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What lurks beneath Israel’s right to defend itself?

No, bombing schools and hospitals is not legitimate self-defence


02/11/2024

The other day I heard Bernie Sanders proclaim that “Israel has a right to defend itself”, as he made the case for a Harris presidency. He spoke in his trademark gruff manner, a tone whose charm has long faded since it has been co-opted to the service of empire—of making the empire marginally more progressive.

“…but”, he went on to deliver a call for moderation and limits to Israel’s violence. And then to insist we should still vote for politicians who enable genocide and glory in the lies that justify it. I’m not here to debate whether or not someone should vote. This is a morally and strategically complex issue that is mostly inconsequential to the mad trajectory our planet is spinning along.

What interests me more is the construction of the oath: “Israel has a right to defend itself”, that Bernie and others feel the need to recite before delivering any critique of Israel’s war on Palestine. Curiously, it is the same line used by Biden and Harris to justify sending the weapons that are doing the killing that Sanders claims to find abhorrent. And it is used by the genocidaires themselves, Netanyahu and others, along with their cheerleaders. This should be enough to make us pause and consider what this supposedly self-evident truth says and does not say.

So, once again: “Israel has a right to defend itself.”

Let’s start with the “Israel” part. In what sense does the identity of being Israel constitute a set of rights? Is it that Israel, as a nation-state, has a right to defend itself, because, apparently, nation-states have a right to self-defence?

A lot of legal minds don’t think international law supports what Israel has done to Gaza. In any case, I doubt that many people are weighing the UN charter in their heads when someone is droning on about Israel’s righteous violence. They are more likely to reach for whatever commonplace ideas of fairness they have accumulated in their everyday lives.

For instance, the way I typically understand self-defence is that, when someone is attacking me, I have the right to use violence to repel their violence. So if someone comes into my house and strikes me with a baseball bat, I can use the counter-violence of my cast iron wok or electric fly swatter until they stop, and preferably leave. The right to self-defence does not endorse finding out where my attacker lives and blowing up their house, killing them, their families and their neighbours as well.

This is obviously not a perfect analogy for many reasons. Individuals and nation-states are different kinds of entities, and also, the Hamas attacks on October 7 took place in the context of Israel’s long genocidal campaign against Palestine. It is not some random home invasion.

I make the analogy to show that even if we were to agree that nation-states have a right to use violence to make themselves safe, in the case of Israel, this right applied only when Hamas was attacking the rave, kibbutzim and military bases along the borders of the Gaza concentration camp. Once Hamas left, that licence expired.

What about the rockets? Given that they have caused very few civilian casualties, the right to self-defence does not extend to obliterating apartment buildings, schools, universities and hospitals on the faintest whiff of conjecture that someone is hiding a rocket launcher in an MRI machine.

Perhaps Israel does understand self-defence to mean that when someone attacks you, you have an unlimited right to strike back with no consideration of proportionality. An eye for an eye doctrine, or at the latest count 250 eyes for an eye, according to the Lancet journal (and not just eyes, but arms, legs, jaws, skin–hundreds of thousands of human lives obliterated).

If this is the case, then the right to violence extends in all directions—physical, temporal—and to all actors in the bloody drama of human existence. Israel justifies its violent war on Gaza based on the October 7 attack. Fine. But in this infinite regress, Hamas can then say the October 7 attack was justified by, for instance, Israeli snipers shooting out the knees of peaceful protesters. Or the kid you pushed around when you were 13 can show up at your work and break your legs, so you can never ever bully them again. This concept of self-defence bloats and degenerates to the point where it can justify virtually any act of violence, by anyone, committed anywhere—because there will always be some act of violence preceding it.

I don’t think that’s what Israel or its defenders want to imply. In fact, I see the outlines of something much more ominous lurking beneath the surface.

Let’s circle back to the question of what “Israel” signifies. Perhaps they are saying that Israel has a right to defend itself not as any old nation-state, but because it is Israel. What then is the elusive quality of “being Israel” that grants it special rights to use violence against its perceived enemies?

The way I see it, Israel’s right to self-defence is not about the October 7 attacks or the fleeting barrages of rockets that disturb the sky over Tel Aviv. Rather, it is coiled with a desire to repress the memory that Israel was created very recently on lands upon which others lived and who were violently expelled. The Nakba haunts the lands upon which the nation-state of Israel stands.

So it is the mere existence of Palestinians at all that constitutes a psychic and existential threat to the state of Israel, against which Israel feels emboldened to unleash unending waves of slaughter until those they perceive as a threat escape into permanent exile or turn into dust. This would go a long way to explain why so many fading empires and settler-colonies are backing Israel’s genocide with moral support and military aid. Also, why Israel’s war on Palestine has no end in sight; why parents carry their children home from school as bags of meat; why Gaza sometimes looks less like a city under siege and more like the cratered surface of the moon.

However you interpret it, none of the many implications of the dirge that “Israel has a right to defend itself” withstand scrutiny—unless you are inclined to partake in a nihilistic orgy of retributive violence, or you think that certain ethnic enclaves possess special rights to commit genocide.

So we should just stop saying it.

“This appears to be an orchestrated campaign”

The right wing loses a vote at the Berlin Die Linke party conference and accuses others of “destroying the party”. A discussion with Ramsy Kilani


29/10/2024

Federal party conference 'Die Linke' 2022 in Erfurt. Steffen Prößdorf (24/06/2022), Wikimedia Commons.

At the Berlin Die Linke party conference the debate about the motion “Against all antisemitism – defend emancipation and universal human rights” raised a lot of excitement. You and other delegates were accused by the people who proposed the motion of “destroying the party. How do you think that this came to happen?

The “Realo” wing around the parliamentarians Katina Schubert, Klaus Lederer and Elke Breitenbach went onto the offensive with a resolution at the party conference. The resolution was nominally against antisemitism, and foresaw the “use of constitutional means”.

The resolution also accused Hamas and Hisbollah of “eliminatory antisemitism”. The left wing of the party called for this phrase to be deleted, because it has been developed in relation to the Holocaust. Calling on the authoritarian state during increasing repression was rejected by a majority.

After a break, the people who proposed the motion said that they were withdrawing it. Because of the accusation of relativising the Holocaust, they would not stay at the conference any longer. This right-wing group then stormed out of the conference hall making wild calls and insults. One parliamentarian stuck up her middle finger at a female comrade.

What is the accusation that you and others want to “destroy” the party about?

Nothing. The resolution, leaving the Conference, and the media campaign appear to me to be an orchestrated campaign by the party right. Despite the accusations, I wasn’t even part of the intervention at the Conference, even though I see myself as part of the left wing and welcome the outcome.

In the current times of imperialist escalation and the growth of the AfD, an anti-capitalist voice is necessary. I and other comrades have been passionately building the party Die Linke with this aim over years. I wouldn’t consider a decline of Die Linke to be a step forward for the German Left as a whole if there is no alternative.

What are your perspectives?

At the moment, Die Linke is barely capable of showing a pole of hope. The orientation on parliament and joining governments has weakened the connection with extra-parliamentary movements and workers’ struggles, and has led to passivity in most base structures.

The politics of Die Linke in local governments does not oppose social cuts, deportations and climate crisis. In open debate, Die Linke is no longer noticeable as a system-critical opposition against capitalism. It acts like a colourless, established party.

At the same time there is rage against the consequences of neoliberal politics of war and impoverishment. The climate movement and the Palestine movement against Israel’s genocide in Gaza are confronted with state repression. Resentment against German militarism is growing, the rise of the AfD is making determined counter-mobilisation necessary. These are starting points into which a left party of movements could breathe life.

What does that mean for your engagement in the party?

At the end of the week, there is the party conference in Halle [this interview was published on 17th October]. We believe that this is the time for decisions. Die Linke will have no future with formal compromises. A left party which cannot call a genocide a genocide makes itself irrelevant.

At the same time, the problems are deeper than just Palestine solidarity. The engagement in building an opposition party which is a voice against war and crisis will continue to be central for me. I value many activists in Die Linke.

Nonetheless, a decision for stagnation would mean that the former MP Christine Buchholz [back in the party leadership since 2022], I and other members of Sozialismus von Unten [Socialism from Below, a left-wing organisation of which Ramsy and Christine are members] will change our priorities to building the movement and our organisation. Our work in Die Linke was always connected with building a revolutionary core in the fight for reforms.

Ramsy Kilani is an activist with “Sozialismus von unten” and a member of Die Linke.

Yaro Allisat is a freelance journalist and active in the climate justice movement and at the Refugee Law Clinic Leipzig as a consultant for asylum and residence rights.

This interview was first published in the junge Welt. Reproduced with permission.

Tanuki, Territory, and Capital

Marxism and the fight against urban expansion in Pom Poko


28/10/2024

Rewatching Studio Isao Takahata’s Pom Poko on its 30th anniversary leaves behind a nostalgia idiosyncratic to 90’s Japanese animation. It shares a political and philosophical narrative seen in many Ghibli productions. Pom Poko takes us back to the 1960s, during a period of rapid urban expansion to tell a story about nature’s native populations and their struggle against capitalism and land theft, with the Tanuki (racoons) serving as political subjects resisting the consequences of consolidated industrialisation. 

The Tanuki live in the Tama Hills on the outskirts of Tokyo. The Hills are threatened urban sprawl. The Tanuki’s habitat and homes are being destroyed to make way for construction, causing resource scarcity and forcing them to venture into the city where they scavenge in the trash and around fast-food outlets. The Tanuki possess magical abilities that allow them to shapeshift into objects, people, animals and mystical creatures. Rooted in Japanese folklore, this magical realism plays a central role in depicting the deep connection between the natural and supernatural, creating a world in which animals can tap into hidden knowledge normally out of reach for urbanised humans (a recurring theme in Ghibli films). Using this magic, the Tanuki fight back through a series of campaigns involving direct action, peaceful protests, human sabotage and shape-shifting performance. Their societay is deeply communal, one in which elders hold leadership while younger Tanuki possess the drive and initiative needed to turn theory into practice and stop the construction-site development in their forest. 

It’s no coincidence that, six years after Pom Poko, Paul Crutzen globalised the idea of the ‘Anthropocene’, identifying a new geological epoch marked by human-driven intervention on Earth’s geological strata. While the idea had circulated in scientific circles before, it wasn’t until 2000 that Crutzen’s framing of human activity as a potentially hazardous force gained widespread recognition. Understanding this requires analysis of the production relationships that serve as primers for the emergence of the Anthropocene. Global industrialization not only spurred urban expansionism but also defined an international working class.  So, what does this have to do with Pom Poko and how can we use Marx’s theory of alienation to understand the struggles posed by the Tanuki which frame humans against nature?

As Dan Swain points out, in the Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts Marx opens a conversation on the relationship between humans and nature and humans and labour. In his words, ‘our alienation from the products of labour means that we also become alienated from the natural world in which we live and work’. The bulldozing of Tama Hills represents the disconnect between the worker’s environment and the rest of the ecosystem, including all other species (such as the Tanuki). This tension pushes the workers to identify with a faceless construction company instead of allying with the Tanuki; an alliance that would not only free them of their alienation from nature but would also allow them to demand better working conditions and ultimately,  self-emancipation, just like the Tanuki aspire to. 

The workers live on-site, with their boss promising meager pay raises as a means to keep them working through precarious conditions. During the post-war period rural populations had little choice but to migrate to cities in search of employment. This led to an influx of rural labour in urban centres, a trend driven by land reforms and mechanisation of agriculture. Many country farmers and labourers were pushed off their land, just like the Tanuki. There is an imperative to point out the similarities in both as exploited subjects—the material conditions leading to the exploitation of nature and the exploitation of workers are rooted in the same production relations. 

Another shared aspect which Marx wrote regarding alienation in nature has to do with the industrial process of soil erosion, described by Dan Swain as, ‘eroding soil by extracting nutrients from it which were never replaced but rather dumped as waste in the cities’. This exact issue is shown in Pom Poko when a different community of Tanuki who live in another section of Tokyo’s urban sprawl reach out for help. Their suffering is caused by soil and debris from the construction site in Tama Hills being dumped directly onto their territory, destroying their home and displacing them. Marx notes that, ‘Capitalist production…causes the growing population to achieve an ever-growing preponderance…it disturbs the metabolic interaction between man and the Earth, i.e., it prevents the return to the soil of its constitutive elements…All progress in capitalist production is a progress in the art of, not only of robbing the worker, but of robbing the soil.” As a result, both human and non-human populations find themselves at the mercy of capitalist production.

The Tanuki communities unite to resist this land dispossession by holding a series of conferences and general assemblies. In preparation, they summon Tanuki shape-shifting masters from nearby islands to teach them advanced transformation techniques. During the debates, tensions arise as differences in ideology lead to a split. Gonta, a fierce and militant Tanuki, takes on a leadership role within a small faction of tanuki who advocate for direct action and the killing of humans. This group, frustrated by the limitations of peaceful protests and negotiations, believes that the only way to reclaim their land is through lethal tactics, even at the expense of their own lives. Gonta’s splinter group isolates from the main Tanuki community, who prefer the shape-shifting approaches. Lacking the majority’s support, this Gonta and his group launch a desperate, kamikaze charge in a dramatic, last-ditch confrontation with riot police at the edge of the city. Tragically, the mission proves fruitless. The bodies of Gonta’s comrades pile up, killed by police forces. His strength spent, Gonta is run over by a truck in the middle of the city. The isolating nature of physical confrontation without a real force correlation (that is, the support of the whole Tanuki community) leads to failure. No matter how committed Gonta and his comrades were to the cause, they needed the rest of the Tanuki to succeed. 

It’s worth mentioning the role of ‘Inugami Gyobu’, a fox from Tama Hills who also possesses shape-shifting abilities (in accordance with Japanese folklore). Along with a small cohort of other foxes, he has adapted to human society, learning to blend in and thrive by leveraging human systems rather than opposing them. He embodies the danger of social movements being co-opted, assimilated, or ‘bought out’ by capitalism. In proposing a plan to the Tanuki, he tries to convince them to abandon their cause and finally blend in with the humans adopting a shape-shifting form forever. His acceptance of defeat implies that resistance is futile. By choosing self-preservation over resistance, he sends a message to the Tanuki that adapting to urban life and abandoning their existence is the only viable option. His plan divides the Tanuki, creating another ideological split between those with the capacity to assimilate and those who would continue to resist (it is also imperative to mention, that like the foxes, not all Tanuki possess shape-shifting abilities, meaning some would be left behind to fend for themselves or, like the non-magical foxes, die out entirely). 

When Marx identifies the breakdown in the relationship between humans and nature due to capitalist industrial modes of production, he suggests, ‘not returning to a lost country life but to abolish the distinction between town and country’. Marx’s perspective on nature is rooted not in mysticism but in practical concerns, particularly of human health, especially for the working class who, like the Tanuki, are suffering the consequences of urban pollution and highly concentrated human populations. He argues that to survive as human and non-human species, a total re-organisation of society is necessary, and requires ‘exerting conscious collective control over the relationships of production’. This is a relevant counter-argument to some environmentalist positions regarding individual behaviour or ‘reducing your carbon footprint’ as a potential solution. As Swain says, ‘One of the most popular solutions proposed for climate change is ‘‘carbon trading’’ whereby companies can continue to pollute on one side of the world in exchange for investing in renewable energy or planting trees on the other side. This could not be a clearer example of commodity fetishism, where even Co2 molecules are understood as commodities which can be traded off against one another’.

Pom Poko ends on a bittersweet note. After all their efforts to resist urban development fail, the Tanuki are ultimately forced to integrate into human society to survive. Many take on permanent human forms, blending into city life and adopting human jobs. A few tanuki manage to maintain a small foothold in the remaining green spaces, where they can still live freely, but these areas are scarce and shrinking, making them long for the world they lost, painfully aware of the displacement and loss of identity that urban expansion has imposed on them and becoming estranged from their own cultural practices and traditions, forced into roles that have no connection to their identity or heritage. 

Nevertheless, despite the profound loss, the ending scene conveys another side of the story showing Tanuki who continue to live by their traditions, gathering food, playing, and carrying on their natural lives. Although most Tanuki have scattered, the ones who remain in small green spaces keep a communal spirit alive. They portray how solidarity and shared traditions are still possible beyond alienation. Through a Marxist lens, this communal existence is rooted in the belief that people could freely develop and express themselves if freed from capitalism and exploitation.

“For those of you who feel the same way as we do, those who feel lost and unsure in this new world, please remember, you can still find us, if you know where to look. We’ll be here, living as tanuki, in the last patches of green.”

-Shoukichi (Tama Hills Tanuki)

How we Honoured the Children of Gaza in Berlin

Report from an Immersed observer


26/10/2024

It’s a windy Sunday on Unter den Linden. Yet, an eclectic gathering of people – 600 in total over the day – is standing still on the pavement next to a heap of used children’s shoes outside Berlin’s Neue Wache, the city’s memorial for the “Victims of War and Tyranny.” Every four minutes, one of them walks up to a microphone and reads one page of 42-45 Arabic names, surrounded by more kids’ shoes. There are women dressed in giant white wings among the listeners. No speeches, no music. Not a political slogan in sight. 

“We’re reading the names of the children killed in Gaza,” I tell a German tour guide, obviously struggling to explain the scene to her bemused flock. The giant English sign reading “HONOURING THE CHILDREN OF GAZA” doesn’t seem to help. Neither does the eclectic collection of people of all ages, ethnicities, and appearances. Except maybe for the odd keffiyeh, this is a crowd that doesn’t easily give itself away. “Ah, a pop-up for English people,” she concludes before fleeing the scene, her 17 tourists in tow. 

Anyone who’s done it knows what it feels like to speak those names aloud. On that Sunday, the emotion and dignity we all felt were humbling.

It’s October 13, and Israel’s war on Gaza has claimed the lives of at least 17,000 children. In June, we’d already “honoured” 8,000 of them over a 15-hour marathon reading. We didn’t think that just five months later, we’d be here again. This time we only have 10 hours and we already know we won’t even get close to getting through the next batch of 8,000 names we have prepared. But the emotion is the same. Anyone who’s done it knows what it feels like to speak those names aloud. On that Sunday, the emotion and dignity we all felt were humbling.

Meet the Readers: a snapshot of Berlin‘s International Palästina Solidarity 

By 8pm we’re slowly packing up as an 11-year-old keeps on reading names – many of the names she reads are her age or younger – with undeterred determination. Before her, 128 people have read one page each. Despite the wind and the damp cold, an uninterrupted flow of volunteers has flocked to the Neue Wache. They’ve come alone, with partners, children, friends, or dogs. From 1pm the waiting time for a reading slot was about 40 minutes, but even when the rain started, no one thought of complaining. A Palestinian woman asked if her mum could read her own list – they have (had?) family in Gaza. A man insists on reading a second and a third time. When not at the mic, he stood by with an open notebook covered in colourful childish letters, which reads: “Wir können nicht schweigen, unsere Kinder werden getötet” (“We cannot be silent, our children are being killed”). 

Our readers reflect both Berlin’s multinational demographics and the world’s politics: they’re from Mexico or Russia, India, Japan, Egypt, or Lebanon to name a few I talked to. And there are many Irish Berliners, like Cara who’s come with three boxes of beautiful home-printed stickers of our trademark poppies. Judging by today’s turnout, Irish Berliners are in step with their country’s strong empathy for the Palestinian liberation fight. “We had our share of colonial oppression, scars are still there,” says a young woman from Dublin. “Solidarity for us isn’t just words, we feel it in our guts.” If I was familiar with Ireland’s inclinations (the country formally recognised the state of Palestine in May), I knew little about Latvian politics until a tourist from Riga walked up to us with great excitement. “In my city they ban protests in support of Palestinians,” he explained, making it sound like things couldn’t possibly be worse elsewhere. He’s obviously very moved by our event.

As in June, many Jews, expat Israelis, and Germans with Jewish roots have joined in – like the violinist Michael Barenboim, who rushed from Hauptbahnhof to make his 12:30 slot. The son of legendary Jewish peace-building conductor Daniel Barenboim, Michael is one of Germany’s few prominent voices to have protested the war in Gaza in any media that would hear it. His outspokenness, humble availability (he’s also a co-initiator of the Kilmé Palestinian talks series), and his natural eloquence (“It’s not the Palestinians’ fault that Germany murdered six million Jews”) have made him a hero among Berlin’s thriving pro-Palestine milieus. Despite a packed schedule that week, and a concert in Marburg the previous night, he insisted on reading with us again. “I was already here in June, and I thought this event, mourning together, was a really moving and powerful way to show solidarity. You stand here at the mic, with one page of this thick book filled with lists of names. You read the name and then you read the age – so many of them are under one, or two, or five… It’s just heartbreaking.”  I also recognise Mehmed König among the crowd. This time around, the Berlin SPDMP isn’t reading. He, his husband and their dog Oscar have come simply to show their support. 

Meet the Germans: much shame and more guilt

More surprisingly for people familiar with the political context here, many white Germans have made their way to the Neue Wache. They all talk about the collective shame they feel at their country’s “unconditional” support of Israel, and the bitter feeling of being “on the wrong side of history again.”  Cornelia, who’s travelled all the way from the South of Germany to read, is deeply emotional about the topic. “I think that as Germans, especially because of your country’s history, you have a responsibility to speak up for the Palestinians as well as for the Jews. A double responsibility, because without the Holocaust, the massive immigration of the 1930s, and the Nakba, the expulsion of 750,000 Palestinians from their homeland in 1948, we wouldn’t be where we are now.”  Her paternal grandparents were Jewish musicians from Hungary. “If it weren’t for one brave man who, in the hell of the Holocaust, rescued the lives of over 100,000 Jews in Budapest, I probably wouldn’t be here today. So I think it’s important to stand up for humanity, and now we live in a democracy, it’s our duty to do so.” 

Although she’s a German citizen and spent most of her life in Baden-Württemberg, Cornelia won’t say “we” when speaking about Germany. She also won’t associate with “her” Green Party anymore – not when a Green foreign minister’s support for “Israel’s right to self-defence” means excusing and abetting the killing of over 42,000 civilians. This tireless peace advocate struggles with her natural mildness when referring to Baerbock’s speech in the Bundestag a few days earlier, when the minister condoned the targeting of hospitals and schools (In Baerbock’s words, “I made clear that civilian sites could lose their protected status if terrorists abuse this status. That’s what Germany stands for.”). 

There are many former East Germans here too, like Katja, who grew up in Dresden and is angry with her fellow citizens. “How can you go demonstrating for diversity, equality, against the AfD, but fall silent when faced with this slaughter committed by a far-right government?” Katja is the initiator of Stimmen aus Gaza, a group of 20 women (and one man!) who, since February, have been reading poetry and diaries from Gaza on streets and squares around Berlin. Their small pop-ups are often met with indifference and sometimes verbal abuse. “But some people do stop and listen, and it means a lot.” For Katja, speaking out is key. “In my circle, I sense a terrible fear of coming into contact with the issue.” 

Today, Claire has joined in with a 16-strong bevy of Grieving Doves . Since last October, they’ve been a regular sight at Berlin pro-Palestine demos and self-organised mourning convoys across the city –  carrying spectacular wings made out of the names of Gaza victims,  which they handwrite on pieces of cloth at monthly workshops. Doves and Stimmen have been natural matches for an event aiming to promote grieving as a way of breaking the silence. 

Beyond denial?

“It’s good you’re doing it for the children – they are innocent victims,” concedes a neighbour who only came after I explained there would be no political slogans, no speeches. She was especially concerned with being seen next to a banner with “From the river to the Sea,” a slogan that was ruled to be a crime by a Berlin judge. 

German minds may be out of reach, but their hearts aren’t. At least this is the bet we made. 

I like to joke that with HTCOG we created a space for Germans to break the silence, without having to speak out. The idea? Shaking off apathy by means of empathy, and winning over a few bystanders, by helping them out of their comfortable denial zone.  Sami Khatib, a scholar who doesn’t mince his words about “Germany’s Palestinian problem,” was sceptical of my theory, arguing that, yes, even if they come and feel sorry those kids, they may still share the widespread idea in Germany that if those children have died, it’s the Palestinians’ own fault – for wanting to fight Israel, or having Hamas  “hide behind civilians”(2). I take the point, but I still would defend that mourning Gaza’s children is one step out of the kind of dehumanisation that underlies any genocide. German minds may be out of reach, but their hearts aren’t. At least this is the bet we made. 

I’ve since realised that even an event mourning children can be viewed with suspicion, after a former friend and colleague accused me of spreading “hatred of Jews in Germany.”

I’ve since realised that even an event mourning children can be viewed with suspicion, after a former friend and colleague accused me of spreading “hatred of Jews in Germany.” I had invited her to come and read the list of the 37 victims under 18 killed by Hamas on October 7. (They were mostly Jewish, but include six Bedouins.) She declined, arguing that she “would not expose herself to being beaten to death.” Since then she’s been sending me material “debunking Palestinian lies,” including a 6-minute video “proving the Gaza death toll is faked” – making our HTCOG event part of a massive Jew-hating propaganda effort. 

Let’s face it:  most of us who’ve gathered at the Neue Wache would be “antisemites” not only according to my friend, but also by German State standards. whose blurry IHRA definition of antisemitism tends to extend to critics of Israel. 

But I knew we’d struck a chord in the last instalment of HTCOG when my German ex-Stiefmutter agreed to join in and read last June. In a moving video, she spoke about the trauma of her post-Holocaust generation. “We, the perpetrators’ children” struggle to break the silence, the unbearable realisation that “nothing, no one, could undo what had been done.” Now, her uneasiness seeing fellow Germans turning their eyes and hearts away from the extermination of so many Palestinians. She didn’t come this time. I put it on the weather. 

Interestingly, white men were the missing demographics on both of our events, unless they were Jewish or of “Migrationshintergrund.” 

Are other German men lacking a wife, balls, or empathy?

So when a tall German in a suit and tie walks up to the mic, he causes a bit of a sensation. I then realise he’s come with his young Iranian wife and her mother to read. Cherchez la femme. Are other German men lacking a wife, balls, or empathy?

Meet the elusive journalists 

It’s not yet noon when a reporter from Turkish TRT World shows up, a cameraman in tow. They were already here last time – probably the only local outlet to report on “pro-Palestinian”  events in this country. To be fair, a few German colleagues did cover the June event, like Daniel Baiz and Charlotte Wiedemann, who both wrote about us in taz – notable exceptions for a paper that won’t dare criticise Israel despite their supposed left-wing, progressive and (until Ukraine) pacifist, credentials.

One French journalist has made the round trip from Paris to read his page of names. He’s a retired celebrity of French public television, from back when TV news journalists were fearless front-line reporters, and their faces familiar to every household. “Most media in France seem indifferent to the number of people killed every day in Gaza,” he says “Reading their names is a great idea.” Like many press veterans of his generation, he laments the failure of big Western media, staffed by what he calls “content-makers” rather than reporters.  Today, he mostly relies on Al-Jazeera and social media to know “what’s really going on” in Palestine. “But I’ve heard the situation is a lot worse with German media. Is it true?”

Why honour the Children of Gaza in Berlin?

Where to start? The natural distress any human would/should feel when faced with the live-streamed spectacle of so many butchered innocent souls? “Souls,” not numbers, not disposable bodies in the way of the IDF’s war rampage. 

Then the indignation we felt when Berlin, our city, home to Europe’s largest Palestinian diaspora, banned and repressed expressions of mourning and solidarity for Gaza victims. Judith Butler’s division of populations into grievable and ungrievable lives had never felt so close to home. According to German society, Palestinian children were obviously not as grievable as Israeli ones. Certainly not as grievable as our own white ones. 

This was of course exacerbated by the frustration of living in a country where criticism of Israel was inaudible, unacceptable and often labelled as “antisemitic,” Where your progressive friends would hide behind abstract concepts (“Staatsräson” anyone?) and plead “overcomplexity” to excuse appalling ignorance and political passivity. A country where media silence made ignorance excusable and mass murder something that could simply be overlooked. In the words of Charlotte Wiedemann, “a special German right not to know – not to know what exactly is going on in Israel, in Gaza or in the West Bank because knowing would be too difficult.” 

A whole nation’s support for a genocide* in the name of atoning for a past one? (*I leave the semantic debate to specialists – let’s just point out that the ICJ ruled “genocide” as “plausible”). The moral flaw of this reasoning is so obvious that the German blindness to recognise it – even when challenged by Jews – reveals an Erinnerungskultur that has been completely warped. 

By tying atonement to its support for a foreign state supposed to represent its former victims, Germany, the great perpetrator, is turning its “Nie wieder” commitment into a political catechism, not a moral principle. Insightful minds have described a perverse expiation mechanism by which Germany had “subcontracted blame” to the Palestinians – they were now paying the German debt.

Meanwhile, the entire German media apparatus has succumbed to a baffling travesty of journalism by which context has been erased, facts redacted, and sources selected, so as to perpetuate a narrative in step with “Staatsräson.” Individual colleagues complained to me about “the pressure” but very few dared to dissent. I got a taste of the situation already last November, when taz asked me to write an opinion  piece about my “outsider’s perspective,” which they ultimately did not publish after weeks of procrastination. “I agree with everything you write,” said one editor. But? “Timing,” she replied. The piece was entitled, “Why won’t my German friends and colleagues speak out against Israel’s war crimes in Gaza?”

By early April, some 10,000 children had already died in Gaza, but Germany was turning its eyes away: Politicians were busy fulfilling Staaträson with more weapons shipments to Israel and the disbanding of a Berlin-Palestinian symposium, while the German media were working hard reporting on secret Hamas tunnels in Gaza and outing hidden antisemites at home. That’s when Lucie, a Frenchwoman who owns a café-grocery store in my neighbourhood told me about a bunch of enterprising Dutch people who had displayed shoes on Utrecht’s city square and read the names of the children of Gaza. When she asked me if I would be up for organising something similar here, I immediately jumped on board. We contacted the Dutch organisation who agreed to send us all the names they had received from the Gaza Health Ministry and translated into a bilingual script. (1)

Who are we?

We often laugh when people ask about the “organisation behind this” – considering we started as a trio and continued as a pair of French Berlinerinnen, using the label “independent initiative.” Lucie’s husband is Palestinian, and her three daughters have grandparents in the West Bank. Nouma, who helped us organise the June event, has an Algerian dad. I’m not Jewish (many friends as well as my mum’s partner are). I’m not Arabic or even Muslim (some old friends are). I’m not German either (my daughter is). I’m a journalist who once spent 10 days seeing another tragic war (2001, Chechnya). There, I witnessed what it means to lose everything – a home and loved ones, and the grief of one particular mother never left my heart. Those 10 days in war-torn Chechnya taught me that no political goal can ever justify the killing of a single child. That wars are mostly decided by people who don’t fight in them. That civilians never win them. 

And so we took action, and tried to enrol some “bystanders.” Between June and October, up to 900 people dropped by the Neue Wache to honour the children of Gaza. Strangely, neither Lucie nor I read. Why? “Not my thing,” says Lucie, whose quiet, collected mompreneur facade (she cares for a two-shop business and three daughters) hides great shyness and a big heart. I can relate. I’d tried, alone in my living room, as I needed to time how quickly one could read a page. After a few names, the words got stuck in my throat, and I was overwhelmed by a deep emotion, the same emotion I saw again and again outside the Neue Wache that Sunday.

Notes

(1) COUNTING THE DEAD According to official counts, between 16,500 and 17,000 children have been killed in Gaza alone, since October 2023. Serious experts say it’s a lot more than that. We know from previous experience that numbers end up being 3 to 15 times higher once you include unreported and indirect deaths (Lancet)

(2) We now know from American doctors who reported to the NYT “what they saw in Gaza,” that many children don’t die as “collateral damage” during airstrikes – but murdered in cold blood, shot in the head. 

 

Photo Gallery from the Event by Cherry Adam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos by Nadja Vancauwenberghe

 

“Art and culture are spaces to amplify the voice of resistance.”

Interview with Y.H, curators of the exhibition: “I will write our will above the clouds”, on for this weekend in Panke Gallery,


25/10/2024

Thanks for talking to us. Could you start by introducing yourself? Who are you and what do you do?

I am the co-curator of the exhibition “I Will Write Our Will Above the Clouds,” alongside A.A. We are both members of a Fana’ collective focused on critiquing the prevailing visual culture. Our primary work revolves around publishing the Black Journal, a platform for exploring politics, identity, and the contradictions between them. We mainly collaborate with artists and contributors from the Arab world to maintain a contextual perspective on these issues. This exhibition series is a new initiative created in response to the genocidal war on Gaza.

The exhibition that you’re organising is doing a tour in Europe. Where have you visited so far?

We started the exhibition in Paris, and then we moved it to London. Now we’re in Berlin. We’ll be in Barcelona at the end of next month. Then possibly Milan, Lisbon, and maybe we’ll go back to the Arab world.

What has the reception been like so far?

There was great feedback and a lot of people in Paris. At first, we were working with only 14 artists. Now we have a total of 28. The space was small and quite intimate, and two of the artists were able to come to the exhibition.

In London, we did it in the Mosaic rooms, with big help from a lot of different people. Many people interacted with the art and the artists whether through the talks or directly.

What is the exhibition about?

The exhibition is an attempt to amplify the voices of Gazan artists, and to financially support them and their families in the ethnic cleansing and genocidal war occurring till this day in the Gaza Strip. The idea is to gather the works and art that have been destroyed, bombed or displaced in this war.

This is an exhibition that focuses on the digital archive of art. What is the role of the digital cloud in times of war and such destruction? You will find a lot of artworks in smaller sizes, because we’ve got the pictures from WhatsApp [the app degrades photo quality]. Other artworks are better quality. Some artists have started using digital work only and given up on painting.

The idea of the exhibition is to sell these artworks. Given that some of the original works do not exist anymore, the idea is to price these artworks with the artists in such a way that it will finance them.

A lot of the art that we have is from during or after displacement. One of the artists drew the series when she moved to Cairo. Other artworks are from the COVID era, but they still remain relevant today.

Did Gazan artists have problems before the current genocide?

They were silenced, surveilled and even arrested. It was hard for them to acquire art supplies because of the imposed siege. It was even harder to circulate their artwork outside Gaza for the same reason. Art exported from Gaza was never insured or guaranteed to arrive. The Israelis will most likely confiscate and destroy these artworks so it is always difficult to see what is being created in Gaza.

Is it possible for artists to produce new art in Gaza at the moment?

Some artists are producing and documenting the destruction and daily details of what is happening. In a converstation with artist Mustafa Muhana who produced new work for this exhibition, he mentioned how important it was to create during this time to remind himself of his human side. Same for the artist Basel El Maqousi who we can see on his instagram account, he drew because he want to be reminded of his humanity.

Creating art in these times does not take the same course for everyone, as artists have the space to think creatively and be inspired. I think their processes are different than what we can imagine. Samaa Abu Laban tells us that it is very hard to aquire any type of art supplies and they have to get creative by recycling old paper. There is an urgency to produce, to document and to express, but death occurs every single second around them.

Do you think that art can play a role in resistance?

In these times, art and culture are only meant to amplify the voice of the resistance and the people of Gaza. That is their only role as we see it.

This weekend, you’re exhibiting in Berlin. I’m sure you are aware of the clampdown on culture in Germany, particularly regarding Palestine. Have you had any problems organising the exhibition?

We spoke with more than ten exhibition spaces, none of which offered space for us—except for Panke Culture, where the exhibition will take place. Germany has become a ground for censoring everything related to Palestine. Not only this, but the government is directly funding the genocide. Recently, we saw the German foreign minister justifying the bombing and targeting of refugee shelters in Gaza; she said that this is what Germany stands for.

We had a lot of doubts about coming to Berlin, but we got a lot of calls from our communities here that they want to support, and I really thank Panke for offering the space.

Can artists contribute somehow towards stopping the ongoing genocide?

Any person can, artists or not. The idea is to mobilize and to work on all different platforms in parallel. It’s easy to believe that our fight has no direct influence on this billion dollar genocide, but I think it’s time we gather, rally and organise, first to stop this annihilation and second to rethink our relationship to Western values that have governed this world for such a long time. No longer we can tolerate the hypocrisy and the double standards, Arab, Black and Brown life is valuable and precious and it is time that we unite against the vicious white supremacy and settler colonial mindset that kills our people all around the world.

In the last couple of months, Israel has exported the genocide to Lebanon and also to the West Bank. How is this affecting you personally?

This is not new. This time it’s more violent, televised, documented. It’s ridiculous to watch the genocide on the tv and on your phone, even if you hear it around you. What is happening in the West Bank and Lebanon is part of the same annihilation war on Gaza with different techniques, what started in Gaza now can be seen happening in Beirut, Tulkarem, Jenin and all around the Levant. We are all togther in this, until the occupation ceases to exist.

As you say, this is not new, but it looks like it’s getting worse.

It is already worse. We have crossed the point of no return to the old status quo.

Are you able to stay optimistic about the future?

It’s really very difficult. There is a lack of focus a lot of people I know are sharing. There is no planning for tomorrow, or for after tomorrow, because you really have no idea what’s going to happen. There is crippling anxiety about the future and the present, and the normalisation numbs you, but it’s a way to cope.

But amid all of this, we see a liberated palestine!

To finish off, let’s return to the exhibition. Where is it? When’s it open? How can people visit it?

It’s opening this Thursday in the Panke gallery. You can purchase your tickets online or at the door. Following the launch of the exhibition, we have a series of film screenings in ACUD studio. We have some Palestinian films and some recent films from Gaza. Most are shorts, but not all of them.

Then the exhibition is open on Friday and Saturday, and on Sunday we have a finissage with some readings, artists’ talks, and some music at the end.

Can you say more about the readings and the music? What’s being read? What’s being played?

The readings will probably be from a Palestinian poet and a Palestinian writer, all the old words that are still relevant every single day. The music is going to be by a DJ from Palestine who will be playing a set.

For people who can’t make it, is there any other way they can support you and Palestinian artists?

There is a donation box on the ticket website. These donations go directly to Sa7ten in Paris, which is an organisation that we’ve been working with since the start. They are in direct connection with a lot of people in Gaza. They send these funds to Gazans. They cook for a lot of groups in Gaza.

Is there anything else you’d like to talk about that we haven’t covered?

We thank everyone who worked with us along the course of the last three, four months to open it in a bunch of cities. We thank the artists for trusting the process and contributing to this exhibition. We want their life’s work to be seen by all these people.

This series of exhibitions that are happening really made us connect with artists from Gaza, some of whom became really good friends. I hope that one day we will be able to meet face to face.

“I Will Write Our Will Above the Clouds” is a compilation of printed images depicting what were once physical artworks. These images capture the transient and precarious nature of existence in the war-torn landscape of Gaza. The exhibition features the works of twenty four Gazan artists who turned to digital platforms to archive and preserve what might have otherwise been lost. These digital imprints, with their inherent intangibility, mirror the reality of life in Gaza and serve as metaphors for the fragmented memories and disrupted lives of the artists. When pieced together, they create a disjointed but powerful mosaic that challenges traditional forms of exhibitions. “I Will Write Our Will Above the Clouds” invites viewers to experience the oscillation between presence and absence, the real and the virtual. The works confront viewers with the raw and unfiltered realities of the artists’ experiences, pushing the boundaries of digital expression.

Adel Al-Taweel, Abod Nasser, Adam Mghari, Amal El Nakhala, Bayan Abu Nahla, Hassan El-Zaneen, Jehad Jarbou, Kenan Aburok, Khaled Jarada, Mahmoud Al Haj, Marwan Nassar, Maisra Baroud, Mohammed Al Haj, Mona Jouda, Mustafa Mohanna, Samaa Abu Allaban, Shereen Abedalkareem, Walaa Shublaq, Yara Zude.