Category Archives: BULLETINS

Everyday snapshots from around the world

Unknown's avatar

We passed through the Earth lightly

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These days, the title of a book by Sergio Atzeni keeps coming back to mind. The book talks about something else, but the title resonates in my head as an invitation: We passed through the Earth lightly.

It is almost a year that we have been living through a genocide and the Museum of Palestine has an ongoing campaign titled Gaza Remains the Story. One of its poetic provocations interpellates each one of us directly by asking: How do you lighten your steps as you walk over the rubble, so that those buried under do not have to carry the burden of your weight?

These two exhortations resonate in my head as a unison, as a unique invite – personal and political, individual and collective – to rethink about the weight of my steps and consequently the direction of my choices.

The egotistical dimension of the concept of impact is connected to a weighty passage and presence that are meant to leave a mark. For good or bad, as an invite or as a threat, weight and impact are terms that are frequently used in pedagogical paths as well as in the rhetoric of civilisational, “development” or humanitarian interventions.

What if this is all wrong? What if the violence of the mark we are meant to leave would not be the necessary root for change?

What if stepping lightly – respectfully and delicately, sensibly and kindly, slowly and tenderly – would be the way to be in the world for ourselves and for others? A way that respects the Earth we walk on, that gives precedence to care rooted in the present and not aimed at a future outcome, that values reciprocity over profit.

A light step that respects those who are physically and symbolically buried under the rubbles, that teaches children kindness; a light step that helps us be in the world in a moment of inexplicable pain and violence.

Unknown's avatar

End of summer – Fine estate

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The oleander did not survive the passing of time.

I need to find a plants’ cemetery

to bury it along with evaluation mistakes.

The earth in Autumn broods

reflections and transformation.

Take time to think

so as to grow:

to adjust more than change

to consolidate what is real and important

to trim down what is superfluous

to eliminate what is damaging.

At the end of summer

the smell of wind and the tone of light

transform and take on

shades of underwood:

I absorb their warmth

along with incense smoke.

A foot to travel

and a foot to stay.

***

L’oleandro non è sopravvissuto al passare del tempo.

Devo trovare un cimitero delle piante

dove seppellirlo insieme agli errori di valutazione.

La terra in autunno cova

riflessioni e trasformazione.

Pensare per crescere:

aggiustare più che cambiare,

consolidare il vero e l’importante,

sfrondare ciò che è superfluo,

eliminare ciò che è dannoso.

A fine estate

l’odore del vento e il tono della luce

si trasformano e si caricano

di sfumature di sottobosco:

Ne assorbo il tepore

e il fumo dell’incenso.

Un piede per partire

e un piede per restare.

Unknown's avatar

If I didn’t hate the word resilience…

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The other evening, over dinner, a journalist who was visiting Kabul for the first time asked me if it were possible to imagine that in this particular historical and political conjuncture creative and artistic expressions would be able to survive in Afghanistan. From the way he phased the question it was clear that he thought that the answer would be negative.

If I didn’t hate the word resilience, I would have probably started to answer from there.

Imagining that spaces of creativity wouldn’t resit or even exist is like thinking that one could survive without breathing or making love. There is nothing heroic or voluntaristic, it is just a necessary part of life. And this is the reason why I don’t like the word resilience because it romanticises suffering in exchange for the redemption of a sense of humanity.

A few days ago, I saw on social media the video of two kids from Gaza who built a swing with ropes and a piece of sponge and played among the debris of a destroyed house.

However small and desperate, that glimpse of humanity resists and survives: it dances, recites poems, invents new games, depicts scenarios for possible futures.

It is hardly ever the case that war wins over that spark of humanity. Costs are high, tremendous, but war is always the one that loses in the end.

Unknown's avatar

Before and after

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Photo by Ahmed Moghrabi

A few weeks ago, a person I have known for many years wrote me to say that reading my bulletins they felt that I was quite disturbed by the situation in Gaza. The message caught me by surprise and my first response was to react piquedly – of course I am disturbed and so are many of the people who are close to my heart; how can one possibly not be disturbed and go about life as if nothing in a moment like this?

The message stayed in my mind and kept me thinking.

It has been 28 weeks since 7 October and this period marks for me a clear before and after. A line I heard from a recently released film buzzes in my head: “What has Gaza changed for me? My entire being.”

There is an easy risk of sounding rhetorical here, yet I think that this is true for me as well: more in the sense of an unveiling than in terms of actual change, Gaza has changed my entire being. The struggle for Palestinian self-determination has been an integral part of my political formation and has been a fundamental element of my being in the world for over thirty years. In this respect, therefore, there is little change.

So then, what has Gaza changed in me?

Gaza confronted me with myself in unexpected ways.

Not to take a stance is a privilege I have no right to. Not running risks to stand for my ideas is a privilege I have no right to. I have no right to look away and pretend I don’t see what’s happening.

As someone who writes for a living, I have the ethical duty to use clear and precise words. An assassin is an assassin; a genocide is a genocide; a massacre of innocents is a massacre and not an incident; a child does not starve to death randomly, it is killed by a precise strategic machination.  

Silence and indifference are forms of complicity that I no longer want to endorse. They are choices I have no respect for, so I no longer intend to pretend that we are all friends as before.

In a moment of such blinding grief, however, there is a community that is taking shape. A community that is both tight and wide, made of people who are nearby and far away, of people known and unknown, who now perceive a clear demarcation of before and after, who identify with this irrevocable change and support each other in light of such chasm.

One for the most shattering images I have seen in these past 28 weeks – I believe it will stay with me forever – is that of a date seed that is sprouting between the fingers of a person who is buried under the rubbles. It is both a horror and a miracle, a devastating metaphor that needs no explanation. It is a glimmer and an omen of the indomitable strength of resistance and solidarity.

Unknown's avatar

Flour and blood

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To look at Gaza from Kabul amplifies everything, including the sense of powerlessness.

It is since 7 October that every day I think we have seen the worst and yet every new day brings a new measure of horror that shreds whatever is left of our broken hearts.

When Israeli soldiers posted their selfies with female lingerie looted from the drawers of the Palestinian homes that they just destroyed, I thought we had hit the rock bottom. And then there were photos of Israeli soldiers posing all smiles cradled in the cribs of the Palestinian children they just killed. And then rave parties to block the trucks carrying humanitarian aid. And then drones shot at children flying kites on the border with Egypt. And then the daily updates on the number of babies and children killed by starvation.

I thought we couldn’t do any worse. I thought we now had the taste of the apocalypse in our mouths.  

And then what will go down in history as the “flour massacre” happened. The Israeli government defined an unfortunate incident what is in fact a deliberate massacre where the Israeli Army shot at people rushing to gather the little humanitarian aid the Israelis are allowing to trickle into the Gaza Strip. So far there are 104 Palestinians killed and 700 wounded. The balance is likely to increase.

I struggle to come to terms with this and I struggle to breathe fully, a sense of failure chokes me. A few days ago, in an interview to Humza Yousaf, the Scottish First Minister, they asked him what his message to the people of Gaza would be. His answer, with a broken voice, was: I am sorry, humanity has failed you.

And so, I am sorry Gaza for all that we haven’t done and for all that we continue not to do. Maybe we can’t do worse than this, so we are probably only left with facing the pain of such failure and to do a little better: to continue feeling indignation and to continue denouncing these horrors so as they won’t become the norm.

Because it is not true that we have to be resigned to live in a world that we don’t like.

Unknown's avatar

Grey

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February in Kabul is the coldest month of the year; a month made of power cuts, snowfalls and the hope that there would be enough snow to avert the fear of forthcoming droughts. The first snowfall is always celebrated with an exchange of wishes and sweets.

I wrote about snow in Kabul for the first time more than ten years ago. Now I am back in the city after a very long time and there is snow again and I have the impression of closing an old circle while opening a new cycle.

Never like in this conjuncture, a return feels more like an arrival. Everything is familiar and yet everything is also to be understood afresh, from scratch; everything is to be looked at with new eyes free of prejudice, without the bias of conclusions reached even before fully comprehending details and premises.

I have been here for more than three weeks, but I write only now because probably it is only now that I have mastered the courage to face the fear of being misunderstood and to embrace the desire to highlight the dissonances that emerge every day against opposite polarising and ideological narratives.

After last night’s snowfall, Kabul is all grey; covered by worn and trampled snow and wrapped by an uncertain sky that doesn’t seem to know if it wants to stay hazy or send more snow. It is all these shades of grey that are the most difficult to represent. As days go by, I realise that shouted truths no longer hold when faced with reality; that rules and exceptions coexist side by side; that fear may turn life into survival; that glimpses of hope and possibility open up among millions of contradictions.

In its brutal beauty, Afghanistan has a unique way to crawl under my skin, to call me back and always give me a reason to return, one more question to chase, an epochal transformation to witness, an opportunity to question myself, my ideas and my prejudices. It is a disarming country, that somehow always leaves me alone and bare in front of myself and the reasons of my choices.

Unknown's avatar

315 mines

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Yesterday the Israeli Army detonated 315 mines to destroy Al-Israa University in Gaza – it was the last standing university in the Gaza Strip. In the campus there was also a museum that preserved 3,000 rare artifacts.

Till October there used to be seven universities in Gaza. Now there is not a single one left.

Al-Israa was occupied by the Israeli Forces seventy days ago and turned into a detention centre where they kept in isolation the Palestinian civilians they arrested before interrogating them. The Israeli Army published a video of the detonation: it only took a bunch of seconds to turn into dust and eliminate any physical presence of a cultural institution.

As I write, there’s also the news of the complete destruction of the last functioning hospital in Gaza.

Till October there used to be thirty-six hospitals. Now there is not a single one left.

It is a list of horrors that does not seem to have an end.

News of war come to our homes as fait accompli. What we witness every day are the end results, the outcomes: a certain number of casualties; the toll of displaced people; the success or failure of a military operation; the raids and round-ups; the arrests; the number of destroyed homes, villages, schools, hospitals.

What is usually not completely visible in the journalistic narration we receive is the extreme complexity of the logistics behind such operations.

I keep thinking about those 315 mines that destroyed Al-Israa – it’s a huge number. Huge.

It takes a perfect coordination of forces, means and resources, but most of all of wills and intentions to be able to destroy a building complex with 315 mines.

To observe the logistics of war with its apparent banality made of chains of command, mechanisations and gestures in themselves “innocent,” is a tremendous way to look at cruelty in the eye.

Besides the political decision, there is a lot of people who spend a lot of time understanding and deciding how to destroy a university, how many bulldozers it takes to raze a village to the ground, how many soldiers are needed for a night raid.

For me, the biggest horror of war is here. In the minds, daily activities and routines of all those who create the conditions to destroy and inflict death and desolation.

The devastating outcomes we witness in the news are the product of a million little gestures, of infinite micro-complicities. It’s for this reason that it makes no sense to speak about collateral damages or involuntary errors – this is a benefit of the doubt that perpetrators of such horrors do not deserve.

War is never necessary; it is instead always deliberately cruel.

Unknown's avatar

The day of reckoning

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I have been looking for words for over a month.

Audre Lorde’s exhortation on the tyranny of silence continued to resonate in my ears as, for all these days, I tried to come to terms with my inability to articulate rage and tribulation, with incredulity and with the feeling of being lost, with the impression that humanity has reached a point of no return.

Nothing will ever be the same.

I hope that the horror of the past few weeks will stay with us as a fire mark of shame that will forever prevent us to forget and will force us to decide who we want to be, where we want to stand, what we want to teach to our children, where shall we find the courage to look at ourselves in the mirror every morning.

Nothing can ever be the same. Certain images – their meaning, their pain, their consequences – should never be deleted from the individual and ancestral memory that humanity transmits across generations.

A father who collects the remains of his children killed by bombs in garbage bags.

Premature babies who die because the hospitals infrastructures have been destroyed and there’s no electricity to power incubators. The survivors who scream under the rubbles. The stench of mass graves.

What does it mean for a mother to write the name on the body of her child, so it won’t be an unidentified corpse or an nameless orphan or an anonymous digit in mass statistics? Where did that hand find the strength to write that name?

I write and I feel sick to my stomach.

We are at a point of no return. We are at a day of reckoning with ourselves and with those around us. Those who chose not take a stance are accomplices.

There are no innocent observers.

Let us then gather around those who find the courage to resist. Let us regroup. Let us support each other as a community. Let us listen to the discomfort, the fear, the anguish of those who are close to us and struggle to find the words for it. In this moment of no return, it is clear who stays in our life and who doesn’t – you are either on one side or on the other. Indifference is a choice – and it is a criminal one.

Solidarity is costly, it is tiring and requires running risks. Let us celebrate the courage of those who chose to run these risks – let us not miss an opportunity to offer a word of support: in the midst of so much horror, kindness can still help building little bridges, can help us feel a little less lonely and less lost in the face of the decay of humanity.

I read somewhere that resistance is the highest form of love. Let us then resist together, as a final act of redemption. Let us support each other in reclaiming the right to self-determination.

The objective is not a ceasefire. The objective is the end of occupation, the end of abuses, the end of the monopoly of victimhood that allows Israel to commit abominable atrocities.

The objective is that with the liberation of Palestine we shall collectively achieve the liberation of a sense of humanity that is now buried under the rubbles of the hospitals in Gaza.

Unknown's avatar

Spectacles

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It has been a few days since one of my students at the Institute is having a hard time reading and writing and his school results have gone down. We asked a few questions and we discovered that he broke his spectacles and his family does not have money to buy new ones (about 30$ between frames and lenses).

Another one is always tired; his eyes are red, and he struggles to focus. I called him to my office and asked him what was going on. He said that there is no problem, and everything is normal. For him normal means living in a tiny room behind the woodworking workshop of his cousin. After school he works there to earn a bit of money and then in the evening he goes for tuition. His family is in Kuduz, probably the most dangerous part of the country right now. I asked him to come and stay at the students’ dorm, but he declined the offer: I think he fears that if he moves out of his cousin workshop he’ll lose the opportunity to earn a little.

There is a boy who is emotionally unstable, his parents tell him he’s good for nothing and he only finds peace of mind when he draws. He told us: “People say I am crazy.” At the Institute, he’s just a boy like anyone else: he’s found his little world and a bit of tranquillity.

Another student is distracted and absent-minded, we catch him often staring at the void. His brother – to whom he resembles immensely – has been killed in a bomb-blast last year, it has recently been the first anniversary. How can we help him restore an emotional balance?

I have been back in Kabul only for three days and these are the stories that welcomed me. Yet again, a unique opportunity to put my priorities in order and remember not to take anything for granted.

Unknown's avatar

How do we remember?

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How do we manage the emptiness that the loss of a loved one creates so as to preserve the smile that characterised the time spent together?

How do we remember? How do we honour the memory of a person who dedicated her life to tell stories that are too difficult to hear? How can we forget just as much as it is needed to survive? How can we suspend the urge to understand so as to respect the inexplicable choices of a friend?

We had not been in touch for a while, but she was prone to long silences – it happened every time she was immersed in writing. We live scattered around and yet interconnected – six months go by and you don’t realise it until it is too late.

Annie spent her life embracing the world – an embrace so compassionate and open that sometimes the world ended up suffocating her. She was a good listener – she listened without reservations or prejudice. She gathered stories that would inevitably leave deep marks. She felt responsible for the words that were gifted to her.

There is a man, maybe not fully in his right mind, in a rough neighbourhood in Karachi, he lives in a cemetery with a wall full of graffiti. She wanted us to write his story together. I may have to go look for him soon. And carry with me her desire to always make an honest and generous space for all unheard voices.

And carry with me her desire to always make an honest and generous space for all unheard voices.

Annie Ali Khan (1980-2018). In memoriam.