Fences

 To limit my time on Twitter, I have an online timer downloaded to my browser which blocks the site after it runs out. Every day since Oct. 7, I have been by-passing the timer by logging on to Twitter through the Incognito mode no my browser (Yes, Incognito mode has other uses, apart from facilitating porn-watching). Today, for the first time, I respected the timer. The situation in Gaza remains catastrophic. Israel's aerial bombardment hasn't stopped, and its ground invasion is proving bloody for both sides. Even once the bombardment stops, all signs point to a bloody quagmire in Gaza and the West Bank that my last months if not years. I wrote this blog nearly a month ago about how this struggle is going to be a long haul, and the need to pace myself and get on with life while continuing to participate in the protests. I finally feel like my heart is where my head was a month ago. The situation in Gaza continues to be foremost in my thoughts, but I feel like I have managed to put a fence around it to stop it from overwhelming me. Yes, I plan to be as active as I have been, but the big change will be cutting down on how much headspace I give this issue in the rest of my time. A part of this is down to me now having a set of concrete deadlines (job application, prep for trip to India) as opposed to the more open-ended timeline of writing academic papers. But, I suppose that I also needed to come to terms with the events since Oct. 7, which were unprecedented in so many ways that even someone like me who doesn't know any Israelis or Palestinians personally and who is not prone to activism found myself engulfed in them. Another example of time being the best salve. 

Protest Fatigue

 Yesterday was the big march in London. After March no. 3, I had written about how the protests had started to feel performative. But, skipping this march wasn't an option after the Home Secretary called us hate marchers, and incited the far-right against us. I realise that women and children don't need men to protect them, and, if anything, yobs get provoked by the presence of men on the other side. In hairy situations, women step in to protect their men from other violent men. But, I would have felt like a wuss if I had sat this one out. I am glad I went, and there was no trouble from the fash, but it was a draining experience. Maybe, it was accumulated fatigue from all the marches I have been to over the past four weeks. Maybe it was the size of the crowd and the fact that we were crawling along. But, I don't think I am going to go for the next march in London. Spending six hours on a coach to march for less than five hours requires a level of commitment to the cause that is difficult to sustain ( at least for me). 

Leafletting and Leading Chants

My activism has progressed to the next level. On Friday evening, I handed out flyers in Bristol city centre for Satruday's march. I was prepared for some pushback from Zionists, but barely got any. A young chap said Fuck You, but so softly that he probably meant only his companion to hear it, and they both burst out laughing. Another man refused a leaflet, explaining almost apologetically that he was Israeli. Many people took a leaflet willingly, some simply ignored me, and others declined politely, Being an activist requires having or building a thick skin and a lot of patience with people. I didn't think I had either attributes (although I am patient with my students). 

The next day was the bike ride, which was great. A bike ride allows you to cover a lot of distance, and is a different visual spectacle compared to a march. The response was overwhelmingly positive, except for a few irate drivers. But, you never know whether they are annoyed at you for being pro-Palestinian or blocking traffic. I also led chants for the first time in my life, and made all the associated rookie mistakes. I went too loud, too early and soon found myself croaking. A friend who is a veteran of protests said the trick is to chant from the stomach rather than the throat, whatever that means. When you are leading a chant, you are always afraid that no one else will take up that chant, and make you look like a fool. It helps if you pick a moment when the chanting has slowed down and don't try to compete with other leaders.

WW2 Films

Ever since the conflict began, I have been struggling to find books or TV to distract me. after a lot of scrolling, I found a WW2 documentary that serializes the most important events. I watched the episode on the siege of Stalingrad, and wasn't pleasantly surprised to see that it did not paint Russian officers as nasty brutes with no concerns for their own soldiers, as many Hollywood movies do. I then watched the other episodes, starting from the Nazi Blitzkreig and up to the fire-bombing of Dresden. The echoes with today's situation were unmistakable, with the difference being that Churchill apparently shed tears at the scale of civilian deaths, something which Western leaders today are steadfastly avoiding. I realise I sound incredibly self-involved, but I can't help thinking about what drew me to this docu series at this point in time. To be reminded that the world did not stop turning even after a war that was exponentially larger than any we have seen before or since? 

Performativity and Protest

I have been to six protest for Palestine in London and Bristol in the past three weeks. Before the first protest, I wrote how it felt more meaningful to protest because the government was intimidating protestors, especially immigrants. I found the sense of solidarity that comes from marching with hundreds and thousands of people empowering. That has not been the case in the past two protests. To be sure, the point of a protest is not to improve your own  feel good about oneself, so I find it a bit self-centered to point this out. But, the protests are starting to feel a bit performative, now that there is no danger of them being banned. I saw on social media some people calling for an escalation of tactics beyond point A to point B marches. Sisters Uncut, a feminist group, occupied Waterloo station for a few hours before being threatened with arrest. Of course, to engage in direct action, you need to be prepared to be arrested, and all the hassle that comes if you are charged. I don't agree with all Just Stop Oil's actions, but I respect them for putting themselves in the rifle sights of a viciously right-wing Tory government and a hostile judiciary. Even if I was a citizen, I don't think I would be willing to get arrested. So, I find myself dissatisfied with the current way in which I am expressing dissent, while also unwilling to do anything more extreme. And, surely, I am not the only one feeling that way.

Clocks Go Back 2023

 The clocks went back today, and since some traditions are not meant to be broken, I did my cozy winter yoga session, and this blog will look back to the time the clocks changed in the spring. With regular blogging, it is easy to get caught in there here and the now, and periodically looking back over a longer period brings some much-needed perspective. The overarching theme of my spring post was that life had gotten much better compared to 2020 and 2021. And, the improvements continue. No, I didn't get the job I was gunning for, but other than that, there is not much to complain about. I went to South Asia in May and had an amazing trek in Nepal. This summer was my first without an unfinished PhD weighing me down. While I beat myself up a bit over not being too productive on the research front, I eventually accepted that it would be a slow summer. My parents visited over the summer, I took up trail-running, and I have also discovered the long-hidden activist bone in my body. I also had therapy, which helped bring some clarity as to the steps that I should take on both the professional and personal front. All in all, it was a good seven months. 

Spoke-Word Poetry Evening

 I went for my second-ever spoken-word poetry evening last Saturday, after the march for Palestine in London. The first was nearly four years ago, on the night before the 2019 general election in the UK, which I wrote about here. I, in my ignorance of British politics, was expecting a solid performance from Corbyn. All the poems that day spoke to the moment, filled us with hope, lifted us. A few hours later, the results of the exit polls would push us into a despair, but that was not the fault of the poets or their stunning poems. 

However, last Saturday was a disappointment and I am still trying to put my finger on what put me off. I felt the poems were too navel-gazey and not deserving of the majority white audience's rapturous applause (all the poets were people of colour). I am aware that most art involves navel-gazing, which is giving form to the artist's own feelings or life experiences. But, good art gives form to truths buried deep inside us which we can sense, but cannot articulate.  I am aware that I should not be too harsh. I am not a poetry afficionado at all, and maybe I was just too tired that day. In times like these, it is the easiest thing in the world to take sanctimonious positions about how other people should respond to the crisis. The poems didn't speak to the moment because they were not written for the moment. Writing cannot be a public service, and artists have to eat too. They cannot conjure up art at short notice to respond to what is happening in the world, and they should be cut some slack if the read from their published books. But, as I told my communicating economics class, the reader/listener does not owe you their attention