Text – Page 11 – Citizen Reporter

Sacred Cows of Protest Culture

In my formidable years as a university student and an activist, I happily attended any and all protests I could. To this day you might catch me bragging about the effects of tear gas and the importance of having a gas mask. I tried, using what means were available to me, to carry on the tradition I learned about in history books and through personal stories from previous generations- those who had protested before me. There is a great sense of pride and belonging that comes with engaging in such activities despite the occasional risks and tremendous odds one often faces. (Pro-East Timor Independence protests in the late 90’s were interesting but, admittedly, small)

On the other hand there is something that needs to be said about protests and carrying on some traditions that could prove extremely unpopular and unacceptable to others who are committed to fighting certain battles in a very particular way. Ill make the general statement and then explain with some detail, hoping that those who read this understand that is just my observation with no intention to insult the integrity of dedicated activists out there. – There are many protest tools that are touted as good options, that in fact accomplish hardly anything. Among them, the modern day versions of strikes, boycotts, and petitions, all once very effective, all now very hard to quantify as successful. Throughout Europe we have the tradition of the one day strike, where the next day they’re back on the job, and in the next salary negotiation they wind up losing something in a compromise; waiting out a strike becomes like waiting out a day or two of bad weather for the corporations involved. Boycotts are constantly being declared on both offline and online forums, yet with few exceptions, no boycott of anything has been successful since the days of fighting apartheid in South Africa. In the 90’s there was a Shell boycott I participated in. In the early 2000’s, a boycott of CocaCola. Decades later, neither of these companies skipped a beat and few people can remember the boycott. Then there’s the online petition, which is so easy to pass around and so annoying in your inbox. Good intentioned petitions get signed and passed around, occasionally handed to elected officials, and then what happens? Perhaps a little rhetoric and some impotent promises by a bureaucrat who makes sure to file your petition in a virtual drawer next to all the other ones.

There is still people power — make no mistake. People can still make things happen. Occasionally they have over the years. But the routine ways we protest and express grievances, despite being noble and from a great tradition – if we’re really painfully honest with ourselves, a lot of it is symbolic and ineffective. The world has changed, the circumstances have changed, and the beautiful old methods do not always apply. And not being allowed to point this out, being discredited for breaking with the time honored formula, just perpetuates all the self-congratulating, guilt relieving activities that range from the same old tired calls for a general strike to the same old tired calls to share this petition on your Facebook.

Today’s Commemoration, Tomorrow’s History

In an effort to save money and increase productivity, Portugal is getting rid of some holidays that people don’t really celebrate anymore. Among the obsolete days of non-work, the day the nation dumped the monarchy and became a republic, October 5th, 1910. More than 100 years since that significant moment in history, no one alive remembers it, and few are the voices that think its worth hanging on to as a holiday.

Here in the Netherlands, this past Friday was Remembrance day, which includes the 2 minutes of silence which takes place every May the 4th in memoriam of all the victims of WWII (though more recently it has been expanded to include victims of all military conflicts, its still more famous for WWII victims). A friend’s grandfather, who lived through the occupation of the country and the war that caused so much pain and destruction, finds the 2 minutes of silence un-necessary – after all, he lived through it. But WWII is much more recent and much more significant in the lives of present day people in the Netherlands that the establishment of the republic is for today’s Portuguese. The reasons probably seem obvious.

But it occurs to me that 100 years from now, WWII remembrance day may also get put aside for economic or social purposes. At some point enough time passes that these significant moments that some lived through and others know all-to-well from stories and history books, even these seemingly vital rituals will not be seen the same way. This is not to say it is a good or bad development, these moments in history and the holidays dedicated to them, can fade over time. It is, if anything, just an odd characteristic of us as a species. We may record history, but over time, to some degree, it becomes natural to forget.

Imagine that. The era will come where WWII is referred to in the same far-off spirit as today we look at the war of 1812 or the wars during Roman times. September 11th will no longer be remembered as it is today, nothing special will take place at the sight of the World Trade Center, life – like time – just keep moving along.

The Era When Things Changed

Today marks the 38th anniversary of one of the most inspiring and peaceful revolutions of the 20th century – The Portuguese Carnation Revolution. It was the 25th of April, 1974 when unlikely groups of low ranking soldiers from around the country disobeyed orders and took members of the brutal dictatorial regime prisoner. The soldiers had carried out and seen horrible acts during brutal colonial wars pursued by the Portuguese fascist state. The country itself was drained of its resources and had become a place characterized by poverty and a constant fear of being arrested, tortured or killed by the authorities. Despite failed revolution attempts before the 25th, the low ranking officers along with regular people throughout the country, took to the streets, daring to march, speak out for human rights, and defy their government. A gamble that risked everything, but paid off – concepts like social justice, equality, democracy, and peace, seemed to win a wave of victories that day and in the days following. A level of success that few countries have ever known in the wake of revolution, then and now.

Having not been alive in 1974, yet still being surrounded throughout my life by people who were involved or who witnessed this unique moment in history, my understanding of the carnation revolution is shaped by the stories. And as we all know, stories can be inspiring, and yes – even exaggerated at times. But from all the stories I have ever heard of the 25 of April, what I am most left with is a profound awe and jealously for what people in those days lived through. Awe for obvious reasons; the massive challenge and tremendous risk these soldiers and ordinary people undertook. The outpouring of love and care for one another in the streets, despite all the fear and pain that had so recently been a reality. Jealously; to never have lived in such a fantastic moment of action and initiative. To see and be a part of a movement that ended wars, experience the rebirth of freedom of expression, shaking free of the economic and political structures that held the country hostage for decades.

These days we point to the arab spring as a source of possible inspiration, though even the immediate future for those nations remains cloudy. Some of us talk about occupy like the beginning of something significant, that could bring real change to a situation that is screaming out to be addressed. One day both of these may be looked back on as the verified beginnings of something great. But right now I would put them on historical probation, pending future developments and historical analysis. Overall I would say the 21st century (so far) is marked more by taking two steps back for every one step forward towards peace, love, and understanding. Perhaps there was a hopeful but cautious independent journalist back in the 70’s who observed the same thing.

Portugal in 1974 remains an era I wish I could have lived through. An era where things actually changed and you could see them change and run down the list of successes and of course failures. In the years and decades that would follow, some hopes and promises never came true. Others have been eroded by new economic and political waves. Portugal now finds itself with a laundry list of problems that make it hard to cheer or sing about the goals of the past. But if we talk about significant moments in history, where the forces of open mindedness and social justice won the day and got to put policies into practice on a real scale- for me its April 25th, 1974 that wins every time. What a fantastic time it must have been.

Every Move I Make

I step onto a metro or tram in Amsterdam and I swipe my transport card. This card has my photo and an RFID chip with personal information about who I am and where I live. I swipe the card again upon exit, as per the rules, which goes onto a database that contains information about the duration of my ride, the cost, and locations.

I go buy bread at my favorite local bakery and the sign next to the cash register reads “debit only”, so i swipe my bank card. The organic supermarket has the same policy, again, after I get the groceries I need, the card gets swiped. Again, somewhere a record is kept about what store I went to and how much I spent.

As a dedicated podcasting journalist, I am also considered a one-person business in the eyes of the government, a freelancer. Like people all over the world, when I get paid there is a record of it. When I file taxes, they want to see my bank account, how much went in, how much went out, from where, to where. Despite the fact that in my line of work these numbers are all very tiny, the tax authorities still shower me with paperwork, regulations, and warnings, every year.

There’s nothing revolutionary or really underhanded about the reality Im describing to you… this is regular life in much of the developed world. This system exists for a reason (or reasons) and to my knowledge there is no real alternative other than behavior that would require me to frantically hide from authorities.

That old cliché comes to mind whenever I step back and look at how this all works “If you have nothing to hide then you have nothing to fear.” This is part of the logic that has helped usher in the era of intrusive but convenient automation and monitoring. Even writing these words means I risk being seen as a cynic or wasting my time trying to critique a cultural shift that will not be reversed.

But to be perfectly honest, no matter how many cards I swipe, no matter how many records and receipts I hand over the the authorities, and no matter how little I have to hide, the poking and the prodding never ceases. It is all supposed to be here to serve the public and help create a stable civic life, but often the system seems to be more focused on beating us down more than building us up.

They Felt Ignored

Over the past weeks the stories have trickled in of events unfolding in Mali. In a rush to fill a knowledge void, many of us do quick research using sources from the past and present regarding this West African nation which in the 1300’s was an empire that controlled the very lucrative precious resource trade in that region. As a standard liberal democracy of today, it was thought of as a good example of a nation. But just as we so often hear from around the world over the past decade, a coup emerges kicking out the president, and revealing that in fact – things are not ok in this ancient land. A chain-reaction of events kicks off, with not only a military group taking over the presidency, but a declaration of independence by an ethnic group in the north, which is of course followed by plentiful speculation about ties to terrorist organization and other possible horror stories.

The frequently repeated line in the press, when attempting to explain the frustration in the country and the reasons the north broke away- they felt ignored by the central government. Others, who support the coup, felt ignored as the government worked hard to appease international funding schemes and please foreign investors (particularly banks). Whether any of these reports are accurate or not, when it comes to describing how people feel in different parts of Mali – it is a familiar phrase – they felt ignored.

How often, throughout the world, despite all the communication and representation that is possible, do people say these same words when describing government. These systems are put in place, often by people who are long gone, and among their descendants – there are those who feel ignored or wronged somehow, by the very group that is supposed to address them. Some will point to economics. Some will point to regional conflicts and trauma. Then there’s religion and ethnicity. The list goes on and on when it comes to why. In a time where there is so much evidence of what we have in common across borders; needs, concerns, goals, maybe even values – we still manage to have groups who feel so ignored they would take up arms, put up borders, and make a new country despite all the hardships that may follow that decision. How did we do that, as a species, as a planet, how did this almost conspiratorial scenario take shape over and over again in various forms across the world? We seem to lose, rather than gain, the ability to live together in the same area, country, or region, regardless of differences.

While research about the planet and our history can and does reveal so many commonalities between people, people have created a reality that manages to divide us up in ever increasing ways. As a once famous fictitious kid on a Baltimore street corner once stated, “World going one way, people another.”

What I Didn’t Tell You About Tbilisi

Its a Saturday morning and the sun is piercing the sheer white curtains in the massive windows next to this unfamiliar bed I find myself in. The screaming female voice in a language I do not recognize feels like its coming from under my bed. I thought I had dreamt it, but now seemingly awake, I hear a young male voice responding to what sounds like the stern words of a mother to a son. Above my head, the loud and unsteady footsteps of what sounds like a giggling toddler. Behind all this, just outside my window, someone attempts to start an engine that sounds like it is not willing to start, over and over. Pause. Repeat. It sounds like all of these people are in my room this morning. But they’re not. – This is old Tbilisi. Where the walls are thin and secrets are hard to keep. You may think you live alone, but you don’t really.

I step outside and Im almost run over by a 10 year old on her bicycle. She smiles as she turns to avoid me, a young sister runs behind her looking like she wants a turn to ride now. The corner grocer is chatting with an old lady, they pause to watch me walk by, both probably deciding Im another one of those occasional tourists that wanders through to look at the leaning houses and abandoned churches. When I arrive at Guriashvili Square, the old men are all huddled around the tables, I can barely see the dominoes on the table. The square is surrounded by some of the most beautiful abandoned buildings Ive ever seen, some of them decorated with political graffiti about democracy and property. Looking to the windows of a new hippy café, I can see they’re cooking up some vegetarian friendly food. I step inside and immediately get into conversation with the young bearded owner, yes this place is new, yes, it used to be a nightclub. Yes, someone got shot here but I don’t know the full story, it was in the crazy 90’s, everything was different then.

After finishing some of the finest healthy food I’ve ever had, I make my way up towards the TV tower. On my way there and back I make sure to take wrong turns. I find myself in people’s front yards and wandering through scary yet beautiful alleyways. When spotted, I just act like Im supposed to be there and I have no doubt in my mind where this alley leads me. The exact attitude I see in the face of other people I occasionally see along the way. A dad walking his daughter to school, a university student on his way to class, an old lady carrying plastic bags full of vegetables. I pass them all and soak in a sunny, normal day, in Georgia.

A good friend of mine who lives in Moscow tells me over a big Georgian dinner that night, “The great thing about Georgia, is that here you can taste real food, drink real wine.. everything has a more real flavor to it here.” I think about his words in every bite I take after that. There is definitely something to it, this genuine heart that the country has. As I wander home that night, I listen closely at the now hushed voices, Armenian, Georgian and other languages I can’t decipher, I can hear them all through the thin walls of these ancient homes. I smell the home cooked meals as I walk by the windows.

As far as national and international economics go, Georgia is said to be a dead end. But as far as life and its flavors go – Georgia is alive and well.