From Gaza to Tijuana: Militarization and violence at the hands of the state

Juan Pablo Blanco
TCCS ’19

“Protesting voices are not soothing. It is not in their nature to lull the listener to sleep, comfort them, reassure them that all is fine. Protesting voices must shake the listener out of their slumber.” – Nada Elia

These are the words written by Diaspora Palestinian writer and activist Nada Elia in her essay, “The Burden of Representation – When Palestinians Speak Out” within Arab and Arab American Feminisms: Gender, Violence, and Belonging (2011, Syracuse University Press).

Her words have never rang more true today. In a time when attacks on vulnerable populations grow increasingly harsh and blatant, and centrist “liberal” discourse keeps asking us to play nice, focus on bipartisanship, and some idea of common ground, Elia makes clear the uselessness of these attempts to play nice. Or, as Elia cites Audre Lorde’s ever-pertinent wisdom, “We were never meant to survive, that our silence cannot protect us, because ‘the machine will try and grind you into dust anyway, whether or not we speak’” (Lorde, 1977).

These days, it is hard to not make a connection between the struggle against occupation and apartheid in Palestine and the so-called migrant caravan reaching the U.S. border. Some quick research of both will show a militarized border wall, tear gas canisters in the air, and a professional military force attacking unarmed civilians with impunity. Both cases show narratives that end up blaming the victims, whether it is the reductionist argument that equates anti-Zionism (an opposition with the state of Israel and its occupation of Palestinian territory and its attack on the Palestinian people) with anti-Semitism (the historic vilification and oppression of Jews) or the idea that migrants shouldn’t be complaining about teargas canisters being launched their way because they were told this would happen if they made it alive to the U.S. southern border. Both these narratives, in short, are used as silencing tactics.

Moreover, political discourse is also present that criminalizes civilians and turns them into war criminals. For example, in right-wing political commentaries, one can find narratives that speak of the use of “human shields” both in Gaza by Palestinians as well as at the U.S. border by Central American migrants and refugees. By grabbing hold of this narrative, Israel and the U.S. (as well as the Mexican state in the case of the border) all wash their hands clean of any responsibility for the violence directed upon these people. These narratives also turn these vulnerable peoples into, not the victims of the wars that they have been unjustly subject to, but the actors of wars who are to be treated under the rules of military combat.

While “liberal” media sources have, to some extent, criticized U.S. military tactics at the border, it is imperative to remember that oftentimes, due to claims of “impartiality,” these atrocities are left out of the public narrative. Elia points to this censored-storytelling as she recounts the BBC’s refusal to broadcast the massive slaughter of innocent civilians in the Gaza Strip leaving more than thirteen hundred Palestinians dead in January 2009. The BBC’s refusal to broadcast this news was due to their desire to “maintain impartiality in its coverage of the massacre” — that is, a twenty-two day military offensive launched by Israel from “the air, sea, and land, against a weakened, quasi-starved imprisoned people, the majority of whom are refugees and children” (Elia, 142).

While I am not trying to equate the more than 70 years of occupation at the hand of Israel with what is happening at the border today, it is important to remember that these are both examples of colonization, occupation, and violence enacted on innocent people by a militarized, racist state. It is also important to remember that we cannot look at these struggles in a vacuum, and that we must understand that until all of us are truly free, none of us will be. We cannot wait to ground into dust.

Can you tell which photo is from Palestine and which one from the U.S.-Mexico Border?

A photograph of a large group of protesters facing tear gas from a police force in an unknown location
Photo credit: New York Times.
A photograph of a large group of protesters facing tear gas from a police force in an unknown location
Photo credit: New York Times.

How transdisciplinary research is like making gumbo

Debra Butler
PhD Student, School for the Environment

A photograph of gumbo soup.
Photo credit: Gumbo Brothers restaurant, New York City.

Transdisciplinary research is “issue driven”, participatory and collaborative. Transdisciplinary research requires the time and patience to build relationships of respect and trust, to thrive in conditions of  ambiguity and uncertainty, to value iterative process over product, to learn from “failure”, to appreciate silences and that which is not obvious, to stay curious, and to “know” that nothing of life should be wasted.

I was raised in the culture and traditions of the coastal south, a gumbo of indigenous Native, African, Spanish, French, Greek, Irish, Lebanese, Caribbean and Chinese traditions, a place where timeless homelands and memories of distant home places converged. One of the advantages of doing research in one’s own community is a rich, deep backgrounding in place and people. Transdisciplinary research requires the researcher to honor and be accountable to one’s own community, taking care and knowing that intimacy is both advantage and restraint.  Transdisciplinary research must privilege the rituals of everyday life and the lives of collaborators in the research process.

Read Associate Professor of Anthropology Rosalyn Negrón’s article, “What is transdisciplinarity and what does it have to do with social justice?”…

Food was part of every ritual of life–to nourish, to negotiate, to celebrate, to comfort. Food was gift and  gratitude. Growing up, almost everything we ate was locally grown or harvested from the Gulf. The Gulf is a rice culture, so most meals included bowls of rice or grits with rich spicy sauces or étouffée.

My family was/is serious about food, and when you are serious about food, even a simple meal turns into a party. Gumbo is a party. This story is about one of those rituals and why transdisciplinary research is like making gumbo.

The word “gumbo” is thought to be of African origin, ki ngombo (Bantu) for okra, brought by Africans to the Gulf coast. Other interpretations consider the word a corruption of kombo (Choctaw) for sassafras, which is ground into powder called filé. Okra or filé was the thickener in gumbo, a truly indigenous food with taste and texture dependent on what ingredients were available, whether the meal was “everyday”or celebratory, and how many folks had to be fed. There are as many kinds of gumbo as there are cooks on the Gulf Coast.

Like transdisciplinary research, there are certain important protocols that had to be understood and followed for a successful project.  According to local legend, oysters were safe to eat only in months with the letter “R” (September through April), period. Therefore, oysters were not an ingredient in warm weather gumbos. Instead, they were full of shrimp, crabs, chicken or sausage.  My grandfather fished with his brothers, so grandkids and cousins participated by crabbing on the bay. My grandmother, mother and aunts negotiated fresh shrimp prices from the boats docked at the waterfront. I moved along with this convoy of women, mostly listening, but occasionally called to select the plump little crustaceans by their color and briny smell.  I learned that that “browns” had more flavor and held up to spices and slow cooking…a “hands on” lit review!

In the warm, steamy magic of my Grandmother Ignacia’s kitchen, the ritual of gumbo was an “event”, especially when making winter gumbo during the cold weather seasons of Christmas, Mardi Gras and Lent. Winter gumbo was usually made with a richer stock and a roux (more on roux later). During Mardi Gras, and especially during Lent, gumbo was seafood only. During Lent, it was sacrilegious to even think about putting meat (sausage, game or chicken) in gumbo.

From the age of 8 or 9, I became the apprentice under my grandmother’s watchful eye and free-style methodology. Cooking was alchemy. It has its own sensibility, texture and music. She bought fresh file in tiny brown bags from her friend at St. Rose of Lima parish on Mon Lois Island.  She rubbed herbs between my palms…hold this over your nose, breathe…my brain coded “Sage”! Sassafras! Garlic!

I was the designated roux watcher, a position of dedication, honor and responsibility. Roux was made from good, plain flour and lard or Crisco in a heavy cast iron skillet. The roux was stirred constantly with a wooden spoon. You did not let the roux burn. The fat was melted on low heat before the flour was added, then the mixture was smoothed out and coaxed into a beautiful warm brown. There is no better smell than a good roux. I stirred, and stirred and stirred.

Again, like transdisciplinary research, the process is iterative. It is slow. It requires being “in the moment.” It calls for attention and care, the ability to absorb uncertainty and ambiguity, to watch and learn from community, to sometimes change direction, recalibrate and begin again.

Once, my cousin Denise became too involved in a comic book and let the roux burn. Poor Denise was was instantly expelled and banned from my grandmother’s kitchen. Her dishonor was more than a punishment for carelessness, it was a breach of my grandmother’s trust and a disrespect for the value, labor and commitment of preparing food. Denise was only allowed back when the magic was over and there nothing left but dirty dishes, pots and pans. My grandmother re-started another roux and dusted the flour from her apron. She handed me the wooden spoon. And, we began our research, again.

***

Day 1

Make the stock

In a large pot, add enough water to cover fish* or chicken or beef and celery, onions, bay leaves, garlic, red peppers.  Bring to a boil, then simmer for at least 2-3 hours. Cool. Remove meat & chop into small pieces. Strain stock. Discard skin and bones. Refrigerate stock and meat.

*Fish only for a seafood gumbo.

Day 2

Clean seafood. Check oysters and crabs for shell fragments. Refrigerate.

Chop celery, onions & garlic.  Add to stock. Add bay leaves. Re-heat.

Cut okra into ½ inch pieces. Set aside.

Make roux. Let cool to room temperature. (You can make the roux a day ahead of time. Save at room temperature in a glass container)

Add 2 cups of strained stock to roux to thin. Bring stock to boil. Add roux to stock at full boil. Cook at low boil 5 minutes. Add filé.  

Increase heat to full boil. Add seafood, oysters & okra, (meat from stock), and seasonings.

Stir. Turn heat OFF. Let gumbo rest for 20 minutes. Stir.

Remove bay leaves. Season to taste. Let the gumbo rest 1 hour.

Serve with hot white rice and heavily buttered crusty French bread & a cold beverage. Hot sauce on the side.

Thank the cook.

Decolonize this museum

Sofya Aptekar
TCCS Core Faculty

For the third year in a row, I observed Indigenous People’s Day this past fall by joining the Anti-Columbus Day Tour at the American Museum of Natural History in New York. Even if you’ve never been in person, you might know this museum from the movie, Night At The Museum, where Ben Stiller plays a security guard. In general, I think most of us think of kids gawking at dinosaurs or maybe the giant whale hanging from the ceiling when we think of this museum. Pretty innocuous. Why, then, would a thousand protestors pack its halls screaming “Fire to the Colonizer”?

The Museum of Natural History is profoundly shaped by its active participation in settler colonialism and white supremacy. Aside from the dinosaurs and the giant whale, whole floors are devoted to racist displays of indigenous people of various regions. These dioramas feature thousands of artifacts (some sacred) taken from people across the globe, racist models and representations of human beings, and actual human remains, such as skeletons. As an organizer from Chinatown Brigade pointed out during the tour, exhibits of non-European, non-settler people – portrayed as primitive – are located between models of apes and displays of rocks and minerals.

Most of museum’s displays have not been changed in decades, sometimes not at all since being installed a hundred years ago. There have been no attempts to explain to visitors how the various artifacts have been acquired, not to mention the central role of this museum in the eugenics movement in the early 20th century. (NB: This museum actually hosted the International Eugenics Congress conference!) At the grand staircase entrance to the museum stands a statue of Theodore Roosevelt, who is celebrated inside as well. Roosevelt is riding a horse, towering over an African man on one side and a Native American man on the other. A city commission on symbols of hate in the city was split about what to do with this statue, and the activists demand that it be taken down because it celebrates settler colonialism and white supremacy.

Over $17 million dollars of public money flow into the museum every year, underscoring the need for this public institution to be held accountable to the very public it serves. This museum is also the place where hundreds of thousands of school children come to visit on school trips. New York City public school students, who are predominantly people of color, are exposed to exhibits that portray people of color in a degrading and dehumanizing way, without any contextual explanation.

The Anti-Columbus Day tour was certainly an opportunity to have a different experience in the museum. First, we gathered in a big hall as a group with our banners and signs, and used the people’s mic to communicate our goals for the tour. Then, Decolonize This Place brochures in hand, we split into groups to visit various exhibits on a self-guided tour, where we had “encounters” organized by participating organizations, which included NYC Stands with Standing Rock, Black Youth Project 100, South Asia Solidarity Initiative, Chinatown Art Brigade, and Take Back the Bronx. For example, in the Hall of African People, two young organizers with the Black Youth Project 100 used the people’s mic to talk about Ota Benga.

Benga was a Congolese man who was bought at a slave market and exhibited in the museum in the early 1900s. While they spoke, other participants unfurled huge banners from the second floor balcony reading, “Smash Patriarchy,” “Abolish White Supremacy,” and “Stolen Bodies on Stolen Land.” In the Hall of Biodiversity, activists covered the plaque of donors – which includes Monsanto – with a red banner that said “Support for AMNH provided by slavery, genocide, imperialism, and theft.”

At the end, we came together for a People’s Assembly, with hundreds of us sitting in an oval under the Great Canoe hanging from the museum ceiling. One speaker after another brought home the interconnectedness of so many struggles – deaths of indigenous women, police brutality, gentrification, Palestinian liberation, US military in the Pacific islands, and more. As the museum closed, we walked out together chanting Decolonize This Museum and filled the steps leading up to the Teddy Roosevelt sculpture, guarded tightly by the NYPD.

Read Jack Carolan’s article, “How to Make it in a Global City (Chances Are You Can’t…)”…

At this point you probably have a couple of questions. How can thousands of people do this in a museum? The organizers did tell the museum this would happen, in solidarity with the museum guards whom it would affect. What did other visitors to the museum think? My impression was that most were European tourists who were either bewildered or annoyed by our intervention. A few visitors did join the People’s Assembly and more than a few asked questions about what was going on. An organizer from the Chinatown Art Brigade standing in front of a display meant to represent some vague idea of Chinese culture was challenged by a tourist who said that he didn’t see a problem because he’d been to China and that’s what it looked like to him.


***

What would decolonization of the American Museum of Natural History look like? Well, let’s take a look at the Museum of Vancouver as an example. Last year, I visited this museum and I was blown away by an exhibit exploring the museum’s own role in colonialism and examining how it told the story of Vancouver that excluded the Musqueam people who continue to live there. This is not to suggest that Canada is a country that currently and completely respects indigenous people’s rights (just one example of how it doesn’t). Instead, I believe this example provides some alternatives for ways that museums might grapple with their racist and colonialist legacies – for the public good.

In the case of the American Museum of Natural History, decolonization would begin by removing the Teddy Roosevelt sculpture; doing a major overhaul of the racist dioramas; providing extensive new signage that educates visitors about the museum’s history; and endorsing the call to rename Columbus Day Indigenous People’s Day in New York City.

What do you think? Is there a cultural institution in your life that could use some decolonization? How do we make it happen?

 

Sofya Aptekar is Assistant Professor of Sociology and core faculty of the Transnational Cultural and Community Studies program at University of Massachusetts Boston. Follow her @sofyaaptekar

No Justice, No Peace: Stop the killings in the Philippines #stopthekillingsPH

Izzie Villanueva
TCCS ’19

A photo of a young college male spray a cannon with spray paint
College student Timothy Manalo paints “#stopthekillingsph” and “Never Again to Martial Law” on the cannon during a commemorative action by Boston Pilipino Advocacy and Resources at Tufts University on October 13, 2018. (Image credit: Alonso Nichols/Tufts University)

On Saturday, October 13, 2018, Boston Pilipino Education Advocacy and Resources (PEAR) organized an action at Tufts University to continue the resistance against fascism and martial law. Organizers and participants wrote and painted on a cannon in honor of Filipino American History month in continuing the struggle for genuine freedom and democracy.

Hxstory of Painting the Cannon at Tufts

In 1977, the Fletcher School at Tufts University accepted a $1.5 million dollar grant from Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos, former dictator and president of the Philippines. According to the Marcos family, this money was given to fund the East Asian studies program and create an endowed chair of East Asian and Pacific Studies. In response, Tufts University offered Imelda Marcos an honorary degree.

An drawing of a cannon on a red background with the words "Call to Action - Writing on the Cannon for the Philippines" beneath the cannon
An image from the flyer of the action.

On October 28th, 1977, Tufts students and faculty rejected these funds as a protest against martial law, the Marcos dictatorship, and US imperialism in the Philippines. In solidarity with the Filipino people who had been under martial law since 1972 under the Marcos regime, the campus quickly erupted into protests. Hundreds of students and faculty alike voiced their dismay with Tufts administration’s decision to take the grant, making it known that accepting money from a fascist regime cannot be free of political weight. Throughout their many visits to campus, the Marcos were consistently met by student protests drawing attention to their human rights violations in the Philippines.

This unrest led to the start of a tradition: Amidst protests, students painted the cannon for the first time as an act of opposition against Tufts’ willingness to host and accept money from the oppressive Marcos regime. The first painting of the Tufts cannon was a stand against martial law, political corruption, and human rights violations.

Martial Law in Mindanao
A photo of Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte
Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte in 2016.
Image source: Wikimedia Commons.

Today similar conditions in the Philippines persist: More than 25,000 Filipinos have been killed by government police and military since the commencement of Philippine President Duterte’s “War on Drugs” and implementation of martial law in Mindanao. Also notably, the U.S. military has given approximately $180 million in military aid to the Philippine military.

In May 2017, President Rodrigo Duterte declared martial law on the entire island of Mindanao. Martial law, which extends military authority and allows for warrantless arrests and heightened surveillance, was supposedly enacted due to the Maute group’s attack in Marawi City. The official proclamation states, “the attack shows the capability of the Maute group and other rebel groups to sow terror, and cause death and damage to property not only in Lanao del Sur but also in other parts of Mindanao.” However, “the social unrest and armed conflict in the Bangasamoro region of Mindanao must be placed within the proper socio-economic and historical context. Lanao del Sur, the province where the Maute group operates, has the highest poverty rate in the Philippines, yet remains one of the most resource-rich in the country, a prime attraction for foreign corporations for lucrative investments and large-scale extractive operations” (BAYANUSA). The martial law order was originally signed to be enacted for 60 days, however in December 2017, Duterte declared the continuation of martial law in Mindanao for another calendar year.

Isang Bagsak

Back at Tufts, there were speakers and performers who shared personal experiences and historical information about the past and current state of the Philippines and Filipinx diaspora in the United States and Boston. I was excited to perform a spoken word poetry piece, ‘Isang Bagsak,’ and lead then group in the Unity Clap to end of the action.

The saying “Isang Bagsak” has a powerful history. The saying was used with the creation of the Unity Clap during the United Farm Workers Movement in the 1960’s. During this time, farmworkers, consisting of mostly Filipino/Filipina/Filipinx and Latino/Latina/Latinx farm workers (with notable leaders Larry Itliong, Philip Vera Cruz, Cesar Chavez, and Dolores Huerta) were protesting unfair labor wages and working conditions. Though there were language barriers, the farmworkers wanted to create a way to show solidarity and understanding with one another; at the end of each day, the farm workers would start the Unity Clap. Later the saying was also used during the People’s Power Movement/Revolution in the Philippines in February 1986 when protestors were demanding the removal of President Ferdinand Marcos and an end to martial law.

The Unity Clap begins slowly to the beat of one’s heart to symbolize the solidarity and oneness felt through similar struggles and experiences. The clap gradually increases in speed into a thunderous applause, and at the height, there is a pause for everyone in unison to say “Isang Bagsak” and ending with one large clap. “Isang Bagsak” is Tagalog for “one fall, all fall”, which can also be read as “one rise, all rise”. Many current Filipinx organizers now use the Unity Clap to end events and actions as a way of honoring those who came and resisted before us, so that we may continue their legacy and fight in the present and future.

Like the Unity Clap, our collective action and solidarity celebrated and validated different experiences, while still allowing us to come together in resistance against oppressive regimes, both historical and of the present day.

Despite the rainy weather, it was empowering to see and experience the support and validation of so many people gathered for an action that we all felt genuinely passionate about. Like the Unity Clap, our collective action and solidarity celebrated and validated different experiences, while still allowing us to come together in resistance against oppressive regimes, both historical and of the present day. While this action was partially to honor Filipino American History Month, the struggles faced by Filipinos under martial law and Filipinos in the greater diaspora are still taking place today; we deserve platforms to express and honor the legacies of those who have come before us as well as current modes of resistance. I look forward to seeing and organizing future events with Boston PEAR and further exploring my own Filipinx-American identity.

A group of college student activists after an action in which they painted a canoon with "Stop the killings" and "PH" in white spray paint
An inter-collegiate group of students representing Boston Pilipino Advocacy and Resources poses for a photo after an action to paint the cannon with the message “#stopthekillingsph” and “Never Again to Martial Law” at Tufts University. (Photo credit: Alonso Nichols/Tufts University)
Moving Forward

If you’d like to get involved and/or stay up to date on our events, like our Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/BostonPEAR/

If you’d like to see a livestream from the day-of the action, click here.

As American as apple pie

Taina Teravainen
TCCS ’19

An infographic showing the extreme unlikelihood that perpetrators of sexual assault will convicted of a crime and incarcerated in the United States, courtesy of the organization RAINN
Content warning: Sexual Assault, rape, racism
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I was nineteen seven autumns ago. I had just moved 15,000 kilometers to Boston from Singapore, my home, for my freshman year of college. In photographs, the most striking thing about me from that year was my purple and black hair, split neatly down the middle. All the other parts of who I am weren’t so obviously portioned out and displayed. I imagined listing all my multitudes during the many upcoming introductions – I am Chinese and white. I’m a Singaporean with a U.S. citizenship. I had chosen Boston partly to be closer to my grandma in the South Shore, a place I visited most Junes, the place I was told harbored the other half of my
identity, as if I would always be divided into two, an entire part of me missing from myself.

As my parents and I drove past the Rainbow Tank toward downtown Boston, I was wedged in the backseat next to my new laundry hamper. Wow, I thought, I’m actually doing it. I feel just like an American teenager. A few days later, still in orientation, I had another experience that turns out to be common among college-aged women in America. I was sexually assaulted. I was raped multiple times that first semester by the same man, another freshman.

According to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN), a person is sexually assaulted every 98 seconds in America. 9 out of 10 rape victims are female. Women in college between the ages of 18 and 24 are 3 times more likely than women in general to experience sexual assault. Most college sexual assaults happen from August through November. It may be hard to understand these figures. For me, it simply means that rape culture continues to thrive in America, and that when I’m in a room with other people, I am more likely than not there with another person who has been sexually assaulted.

We have endured an exhausting summer, and stumbled into a fall that feels so much like defeat. Brett Kavanaugh is now an associate justice of the U.S. Supreme Court. I’m unsure what this means for the people of America, but I know that a victim of sexual assault was told in front of this country and the world that her pain did not matter. Kavanaugh, her assaulter, would
not be punished nor denied any opportunities.

The man who raped me told me later that he had first come up to speak to me, when I was sitting alone reading in the dining hall, because I was Asian. He showed me a handwritten list of experiences he wanted to pursue in college, one of the top few being having sex with girls of different races. He was white and from a predominantly white Massachusetts town – the type of town the white side of my family lived in, where I was told held the answers to who I really was. To him, women of color were not individuals, just a box to check off on his scrap of paper. Having found out I was only half Asian after he raped me, he was uncertain if I counted.

When I encounter racism, it almost always, always holds the threat of gender-based violence. There is a tenable link between racism and sexism, and I cannot close my eyes to either, because sometimes they feel like one and the same. Racism and sexual violence are not merely American problems, but their presence dates back in the history of the U.S., a double-edged tool of oppression. Our anti-racist work and anti-sexist work should be intertwined, and these connections should be discussed openly and frequently.