This was sent to me this morning. I still shake a bit, because I know it is real, and because I know it's not over. What will happen next I don't know. All I know is that the world has changed a little once again. Changed back? No, i guess not. But changed. Another veil has been lifted, and maybe that is for the better. But for all the force of the nakedness of eyes seeing each other as they are at last, there is also the gap between eyes that do not see anything else, they do not feel the force of the space of virtuality between them that will allow for freedom. They see nothing but doubt, spite, anger, rage, dispair, and violence. Welcome to the 21st century. Thomas, the word is yours.
If you have no idea what this is all about, open your eyes and have a look at politics today, at indymedia.dk. Or look at the picture below and wonder what that may be.
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My friend. I want to tell you about the events taking place in Copenhagen, right now. Please check out indymedia.dk , modkraft.dk , ungeren.dk or just indymedia.org to learn what is happening, because I'm not going to give you details. I am going to tell you another story. These days, one particular image is ceaselessly haunting me.
It is not an
image of shattering bottles bringing fire to police vans, or of my
friends beaten, or people turning the streets of my city into a zone of
conflict and violence. It is not an image saturated with the acts of
revenge, retaliation and brutality, for by now, my eyes have already
become tragically accustomed to these horrors. It is neither an image
of rows of cops certain of the legitimacy of their power, nor that of
bands of activists and demonstrators thrilled by experiencing the power
they collectively hold, as they share the knowledge that the streets
have been reclaimed, temporarily liberated. It is not an image of
myself in telephone conversation with my mother, trying to explain to
her where all this rage is coming from, or an image of myself reading
the patronising news paper analysis of the conflict, performed by
middle aged men, firmly secure in their university positions. It is not
an image of Ruth Evensen - the leader of the (wannabe) Christian sect
who bought our Ungdomshus, neither of Ritt Bjerregaard - the City Mayor
whom has utterly failed in finding a political solution to a social
problem, nor of all the other faces that I should consider my enemies
right now. It is neither of these. Haunting
me is an image brought to me on the front page of my regular news
paper. It is an image of two army helicopters in the first deep blue
light of morning, suspended above the rooftop of Ungdomshuset, special
forces descending with meticulous precision and timing, prepared as
they are for initiating the events that I call my life these days.
Again, my eyes fixate on their silhouettes as they crouch, performing
their profession. On the wall beneath them, a sentence confesses to me
in white paint that 'I still feel like rioting.' And I know exactly
what it means. A menace, a warning, and a prophecy. But most of all it
is an embittered expression of resignation. And I do feel like wrecking
havoc in return for the loss that I suffer when I see this image of
beautiful choreography of men, machine and building. For me it is a
tragedy. For them, a job. Perhaps merely so. It
is not just my house they break and enter. Here, where I and You and We
have build communal playgrounds for art and politics. You've been
there, the two of us shared coffee and cake, thoughts, romance,
excitement, plans, visions and memories. We have shared knowledge,
experience and experimented with living our crazy, sad and exciting
lives on our own terms. Here, we have squatted hearts before buildings.
Here we have given and been given and taken and enjoyed and suffered.
It is not just a house, because a house is merely a collection of
bricks and mortar. It is not just a symbol, because a symbol is a
reference for something else. It is more than that. It is a space that
we have carved for ourselves to live in. Yes, it is a space-time where
You and I have lived. Those men in the cold light of mourning violate
that space and I feel it to the very bone of my being. I cannot
remember the last time I have felt such sorrow and such rage. As
these men crouch, they must know exactly what they are doing. I wonder
what kind of hearts work their chests, what considerations, reasonings
and second thoughts riddle their minds. And I feel completely alienated
from them. What kind of people are they? Do we even share the same
humanity? The image of those helicopters haunts me because it makes me
feel something I do not want to feel. I do not wish to hate those
uniforms, but I do. I do not wish to consider them my enemies, but I
do. I do not wish to consider them humans broken, trained, disciplined,
completely conditioned and dehumanized. But I do, because it is the only way I can make sense of what they are doing. They must know what they are asking for. And
whatever they asked for they have received in plenty. I guess you know
all about it by now. You've seen the pictures of fires, fights and
frictions. You've read the stories and dramatic reports from breathless
reporters on the spot. Some call us spoiled kids, rioters and
hooligans; some call us victims; some call us perpetrators and
criminals. Some call it a passing fad. I call it a becoming. Yes, a
becoming. For we are a generation painfully learning that we are not
given what we want, need and desire no matter how nicely and politely
we ask for it. They don't care to listen until we force them to and by
then it no longer matters, because by then the means we have used to
make them listen disqualify whatever have to say. Like the social and
political rights we enjoy today rest on the blood of our fathers and
mothers before us, so we have learned that we'll only get what we want
when we resolve to take it. This is the nature of our becoming. This is
the nature of the revolution and revelation that I suffer. What we
desperately need is space and self-determination. When we see our space
diminishing and our freedom delimited, not by coincidence or accident,
but by the political determination of those who will recognize our
desires as relevant, then we can no longer afford to simply tolerate or
accept it. We respond by any means, for these are truly our lives. And they are being violated. I
return again and again to the image. It emanates the calmest of
violence and I understand that if you oppose the State, the Powers that
be and remains the same, i.e. the motherfuckers, if your
desires lead you astray, if those desires leave only a thirst and
demand for freedom that cannot be ignored and if you are determined to
remain loyal to that desire, then you will be broken, beaten, bruised,
isolated, marginalised, impoverished, cast out, ridiculed, patronised,
you will be made invisible, ultimately destroyed. And I know that I cannot walk away: this, if anything, is my only certainty. Dear
Friend, you have heard this song sung before and I hate every second of
it. I do not wish to consider these people my enemies, but I do; I do
not wish to believe the world is hostile, but I do; I do not wish to
feel violated, but I do. I do not wish to harbour such anger. But I do.
I do not wish to be what I am in this moment; I hate every second. But
those men of the rooftop in the early mourning leave me no other
choice. The image will not leave me alone and I cannot forget. That is the nature of my becoming. I miss you, my friend.
Thomas B.
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