zondag 6 september 2015

Het arme jong - paspoort

De foto van een peuter in foetus-houding gestrand, verdronken, dood, omdat hij niet in zijn eigen stad en land kon opgroeien in vrijheid en met zijn ouders in een wankele ragboot zat zonder zwemvest op de Middellandse Zee, die koude harde zoute golven, die foto heeft een tsunami aan medeleven met vluchtelingen aangeblazen.
Het arme jong.
Hypocriet Europa.
Duizenden, tienduizenden, honderdduizenden kinderen sterven, zijn gestorven, door conflicten. Evenzoveel vrouwen en mannen van alle leeftijden overkomt, overkwam hetzelfde. Doet het ertoe hoe oud je bent als je sterft door geweld?
In de publieke opinie kennelijk wel.
Het onderbuik gevoel van de Europeaan is gedraaid. Nog kort geleden waren vluchtelingen gelijk criminelen. De hekken, muren, het prikkeldraad, het kon niet hoog genoeg.
Maar dat hielp niet.
Want mensen die wanhopig zijn, die oorlog en bittere armoede ontvluchten, laten zich niet tegenhouden door een hek of een ontbrekend paspoort. Dat kunnen ze zich niet permitteren.
De hypocrisie van het Westen blijkt even hard uit de sentimentele reactie op de erbarmelijke dood van peuter Aylan als uit de wapenleveranties naar degenen die hem de dood in stuurden.
We roven Afrika leeg, steunen ons welgezinde dictators en eisen op hoge toon terugbetaling van leningen die met valse bedoelingen zijn verstrekt (ja, IMF), maar we nemen geen enkele verantwoordelijkheid voor de ongelijkheid die we creƫren op ieder denkbaar front. Vandaag worden vluchtelingen als helden ontvangen op stations (ik denk dat het voor het eerst is sinds de mens bestaat) maar wat dan? Lost het iets op? Even wel. Een knuffel, een slaapzak, een paar schoenen. En morgen? Wat dan? Als die mensen een andere taal spreken? Andere gewoontes hebben? Wat dan? Gaan we dan weer lekker xenofoob wezen?
Flikker op, kawed, als we echt verontwaardigd zijn over onrecht en onderdrukking, dan moeten we constructief iets veranderen. In de eerste plaats dienen we onze zelfzuchtigheid, hebzucht en statusangst te verdrijven. In de tweede plaats moeten we de betekenis van empathie incorporeren. Ten derde, gast vrij, de gast is vrij. En wij zijn allen gast van Gaia.

De wereld is van ons allemaal. Het concept vluchteling is absurd. Het is een destructieve constructie van de samenleving die we samen hebben gemaakt. Hoe kan een mens op aarde een vluchteling zijn? Die aarde delen we. We mogen allemaal overal wonen. Gaia kent geen paspoort. Ze zorgt voor zuurstof en voedsel voor al haar bewoners.

Er zijn mensen die dat voelen

Rodaan Al Galidi: One is too many

Afbeelding: graffity Gent


dinsdag 16 juni 2015

No Bloom Today

James Joyce by Rowan Gillespie, Dublin
Dublin, June, 16th 2006

What to do when travelling to a country to celebrate a day that does not exist?

The Dublin house of Hugh Boiling turned topsy-turvy this years’ Blooms day. Friends of the couple Boiling flew in to celebrate Blooms day to find out that the day had been cancelled by the Centre bearing Joyce’s name because of the death of Charles Haughey, Irelands former beloved and hated con prime minister.

Whisky aid

Even Bellinger Blofeld, the cold-blooded British designer, sent by her Majesties Kingdom to represent the Empire, was thrown of his feet. Blofeld, ready to wear his all time Joyce suit and preparing for months now learning the Ulysses by heart as not to stand out from the crowd, had also been practising his Irish accent and a few basic Gaelic words. This serious study had taken a lot of time and energy.
Blofeld was flabbergasted when he heared the day was cancelled, as if it didn’t exist. The poor man had to grasp a bottle of whisky to be able to cope with the great disappearance. Not suprisingly for the incrowd, he got support from Paddy, Mrs Boilings' nephew, a soon-to-be famous pop star contracted by Universal records.
Paddy helped Bellinger Blofeld empty the bottle and made sure he himself would not miss a Blooms day that wasn’t going to happen. He managed to trick himself into a delirium that would last the whole of the cancelled, and therefore not existing, 16th of June of 2006.

Disappearing planes

Mrs Boiling had gone through great length to make sure her Norwegian friend was going to be there – she booked like three tickets for her.  The plane of the beloved friend disappeared together with Leopold Bloom and his lovely spouse Molly. Blooms day 2006 could only be equalled at the Bermudan Triangle.
The obscure Dutch couple that arrived at the house dressed like Stephen Dedalus and Molly Bloom changed character every five minutes. They lost themselves completely as Nora and James to come back like twenty-first century Buck and Gert. The spectators where spared the masturbation scene Gert played in the book, thank God.

Scottish

While the whisky was pouring and the fire blazing, because of the Boilings' preference to chop wood in the dark, Twhy and Twigs, two young friends that in daily life were rooming together with Little One in Edinburgh, were struggling to keep their heads clear.
Their fair hair  was blowing in the wind, while the girls kept loosing crocket games. After each loss they started throwing balls at Pablo, a black and FEROCIOUS Labrador, owned by the Boiling family.
Ciss, the daughter of the house, tried to maintain herself too. She managed quite well, until she saw her Scottish friend who played in a band that was about to break up. Then she decided to go and look for the lost plane in Glasgow that had her mother’s friend in it. It was the practical thing to do, since the trip gave Ciss the opportunity to join her older brother Thom.
Thom of course, being the oldest son and a searcher of human souls, was wise enough to stay away from his parents' house during this crazy nonexistent day. In Glasgow, UK, life was going on like it was supposed to be. No days disappeared from peoples lives. Only planes vanished.

Well ironed scullprinted

The crowd gathered at Confuse Mansion, a place no Dublin taxi driver is able to find without help, heroically played every role that was thrown upon them even though not even dates could be trusted anymore.  
Bellinger Blofeld symbolised their bravery by changing into his spotless and well ironed scull printed shirt. He took it from a very small travelling bag that must have had magical power. Not so much as a tiny wrinkle. Blofeld even managed to keep the rabbit inside the bag, that is … as long as the Dutch Dedalus did not put on his raggy hat. Then the fluffy animal jumped out shouting ‘surprise!’. But of course in this chaos nobody was surprised by anything anymore, let alone by a rabbit dancing the salsa on the soon-to-be pop stars' soon-to-be new hit: THEY TOOK YOUR CHESTNUT at the sight of an old hat.

The 17th

Luckily at midnight the faded day passed on to June the 17th apparently without any problems. Even planes landed safely again. Everybody took to bed feeling quite satisfied; having such good friends that help you through Not Blooms day.