Message and messenger are an entangled mess of a knot lodged in my throat
Thoughts from the inferno of decolonization
It turns out that Ghandi may have never said western civilization “was a good idea.” It was most likely falsely attributed to him. I suspect it had wings because it aligned with his message.
Message and messenger are an entangled mess of a knot lodged in my throat.
It also turns out that Mahatma Ghandi, the messenger, was human. And a man. Some accounts suggest he used to sleep next to naked or partially clothed women, including his own nieces, as a means to discipline and reinforce his commitment to celibacy.
Ghandi is not the subject of my reflection. Nor is my disappointment in the fallibility of the human. Marry a human to power and most often than not, we are left dealing with at best problematic offspring, at worst maniacal evil. Personally, I am frustrated by my (former) stubborn insistence to ignore this fallibility, especially when the warning signs are glaring.
Is this hope or ignorance?
I was in a friend’s car not long ago whom I have known for years. You can say we have “shared values:” we are not celibate and more importantly we have unhinged rage at western civilization’s sponsored genocide of Palestinians. On that unfortunate day, she veered into the wrong lane, brazenly cutting ahead of the line of cars waiting to enter the roundabout. The nitty-gritty shitty committee that has thrived in my head over the past 6 months immediately pronounced its verdict: another human cancelled. Cutting the line epitomised supremacist and entitled behaviour.
It gets worse. I wanted to cancel my mother a few days after. To say we have shared values would be an understatement. As we sat in her garden enjoying the sunlight, I noticed her casually flicking her used chewing gum onto the dirt. I was horrified —and free to be openly unhinged as I explained that chewing gum was not exactly banana peel or fruit seeds. She nodded, seemingly in agreement, as she asked for a fresh piece of gum. Shortly after, you guessed it, she repeated the same offence.
I realize I have become uncompromising. One of the dictionary definitions of uncompromising is unyielding and not easily changed, which is ironic because I am changed. So changed, in fact, that my nitty-gritty shitty committee has“married” me and reproduced exponentially problematic vetters and detangling officers. I spent hours in the bookshop the other day scanning the shelves looking for a new book to read. In the past, I gravitated towards non-fiction, driven by a thirst for knowledge or, truth be told, a deluge of ignorance. Fiction seemed like a frivolous indulgence, a distraction from more productive pursuits. I rarely paid attention to the authors; my focus was solely on the message they conveyed.
After all, there is always something new to learn. They are called lessons, self-help gurus tell me.
My nitty-gritty shitty committee, its babies, and I found ourselves exhaustively researching the authors of every book I picked up. Did they lay next to partially clothed others? What is their driving record? Did they know chewing gum was not biodegradable?
What is their stance on Palestine, the last standing active settler-colonial project today?
Uncompromising nitty-gritty shitty committees have a job title called decolonisation, recently forced awake for some from the morgue of theory. Its job description involves a solitary practice of detangling.
A dear friend of mine, whom I've long admired for her unwavering (uncompromising?) activism, recently confided in me about her own unraveling. Her nonprofit organisation has been at the forefront of social justice and equity in Jordan, navigating the complex landscape of funding sources with integrity. Recently, they have made difficult decisions, opting to reject funding from compromised “messengers” sacrificing valuable projects. Their recent decision to return a check to the ambassador of a European entity enabling and sponsoring genocide is an inspiring example of how the end does not justify the means. Ever.
The messenger and the message are always entangled.
Another compromising friend disagreed. Her “end” of developing the health-sector has seen her sometimes ignore the “means” for the higher good, approaching American funding sources on a case-by-case basis. Funding genocide should not deter from using blood money to serve underserved and under-funded sectors as long as the blood is out of sight. Development work is never-ending. Its end and means are a self-perpetuating cycle that keeps us “developing” in place.
While Palestinian anti-colonial liberation movements are showing the world heroism in action, I cling to the hope that the nitty-gritty shitty de-colonial committees of the sovereign free are cleansing our libraries, bedrooms, boardrooms, and hospitals from the cancer of human imperialist power.
This work requires us to be uncompromising in our principles despite the sacrifice. It is the least we can do when Palestine and her people are paying the heaviest price for our liberation.
Back in October —a lifetime ago, I wrote that this was a time of awakening for the free people of the world. I stand by my words. I always imagined awakening to be a blissful experience. I never expected it to be an inferno burning my existence.
By the way, I briefly researched civilization. Most of the definitions revolve around urbanization and economic and social stratification; in other words, colonization. It’s always about money, isn’t it? Race and class, land and cement, message and messenger… Celibate Ghandi may have been wrong. It was a good idea — for some.