The Guild Literary Complex sends six Chicago writers to attend the Kapittel International Festival of Literature and Freedom of Speech (Sept 17-21, 2014) in Stavanger, Norway. Below are the ongoing reflections of Adam Gottlieb, L'Oréal Patrice Jackson, Sahar Mustafah, Erika L. Sánchez, M. Quinn Stifler, and Guild Director John Rich. This project is supported by the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation's International Connections Fund and individual donations. For more information, or to donate to the project, visit www.guildcomplex.org.
I have recently learned of an ICORN member who was a guest writer in Italy from 2011-2013, and could not avoid sharing the story here.
—Quinn Stifler
—
Up until a couple of weeks ago when the linked article was posted, little to no coverage on Sepideh Jodeyri’s translation of Julie Maroh’s /Blue is the Warmest Color/ had been brought to attention, especially in the United States. Maroh’s story details a relationship between two young women, a queer story, of something like love, perhaps, or of course. Jodeyri, an Iranian poet and journalist, and a feminist, translated Maroh’s book into Persian, and received significant backlash from the Iranian government soon after. When interviews were conducted with Jodeyri for publication, they were quickly redacted, for fear that the entire publication would be shut down for “supporting” illegal acts in Iran.
Jodeyri has three requests for those of us who have the freedom of speech to disseminate information on the situation. They can be found in this article. It is possible to create waves of change, as the author of this article did; only a few days after its publication, another article was written on a US site, backlash articles were removed from Iranian news sites, Jodeyri received recognition in her struggle, and perhaps, LGBT people in Iran and elsewhere felt a little less isolated, as Jodeyri wished for. Please spread the word.
On Thursday night, Loreal invited me to join her for a Buddhist gathering in the South Loop. My relationship with Buddhism over the years has been circuitous—so many stops and starts. I've been a lapsed Catholic since I was eight-years-old, and though I have never been tempted to return to the church, I have always felt a spiritual void. Ever since I learned about Buddhist philosophy, it was the only thing that has made any sense to me. So why can't I just commit, I keep wondering. It's as if I'm poisoned and refuse to take the medicine that can save. And that's what Loreal talked about when she shared her Norway experience with the group—the idea that art and culture turn poison into medicine. This resonated with me because poetry has saved my life more times than I can name. Had it not been for my art, I would have been consumed with the mental illness I've struggled with my whole life. After the meeting, I kept thinking of the exiles in Norway, particularly Manal Al Sheikh, who has experienced inconceivable tragedies. But from her pain she has created stark and beautiful poems. Some of them continue to haunt me. I feel like I'm a new journey now. These last few months have been particularly painful for me, but I know that I don't have to live this way. Thank you, Loreal, for this reminder.
Having fallen fully back into the busy swing of life in Chicago, I've had difficulty finding time to sit down and reflect on the incredible experiences I had at the Kapittel festival in Stavanger just a few weeks ago. Here are just a few thoughts.
One of the most important stories illustrating this is the dismantling of democracy in the state of Michigan that has happened over the last ten years, and in particular Reverend Edward Pinkney's ongoing legal battles against the privatization machine in Benton Harbor. As an outspoken community leader who has dedicated his life to organizing, educating, and fighting against the "corporate dictatorship" in his town, he has been targeted, framed, and imprisoned on trumped-up "voter fraud" charges.
Here are a couple resources about it from The People's Tribune, a national political paper that I write for:
http://peoplestribune.org/pt-news/free-pinkney/
(the video is informative and, I think, well-done... although the music toward the end is admittedly over the top.)
And, for a more thorough report of the ongoing struggle:
http://peoplestribune.org/pt-news/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/BH-Pamphlet.pdf
A few details I want to highlight:
In 2007, Reverend Pinkney was imprisoned for quoting Biblical passages in an article he wrote for the People's Tribune, which the judge deemed "inflammatory" and a personal threat! The scripture in question was Deuteronomy 28:15-16, 18, 22, and 45. The last of these passages summarizes all of them: "Moreover all these curses shall come upon thee, and shall pursue thee, and overtake thee, till thou be destroyed; because thou hearkenedst not unto the voice of the Lord thy God, to keep his commandments and his statutes which he commanded thee."
In May 2014, Rev. Pinkney and his wife (who was not even charged with anything) were both banned from using the Internet! This particular decision ended up being overturned after a week or so, but it was still an unprecedented legal decision! (Up until then, no one in U.S. history, not even child pornographers, had been banned from using the Internet entirely.)
Reverend Pinkney's next trial, which will be crucial in the battle for democracy in Michigan and the U.S. in general, will be at the end of this month, on October 27th. A group from Chicago will be driving up to join the protestors supporting him. I hope to be among them. Here is the facebook event, for anyone who wants to join us: https://www.facebook.com/events/1472092216391338/?ref=6&ref_notif_type=plan_user_invited
A revolutionary preacher imprisoned for quoting the Bible. It sounds ridiculous. But how shocking, is it, really? After all, it was not so long ago (60 years or so) that our country erupted into McCarthyism, and the biggest witch hunt since those of 17th-century Salem, MA. (Except this time, the "witches" were "communists.") There are also the histories of radical groups like the Black Panther Party, more recently, that are riddled with political dissenters being persecuted, framed, imprisoned, and murdered.
So what do we do?
The fear instinct is strong. When we begin to see the reality of rising fascist motions in our country and internationally, we instinctively feel the threat of violence, and we may feel compelled to stay quiet, to "get out of the line of fire." But that does not solve the problem; on the contrary, it invites fascism. (Remember the saying, "first they came for the communists, but I wasn't a communist. Then they came for the Blacks, but I wasn't black, then they came for the Jews, but I wasn't Jewish...")
If we think about what society needs and how we can make it happen, there is only one logical solution here, put plainly by Bob Marley: "Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights!" Not just because it is the right thing to do morally, but because it is necessary on a practical level. It is a matter of life and death, for ourselves and the planet.
The time is now to speak out, to organize, and face the dangerous road ahead with courage.
Thank you for reading this long post.
*One Love*
-Adam
p.s. In June I co-organized the first public event of the Revolutionary Poets Brigade of Chicago, and performed a piece that addressed the rising tide of fascism in our country, making reference to Rev. Pinkney and a number of other cases, in the middle of the song "Exodus" by Bob Marley. I feel called to revisit it now, and to share it with you: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-0rxUNvRs4. Thank you for listening.
I will post something thoughtful soon... for now, just a few snapshots from our break from the festival to see the magnificent Lysefjord ("Light Fjord") of Stavanger. This was a totally magical experience... starting with SEALS!!
This post is going to be a little bit self-centered. I've been doing a lot of reflecting since the trip. (At least, whenever I'm not bombarded with work. I would give my left eyeball to have a vacation in which I just sit and stare at the ocean for several weeks.) When I was a kid, I always dreamt about writing and traveling the world. That is all I've ever wanted to do. I never fantasized about weddings or babies. To me, the perfect life meant having the freedom to write whatever tickled many fancy while living in beautiful and exciting places and meeting fascinating people. Because many of my family members were and are undocumented, I heard so much about borders and "papers" throughout my childhood. But in my fantasies of my future life, there a there were no borders. The world was limitless. My experience in Norway reinvigorated that desire. I keep thinking of what my high school AP English teacher always used to tell us. "Language is power," he would repeat over and over again. I never fully understood it until now. Language is what has allowed me to see the world, and my education has given me a voice, which I am grateful for. And there's so much I want to do with this gift.
Americans, Oil, and Reproductive Rights by Quinn Stifler
One of the most delightful surprises about Kapittel came when we realized our group comprised the majority of the Americans at the festival this year. From what we saw, the only other Americans attending were writers Philipp Meyer and Alan Weisman. Meyer spoke one night at the old Tou brewery-turned-art-space, Tou Scene, about his novel, American Rust. The following day, Alan Weisman, author of The World Without Us, spoke at Sølvberget, the cultural center where most Kapittel programming was based.
At a point, Weisman pontificated on humans’ past experiments meant to restrict population, and asked if anything we have done has worked. His solution, positioned as a fix with no social-harm, is education. He asserted the effectiveness of teaching people, before they conceive, the cost of raising a child.
Frankly, the language he used reminded me of Eugenics (further reading). He essentially proposed this teaching especially to those in “third world countries,” a term that is incredibly loaded and problematic in itself. To imply a place as “third world” is to imply a lack of civilization, and this is inherently Western, thusly Westernizing. In other words, when Americans express places as “third-world,” we are throwing non-Western cultures under our lens of the world, and asserting that their way of living is less civilized than ours—primarily in economic standards, from which social standards follow suit. So when we think of communities that are, for example, organized by villages rather than by cities, or who function collectively instead of independently from one another, we are presupposing our judgments of how life should be conducted onto them, and deeming their value as less than ours. This is an unacceptable practice, and falls in line with my point of focus for the week: in what ways must we unpack colonialism and racism in order to bridge a gap?
Even worse than simply assuring the largely-white and largely-Norwegian audience that educating people to not have children because of the burden they will place on the economy and environment, Weisman moved his point forward by stating, “the cheapest contraception on earth is educating girls.”
Now, here is where I need to check myself in terms of my views on gender roles within my Westernized mind; so if I slip up, please feel free to write a letter to the editor. But what about educating boys? I think to American culture around sex—specifically amidst the prevalence of rape-culture and victim-blaming. First, we teach girls it is their responsibility as human females to reproduce. Then we cross back and teach girls that the responsibility is on them to not get pregnant; to not tempt boys with their clothing; to not X, Y, and Z. The burden is on girls, never on boys. Rarely do I hear about boys having a talk about how to not overpopulate. I laugh at that. Rarely does anyone hear about boys being taught not to rape. This lecture wasn’t about rape, but victim-blaming falls in line with rape culture, and victim-blaming is essentially the same as teaching girls not to get pregnant. Honestly, I don’t know very much about the culture of sex and rape in many places outside of the United States. I know both things happen, but how they are understood culturally I can’t claim to know. What I know is that Weisman suggested that we teach “third-world” girls to not get pregnant. I find that deplorable in the burden it puts on them, paying no mind to basic issues of gender equality. So. Basic.
I left feeling embarrassed to be associated with these viewpoints and their possibility to be pegged as “American,” thusly implying their transference onto me. But I was caught with the feeling of guilt at this wish, knowing that so many people around me at this conference, those who don’t benefit from the same free speech rights as I do as a U.S. citizen, sometimes come from places where an opinion had could mean a threat to life. The push-pull of dialogues with explicit opinions on oil juxtaposed with a heavy focus on freedom of speech often left me with this feeling.
Most of our group got together afterward and passionately talked (and sometimes argued) about the validity of Weisman’s findings. We all agreed it may be best to check his book out from our libraries and see what it’s all about, so if we wish to refute him someday, we have the basic knowledge of his assertions.
Though frustrated and embarrassed, I left the lecture thinking heavily about how important the reproductive rights movement is as an alternative to the pro-choice movement. While pro-choice essentially only focuses on contraceptive rights and right-to-abortion, the reproductive rights movement supports these facets in addition to larger, transnational conversations on rape-culture, the right to ones’ body and bodily decisions, the necessity of stopping Eugenic-thinking, and most relevantly, de-gendering the ancient, Judeo-Christian ideas about reproductive sex and all its implications. Moving beyond a pro-choice mindset into a reproductive rights mindset is one step toward decolonizing our ideas about gender and culture, that is for certain.
Every time I walk through the automatic sliding doors at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, to my own car or parking shuttle, I experience a strange combination of relief and emptiness. Relief that I've arrived safely and may return to my family and life. And emptiness, as though I've left something behind in that place from which I had just come. There's something very final about those automatic sliding doors, as if going back is impossible. The trip is over after all.
Kapittel revealed that some trips are actually journeys not circumscribed by final destinations. When my colleagues and students ask "how was your trip?" I tell them it was a journey that doesn't end at home. It's easy to be complacent about how much one can accomplish (or believes she can't) to make a change in the world. My experience in Stavanger was life-affirming. It reminded me how as an artist and educator I do possess a power to challenge and alter the status quo, to raise awareness, and elevate ideals of beauty, fairness, integrity, and justice. The exiled poets and journalists I met in Norway have not abandoned their original tasks of producing art and disseminating information.
I might not ever get back to Stavanger. But, that's inconsequential because it's not the place that effects change. I do. So the work to preserve freedom of speech and extend our literature and art beyond troubled borders persists at home.
And so the journey goes on.
Outside the office of Mansur Rajih, Stavanger Cultural Centre
In the way that magical moments and connections often happen when traveling, I made friends with a Norwegian man who recognized me from youtube videos in a chocolate shop! His name is Ørnulf (the "Ø" is pronounced like "uh," so his name is pronounced kind of like "Ernulf"), which means "Eagle Wolf." I gave him a CD when we met, and he listened to it that same day. The next evening, we ran into each other at a social gathering happening after the Kapittel Festival's day programs had ended, where he told me that he had listened to the CD and deeply resonated with it. We ended up walking to the water and having long existential conversations for another couple hours.
They are such a beautiful family. Ørnulf and Åsa are both warm and deeply loving, spiritual people. And their baby is HILARIOUS! So playful and happy. It was very special to share a day with them, get to hear their stories, and cherish moments with their son together. The experience was a reminder of the universality of human experience, and the ever-present potential for friendship and alignment. We connected over so many things: spirituality, politics, poetry, food, family, nature. We spent the last evening of my trip at Mosterøy island off the coast of Stavanger (where ancient Norse peoples once lived), picnicked at Utstein Abbey (a medieval monastery), which was quite beautiful, and then went to see some incredible old rock formations. Everything felt still, quiet, and magical. It was Arn's first visit to the island, and the biggest joy of the trip was watching him come alive in nature, running and screaming ecstatically on the grass, chasing Ørnulf through the giant oak trees...
It was so wonderful to connect with a family, to make friends, to share simple joys, and to see Stavanger from another perspective. It was bittersweet, falling in love and letting go so quickly. But that is the way I like to live, and the memories are like precious stones. As I reflect on the experience from my house in Chicago, I think that there is a kind of exile that happens with traveling, falling love, and leaving: we leave little pieces of ourselves wherever we go. But now I think that exile is too strong a word. There is a longing, though - an ache mixed with beauty. Perhaps the word is saudaji - a portuguese noun that is said to be untranslatable, but which means something like "bittersweet longing." I'm reminded of a song by Simon and Garfunkel...
"Hello, hello, hello, hello,
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye,
That's all there is...
And the leaves that are green turn to brown."
As we return from Norway and Kapittel, I am filled with gratitude: for all the writers involved, for our host city Stavanger and the generous people at Kapittel, ICORN, and the culture house, and for our many supporters individual and organizational. Thank you.
But this is not a goodbye. During the festival, we presented, but we were primarily observers. Observing is active, and our “free” time from the festival was often filled with energized debates and thoughtful consideration. We are not done thinking—or sharing.
Our dispatches will continue as we overcome jetlag and reflect. Here you will find ruminations on freedom, story, place, boundaries, home, exile, and more. Thank you for observing. We hope to inspire you as we have been inspired.
After the reception at the oil museum hosted by the mayor today, the group headed down for some drinks at Books and Beer. (Seriously, what could be a better combination? Please someone open a bar like this in Chicago.) My husband Kyle and I spoke to Manal, an exiled poet from Iraq, about the turmoil in her country right now. Manal left in 2008 because she was a persecuted journalist, but her family and friends keep her abreast of what is happening in her country. There is no longer any media to report on the violence and political turmoil. Manal told us that because of extremists like ISIS, women are no longer allowed to work, go to school, or go out in public without being completely covered. This did not shock me, but it helped remind me of a few things— I’m incredibly lucky to be a woman living in the United States and I should always remember the struggles of women in other regions of the world. Most of my writing deals with women’s issues in some form or other, and I make a living as a strategist focused on reproductive rights; however, sometimes I do need to be reminded of our sisters in other countries who are fighting for their right to simply exist. Sometimes I’m so enveloped in my media’s sexism, my culture’s misogyny, and my country’s constant attacks on our right to control our bodies, that I neglect to acknowledge the great privilege of living without constant fear and writing about these issues without persecution. (Privilege is the word of the week for me, apparently.) I want to do more to build bridges with other women in other regions How can I make this happen? Where do I begin?
Something that I have been thinking about ever since this project began is the freedom I have to write whatever I want. In fact, I have actually made a living spouting my radical propaganda. (Half kidding.) I have freely expressed my liberal feminist opinions in national and international publications with no outwardly apparent consequences except the hate mail I receive from internet trolls. Though some of the messages I've received have been incredibly startling and violent, and I'm horrified by the deep misogyny in our culture, I don't feel like my life or safety are being directly threatened. Yesterday, we I spoke to Chenjerai Hove, the exiled Zimbabwean writer I'm reading with tonight. (Coincidentally, Chenjerai also knows Chris Abani, another exiled African writer I know and deeply respect.) Chenjerai was a delightful man who I could have joked with for hours. Unfortunately, I was unfamiliar with his work, so I did a little bit of research after our conversation and learned that in 1987 Chenjerai wrote a novel that addressed women's rights in modern Zimbabwe, which drew the government's attention. In 2001, his life was threatened by the police, and he has been living in exile ever since. The US is by no means a model for free speech, but I do often forget the luxury I have to write freely. I rarely hold back in what I say or write out of fear for my life. (Although I will admit I'm terrified to write about drug cartels.) Because of this luxury, I feel a deep sense of responsibility.
I feel like I am in a hurricane. There is so much information, so many stories, so many people from so many countries with so many important struggles that are all connected... I am completely overwhelmed. I need to sleep.
That being said, it is all wonderful and magical. I am riding a wave of excitement and will be processing this week for months, if not years.
Here are a few of the highlights from the last two-and-a-half days:
Thursday began with a talk (which Sahar mentioned) between novelist Andrei Kurkov and filmmaker Andre Nekrasov about the Ukrainian situation and the role of language and national-cultural identity in the conflict. (A special gravity was added to the conversation by the fact that Scotland was voting on its national question at the exact same time). The talk ended on a grave and deadly serious note: the implications of Russia's political volatility and the possibility of a third World War in the near future. (At this moment I am feeling quite shaken and overwhelmed because I just attended another talk on the Russian situation - this one more specifically about Putin as a politician and a man - and it ended on an equally if not more depressing note.)
The intensity continued with an ICORN panel with refugees Maria Amelie and Faizullah Muradi, both of whom had unthinkably horrible stories with important social implications. (Faizullah, or Faiz, has a story that is especially dramatic, unbelievable, and poignant given his overall optimistic outlook and youth. He is only 23 years old - younger than me - but he has lived more lifetimes than I can imagine. I don't want to share his story here - it is too intense - and unfortunately I cannot find it online, but here is a short video made for his recent court case during his deportation.) His bravery humbled me like nothing else, and his clear messages moved and inspired me. (His messages were, Americans: stop the war. Afghanis: Stay in Afghanistan if you can. Everyone: Know that you can and must change the world through organizing and people power.)
Got to see a talk with and meet American author Phillip Meyer, who had some very interesting stories to share about his process in writing his latest book.
Went on the boat tour of the Lysefjord with the crew - SO BEAUTIFUL! Pictures to follow! (We saw SEALS!!!)
Saw an absolutely fascinating film, "Love City Jalalabad," which I found incredibly moving and thought-provoking.
Met a Palestinian rapper, Haled (sp?), who also had a dramatic and inspiring story of political repression to share.
Got to hear Manal Al-Sheik reading her poetry in an intimate bar setting last night. Was proud to see my comrades L'Oreal and Erika representing in that same program! (L'Oreal read English translations of Manal's work - beautifully - and Erika did a short but powerful set of original work).
At the after-party last night, I ran into a man, Ørnulf, who had actually recognized me from the Louder Than A Bomb documentary when I went into a chocolate shop where he worked! (!!! Definitely first time being recognized outside of the U.S.! #egoboost) Turns out, in addition to being my biggest fan in Stavanger, he is also a soul-brother! We had an absolutely magical night talking God, politics, philosophy, singing "Across the Universe" by the Beatles, vibing... #MagickFlow!
Began today with a very rich and challenging panel discussion about the situation in Iraq (at which Manal and L'Oreal again presented Manal's poetry!), followed by the interview on Putin that I mentioned. Gonna take a break from blogging now, but will return soon to post fjord pictures!
Yesterday the Guild group took a tour on the fjords and it did not fall short of my expectations. The landscape is lovely (in spite of the oil rigs) and we've been enjoying incredible temperatures. It is easy to enjoy oneself, to think, to read and write without much anxiety. For me, that is. I'll be leaving tomorrow and this reminds me of a freedom I've taken for granted: my right to return and live in the States. But what of the exiled writers? Do the fjords represent something different? Do they reinforce a greater displacement or a calm and feeling of safety? How long before the Norwegian landscape feels familiar, if not home?
But an ICORN panel featuring exiled writers and their stories of political asylum on Thursday had me considering another question: Who's left behind in countries in turmoil once its artists, inventors, educators, engineers, and doctors leave? Faizullah Muradi, an Afghan interpreter for the Norwegian forces, was recently granted asylum in Norway after fleeing his country and two unstable years in Italy. His 12-year-old brother was tortured to death and yet he was not immediately set on leaving to protect himself. He charges his countrymen and women to "stay in Afghanistan" and not seek "a better life" elsewhere if one can safely live in Afghanistan.
This struck a deep chord for me as I consider the thousands of Palestinian exiles and those who've left Palestine for "a better life" (my immigrant parents included in the latter). It is certainly easy for observers to complacently encourage citizens in volatile nations to remain, build their countries, or on the polar end to leave and try to salvage an existence for themselves and families. But, Faizullah's demand that his Afghan brothers and sisters attempt to stay if their circumstances are not dire and unequivocally life-threatening is an essential one.
How else do our cultures perpetuate and defeat globalization?
In this new language our bones say
sun and sea, reminding us of an old
language our mouths have forgotten, but our
marrow remembers.
--Cassandra M. Lopez
The Boker Og Borst, Stavanger
At a panel yesterday, I heard a discussion between novelist Andrei Kurkov and filmmaker Andre Nekrasov which focused on the future of the Ukraine in the context of its historical ties to Russia. The ban on the Russian language which precipitated the tragic events that followed earlier this year is most compelling to me as I explore the question of cultural identity and assimilation. How does language politicize us? I considered the American Indians and how swiftly their language was obliterated and though the issues are certainly complicated between Ukraine and Russia, the analogy of banned language should cause us all to quake. Language is a powerful politicizing force. It renders one race superior in a swooping motion. In the U.S., the battle to "preserve" English is a pervasive one. The interests of non-white, non-Anglo speakers are subordinate to the economic and political health of the U.S.. It is not a means to unify all citizens, but rather to prevent racial and ethnic domination by persons of color.
The panel I attended made me consider how easily language is de-legitimized and the implications. What happens to our humanity when someone decides our language is not relevant or is a threat? How does that effect assimilation? What happens to identity and a sense of belonging?
Top: This is a man I met today while wandering the streets of Stavanger. He works on the oil rigs - 2 months on shore, 2 weeks offshore, and so on. (Today was his last day before leaving offshore). By night he plays music in a band for the workers on the oil rig.
Bottom Three: these are snapshots from a modern dance piece we saw later in the evening. It was very intense and evocative.
- Adam
