Giza and the pyramids are tantalizingly close.

Then we went back to the center of town, to the steps of the Journalists’ Syndicate where our hunger strikers were holding a vigil.  Twenty two people are on hunger strike, and while as those of you who know me will know, I’m not a big fan of fasting—at least, not for myself. Not, if I’m brutally honest, for any political or strategic reasons, I just really don’t want to do it. When you hear I’m on hunger strike, I tell my friends, pack your bags, grab the kids, shoot the kids and head for the hills, because it means things are really, really bad, probably beyond redemption.

But I could feel the power in this action and the commitment of the hunger strikers   The steps of the Journalists’ Syndicate are like a stage and it was filled with people, the hunger strikers in the center, flags and banners all around them, and lots of attention from the press.

We ducked behind the flags at the top of the steps to hold a meeting and hammer out a proposal for our big action.  The organizing has gone through some rocky transitions, hampered by a lack of any place we can meet all together, but I felt good about the consensus emerging through a variety of discussions.  I felt we were building to a mass, unified action with some strength, that might not get us to Gaza but might bring Gaza to the center of Cairo and the world’s attention.

An Egyptian activist made an impassioned speech, urging us all to march en masse and then go on hunger strike.  And, although as I said I would personally rather be boiled alive and served up at a State Dinner for Bush and Cheney than go on a hunger strike in the midst of action, I could feel the appeal.  I started to have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I was doomed. Then some more rational and perhaps less sleep-deprived woman spoke up and said that we really can’t command everyone to hunger strike.  I decided to go get dinner before the evening meeting and the meeting with the trainers.

But then we got a piece of news, first circulated in whispers, then brought out into the open. Code Pink had persuaded Suzanne Mubarak to intervene, and she had arranged for two busloads to get permission to go.  Only a hundred people, however, and they could not go as the Gaza Freedom March, but only under the banner of Code Pink.  And they had to give the names right away to the Foreign Office, with no time to consult all the other groups or go through an open process of deciding who would go.

At the evening meeting, all hell broke loose.  I was only there for the beginning, unfortunately, because I had a commitment to go meet with the trainers.  When I left, things were calm but they descended into lots of anger, bitterness and recrimations.  Lisa was facilitating—although she and I have had nothing to do with that level of the organizing.  Neither one of us was any part of the decision making around the negotiations or the offer or the choosing of who would go—but because she was facilitating the meeting, she caught the brunt of the energy and when I got back to her she looked really drained.

I wish I’d been there—I could maybe have said something helpful or at least given her some energetic support, but I was working with the trainers on a new agenda and by the time I got back it was all over.  Plus I was wrestling with my own dilemma.  Jodie told me my name was on the list to go.  “But I’ve been to Gaza,” I said.  Ann Wright had announced that one criteria they used in choosing who went was to pick people who had never been there before. She said, no, they meant people who hadn’t been there since the siege began in 2007.  And the names were already sent it—I was on the list whether I wanted to go or not.  I had until 7 am when the bus would leave to decide.  If I didn’t go, one of the alternates would take my place.

I could make a good political case for going.  The Gazans, we were told, wanted internationals to come and support their march on the 31st.  The writer in me longed to go, to see what conditions are like now, to find stories to tell that might move people and help them see the issue in a different light.  That writer part has a ruthless edge—every writer needs one to cut through the thousand distractions of life and focus, and I could so easily believe that the best thing I could do for the people of Gaza was to go and tell their stories.

But it didn’t feel right.  I just can’t begin to express how very much more I’d rather be on the bus to Gaza then preparing to sleep out in the grimy, smoggy streets in the midst of a circle of Egyptian cops among a crowd of hunger strikers.  And I’m a smart person and I can talk myself into almost anything.  But I don’t want to do something that I have to talk myself into the rightness of, over and over again, for months to come.  I’ve done that with other decisions—like whether to stay in the Israeli jail and fight their denial of entry or get on the plane and go.  Eventually I went—it was probably the right decision but I’ll never really know and I was second-guessing it for months after.  I read the computer Tarot—a nice little widget on my iPhone for those moments when I need supernatural guidance and don’t have time to deal or distance enough to read for myself.

The cards were clear   I’m staying in Cairo.  I asked myself, is there a permaculture principle I can bring to bear on this?  Yes—“Value Relationships.”  One of the great political gains that can come from all of this is the relationships we build among activists and movements and organizations.  To take part in something which causes such deep divisions—not because its necessarily wrong but because of how it came down—jeopardizes all of that.   We can do good political work here.  I can help do some work to heal the bitterness and the divisions.

I’m finishing this in the meeting room of the hotel.  Fiona and Arla, who are on the alternative list, come in.  They’re both struggling with the decision. We read the computer Tarot. We bat it back and forth. And now its 3 am.  The sole good of this mess, for me, is at least I don’t have to pack!

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Gaza Freedom March: More From Yesterday

By Starhawk | Published: December 29, 2009

Blog—GFM 4 12-29 Morning

So, back to yesterday. I never made it over to the French Embassy, where the French contingent has been encamped, surrounded now by the Egyptian police and not allowed to leave although people have been allowed to pass in food and water.  Our encampment in front of the World Trade Center (yep, that’s what it’s called!) that houses the UN was actually a lively and spirited demonstration, with women dancing and an Italian clown parading and the student contingent playing with a gigantic Palestinian flag.  Personally, I was fighting my Bad Attitude comprised of exhaustion, low blood sugar, unresolved grief and a recent loss in hearing that upped the volume of tinnitus in my left ear so that even a quiet conversation sounds like echoes in a wind tunnel and a loud demonstration is like the whole world just got tuned to a place halfway between stations on the radio.  I was asking myself that dangerous question, “Don’t I have a real life somewhere and shouldn’t I be there, now, living it?” I’d brought my battered old doumbek but didn’t really feel like playing it, until two guitarists, an accordionist and another drummer joined a group of Italians singing “Bella Ciao.”  It’s just not possible to stay in an evil mood when Italians are singing “Bella Ciao.”

So I went looking for something useful to do.   The police had us surrounded and blocked in, and lines of people were standing in front of them, face to face, to keep them from pushing in the barricades further.  In some sense all these confrontations are about space—political space to protest, spaces of freedom in which the people of Gaza might actually live their own lives. Right, I remembered, that was the reason I was there and not back home happily trying to unclog a blocked-up hydroelectric system in the pouring rain,  We had created a micro-Gaza right there in the plaza, and again, that is the point of nonviolent action—to dramatize an invisible wrong and make it visible, put in the face of the world so it can’t be ignored.

Lisa was in the middle of the crowd running a spokescouncil meeting that she’d somehow pulled together.  She has an amazing ability to work a crowd in the midst of clamor and chaos and somehow bring them all to some point of clarity.  Plus she has a naturally loud voice and can make herself heard.  Between the roaring gale going on in my left ear and my naturally soft voice being even more so due to the horrible air exacerbating my asthma, I just didn’t feel like that was the place I could do much. If the Goddess in her infinite wisdom had gifted me with a loud voice, not to mention making me slim and glamorous, I could have ruled the world.  But she didn’t, so I just have to muddle along as best I can.

Before we came on the march, I’d been in contact with members of the Interfaith delegation about doing trainings for the marchers.  No opportunity had yet arisen to do anything of the sort, but I went to check in with them.  While we were talking, some kafuffle took place over at the line with the police.  A cop hit a woman in the face, we were told.  So we went over—but by then, other people had stepped up.  One of the white-haired women from the Michigan Peace Team was walking up and down the line talking to the blank eyed officers in fine nonviolent style.  Some of the Italians were being, well, Italian—loud and expressive, but basically, things were calm.  But we brought up some more people to hold a line, facing the cops.  I resisted joining it—I’m a Gemini, an air sign, I like to stay loose at these things and float around.  But then a devastatingly handsome young man held out his hand to me and I couldn’t resist.  So I ended up in front of these hard-eyed Egyptian security guys, with the grim expressions that reminded me that these are the folks the CIA gets to do their real torturing for them.  But honestly, I was bored.  So bored that I decided to make use of the time, if possible, to improve my Arabic.  From my time in the ISM I had learned a few useful phrases:  ‘thank you’, ‘please’, ‘tea without sugar’ and ‘Tank!’ Actually the first Arabic phrase I learned was ‘Fi jesh?’ which means, roughly, “Is the Army up ahead?” As opposed to a time in my life when I was much younger, and the first German phrase I ever learned was “I am really horny.”  Ah, but that’s another story..

But knowing I was coming on this trip, I had downloaded some language-learning programs and listened to them long enough to learn to count to ten and to say, “I would like to eat something.”  No doubt a useful phrase.  I smiled at grim cop in front of me, held up one finger, and said, “Wehed?”  His eyes locked on mine.  I held up two.  “Efnayim?”  He ventured a smile, nodded encouragingly, and said “Taletha.”  “Arbah” I replied, holding up four, and before I knew it the entire line of cops within earshot were grinning and nodding encouragement as I counted to ten, then patiently instructing me on to eleven, twelve, thirteen…There’s a music to the Arabic numbers that is quite hypnotic, and before I knew it I was up to a hundred, with my team cheering me on.  Then we started over again, and over. They were all gazing at me with fond, paternal eyes, like a father looks at a promising child, and they stopped looking to me like potential torturers and started looking more like sweet young men doing a job that wasn’t really their choice to begin with.

Then they switched shifts, and I had to start all over again.  But damn if it didn’t work just the same way with the new guard. The truth is, the personal sympathies of these guys are already with us, mostly.   They aren’t subject to the same political pressures as Mubarak.  The young ones in uniform are conscripts, just doing their time.

Ah—but I’m running out if I want to get to the French Embassy, the American Embassy where I’m told people are being detained, to go support the hunger strikers who will be vigiling at 2 pm—including Hedy Epstein, an 88 year old holocaust survivor, and start planning for tomorrow when we have decided to march toward Gaza if we have to leave from right here in Cairo.  Let me just say that by the end of the day, after some food and some shifts in the organizing, I felt good again.  Glad to be here, glad to be part of this, hopeful that whether or not we get to Gaza we will succeed in our true aim—to focus the world’s attention again on Gaza, on the illegal state of siege the Israeli’s are perpetuating there, on those who died and on the shattered homes and infrastructure which cannot be rebuilt because Israel will not let in supplies.  I’ll do my best to keep writing and posting, but now off to do a bit of living.

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Gaza Freedom March–End of a Very Long Day

By Starhawk | Published: December 28, 2009

Blog–GFM 3  December 28

A Long Day at the U.N.

Our situation is ironically biblical—never have I understood the story of Exodus so well.  The irony is that in the story, it’s the Israelites petitioning Pharoah to let them go, packing their bags each time he indicates ‘yes’, unpacking them when he changes his mind and says ‘no’, ten times until in the end they leave in such haste they have no time to let the bread rise.  Now, it’s the Israelites, or at least, most likely, the Israelis applying political pressure to the Egyptians to refuse us entry into Gaza.  Indeed, even leaving Cairo has become problematic.  Small groups have made their way to el Arish, but most have been stopped, some pulled from taxis, others sent back in busses from checkpoints

We had busses scheduled to pick us up at 7 AM in the morning—but we received word the night before that their permits had been canceled.  We decided to go down to the bus station anyway and invite the press, demonstrating clearly that we were ready to go. 

I really hate a demonstration that starts at 7 AM after a night of little sleep.  But Juniper, Lisa, Geneva and I dutifully roused ourselves and grabbed a taxi down to the bus station.  After wandering around a bit in an area of massive concrete overhangs, fumes and garbage, and crossing a couple of lethal avenues without mishap, we arrived at the area where people were holding banners and trying to wake up enough to chant.

I just have to say this here—I really hate political chanting.  Makes my throat hurt and my ears sore.  Mostly it’s rhythmically boring and political singing is sometimes worse.  Well, old civil rights songs are great and heartening but John Lennon never wrote a more whining dirge than “All we are saying is give peace a chance!:  Also impossible to sing in tune.  “Imagine” is just about as bad, and longer.   Drumming is some help but I’ve done the marching and drumming thing and it hurts my back.  I especially hate it at 7 AM.  But I endured a couple of hours of it, punctuated by some quieter moments when I could talk to people.  In one of them, I interviewed Lynn Gottlieb, one of the first eight women ordained as a rabbi, who now preaches what she calls the Torah of nonviolence.

In another, I met Alex, a red-haired activist I’d met years ago in Palestine with the ISM.  Alex told me that Hisham, who used to run the Faisal Hostel in East Jerusalem where ISMers often stayed, was in town just for the morning in a hotel just down the street.  He’d come to meet people.  So as the demo wound down, Alex and  I went up to see him. 

I remember the first time I met Hisham, on the first trip I did with the ISM.  I’d stayed a night in Tel Aviv with my Israeli friends and taken a bus to Jerusalem.  I got a taxi from the bus station and couldn’t understand why the taxi driver didn’t seem to understand where the Faisal was or grasp what I meant by ‘Damascus gate’ of the Old City.  Or why he got more and more nervous as we got closer, finally stopping at least a block away and nearly forcing me out of the cab  Later I realized that, of course, he was an Israeli cabby, mortally terrified of driving into East Jerusalem and nearly as terrified of anyone in his cab who would ask him to.  After I dragged my heavy bags over to the Faisal and up a flight or two of stairs, I was sweating and exhausted and when I saw the general level of shabbiness and grime, ready to turn around and go back.  Then I saw Hisham, standing behind the counter, with a broad grin.  “Welcome, welcome!” he said, with so much friendliness and warmth that I felt better immediately.  I grew very fond of the Faisal, which had a wide screened veranda where we did trainings, and an every-ready pot of tea.

We took another slow, creaky elevator up to the sixth floor, walked into the restaurant, and Hisham stood up and gave me a warm hug.  “Starhawk, welcome!  Welcome!” he said   After six years, he recognized me immediately.  We sat with three young ISMers who had come from the West Bank the night before while they had breakfast and we shared news and political cynicism.  There’s a certain dark, stoic humor that long term ISM volunteers tend to share, a grim cheer that comes after facing situations every day that seem like they can’t possibly get worse, and knowing they will get worse.  I realized that I missed it.  I miss my friend Neta and the two girls I helped her birth and her new baby that I’ve never seen.  I miss the other incredible folks I knew there, dour Swedish Tobias who became so at home in Jenin; Ghassan Andoni, like the distinguished professor he is, teaching us the history of Palestinian nonviolence; tall, red-haired Irish Caoimhe who strode through refugee camps like a Celtic Goddess and was known to walk up to tanks and cover their muzzles with her bare hands. I had tears in my eyes, realizing that I’d never expected to see Hisham again, since the Israeli authorities now won’t let me back into Israel, which also controls all the entrances into the West Bank as well as Gaza.

I know that what I feel is just a little taste of exile, a homeopathic dose of the Palestinian experience.  Knowing that just compounds the sadness, turns it into a bitter dose of depression and despair—because how can I even indulge in feeling something which is so dwarfed by the immensity of Palestinian suffering? I was born an American Jew six years after the holocaust—I grew up feeling that nothing that ever happened to me could possibly rank with the sufferings of my own people, the camps and the ovens and the mass graves.  And I realize what I miss in that gallows humor mood is the relief that comes from stepping out of the morass of grief and guilt and guilt about feeling grief into what I call the zone of deadly calm, the place of pure action, where you just stop feeling and stop thinking and walk out and stick your hand over the muzzle of a tank.

Okay, this isn’t really about today’s action, how we took over the plaza at the UN building for most of the day, how I learned how to hypnotize an Egyptian policeman (get them to teach you how to count in Arabic—“Wehed, efnaim, taletha..”their hard eyes soften, “arbah, hamsah, seta” and suddenly they become smiling boys :saba, thaminiah, teysha, ashara!” ) how the French have held their embassy into the night, how people who tried to get to el Arish were pulled out of taxis and taken off busses, but I’m going to go ahead and post it anyway.  Because it’s almost 2 AM and because I believe that we might learn something, if we understood what pain and loss and violence and guilt do to us.  In the end, that pain, that grief, the weight of sorrow and the desperate relief from it can propel us to do a lot of different things:  stand in front of a bulldozer, sit down in front of a tank, strap on a belt of explosives and blow ourselves and everyone around us up.  Different acts, yes, very different choices.  But how much do our choices come from who we are, and how much from what we encounter around us, when we seek for solace, what comes to hand?

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