Friday, February 22, 2013

The other side of the wall..



“healing is resisting oppression”
the film ends.

get hurt, heal, get hurt, heal, get hurt, heal.
Not something I would wish to follow.

I’d rather prefer to carry the wounded body, the soul, blood swept palms, everywhere and anywhere, to rant the pain, anger, guilt, to let out the cries, the screams that tear the still nights.. to run around, laugh out loud, yell, live and die, whatever I feel like, but all the more, refusing to heal..    



‘five broken cameras’ – a powerful film about Emad, his son Gibreel, five broken cameras, a village named Bil’in, occupied lands, burnt olive trees, barbed wire fences, and a concrete wall. If you want to use fancy words, it’s a film on Israeli occupation, oppression, settlements on the west bank, Palestinian resistance, non-violent protests, demonstration, and violent confrontation of non-violence. It’d be a fancy way of describing a not-so-fancy film. I wonder, how is it that I sit through a film on Bil’in, while refusing to watch the Channel 4 documentaries on Sri Lanka, and turning away from any news or reports on war, state violence in SL.    

It started to pop up suddenly on my facebook home page.. all thanks to most of my friends. Hope you know what I mean, in case you didn’t, google is your companion. Search for Sri Lanka + war crimes, and Voila! I refused to click the links, tried to hide the posts from newsfeed. Not a gesture of turning a blind eye to things, or refusing to accept that it happened. But I don’t need the hindu, the ndtv, the channel4 or the Colombo telegraph to tell me that it happened. Because I know. I know it’s how things happen here, there, and everywhere. This is exactly how it happens, every single time. You think it’s a deviance, I think it’s the norm, of all wars. There are no justifiable ways of waging a war. There are no right or wrongs. share it with people who believe in ‘wars that bring peace’, ‘wars that destroy terrorists’, ‘wars that save the world, the kids and families’.. no, sorry, not me. Leave me alone. show it to the immigration officers, the politicians, the human rights commission, the amnesty international, the whatever whatever, the unbelievers, or believers (of ‘good and evil’). But not me. Leave me alone.

To some, it reaffirmed their stance – aha, that’s a war crime; now that’s a solid proof. Yeah right, now what? It feeds the ego of some, ignorance or guilt of the others, then what? Don’t tell me you never knew it. Don’t tell me you expect the bombs, shells, snipers, the AK47’s and T56’s to demarcate – between the young and the old, between men and women, between civilians and soldiers, between you and me. above all the institutions or anything that we’ve ever created, they are the ardent followers of equality. They don’t discriminate. Now, don’t tell me you didn’t know that already. Or don’t tell me, whoever/whatever you worship – the US, EU, UN, Amnesty, Human Rights, Democracy, Humanity, Peace, Geneva, Non-violence – weren’t aware of that either.     

It happens too often, the killing of a 11 year old child becoming a spectacle, in Palestine, in Syria, in the streets of the US, and of course in Sri Lanka. On the television, computer or theatre screens we watch, we read, we hear, we feel, the anger, distress, guilt, in the comfort of our own worlds, very far from bombs and bullets. We discuss and scrutinize, about the snack he had, why and how he was killed. The drama of the spectators.

I sit through a documentary on Bil’in, watching Palestinian children getting killed, with trembling hands and tear-filled eyes, wondering why I couldn’t open a single link on facebook or stare at a picture of a murdered Tamil child. It is much easier to talk about the Palestine, the hypocrisy of the survivors of holocaust, or to admire the resilience of people. It’s much more convenient when you’re at a distance.

The spectacle!

five year old Gibreel asks, “why did they kill Phill? What did he do to them?”

Anger that is hard to contain, and pain that is written all over our bodies.

It’s a constant negotiation, a struggle between a self that is hurt, and an intellect that leans toward logical reasoning.

Yet I hold onto a self that refuses to heal, to forgive, to forget. As if that’s the very last possession of mine, the only priced possession.