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| BLM Solidarity March, Strasbourg: 5 June 2020 (image courtesy of dna.fr) |
Long frustrated with bureaucratic obstinance, citizens in the UK city of Bristol took it upon themselves to dismantle the statue of an infamous slave trader and toss it into the dock where he made his fortune. This emblematic act has since inspired similar gestures nationwide and across the world. Politicians on both sides of the Atlantic have taken the knee in support of Black Lives Matter, albeit somewhat unconvincing. American football player Colin Kaepernik’s act of solidarity, once reproached by much of the establishment, has become a mainstream symbol of anti-racist support.
It’s
with a cautious but increasing optimism that I have observed the
ripple effects of Floyd’s murder on the global conscience. We have
sadly been here before. Any hope of long-lasting change disappeared
with yet another senseless killing of a brown man or woman by
employees of the state or hateful vigilantes. Nonetheless, this has been the
longest sustained public discussion of state-sanctioned violence and other forms of structural racism in memory. Offensive films and TV shows are being pulled from screens. American-English dictionaries are obligated to expand the definition of racism.
It's not just in the US. During an online branch meeting, my Labour International comrades are enthusiastic about showing public support for BLM. Within days, logos have been designed and statements posted online.
I have watched the Church's reaction with particularly interest. It’s not perfect. There are some who have intellectually grasped the problem of privilege but not yet reconciled to if and how they contribute. African ministers aren't as vocal as they should be. Yet there are shoots of hope. In the States, beyond the uprisings, refreshingly honest and raw conversations are taking place. Across the Channel I witness from afar some serious soul-searching by Caucasian Christians, many of whom would not have been actively engaged in anti-racist struggle. They are starting to question cultural practices that might perpetuate Eurocentric hegemony. As the only brown girl on a Christian meditation Zoom call, I'm pleasantly surprised when other participants keenly pursue my query about what the Chaplaincy is doing to align itself with the movement. Official statements of solidarity are made by churches usually hesitant to appear 'political'. My UK home church, adapts a planned prayer session to encompass this urgent socio-political problem. Additional resources are added to the website. There are expressions of intent to grapple further with the issues, even where there's an existing commitment to diversity. Time will tell if this engagement translates into profound long-term change.
It's not just in the US. During an online branch meeting, my Labour International comrades are enthusiastic about showing public support for BLM. Within days, logos have been designed and statements posted online.
I have watched the Church's reaction with particularly interest. It’s not perfect. There are some who have intellectually grasped the problem of privilege but not yet reconciled to if and how they contribute. African ministers aren't as vocal as they should be. Yet there are shoots of hope. In the States, beyond the uprisings, refreshingly honest and raw conversations are taking place. Across the Channel I witness from afar some serious soul-searching by Caucasian Christians, many of whom would not have been actively engaged in anti-racist struggle. They are starting to question cultural practices that might perpetuate Eurocentric hegemony. As the only brown girl on a Christian meditation Zoom call, I'm pleasantly surprised when other participants keenly pursue my query about what the Chaplaincy is doing to align itself with the movement. Official statements of solidarity are made by churches usually hesitant to appear 'political'. My UK home church, adapts a planned prayer session to encompass this urgent socio-political problem. Additional resources are added to the website. There are expressions of intent to grapple further with the issues, even where there's an existing commitment to diversity. Time will tell if this engagement translates into profound long-term change.
A Christian arts collective of which I’m an
honorary member organise cross-cultural Zoom discussions. The
predominantly Caucasian membership and trustees' efforts to listen
and learn are genuine. The first session is a candid and constructive moment of
knowledge, experience and resource sharing. There are sincere conversations about deconstructing privilege and its insidious presence in the
Body of Christ.
Alas,
no
such self-awareness in France. A huge
solidarity protest is held in Paris in honour of Adama Traore, killed by
French police in similar circumstances to Floyd. The day after, I
contact a trade unionist friend to see if any such action is planned
in Strasbourg. She vehemently distances herself from the ‘aggression’
of the Parisian event.
That week, insensitive comments are made during an online prayer and fasting session organised by my French church. A pastor (and former policeman) insinuates that the racial violence is equal on both sides. Another older Caucasian member reserves all her sympathy for the poor police. Oh, how they are maligned. Through prayer, she reprimands the ungrateful French population for not letting them get on with the job. No mention of the myriads of victims of police violence, many whose families originate from former French colonies. I have often decried the church’s blind loyalty to authority in the name of honour, when we are supposed to side with the marginalised and oppressed. It’s been a louder refrain of late.
That week, insensitive comments are made during an online prayer and fasting session organised by my French church. A pastor (and former policeman) insinuates that the racial violence is equal on both sides. Another older Caucasian member reserves all her sympathy for the poor police. Oh, how they are maligned. Through prayer, she reprimands the ungrateful French population for not letting them get on with the job. No mention of the myriads of victims of police violence, many whose families originate from former French colonies. I have often decried the church’s blind loyalty to authority in the name of honour, when we are supposed to side with the marginalised and oppressed. It’s been a louder refrain of late.
That
weekend a local solidarity demo is organised. To my great consternation, I find out too late
from a church sister, Fabienne. The day after the protest, we
head to the newly re-opened Jabiru café. Restaurant-owner
and friend Gael tells me he was also at the march, albeit for a few minutes
between café duties. I’m crushed, having spent a
good part of that week searching online for information on any such
event.
You
should be on social media. They
both chime.
I shouldn’t have to be.
I shouldn’t have to be.
Fabienne
and I reflect on our church’s lukewarm response. No explicit
references to the widespread unrest or, more importantly, its causes.
All the more surprising that the senior pastor is half-African
American. Fabienne believes it’s indicative of a wider
indifference. With the exception of the aforementioned rallies, there
hasn’t been the outpouring of support she expected even from high
profile Francophone Africans and Caribbeans. She confirms what has
been a creeping suspicion. France is in even more denial about its
imperial past and neo-colonial present than I thought.
A mere few days later however, the controversy forces some uncomfortable discussions into the open. Denial about the extent of state-sanctioned violence is counterbalanced by contestation of such claims on national television. Marine Le Pen's niece spouts unsubstantiated supremacist nonsense about 'true' victimhood, claiming that the anti-racism movement is lucrative leftist racket. Whilst countries around the world, including neighbouring Belgium, reckon with how problematic historical figures are memorialised, contemporary colonialist par excellence, President Macron makes the same ol' lazy arguments about not 'erasing history'.
A mere few days later however, the controversy forces some uncomfortable discussions into the open. Denial about the extent of state-sanctioned violence is counterbalanced by contestation of such claims on national television. Marine Le Pen's niece spouts unsubstantiated supremacist nonsense about 'true' victimhood, claiming that the anti-racism movement is lucrative leftist racket. Whilst countries around the world, including neighbouring Belgium, reckon with how problematic historical figures are memorialised, contemporary colonialist par excellence, President Macron makes the same ol' lazy arguments about not 'erasing history'.
During a cordial but candid conversation with the senior pastor of my French church, he makes (literal) note of my concerns and suggestions. He explains he doesn't want to rush out a response whilst so much is in flux. He wishes to be measured; not just to speak but to be heard. I propose. as a mark of solidarity, that he shares this reasoning with the church, just so we know the leadership is engaging with this critical issue. Otherwise, it seems an awful lot like indifference.
The
dial is starting to shift in the right direction. Gradually.
That weekend I attend another BLM solidarity event. Similar demonstrations take place the same day across the world. Earlier that afternoon, the case of Rayshard Brooks comes to my attention; yet another unarmed African-American killed by the police. Brooks is shot whilst running away with an officer's taser following an altercation. His crime? Falling asleep in his car at a drive-thru. The incident sparks more stateside protests. The 'when, not if' of more sceptical activists has come to pass sooner than the hopeful amongst us thought.
The fresh newstory is on my mind as I leave for the demo that rainy Sunday afternoon.
Bilingual makeshift placards abound. Several denounce white silence as complicity. There are numerous unflattering depictions of the police.
It's a far more tepid affair compared to the previous' week; at least judging from the images I've seen. The weather doesn't help. There's a fraction of those who attended the 5 June demo.
I rue all the more having missed the first gathering. I'm reminded of going to the second London anti-war march in 2003, having missed out on the record-breaking original demonstration, attended by my sister and roughly a million others.
It shouldn't matter. Solidarity is solidarity. Yet the atmosphere is different.
The (mostly Caucasian) participants gather round the statue of Jean-Baptiste Kléber to listen to rallying speeches. Photographers wander around, the least concerned of all amidst a crowd only loosely observing physical distancing guidelines. I do what I can, shifting to either avoid being too close to my neighbours or to get out of the path of smokers.
Most of the speakers are poorly amplified. I hear snatches of discourse. I applaud apprehensively, more often than not unsure of what is being said. I favour speeched by those who embed the fight against racial inequality in a wider framework of anti-capitalism and socio-economic justice. There's a mixed reaction to interventions made by Gilets Jaunes representatives. Not entirely fair, to my mind.
That weekend I attend another BLM solidarity event. Similar demonstrations take place the same day across the world. Earlier that afternoon, the case of Rayshard Brooks comes to my attention; yet another unarmed African-American killed by the police. Brooks is shot whilst running away with an officer's taser following an altercation. His crime? Falling asleep in his car at a drive-thru. The incident sparks more stateside protests. The 'when, not if' of more sceptical activists has come to pass sooner than the hopeful amongst us thought.
The fresh newstory is on my mind as I leave for the demo that rainy Sunday afternoon.
Bilingual makeshift placards abound. Several denounce white silence as complicity. There are numerous unflattering depictions of the police.
It's a far more tepid affair compared to the previous' week; at least judging from the images I've seen. The weather doesn't help. There's a fraction of those who attended the 5 June demo.
I rue all the more having missed the first gathering. I'm reminded of going to the second London anti-war march in 2003, having missed out on the record-breaking original demonstration, attended by my sister and roughly a million others.
It shouldn't matter. Solidarity is solidarity. Yet the atmosphere is different.
The (mostly Caucasian) participants gather round the statue of Jean-Baptiste Kléber to listen to rallying speeches. Photographers wander around, the least concerned of all amidst a crowd only loosely observing physical distancing guidelines. I do what I can, shifting to either avoid being too close to my neighbours or to get out of the path of smokers.
Most of the speakers are poorly amplified. I hear snatches of discourse. I applaud apprehensively, more often than not unsure of what is being said. I favour speeched by those who embed the fight against racial inequality in a wider framework of anti-capitalism and socio-economic justice. There's a mixed reaction to interventions made by Gilets Jaunes representatives. Not entirely fair, to my mind.
I'm approached by a couple of news outlets for brief interviews. Perhaps the bright colours of my faux-wax skirt and complementary Afrocentric accessories catch their attention on this miserable day.
I explain French is not my first language. They don't mind. Both TV stations ask why I've come. The first interview is more detailed. It's hard not to speak in clichés. I'm here to show solidarity. As an African woman. As a human being. As someone who tries to be socially-engaged. It would be apposite to mention the killing of Brooks; to emphasise the urgency of change. Alas, it has already slipped my mind. It's only on the way home I realise the missed-opportunity.
The first network asks a follow-up about cultural differences between the UK and France. That's a big question, I reply, laughing nervously. A concise and straightforward answer would be difficult in any language. I do my best. I stress that I do not wish to over-simplify. I feel like I come up far too short, in any case. I gabble something unoriginal about cultural (in)sensitivities, covert and overt forms of racism; how all colonial powers are culpable but have different approaches to the debate. I mention how it seems mainstream France has taken longer to self-scrutinise compared to reactions in the Anglophone context.
The interviewer looks distracted. He wears a polite smile whilst frequently glancing into the distance. I feel less at ease.
I head home after the second interview, lest I should be accosted again.
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