Politics/Privilege
In the past month I have been learning a lot about the world, both historically and present-day — but not from reports of current events. I do not like admitting this, but I don’t follow the news very closely. Oh, I might as well come out and say it. I hardly follow the news at all. If anyone is going to judge me for it, let them do it. I am done with letting fear of judgment rule me. I don’t follow the news because I feel like unless I already know what’s going on, there is no “follow”: I can’t keep track of places and people and events, and it makes my head spin to try to do it from narrow little columns in the newspaper. I don’t have time or interest to read news I don’t understand, and so I don’t.
But I am interested in what’s going on around the world. Actually, I think that’s why I don’t read the news: if I’m going to know what’s happening in, say, Libya, I want to really know, I don’t just want what little the news report can tell me. If I were to seriously follow world events, I think what I’d have to do is start with a good summary of the history, then keep abreast of developments on a daily or weekly basis, using detailed news reports (preferably from multiple sources), on-the-ground sources like blogs, and as many media as possible (video, radio, etc). But at the moment I don’t have that kind of time. For the past six weeks or so, though, I’ve managed to absorb some information about some situations, through old-school media like books and theater. Doing so has sharpened my understanding of my own privilege, and reinforced my commitment to using my art and my life to serve the world in whatever way I can.
The first chapter in my recent global education occurred in Berkeley on Erik’s birthday, when, after an incredible dinner of a vegan pizza and a beef burger, we went to the Berkeley Rep to see a play called Ruined. The play is about women in the Democratic Republic of Congo, which we knew nothing about, but this performance of Ruined was preceded by a talk from Anneke Van Woudenberg, the Human Rights Watch‘s senior researcher on Congo. I had thought her talk would place the play in a bit more context, but I hadn’t expected Van Woudenberg to become my new hero. She was the most brilliant speaker I’ve ever heard. She sat composed and nicely dressed on the stage in an intimate auditorium, and told us about a man who’d watched his entire village killed with sticks, or her own meeting (alone and unprotected) with a warlord who had tortured people to death. My eyes were not dry. When someone asked her about going into dangerous regions without a guard, she responded, “I can come home. I can leave. Others in the region can’t.” And she got into this line of work because she was an investment banker who was sick of her job, and took a drunken dare to apply to work in Congo!
After her talk, we went in and watched the play, and I came out of it remembering again what a huge gift it is that we live in a place where we can reasonably expect that we will live to grow old — and our children will live to grow old, and we will be able to watch them do it. It was a strange thing to remember, there in the comfortable Berkeley night in our going-out clothes after our good dinner. I think everyone there felt the knowledge prickling all over our skins: elsewhere in the world, people are dying for stupid reasons or for no reason at all, and here we are warm and safe and happy. Our friend Caroline had joined us at the Rep, and she remarked, “The sad truth is, at this stage in our lives, on the paths we’re on, the best thing we can do to help is to give money.” But that isn’t all. We can bear witness.
About a week after we went to Ruined, I started reading a book called Red-Color News Soldier, a collection of previously unpublished photos taken by photographer Li Zhensheng during the Chinese Cultural Revolution (interspersed with Li’s own account of the era). Li worked as a newspaper photographer, so he published his most “palatable” photos during the time, but the other negatives he hid away underneath his floorboards. When they started to compile the News Soldier book, he brought the negatives out again — some thirty thousand of them. The book is filled with images of meetings, “struggle sessions” where people were publicly humiliated and often physically abused. One of the chapters has several photos of a group execution. The images brought tightness to my stomach and chest, but on some level I was so glad to see them — so grateful to Li for risking his safety to save his documentation of the period. Cameras were not common in China at this time, and of course no one was supposed to have any kind of negative depictions of the “revolution.” But thanks to Li’s efforts, we have this record.
We tend to feel that the world is so complicated and the powers-that-be so corrupt, there is little that any of us can do to ease suffering. But political action doesn’t have to be huge to be important. To go to an event like the HRW/Berkeley Rep talk and play, to read a book like Red-Color News Soldier — these are also political acts, and the first step toward larger action. To bear witness means to recognize that there are bad things going on and move toward them deliberately, rather than turning a blind eye. To look directly at suffering and say, “I see you. I hear you.” The worst thing is for bad things to happen and for no one to see — or for the witnesses to pretend it never happened. Bearing witness alone is a valuable contribution, especially for those of us who are privileged to live comfortably and securely, with resources at our disposal. It is so easy for us to turn our backs and pretend that everyone else shares what we have. And there are vast networks of money and power invested in making sure we do turn our backs, because then we won’t notice the damage they are instigating.
If, after witnessing the suffering of others, we feel we must do more, there is speaking: using one’s own voice on behalf of those who have been silenced or are otherwise unable to raise their voices. This can be as simple as talking to friends, or as powerful as making speeches or making art. And after that, if we feel our voices are not enough, we can call the whole body to arms and take action. This is where it gets tricky, because what is action? Action can be as small as giving an apple to a homeless person, or it can be as big as running for President or fighting with one’s body or doing Anneke Van Woudenberg’s job. The question of how we get from zero to action is one that interests me deeply, because it’s an artistic question (how do I, as an artist, use my work to propel people to action?) as well as a personal one (what prevents me, as a person, from taking more action to change the world). I’ve written about it before and think about it all the time. What stands between us and action?
What can I do?
As a human being, I see suffering and feel compelled to take action, but I’m not always sure what action to take. Caroline said after Ruined that it’s probably best for us to give money. In conversation with Erik, he said: “We need to assess our skills to figure out what’s the best way we can help. Honestly, nobody wants my physical labor, or envelope-licking, and I would suck at Anneke’s job. What I can do best is make money and then give it.” If he’s right — and I think he is — it seems likely that the best thing I can do is bear witness and use my voice. But then I feel great responsibility to make my voice propel people into action, and I’m not sure how to do that… but I suspect it’s important for people to understand that we can make a difference, instead of just feeling like we’re powerless.
It’s a central question for me, because sometimes I feel like — aside from giving money — my privilege actually prevents me from being able to do more. Now I know that isn’t true, but sometimes I have really wondered. In our first IWL meeting last Saturday, a class member posed the question: Is trauma necessary for building character? She said that as an individual, she can trace the lines of her own character through the paths of her past trauma — but as a parent, she shudders back from the thought of her children going through the same thing. I hear her in this. My parents sheltered me my entire life, deliberately and forcefully, but constantly tell me I’m “spoiled” because I’ve “never known suffering.” It troubles them to see my innocent existence, even though it is their doing.
I won’t agree that those of us without trauma have nothing to contribute. But I do often feel less as a result of my uneventful, privileged life, especially among artists. I have been afraid that my lack of suffering prevents me from truly being able to call myself an artist. Some people would surely say so. And yet: does it really matter? When I worked in adult literacy in LA, I was faced on a daily basis with my privilege and how much it distanced me from the lived experience of many members of the community. But it didn’t stop me from reaching out, and I helped make a difference in many people’s lives. Perhaps someone else could have done a better job — and I never stopped comparing myself to this imaginary individual– but ultimately, I was the one who was there, I did my best, and I helped. I suspect it’s the same thing with art. I can’t write with firsthand knowledge about immigration, rape, war, abuse, or even extreme alienation, but that doesn’t mean I have nothing to say, or that what I have to say isn’t important. It’s always tempting to compare myself with others, but I want to stop that.
I don’t think I could have come to this self-affirmation without my previous work in learning to love my body and writing my life-art handbook. I have felt such strength lately in being who I am — good and bad — and trying to live fully from that place of self-connection. I’ve spent so much of my life judging myself from outside, hearing the voices of so many imagined critics. I’ve felt the need to apologize for things I didn’t choose, like my privilege (my education, my financial security) and the myriad ways I differ from others. I’m now aware of that need, and have decided to let it go. Let go of the worry that people won’t take me seriously because I’ve had a comfortable life. Let go of the fear that I can’t be an artist because I haven’t experienced trauma. Let go of the anxiety that I can’t make a difference because I’m young and — so many things. I am who I am, and regardless of the circumstances, that is the exact same starting point that everyone else gets! We are all who we are.
This afternoon I began reading I Live Here, a collaborative graphic novel that interweaves fiction and nonfiction stories from four troubled regions of the world. I was working my way through the chapter on Chechnya, getting that same deep-gut feeling of sickness as when I saw the execution photos in Red-Color News Soldier, and examining Joe Sacco’s comic as a fine example of the medium. Previously I would have been comparing myself to Sacco, or to the others who created this book, and saying to myself: “God, I haven’t been through anything like this! I’m not out there in the field risking my life, looking at dead bodies, dodging fire. How can I call myself an artist?” But this time, without saying so explicitly, I was asking myself: “As someone who has been privileged enough to escape such experiences, how can I use the experience I do have, to help those in need?” I don’t fully know the answer yet, but I am glad that this is the question I’m now asking.
Thank you for reading such a long entry! Come back for the Open Mic tomorrow when Kuukua Dzigbordi Yomekpe returns for her second guest post. I’ll see you then.
You’ve said a lot here, and I understand your points. So many important points. I also want to have an effective voice as an artist so I can contribute to the fight against all the unnecessary suffering in the world, but I wonder if I actually contribute just by doing the writing. If I write something, and few people read it (and fewer see any real meaning in it) does it matter much? So far, in regard to these questions, I’m left with the only thing that I’m sure of — that if we each pay attention and strive to truly see what we witness, no matter how it is shown to us, we become better people and better able to share what we know. I’m not so sure that anyone with an open heart has to suffer in order to understand suffering, or to recognize it when they see it.
Ré, I think we do contribute when we write, even if it doesn’t seem like it. If our writing can make people more engaged with the world around them, or better observers of their fellow beings, or more hopeful — or feel less alone, or smile a little more that day than they otherwise would — I think that all works for the greater good. And I know I certainly have benefited from reading your blog and your comments and emails, in feeling like part of a larger community of writers and thinkers and just people who care. 🙂
I’m glad to read your last line on suffering. That’s been my instinct since I was young, and I’m comforted to hear that echoed in your voice.
This is a powerful post, Lisa! Passionate and well written. One of the first things that came to me is that there is another way to *bear witness* – which you have done here, tho perhaps not consciously. You are bearing witness to Love. In acknowledging the stories of Annke Van Woudenberg and Li Zhensheng, you have borne witness to the love that is expressing through them — a love so selfless that they are willing to risk their own lives for the sake of others. Look around at all the suffering and tragedy in the world, and you will see love being expressed, though not often recognized as such. Remembering 9/11 we focus so much on the horror that we forget the sacrafice, the love of countless people who rushed to help. And I think of the scientists at the nuclear reactor in Japan, working as we speak, to stablize a disaster of epic proportions. And a story in the newspaper that caught my eye, of a woman in the tsunami zone whose home had been partially spared, setting up a table in the street and giving miso soup to dazed survivors as they passed by. She was sharing what she had in her house. These are the stories I focus on, because only focusing on the suffering is numbingly unproductive. So there you are, young, strong, beautiful, in a position of great privilege and freedom: what can you do? Bear witness to the love. Write about it. You are the most articulate person I have the pleasure of knowing. Use what you have in your house — WORDS. You can do this right there where you are planted. There are Love stories just waiting to be told. And you don’t have to wait to become an expert watecolorist to do this. You have the power already to express yourself with energy and passion – and Love.
Thank you, Sherry! And thank you so much for the reminder about bearing witness to love — YES, yes yes. If there is nothing else I can do in my time on this earth, that’s a worthy enough cause for me: to bear witness to love, and embody it for others as much as possible. The story you recount about the woman feeding miso soup to passersby: beautiful. Those are the “disaster stories” I love to hear too. Love and gratitude to you for your words. 🙂
Lisa, I am just NOW reading this post. For some reason or the other, I’m not getting my subscription! We’ve got to work on that! 🙂 By this time, i believe in had already published a similar post called “From A Distance”, my point being that there are many voices/lives/ experiences connected in this perspective; that we are far from powerless! We CAN most certainly bear witness, and most definitely have the power to comfort, care, and transform the lives of others, one small act at a time. If as a universe, one small one at a time, we work collectively in this regard, we move the conversations forward, and as such, become conduits for that transformation, whether we are at the center or in the margins!
As a woman who feels…yes, dare I say it…privileged (financially and otherwise), I am sometimes viewed as not having the authority to weigh in on certain subjects or angles relating to oppression, financially and otherwise. This is my NOW status, acquired through largely through personal choices, and professional choices made by my husband so that in could continue to be home with our children, and develop my writing and entrepreneurial pursuits. I used to feel the need to defend that position, but no longer feel this need. Instead, I try to make it a point to use that position (not necessarily power) as a springboard for action, as a vehicle for making it happen, as a resource in and of itself! I am unapologetic in my insistence that what I have tomsay, or can do, is equally important as well as necessary! Daggone it! LOL!
Sorry about some of these typos. Stupid iPad! I can’t get back to correct them. I’m sure you get the drift!
SomerEmpress, thank you for your energizing thoughts! And yes, haha, I hear you on the iPad typos. It drives me crazy whenever I try to type with my husband’s iPhone. I think I have good hand-eye coordination but with those things sometimes it is just a losing battle.
I love what you are saying about being unapologetic. That’s something I am slowly learning and I like the way it feels!
Sherry’s comment also reminds me that a position of privilege makes me uniquely well suited to bear witness to love. My privilege is emotional as well as material, and that means I have a deep well of security and love to draw from — and can use it to convey that love to others who aren’t as convinced that love is abundant and omnipresent.
[…] knows I already think about this way too much in relation to my own art, but these reviews seem to indicate that my instincts are correct: there […]
Wonderful, thoughtful, thought-provoking post Lisa, true to what I have grown to expect from you and your blog and I’m so glad you linked me to it. You are so articulate it isn’t even funny!
This is pertinent: ‘My parents sheltered me my entire life, deliberately and forcefully, but constantly tell me I’m “spoiled” because I’ve “never known suffering.” It troubles them to see my innocent existence, even though it is their doing.’
This is sort of how I’m sure my 13 yr old daughter must feel. I often tell her how much more privileged her life is compared to mine when I was growing up as one of four siblings..she is our only child…(not saying I ‘suffered’ in that sense, just was way less coddled and more exposed to dangers and had less money than she does. And that’s saying something because we try our best not to ‘spoil’ her!)
You’re spot on about so many things here. I think suffering damages people in irreversible ways and probably does more harm than good, except where it helps angst-ridden artists/writers/poets to produce work they might not have been able to had they not suffered.
Then again, I think most of us are damaged in some way, even those of us who grew up too comfortably…
And I get what you mean about bearing witness.
Thank you so much for reading, Munira! I’m sure parents’ thoughts on sheltering/spoiling are so much more complicated than those of us who don’t have kids!
I guess I would surmise that suffering opens some people’s eyes to things they wouldn’t otherwise notice, and that can make for richer (if more painful) inner lives and outer work. So the key for the rest of us, who haven’t suffered terribly, is to always try to pay attention to what we’ve got… and be as generous as possible with everyone. Anyway, “I haven’t suffered” is a statement that may change at any time. 😐
And oh my goodness, I agree with you so much on “I think most of us are damaged in some way, even those of us who grew up too comfortably…”