This is just going to be a fun morning, or rather early afternoon, entry. In the last few weeks I have left behind a life in Guadeloupe, been skinny dipping in fancy hotels in Miami, been (almost) present at the scene of a shooting (I was still around the corner at the time), spent long hours on trains and buses and just yesterday, I was 'howdy-ing' the Tennessee locals as I tried to seduce them with home-grown garden produce.
Life is full of surprises. One moment you are crying amongst pigeons in a public park and the next sipping coffee as you discuss history and foreign currency with a new-found friend. Here is a conversation I had that probably saved my sanity about a week ago, it is now a poem of sorts that I've entitled HELP.
-What's your name?
Joshua.
-I'm Matt
Do you have anything cool to give me?
-What do you mean? I don't know...
I collect things, stuff. I draw as well. You can draw the things you collect.
-Hang on! Yeah, I think I might... Here it's a stencil I made.
Oh cool I like that. (He looks intensely at the image of Batman and Robin making out before carefully folding it and slipping it in to a small plastic bag).
I have this coin, it's from some country.
-Let me see... Ohh it's a coin from French West Africa, see the 'F'? I think that that means franc from West Africa, it's a coin from Africa.
(I search my backpack and pass him an Eastern Caribbeann dollar that I've carried with me since Dominica).
Wow that's cool
-You can keep it... What do you draw? May I see?
Yeah I draw things. These aren't mine but I draw everything I see, I want to get to college. THIS eye, I started drawing that, you can kind of see it somewhere. What's your name?
-Matt
I'm Joshua.
I showed him my passport, everything I had I wanted to give to him; leave him behind with a moment of stability that might last forever. He'd given me that moment. As I sat under the glare of CNN, watching images of Osama's body projected into the eyes of bored bus travellers, I sadly thought of him. Why? He was tall, had crooked teeth, blue eyes, had been in jail for three years and we shared the same age. More importantly, he was lonely. And together for a few hours, our loneliness was beautiful.
That was a week ago. I am now living in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, in a wooded valley amongst the delightful company of queers. I garden everyday and in the evening as the frogs croak to the stars and night-birds swoon each other above dark meadows, we laugh, organise and eat delicious vegan food. I have to stop, there is weeding to be done.
Combining the love of literature and knowledge with the spice and honesty of homo spankings and being walked in on by one's boyfriend whilst masturbating to videos of Turkish oil wrestlers.
dimanche 15 mai 2011
jeudi 24 mars 2011
Brief guide to vegan restaraunts in Dominica. And a bit of travel info.
If arriving in Roseau, ask around and head straight for Lioness Vegetarian Restaraunt. They do an average soy-burger, but the salad, fries and pakoras are pretty good. There is also a bar attached where you can refresh yourself with the national beer, 'Kubuli'. Mmmm domestically produced and deliciously "beery".
If you can't find any couches to surf, just around the corner is the Ma Bass hostel, run by Ma Bass herself!! This charming old woman charges around $20 US for the night, but only around 80centimes for a drink from the kitchen fridge.
If heading north definitely go to Natural Livity in Portsmouth. Just in front of the American University campus, the rastafarian cook makes an awesome pumpkin tomato pizza. Moist, full of flavour with a perfect base (not too crisp and not too soft) I thought I would cry tears of joy into my freshly squeezed ginger-apple juice. They also do falafel sandwiches, burgers, wedges, cakes, wraps and more! The best thing about eating out in Dominica is that it's usually quite cheap. A beer normally costs around $4-5 EC which converts to around 1 euro or $2.50 NZ and a soy-hamburger is about $7-8 EC which should be about $4 NZ. I can see why my friend John always talks 'money' during our travels: doing the sums is a bit addictive.
If in Portsmouth, I would also suggest going to the 'shacks'. In what appears as a driveway lined by stalls you will find cheap fruit, curries, smoothies, fried vegan "everything" and other treats such as coconut biscuits.
I think I wrote this post mainly for myself- after 7 months of living away from vegan/vegetarian communities the very idea that I could just go and get something to eat without getting the 'raised eye-brow' followed by a puzzled (often somewhat shrill) "Quuuoi?! He doesn' eat fish either?", was a perfect holiday from the meat-based diet of Guadeloupean society.
Before we left Roseau, I picked up a giant sack of flavoured dehydrated soy protein. After boiling it for five minutes, it is perfect for frying in soy sauce, chilli or curry powder before being mixed into rice, a salad or on top of toasted bread buttered with avocado. Also at 52% protein it's a gives a good metaphorical slap in the face to animal-devourers who claim that without meat vegetarians will waste away to nothing. Boo-ya.
If you can't find any couches to surf, just around the corner is the Ma Bass hostel, run by Ma Bass herself!! This charming old woman charges around $20 US for the night, but only around 80centimes for a drink from the kitchen fridge.
If heading north definitely go to Natural Livity in Portsmouth. Just in front of the American University campus, the rastafarian cook makes an awesome pumpkin tomato pizza. Moist, full of flavour with a perfect base (not too crisp and not too soft) I thought I would cry tears of joy into my freshly squeezed ginger-apple juice. They also do falafel sandwiches, burgers, wedges, cakes, wraps and more! The best thing about eating out in Dominica is that it's usually quite cheap. A beer normally costs around $4-5 EC which converts to around 1 euro or $2.50 NZ and a soy-hamburger is about $7-8 EC which should be about $4 NZ. I can see why my friend John always talks 'money' during our travels: doing the sums is a bit addictive.
If in Portsmouth, I would also suggest going to the 'shacks'. In what appears as a driveway lined by stalls you will find cheap fruit, curries, smoothies, fried vegan "everything" and other treats such as coconut biscuits.
I think I wrote this post mainly for myself- after 7 months of living away from vegan/vegetarian communities the very idea that I could just go and get something to eat without getting the 'raised eye-brow' followed by a puzzled (often somewhat shrill) "Quuuoi?! He doesn' eat fish either?", was a perfect holiday from the meat-based diet of Guadeloupean society.
Before we left Roseau, I picked up a giant sack of flavoured dehydrated soy protein. After boiling it for five minutes, it is perfect for frying in soy sauce, chilli or curry powder before being mixed into rice, a salad or on top of toasted bread buttered with avocado. Also at 52% protein it's a gives a good metaphorical slap in the face to animal-devourers who claim that without meat vegetarians will waste away to nothing. Boo-ya.
How to survive the Caribbeann Carnavale.
For starters, don't drink. And if you must drink, drink so much that you fly through that window of opportunity and land safely outside the next morning. Secondly, make eye contact speak loudly and swagger: nothing impresses or puts off drug dealing scooter honking gangsters more than a foreigner who looks half delirious. Finally only jump into random buses heading for unknown villages if you are absolutely certain that you can handle being strapped to a rum guzzling joint toking stranger for a few days.
I would add: carry sunscreen, an umbrella or back up supply of batteries but as with all useful things, you're most likely to loose them.
Last week I came back to Guadeloupe from Dominica where I had been travelling with my friend John for nine days. ( John is a lovely smiling boy from England, whom is currently teaching me to juggle while in return I teach him how to swim the butterfly stroke). I arrived in Dominica via ferry from Pointe-à-Pitre on the 8th of March (a day before John) on the last day of Carnavale. Carnavale is a Caribbeann festival originates from the Latin countries of Europe who colonised the islands of the West Indies (something to do with burning yourself out in a feast of exuberance before the sober austerity of Lent). From the beginning of February to the beginning of March, down all the islands of the Greater and Lesser Antilles to the Atlantic coast of South America one will commonly see (and most definitely hear) people dressed up as monkeys, demons and masked Venetian courtesans dancing through town centres to the music of drums, brass bands or loud speakers balanced on trucks (sometimes, as in Roseau the capital of Dominica, over three stories high).
As I stepped off the boat in Roseau the noise of Carnavale rose up like an overwhelming wave swamping the winding ancient streets with many layers of sound: people singing, talking and music blasted from great heights that made the air vibrate. After dropping my backpack on the outskirts of the city, in the room of a guy whom my taxi driver stroppily insisted was "good, not find anywhere else" I made my way back to the city centre to spend the afternoon wandering between the crumbling stone buildings, swaying with the parades and drinking beer under the hot sun.
Just before I completely succumbed to drunken bewilderment I met a man name Alex from Trinidad. We spent the rest of the afternoon with sipping sweet wine on the stone-wall that runs along the promenade by the sea and discussing my sexuality from his initial point of view that "nobody can be completely homosexual". In New Zealand I would have very little time for homophobic attitudes from strangers but it is a rare thing to be able to discuss "homo-ness" in the Caribbeann without entailing either agressive or extremely patronising remarks. But Alex had a certain open frankness that encouraged my confidence in him (confidence I regretted a few days later when I found myself trapped with him on the other side of the country). Despite everything, on that afternoon of Carnavale it was great to finally have some company and when I later stole and "crashed" his car, he calmy told me not to worry about it, except I would be getting the next round of drinks.
I clearly followed the second condition of my first piece of advice as I came stumbling from a bar into a poorly-lit street at 2am in the morning. I'm aweful at keeping myself safe. I get into fights, I loose things, get locked inside buildings or fall asleep on the edge of perilous drops. Fortunately when the shit-hits-the-fan I remain generally unperturbed: I think my general rule is "as long as nobody died, everything will be ok". Thus far things have worked out fine however I do regret the lost bags, heels, top hats and general trinkets that have been sacrificed to a hard's night partying. On that particular night it was my camera, headphones and a couple of 100 Eastern Caribbeann dollar bills that became the victims of my carelessness. As I walked down the street a man came up behind me and knocked me onto the ground as he tried to rip my small satchel bag from under my t-shirt. "WHAT THE FUCK!! HELP! HE'S STOLEN MY FUCKING PASSPORT! HELP! MY PASSPORT!" I mistakenly cried out in pain and confusion. Bleeding, my face smeared by tears and dirt I lunged into the cried of bystanders, grabbing someone who I thought was the culprit. "FUCK YOU! WHERE'S MY FUCKING CAMERA?" The man replied with a forceful push and I was confronted by some scared Americans who stared on dazed, while I wailed pitifully "MY PASSPORT! HE'S STOLEN MY FUCKING PASSPORT!".
Only, after a few hours sleep on the floor of the staff room at the police station would I remember that I had safely left my passport in the glove box of Alex's car... Going to hospital and waking up surrounded by the Dominican constabulary was definitely not how I imagined ending Carnaval night, but then, spending a night in a police station is not something I fantasise over. I learnt some valuable lessons in the 24 hours I spent by myself in Roseau. Never steal a car unless you know where you're going and why you're doing it, would be at the top of the list, but also just as important would be that while travelling or in difficult situations if you have gotten yourself into trouble, you also have the capacity to pull yourself out of it.
Unless you actually did loose your passport, seriously crash a car or get arrested then you might be kind of doomed, at least temporarily. I could only suggest becoming a stowaway, seducing a millionaire lawyer or learning how to effectively pick locks and disable alarm systems. And apart from seducing mature businessmen, the rest is out of my experience.
I would add: carry sunscreen, an umbrella or back up supply of batteries but as with all useful things, you're most likely to loose them.
Last week I came back to Guadeloupe from Dominica where I had been travelling with my friend John for nine days. ( John is a lovely smiling boy from England, whom is currently teaching me to juggle while in return I teach him how to swim the butterfly stroke). I arrived in Dominica via ferry from Pointe-à-Pitre on the 8th of March (a day before John) on the last day of Carnavale. Carnavale is a Caribbeann festival originates from the Latin countries of Europe who colonised the islands of the West Indies (something to do with burning yourself out in a feast of exuberance before the sober austerity of Lent). From the beginning of February to the beginning of March, down all the islands of the Greater and Lesser Antilles to the Atlantic coast of South America one will commonly see (and most definitely hear) people dressed up as monkeys, demons and masked Venetian courtesans dancing through town centres to the music of drums, brass bands or loud speakers balanced on trucks (sometimes, as in Roseau the capital of Dominica, over three stories high).
As I stepped off the boat in Roseau the noise of Carnavale rose up like an overwhelming wave swamping the winding ancient streets with many layers of sound: people singing, talking and music blasted from great heights that made the air vibrate. After dropping my backpack on the outskirts of the city, in the room of a guy whom my taxi driver stroppily insisted was "good, not find anywhere else" I made my way back to the city centre to spend the afternoon wandering between the crumbling stone buildings, swaying with the parades and drinking beer under the hot sun.
Just before I completely succumbed to drunken bewilderment I met a man name Alex from Trinidad. We spent the rest of the afternoon with sipping sweet wine on the stone-wall that runs along the promenade by the sea and discussing my sexuality from his initial point of view that "nobody can be completely homosexual". In New Zealand I would have very little time for homophobic attitudes from strangers but it is a rare thing to be able to discuss "homo-ness" in the Caribbeann without entailing either agressive or extremely patronising remarks. But Alex had a certain open frankness that encouraged my confidence in him (confidence I regretted a few days later when I found myself trapped with him on the other side of the country). Despite everything, on that afternoon of Carnavale it was great to finally have some company and when I later stole and "crashed" his car, he calmy told me not to worry about it, except I would be getting the next round of drinks.
I clearly followed the second condition of my first piece of advice as I came stumbling from a bar into a poorly-lit street at 2am in the morning. I'm aweful at keeping myself safe. I get into fights, I loose things, get locked inside buildings or fall asleep on the edge of perilous drops. Fortunately when the shit-hits-the-fan I remain generally unperturbed: I think my general rule is "as long as nobody died, everything will be ok". Thus far things have worked out fine however I do regret the lost bags, heels, top hats and general trinkets that have been sacrificed to a hard's night partying. On that particular night it was my camera, headphones and a couple of 100 Eastern Caribbeann dollar bills that became the victims of my carelessness. As I walked down the street a man came up behind me and knocked me onto the ground as he tried to rip my small satchel bag from under my t-shirt. "WHAT THE FUCK!! HELP! HE'S STOLEN MY FUCKING PASSPORT! HELP! MY PASSPORT!" I mistakenly cried out in pain and confusion. Bleeding, my face smeared by tears and dirt I lunged into the cried of bystanders, grabbing someone who I thought was the culprit. "FUCK YOU! WHERE'S MY FUCKING CAMERA?" The man replied with a forceful push and I was confronted by some scared Americans who stared on dazed, while I wailed pitifully "MY PASSPORT! HE'S STOLEN MY FUCKING PASSPORT!".
Only, after a few hours sleep on the floor of the staff room at the police station would I remember that I had safely left my passport in the glove box of Alex's car... Going to hospital and waking up surrounded by the Dominican constabulary was definitely not how I imagined ending Carnaval night, but then, spending a night in a police station is not something I fantasise over. I learnt some valuable lessons in the 24 hours I spent by myself in Roseau. Never steal a car unless you know where you're going and why you're doing it, would be at the top of the list, but also just as important would be that while travelling or in difficult situations if you have gotten yourself into trouble, you also have the capacity to pull yourself out of it.
Unless you actually did loose your passport, seriously crash a car or get arrested then you might be kind of doomed, at least temporarily. I could only suggest becoming a stowaway, seducing a millionaire lawyer or learning how to effectively pick locks and disable alarm systems. And apart from seducing mature businessmen, the rest is out of my experience.
samedi 5 mars 2011
State violence in Pointe-à-Pitre: an introduction and practice in translation.
Pointe-à-Pitre, in May 1967 between 80-200 Guadeloupeans were shot and killed by the French police, under the control of the government of Charles de Gaulle. On the 26 of May, the day of commemoration of the abolition of slavery in Guadeloupe, 5000 workers went on strike for a 2% pay rise; a boss' delegate (Brizard) replied to the strike action by stating: "when the negroes are hungry, they'll go back to work". During a demonstration, in front of a company of French national police outside of the chambre du commerce of Pointe-à-Pitre, demonstrators began throwing stones and bottles. The police immediately opended fire, killing Jacques Nestor an activist from the Groupe d’Organisation Nationale de la Guadeloupe (National Organisation Group of Guadeloupe). The head of police Bolotte ordered the captains of the national police to "use all their weapons" against the protesters resulting in the further deaths of two young workers and a bystander.
The next day the population of Pointe-à-Pitre and large numbers of students from Baimbridge high school revolted, descending on the city centre where they set fire to cars and many shops on the main commercial street. Several police were wounded during the riots. The head of police (préfet Bolotte) disarmed local black police and called in gendarmes (French military police) from Martinique and France whom alongside hired militia began an arbitrary and ruthless hunt for 'agitators' of the revolts. The term used by the racist state forces was "la chasse au negre" which translates as "negro hunt".
In the onslaught dozens of people were wounded, arrested and murdered in the police station at Morne Niquel.
The exact number of those murdered and wounded is unknown as many of victims' families, fearing further repression, kept their relatives hidden and treated them at home. In mainland France the media reported '7 confirmed deaths, but probably more' whilst Guadeloupeans maintain that the total number of deaths was closer to 200.
The French government used these events as a pretext to liquidate the Guadeloupean nationalist movement, embodied by l’Association générale des Etudiants guadeloupéens (A.G.E.G) and Groupe d’Organisation Nationale de la Guadeloupe (G.O.N.G). Many activists were arrested and in April 1968 25 were imprisoned, amongst several charges activists such as Michel Numa were accused of "attacking the territorial integrity of the Republic"- this highlights the arrogance of colonial states: Guadeloupe is a former slave colony in the Caribbeann (thousands of miles from mainland France) that has a 95% black population (the descendants of slaves made to work for white French masters). Though French in many ways, it has its own history, language and traditions: many people I speak to state that they are 'Guadeloupeans first and French second'. A notable and equally disgusting story of hypocrisy: while these events were taking place in Guadeloupe, President Charles de Gaulle was calling "Free Quebec" for white Quebecois nationalists in Canada.
Since 1967 there has been no inquiry led into the causes of this massacre (the elected politicians at the time signed a document stating that the protesters were to blame). Over 40 years later the survivors still wait for justice, however the question is asked: how much time must pass? (translated and information taken from http://www.bakchich.info/La-Guadeloupe-n-a-pas-oublie-les,06773.html)
It is a sad fact that the memory of the Guadeloupe's movement towards independence through popular revolution has been almost erased from the history books. I read this comment in response to the original article from which most of this information comes from: 'I am 40 years old and only today have I learnt about what happened in Guadeloupe, which is also what happened in Martinique... the Guadeloupeans were right to revolt against the whites who contiune to treat the Antillais (*people of the West Indies) as 'good negroes, workers and subdued'... the state must tell us the truth about the events of May 1967. Though not entirely forgotten the nationalist movement has been suppressed by assimilation politics of the capitalist French republic (for example, from my experience as a language teaching assistant I have seen first hand how the history of the French Revolution and the Declaration of the Rights of Man *cough sexist* (just needed to get that out of my throat) are given precedence over indepth studies of local history.
I also find it disturbingly ironic (ironic and racist) that a socialist revolt that was so heavily repressed by the state police in French territory occured only a year before the celebrated student and workers' movement of May '68. Every educated person in France at least has heard of the basic facts of the 1968 uprising against the authoritarian government and 'traditional' social norms of the Gaulle's Fifth Republic. But very few, even in the West Indies have been allowed to learn the history of May 1967. It hasn't been banned, but it's importance and signification in the history of the French colonialism has been actively undermined.
I think it was Noam Chomsky who wrote about how history and politics are distorted by social norms, political institutions and the media; double-standards are created and reality is hid behind inert terms that make acts of state or social violence such as genocide, police brutality and other forms of oppression sound like necessary indifferent functions of a well-regulated machine. I see this happening in colonised societies: state institutions working from the viewpoint of the majority suppress or neutralise subversive points of view until the oppression and inequality we see on the streets today has become so far distanced from it's (state-controlled) social context and past that problems are attributed to the individual or group that individual belongs to.
The problems of any society are linked to its past- the history of a country must be learnt in its entirety for everybody within that society to work on its future.
*I know that last sentence was kind of general and a bit blah blah, but I'm tired and I'm going to write more about this later when I am more articulate. I just think that it is really really fucked up how much knowledge about the collective past of humanity the state can succeed in eliminating; when that information threatens to disrupt any established order that upholds that social privilege.
The next day the population of Pointe-à-Pitre and large numbers of students from Baimbridge high school revolted, descending on the city centre where they set fire to cars and many shops on the main commercial street. Several police were wounded during the riots. The head of police (préfet Bolotte) disarmed local black police and called in gendarmes (French military police) from Martinique and France whom alongside hired militia began an arbitrary and ruthless hunt for 'agitators' of the revolts. The term used by the racist state forces was "la chasse au negre" which translates as "negro hunt".
In the onslaught dozens of people were wounded, arrested and murdered in the police station at Morne Niquel.
The exact number of those murdered and wounded is unknown as many of victims' families, fearing further repression, kept their relatives hidden and treated them at home. In mainland France the media reported '7 confirmed deaths, but probably more' whilst Guadeloupeans maintain that the total number of deaths was closer to 200.
The French government used these events as a pretext to liquidate the Guadeloupean nationalist movement, embodied by l’Association générale des Etudiants guadeloupéens (A.G.E.G) and Groupe d’Organisation Nationale de la Guadeloupe (G.O.N.G). Many activists were arrested and in April 1968 25 were imprisoned, amongst several charges activists such as Michel Numa were accused of "attacking the territorial integrity of the Republic"- this highlights the arrogance of colonial states: Guadeloupe is a former slave colony in the Caribbeann (thousands of miles from mainland France) that has a 95% black population (the descendants of slaves made to work for white French masters). Though French in many ways, it has its own history, language and traditions: many people I speak to state that they are 'Guadeloupeans first and French second'. A notable and equally disgusting story of hypocrisy: while these events were taking place in Guadeloupe, President Charles de Gaulle was calling "Free Quebec" for white Quebecois nationalists in Canada.
Since 1967 there has been no inquiry led into the causes of this massacre (the elected politicians at the time signed a document stating that the protesters were to blame). Over 40 years later the survivors still wait for justice, however the question is asked: how much time must pass? (translated and information taken from http://www.bakchich.info/La-Guadeloupe-n-a-pas-oublie-les,06773.html)
It is a sad fact that the memory of the Guadeloupe's movement towards independence through popular revolution has been almost erased from the history books. I read this comment in response to the original article from which most of this information comes from: 'I am 40 years old and only today have I learnt about what happened in Guadeloupe, which is also what happened in Martinique... the Guadeloupeans were right to revolt against the whites who contiune to treat the Antillais (*people of the West Indies) as 'good negroes, workers and subdued'... the state must tell us the truth about the events of May 1967. Though not entirely forgotten the nationalist movement has been suppressed by assimilation politics of the capitalist French republic (for example, from my experience as a language teaching assistant I have seen first hand how the history of the French Revolution and the Declaration of the Rights of Man *cough sexist* (just needed to get that out of my throat) are given precedence over indepth studies of local history.
I also find it disturbingly ironic (ironic and racist) that a socialist revolt that was so heavily repressed by the state police in French territory occured only a year before the celebrated student and workers' movement of May '68. Every educated person in France at least has heard of the basic facts of the 1968 uprising against the authoritarian government and 'traditional' social norms of the Gaulle's Fifth Republic. But very few, even in the West Indies have been allowed to learn the history of May 1967. It hasn't been banned, but it's importance and signification in the history of the French colonialism has been actively undermined.
I think it was Noam Chomsky who wrote about how history and politics are distorted by social norms, political institutions and the media; double-standards are created and reality is hid behind inert terms that make acts of state or social violence such as genocide, police brutality and other forms of oppression sound like necessary indifferent functions of a well-regulated machine. I see this happening in colonised societies: state institutions working from the viewpoint of the majority suppress or neutralise subversive points of view until the oppression and inequality we see on the streets today has become so far distanced from it's (state-controlled) social context and past that problems are attributed to the individual or group that individual belongs to.
The problems of any society are linked to its past- the history of a country must be learnt in its entirety for everybody within that society to work on its future.
*I know that last sentence was kind of general and a bit blah blah, but I'm tired and I'm going to write more about this later when I am more articulate. I just think that it is really really fucked up how much knowledge about the collective past of humanity the state can succeed in eliminating; when that information threatens to disrupt any established order that upholds that social privilege.
lundi 28 février 2011
ACT Law and Order Spokes-man implicitly condones rape in prisons.
"The fact is if you don't want to be assaulted - or worse - by a cellmate, avoid prison by not committing a crime." David Garret- ACT Law and Order spokesman, quoted in NZ Herald.
These are the comments made by the NZ Police Minister, Judith Collins, in regards to those arrested for looting in the after-math of the Christchurch earthquake (via NZ Herald):
Police Minister Judith Collins said the actions of looters was akin to "people who rob the dead".
Yeah and rightly so: what the fuck National?! To think that our society is currently mis-guided by such levels of hypocrisy is, to say the least, quite sickening. But then I'm not that shocked nor surprised. Most of our attitudes towards violence are socially conditioned: we just assume that violent behaviour somehow becomes non-violent, or 'justifiably' not as violent in certain situations. For example, rape in prisons, i.e. "don't drop the soap", "she was drunk and can't remember plus he's a good guy so he wouldn't have forced her if she wasn't asking for it, a police man breaking the arm of an arrested homeless man etc. It is the double standard, not the people, that are protected in political and social rhetoric towards sexual violence: of course the majority of men would not accept rape, but then if she's a slut, or he's effeminate, married, in a long-term relations or crammed into a privatised prison, well...
Rather than focus on how rape is a form of violence that is perpetuated by the social norms of society and therefore can be stopped by un-learning rape culture, the NZ Minister of Police would rather see that these norms remain in place to punish those who deserve it... So the horrible message remains in society: rape, is permissible, it just has to be in the right context and then we refuse to call it rape. It becomes a 'joke', a lie or an accepted part of the 'justice system'.
As a personal response to those who condemn theives and looters: if one is stealing from a large corporation then whatever! As if a business such as New World ever existed to oversee the equal distribution of essential resources to humanity. If I had the opportunity I would loot the fuck out of the super market I worked in. Most of these corporations are entirely capitalist in structure (meaning: nearly all the profits are driven into the hands of the owner, whilst the workers are kept on strict hours and minimum wage). I would think that the amount of money, time, labour and respect stolen by the managers and owners of big businesses would be vastly more devastating than a day's ransacking by a few profiteering individuals.
These are the comments made by the NZ Police Minister, Judith Collins, in regards to those arrested for looting in the after-math of the Christchurch earthquake (via NZ Herald):
Police Minister Judith Collins said the actions of looters was akin to "people who rob the dead".
She expected to see the judiciary throw the book at looters.
"I hope they go to jail for a long time - with a cellmate."
This is another quote (from a friend of mine's Facebook account) which I think could be used as a quite clear and appropriate response:
"WTF, National... is this what you meant by getting tough on law and order? By encouraging rape culture, and increasing standards of justice whenever you think the pub...lic are distressed enough to accept it?"
"WTF, National... is this what you meant by getting tough on law and order? By encouraging rape culture, and increasing standards of justice whenever you think the pub...lic are distressed enough to accept it?"
Yeah and rightly so: what the fuck National?! To think that our society is currently mis-guided by such levels of hypocrisy is, to say the least, quite sickening. But then I'm not that shocked nor surprised. Most of our attitudes towards violence are socially conditioned: we just assume that violent behaviour somehow becomes non-violent, or 'justifiably' not as violent in certain situations. For example, rape in prisons, i.e. "don't drop the soap", "she was drunk and can't remember plus he's a good guy so he wouldn't have forced her if she wasn't asking for it, a police man breaking the arm of an arrested homeless man etc. It is the double standard, not the people, that are protected in political and social rhetoric towards sexual violence: of course the majority of men would not accept rape, but then if she's a slut, or he's effeminate, married, in a long-term relations or crammed into a privatised prison, well...
Rather than focus on how rape is a form of violence that is perpetuated by the social norms of society and therefore can be stopped by un-learning rape culture, the NZ Minister of Police would rather see that these norms remain in place to punish those who deserve it... So the horrible message remains in society: rape, is permissible, it just has to be in the right context and then we refuse to call it rape. It becomes a 'joke', a lie or an accepted part of the 'justice system'.
As a personal response to those who condemn theives and looters: if one is stealing from a large corporation then whatever! As if a business such as New World ever existed to oversee the equal distribution of essential resources to humanity. If I had the opportunity I would loot the fuck out of the super market I worked in. Most of these corporations are entirely capitalist in structure (meaning: nearly all the profits are driven into the hands of the owner, whilst the workers are kept on strict hours and minimum wage). I would think that the amount of money, time, labour and respect stolen by the managers and owners of big businesses would be vastly more devastating than a day's ransacking by a few profiteering individuals.
dimanche 27 février 2011
Nou ja là alor nou vive.
Certains evenements sont passé cette semaine d'abord: le mardi soir j'ai réçu un appel d'une colleague avec qui je travaille ici en Guadeloupe. Elle m'appellait pour me dire qu'il y viens d'avait une énorme tremblement de terre dans l'ile du sud de la Nouvelle Zélande, en Christchurch. Tout de suite j'accrocha la téléphone et j'en suis sortie pour regarder les infos sur l'intrenet. J'étais boulerversé; j'ai vu un photo de la cathedrale écrasée et en panique, pleurant j'ai appellé ma grandmére pour savoir si mon frère était toujours vivant.
Je l'ai imaginé mort, disparu, coincé sous les milliers des tonnes de béton.
Puis j'ai pensé de ma tante, mon oncle, mes cousins, mes amies. En fin tout le monde qui habite dans cette ville; les gens qui étaient au déjeuner, au boulot, à l'école, dans la rue quand ils ont eu le tremblement.
Heureusement, mon frère n'était pas en ville et ma tante et son époux sont survécu.
Le premier moment de panique est passé.
Sauf les tremblements continuent et le taux des morts augmentes.
La famille se reconnecte et on commence de nous rassurer "tous va bien? Tes amies? Tu a les nouvelles de ton pére?" et "Je t'aime, réponds moi quand tu récois cet message" et "Est-ce que tout le monde dans ta famille va bien".
Milliers personnes autours du monde s'asseoir devants des milliers d'ordinateurs pour éxprimé les memes sentiments: 'je pense de vous'.
Qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire? Christchurch, si familier avec ses rues bordé pars des arbres, maintenant détruite.
I just wanted to practice writing in French but because I only have a few minutes, I'll finish what I thought I might like to say last week in English. I'm thankful that all my family and friends have survived the earthquake unscathed: it has been a huge shock and for many people who have loved ones on the list of the 50 people still unaccounted for the worst may be yet to come.
I dedicate this post to the dead of Christchurch, my Aunty and Uncle, my cousins and also to my memories of the place: the people I've met there, the bars I've drunkenly rampaged through with cries of 'QUEERS RULE!', good times at my Aunty's house with family as I passed through. For despite it's homophobes, bad weather, and conformist mainstream attitudes to white society: it is a city where I've grown, explored and been loved.
Je l'ai imaginé mort, disparu, coincé sous les milliers des tonnes de béton.
Puis j'ai pensé de ma tante, mon oncle, mes cousins, mes amies. En fin tout le monde qui habite dans cette ville; les gens qui étaient au déjeuner, au boulot, à l'école, dans la rue quand ils ont eu le tremblement.
Heureusement, mon frère n'était pas en ville et ma tante et son époux sont survécu.
Le premier moment de panique est passé.
Sauf les tremblements continuent et le taux des morts augmentes.
La famille se reconnecte et on commence de nous rassurer "tous va bien? Tes amies? Tu a les nouvelles de ton pére?" et "Je t'aime, réponds moi quand tu récois cet message" et "Est-ce que tout le monde dans ta famille va bien".
Milliers personnes autours du monde s'asseoir devants des milliers d'ordinateurs pour éxprimé les memes sentiments: 'je pense de vous'.
Qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire? Christchurch, si familier avec ses rues bordé pars des arbres, maintenant détruite.
I just wanted to practice writing in French but because I only have a few minutes, I'll finish what I thought I might like to say last week in English. I'm thankful that all my family and friends have survived the earthquake unscathed: it has been a huge shock and for many people who have loved ones on the list of the 50 people still unaccounted for the worst may be yet to come.
I dedicate this post to the dead of Christchurch, my Aunty and Uncle, my cousins and also to my memories of the place: the people I've met there, the bars I've drunkenly rampaged through with cries of 'QUEERS RULE!', good times at my Aunty's house with family as I passed through. For despite it's homophobes, bad weather, and conformist mainstream attitudes to white society: it is a city where I've grown, explored and been loved.
lundi 21 février 2011
No need to twist my nipples twice...
Just thought I would use my lunch break to promote a few summer events that I definitely plan on dragging my conformified queer butt to (and let off some drag queen steam!):
Also (I should have done these chronologically but ya what), MondoHomo Dirty South in Atlanta, Georgia, USA. According to the QZAP (Queer Zine Archive Project) it will be going from Wednesday 25th to Monday 30th of May 2011, http://www.mondohomo.com/
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