Ruisseaux et Rivières 

  
Les petits ruisseaux font les grandes rivières, qu’ils me disent.

Et les grandes rivières, celles faites de détritus amoncelés, aussi nauséabonds que leurs tas de mensonges, elles font quoi? 

Je vais vous le dire, moi ce qu’elles font.

Elles font des vagues, qui murmurent au début, et puis qui grondent, qui grondent, qui roulent sous le ciel de plomb pour venir s’échouer aux pieds des menteurs, des voleurs, des criminels, ceux en cols blancs bien amidonnés, ceux bien droits dans leurs bottes, ceux bien à l’abri dans leurs voitures blindées. Les menteurs, les voleurs, les criminels, ça n’a pas toujours la forme que l’on croit, il leur est très facile de se camoufler à coup de respectabilité, de mots creux, de repassage des consciences et d’endormissement des rumeurs. 

Les menteurs, les voleurs, les criminels, ce sont comme les poubelles qui s’amoncellent, ça pue et il faut s’en débarrasser. Les menteurs, les voleurs, les criminels, ça ne sert à rien, ça pollue, ça infecte. Allez hop, un grand coup de balai! 

Les petits ruisseaux font les grandes rivières, qu’ils me disent, et de ces grandes rivières naissent des vagues, de gros remous qui font tanguer la barque de la corruption, qui chavirent l’esquif de la cupidité et qui ne laissent rien derrière eux qu’une plage dévastée à nettoyer, un horizon lavé de ses maux, prêt à renaître dans sa pureté retrouvée. 
Les petits ruisseaux font les grandes rivières, qu’ils me disent.

Et les grandes rivières, maman, qu’est-ce qu’elles font? 

Les grandes rivières, ma chérie, elles font la révolution. 

The Minute After

She sat, her hands folded on her lap. She looked like she might have been praying, I wouldn’t know, I was never really good at that sort of things.

I wanted to comfort her, I really did, except it seemed I had forgotten how to breathe. I was drowning in liquid air, barely aware of walking, a rough buzzing had filled my ears, and only one thing was clear: I had to get to her, I had to make sure it had really happened. That it wasn’t all a terrible nightmare.

She sat, her head bent down, she seemed to be folding onto herself.

I tasted something salty, it might have been tears.

Around us, only shadows. Slivers of people running around, cries, orders being given, chaos. Around us, white walls and red tears.

She sat, and I wondered why I was still clinging on to the hope that it had not happened. She just sat there, her hands folded on her lap and her head bent down, and it was like every bone she had was crumbling under the sheer weight of everything she had lost today.

She just sat there, her hands folded on her lap and her head bent down, she sat there in silence; she needn’t speak anyway, her body was screaming for her, her whole posture a deafening scream of denial and despair.

And when I reached her, I put my head on her hands, these hands folded on her lap, and I buried myself in that screaming body, and at that moment, at that very second, our two beings were merged by the hands of grief. Unspeakable, piercing, never-ending and unadulterated grief.

I don’t know for our long we buried ourselves in each other. When we left, the shadows were still running, we were discharged into the grilling sun while we left her to the cold claws of death, forced as we were to carry on living.

How do you keep on fighting, when the ties tethering you to life have been severed?

Qamar

Here in the dead of time, buried deep into the falling night, I sit with the moon.
When all is quiet and peaceful at last, when fluffy dreams enter you mind, making your beautiful eyes flutter, I sit by the moon, her half orb shining upon my words and guarding your angel sleep.

The moon and I, we’re neighbors, or so says the song. Regardless of where I’m sitting, it’s the same moon that my people can see, the same moon that guards children’s dreams.

And nightmares.

You see, while our night is peaceful, only disturbed by the whisper of the wind softly caressing the lush leaves of the surrounding trees, while I sit here, the smoke of my cigarette drawing arabesques above me, others can not find enough peace to sleep, or finally exhale at the end of a long day.

But they, they are children of the moon, like you and me, and they deserve the same oblivion that we take for granted. When sleep eludes them, while we sit comfortably in a never ending dialogue with the sky, they keep hearing the sound of screams, the sound of death pounding at their door.

And it isn’t fair, and it isn’t pretty, and while the moon orbits around us, we stay silent to their plea, as guilty as the culprits bringing deaths and destruction at their doors.

Everyone deserves solace and comfort, not just you and me, but a guilty conscience or appeals to the heavens have never brought anyone any respite.

And so we close our eyes for these blissful hours, rendering our hearts and souls to the stars, but while we do so, let us not forget to fight.

For those who are stranded on the verge of humanity never give up on themselves. And they teach us a lesson.
The biggest there is, the lesson of life.

And so let us kiss the moon, let us keep our eyes open to the children of the moon, and fight, as they do, fight for a moon that shines above children’s dreams.

And stops the nightmare.

How To Live With a Revolutionary Without Losing Your Head (Or Parenting His)

I, The Rev, have become a father.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to appear as if I were in any way supporting the horrid patriarchal system that would ultimately oppress my daughter, but for now there are no other word for it: I am a father.

I keep turning the word around my mouth like a piece of candy. I think I like it almost as much as the word ‘revolution’. If I have to be honest, Karl and Leo and Rosa forgive me, I think I like it even more.

The whole birthing thing was a bit of an ordeal. I mean, Significant Comrade did shout at me a fair bit, especially when I told her that I had to go to another city to pick up Comrade Professor, to bring him to the airport after a conference he gave. In hindsight, perhaps telling her this after her water broke might not have been my best move. Kind of like Che Guevara telling Castro he did not want to be part of the Cuban government and would rather go and ignite revolution focos around the world. This kind of news are best delivered behind a shield.  I believe she might have thrown something at me, yelling that if I went ‘I’d have to bear the consequences’, which I think meant that I probably would not have gotten to be a father after all. So I had to explain things to Comrade Professor, who took it like the Marxist Leninist he is and shared my angst at Significant Comrade’s wrath. And took a taxi to the airport.

To soothe and entertain Significant Comrade, I even made a little joke about being like George Clooney in ER when I donned the full surgeon’s outfit. Significant Comrade was not pleased, and kept shouting abuse at how unfair and sexist nature was, asking everyone why it was women who had to go through all that pain and misery. I was so proud of her: in the middle of giving birth, yet challenging patriarchy and delivering passionate feminist statements right there in the middle of the ward. Keen to help, I looked into the Russian Revolution by Comrade Trotsky, as well as into Das Kapital by our Heavenly Father Marx, and even in La Femme Rompue By Comrade de Beauvoir, and yet I could not find an answer to this question. Significant Comrade seemed rather short tempered with me as I tried to discuss her points with her.

I believe it was the first time that Comrade Trotsky ever failed me. But no matter, Significant Comrade finally gave birth to an out-of-this-world child without killing me so all in all I can’t complain.

As soon as she was born, I knew that Mini Comrade was a Comrade. Her cries in the middle of the night were clearly an articulate critique of the obsolete capitalist system we’re forced to live under. Crying until purple in the face was only her way of rebelling until she could lead demos and write insightful articles and statements.

Mini Comrade’s best friend is a teddy bear wearing a Trotsky t-shirt, a gift from other comrades who felt her innate desire to stare at something beautiful all day long, i.e. the face of our deceased leader. I wanted to explain to her why he died, in the name of the Permanent Revolution, and how that low life Stalin had him executed but Significant Other doesn’t feel like it’s an appropriate story for a three months old.

Lack of sleep and added responsibilities make Significant Comrade rather edgy, I find. Just the other day, when I was dancing with my child to the sound of l’Internationale, I showed my baby’s smiley face to her mother, who just said: ‘That child has already learnt to make fun of you and most importantly, of your voice. Good girl’

I think Significant Comrade is just sore that my child has such a deep connection with the permanent revolution. She is laughing because she feels ineffable joy at listening to revolutionary hymns.

Mini Comrade had her first demo on the 8th of March for International Women’s Day, and while everyone thought she was just sleeping through it, I know she was in fact closing her eyes to take in all the oppression women have to bear on a daily basis and muster all her strength to join forces and voices with the cortege of militants contesting it. You should have seen her raise her little fist, it lasted three seconds but you could see that fist could carry a revolution ila el Nasr! To the victory!

Sometimes I  look at her and I feel that the love might choke me.

Also, imagine if she turns out to be the reincarnation of Clara Zetkin.

‘Get over yourself. She will punish you for shoving all these things down her throat by becoming a neo-liberalism advocate and going to work for the World Economic Forum’, says Significant Comrade in passing.

I would still love her is my answer, feeling like a good parent.

‘Even of she turns into a Stalinist?`

I have not slept in three days at the mere thought. Significant Comrade is just plain mean.

 

How to Live with a Pregnant Comrade Without Losing Your Head (Or Laboring Hers)

 Significant Comrade is pregnant.

 

I, the Rev, am going to become a FATHER! Not that I subscribe to the idiotic, bourgeois, reactionary model of the patriarchal family where the biological male has all the power and the privileges within the family cell and the woman is left as the proletariat of the marriage, as Comrade Engels would say. Because I don’t. Let us be clear about that.

 

If the doctors are to be believed, I’m to ‘have’ a daughter, not that she will ever be my property, not at all, or that she will necessarily identify as a ‘girl’ as portrayed by the heteronormative patriarchal society, gender being a social construct anyway as Comrade Butler explained it. She will be absolutely free to become whatever and whoever she will want to become and I’ll fiercely love her anyway. Although in hindsight, perhaps maybe not if she decides to work for the World Economic Forum or for Morgan Stanley, or if she becomes a right wing militant, or worse, a Stalinist. Imagine that. Sometimes I can’t sleep just thinking about it.

 

Huh. I realise Significant Comrade and myself will have to tread very carefully if we want to transmit our beliefs and values to our child. But then again, is sharing these with her an act of oppression? Will I be crushing her critical thinking and creativity? Have I already started? You know, because I talk to her, and read things to her, things like ‘Marx at the Margins’, the ‘old social classes and the revolutionary movements of Iraq’ and ‘Hezbollah and Hamas: A contemporary study’. I also sing to her sometimes, things like the International in French, English and Arabic, although Significant Comrade’s temper seems to be slightly shorter than usual and I kind of got yelled at. I tried Bella Ciao, thinking it might be better received, but got the Petit Manuel pour En Finir Avec le Capitalisme thrown at my face, by accident I’m sure.

 

I’m kind of getting yelled at, or cried on, quite a bit at the moment. Sometimes, I wish Comrade Trotsky would have been more of a ‘family’ man, instead of running around in Mexico with iconic painters, so he could have written a book in the vein of the Russian Revolution but on how Revolutionaries could better support their comrades during pregnancy and childbirth. Like last time, when I found the Significant Comrade crying her eyes out in front of Keeping Up With the Kardashians, which is in itself a very sore subject in our marriage. I hoped she was being tearful because of the stupidity and crass consumerism of it all, but apparently it was because Kourtney was being mean to Kim. Who are these people? Who is Kourtney? Who is Kim? And why are they making my Significant Comrade cry? Sometimes I can’t help but wonder how Comrade Marx managed with Jenny. I mean, she has been pregnant seven times. Seven. Ah but look at Comrade Karl daughters, all socialist activists, translating the works of their daddy! Sometimes I wonder if my daughter shall do the same with me?

 

When I share my concerns with Significant Comrade, it seems to me that she is not quite so keen on discussing these things with me. Something to do about having enough on her own plate and how would I like to weigh a ton and be full of water and having trouble breathing, sleeping and eating? I have to say, that left me speechless. As a revolutionary, I can not speak in lieu of the oppressed, and my Comrade is clearly being oppressed. Also, when I tried and talked to Significant Comrade about the absolute need of trusting our child to make her own experiences in life and not be overly protective of her, Significant Comrade did not seem to share my views either. I believe her exact words were: ‘Listen to me you stupid Rev, are you the one being asked to expel a baby the size of a ginormous turkey from a hole the size of your nostril? HUH? HUH? Nah, I don’t think so, so you shut the fuck up and you leave me to decide when that child will be able to start with her own experiments with life and that is never, or not until she’s 30 anyway, the world is filled with serial killers and sexual predators’. Which I thought was a bit much, in all fairness, but I thought it best not to argue.

Now that I’m about to become a dad, I value my life.

I am nevertheless hoping that the revolution will prevail soon so that patriarchy and neo-liberalism become things of the past and so I’m trying twice as hard to make it happen before she turns 5. Time is running out my Comrades, let us build a whole new world.

 

Sometimes, when I try and lay my plans for the triumph of revolutionary socialism to the Significant Comrade, she just hugs her pregnancy pillow (which she dubbed ‘her new husband, but I am fine with that, as I do not own my Significant Comrade. Also, it’s a pillow) and tells me to shut up and go to sleep. ‘Your child will be a Menchevik anyway’, she said.

 

And here I am, eyes wide open in the dark. What if she is?  

How to Live with a Revolutionary without Losing your Head – Or PhDing His

Over the past few months, the Rev did not disappear. On the contrary, he seemed to be everywhere around you, writing his PhD THESIS. Which for the Rev isn’t much different than his usual state of being, meaning that he was buried deep between two towers of books that pretty much looked the same to you with titles like: ‘Hezbollah, a discourse’, ‘Hezbollah, a discourse within the discourse’ and ‘Hezbollah, why they are not socialist revolutionaries’ with the occasional reference to Hamas thrown in for the fun of it. All attempts made at talking to the Rev were also met with the following: mmmmm? Grunt. What? Grunt. What did you say? Grunt. Followed by some more muttering to himself that seemed to go like: ‘oh no, my thesis is about 150 000 more words it needs to be, I need to cut it, despair, despair’.
You know you shouldn’t have laughed, but truth be told, you could not help but remember when you used to tell the Rev his articles were too long and people did not have the time or energy to read papers before going to bed on a work day. The Rev is a man of many (leftist) words, and somehow that doesn’t seem to have reached the university guidelines.
– Ah well, he says. I’ll just turn the long version into a book.
Oh goody.

Over these past months, the rev also went to conferences.Mostly to scare people off with his rhetoric,but also sometimes to participate and listen. You foolishly went with him (only sometimes, no need to push it), only to be faced with comrades making jokes you don’t understand about Campists (and neither does my word processor who just underlined the very word and wants to replace it by ‘campsite’). Apparently, campism has nothing to do with Comrades going off camping in some nice place like normal people, but refers to a Trotskyist (who the fuck else?) concept of people who either defend Stalinism or capitalism. Needless to say, Comrade Trotsky and his ilk refuse Campism and oppose both.
Or something like that, but it’s entirely possible I misunderstood (mostly because I don’t care), so please do not take my word for it.
Campists or not, you mildly appreciated it when a largely inebriated crowd of comrades sang The International, no sorry, sorry the ENTIRE International below your window at 4 in the morning in a bout of revolutionary fervor during one week end long Summer University. Suddenly, you had very warm feelings towards social democrats. The Rev swears he wasn’t amongst them. You don’t believe him. He’s only saying this so you don’t become a socialist.

The Rev also went to the Grand Mass of Marxism, namely, to Marxism. For those blessed enough not to know, Marxism is a significant conference organised by the Socialist Workers Party in the UK where people like the Rev meet and discuss heatedly the issues of the day like knowing if the USSR was governed by state capitalism or was in fact a degenerated workers states. Basically the Rev’s idea of heaven (that is, if he were religious, which he isn’t, although he respects people who are, as religion fills a certain social need. Or something)The Rev, bless his heart, sent me a text from Marxism telling me: ‘I’m attending a conference on the reasons behind the failing of the Russian Revolution. You’d have loved it’.
To which I answered that I would so totally have loved it, and thanked him profusely for offering me my next Facebook status.
I don’t bite the hand that feeds me.
Plus The Rev came back with gifts: a Rosa Luxembourg T-shirt for you, A ‘Marx was right’ mug for him and a Che Guevara t-shirt for your child. That she’ll be able to wear when she’s about 12 because ‘there was no smaller size and so he bought an S’.

Yes, against your better judgement,you are now in your 6th month of pregnancy with the Rev’s child.
He’s pretty excited about it too: he’s already planning on reading Trotsky to her (to which I have no objection, I’m sure it’ll send that poor kid right off to sleep) (No says the Rev, no! she’ll love it! She won’t be a reactionary like you!)
To prove his point, he started reading out to her ‘Marx at the Margins’. After the first couple of words, she kicked. The Rev thinks it was out of delight, You think she was just attempting at kicking her father, in a desperate attempt at making him stop.

The fact that you’re already planning on raising her as a feminist isn’t remotely the same as the Rev trying to turn her into a socialist revolutionary. You’re doing it to liberate her from the shackles of patriarchal oppression. He’s just doing it to bug you.

In any case, your child will do what children do best: rebel and go against you.
In your case, she’ll probably be working at Wall Street, advocating for more laws and regulations preventing women to have control over their own body.

You obviously can’t wait.

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Disgust and Despair, or Yet Another Rant on Lebanon

Featured

I used to write I wanted to go back to Lebanon, live there permanently and all that. I used to be so blinded by love for that country that I romanticized it to death, brushing over the bad aspects as if they were nothing.

Then I came back, and the romantic dream died. I still loved Lebanon though. A more honest love, perhaps, but it still had a special place in my heart.

But now I am done. Don’t get me wrong, many things I still love, many things still make my heart beat. I’ll probably never be over Beirut. How can one be over Beirut? But I digress.

I am, however, over the Lebanese political elite. I am tired of screaming arraftouna. I am tired of sending letters and tweets and marching and yelling and advocating for change while it is very clear that the political class couldn’t give two fucks about what it is we’re asking for. I’m tired of being disgusted to the core by the aggressive corruption, I’m tired of begging for rights that are rightfully mine, I am tired of consultations, meetings, discussions, projects funded by organisations and countries with their own agendas and their own priorities, who really, actually, don’t really give two fucks either about what it is you’re asking for. I am tired of pretending something can be done in the current system we’re in.

I am tired of pretending we’re not at war when Tripoli is counting its dead, and has been for a while. I am tired of looking at discrimination in the face every day I spend in Lebanon and not knowing where to start to eradicate it. I am tired of being considered by law and by society as a second class citizen who should stay at home to raise children born within wedlock, a religious wedlock if you please. I am tired of the mind-numbing hypocrisy of the religious, the politician and business classes alike, all united to stomp on equality, justice and freedom.

The truth is my heart is aching with the mothers still looking for their children decades after they have been abducted or disappeared during the war, the truth is I can’t stand that my friends need two jobs just to barely make ends meet while they have degrees and experience whereas a family name can open the doors of heaven to others.

I’m tired of Lebanon. Because this is Lebanon, whether we like it or not. Today Lebanon is a country where abused women have no law protecting them, where women can’t pass on their citizenship to their family, where rape is legal if the rapist marries you, where maternity leave is so short and childcare so expensive you’re virtually left with no choice but to drop your kids at your mothers and take a job that finishes at 2. If you’re lucky. Today Lebanon is a Parliament giving itself the authority to extend its own mandate, today Lebanon is a country where political lines are drawn according to sectarian allegiances, where so called parties are nothing more than families repeating the same lies for decades. Today Lebanon is a country where you can’t even get a civil marriage, where modern slavery is seen as a normal part of every day life, as if there were nothing wrong in putting a human being under the authority and responsibility of another. Today Lebanon is a country where the vast majority of the workforce is unaccounted for, informal, where social security is a Graal only the lucky can get. Today Lebanon is a country where all woes are blamed on the Other, the refugee, the member of a different sect, the poor, without ever looking within to see the rot.

This is the Lebanon our political and administrative sectarian system gave us. Do you like it? Is there anything to be proud of?

Now is the time for radical action, for general strikes and paralyzing actions of the system. Now is the time to strike back, to name and shame, to stop voting, to stage constant protest.

The time for compromise and participation has gone, and we’re only left with confrontation. It is our only hope.

How to live with a revolutionary without losing your head (Or WSFing his)

The Rev went to the World Social Forum in Tunis.

The Horror.

The horroooooorrrr.

Imagine. Just imagine, all these revolutionaries, so-called revolutionaries, leftists, pseudo-post-feminists, members of the second, third, fourth and even fifth International just roaming free in the streets of the Tunis, pretending they can dance to the sound of darbouka and quoting Marx right, left and center. Imagine the hippies, the Tunisian mukhabarat, the states-sponsored organisations trying to convince you that yes, Bashar Al Assad is a resistant and that Comrade Khomeiny really did stand for the oppressed. Imagine the Palestinian flags getting intertwined with the sickle and hammer. Imagine Oxfam and USAid in the middle of this, acting completely unaware that they were almost as in their right place than a cockroach in a pot of pristine white cream.

Imagine the Rev in the middle of this.

The horror.

You foolishly went with him. I mean, you really did need to keep an eye on him, just to make sure he was not traumatizing the Tunisian people, these poor things have enough on their plate. You went, thinking, ah well, I will follow one or two sessions and then what I’ll do is, I’ll go to the Madina and to Sidi Bou Said to eat myself stupid and buy local artifacts to support the local economy (translate by: to exemplify the evil consumerist urge of buying gorgeous plates and leather satchels and not giving two damns about it being an evil consumerist urge. Take that, world social forum!)

What happened was, on the very first day, you had to restrain the Rev and pull him out of not one, but two fights.

The Rev is 2cm short of 1m90. You are 23cm off the 1m90 mark. And of course, you were wearing flats, so you barely reached his armpit.
And yet, you shoved him aside like there was no tomorrow, pushing him away from the crowd and yelling at him like a madwoman.
The Rev, you see, had spotted some Bashar supporters, who, let’s face it, really did want to be spotted, what with them carrying a ginormous pro-Bashar Syrian flag (is there even such a thing?) and in case we were confused, pictures of the blue-eyed tyrant with slogans such as ‘we’re all with you’. Er, no we’re not.
Now you completely understand the Rev’s rage. You even share it, no questions asked. The teeny tiny glitch is that the setting of the fight was as follows:
– Pro-Bashar supporters: 25
– Rev: Rev (plus you, ok)
You felt the issue might not have been in favour of the Rev. So you shoved and shoved until his cries of ‘traitors! Murderers! Thieves! Cowards! The Syrian people will get their freedom ya KLEB!’ Were drowned in the peaceful chants of some organisations or others.
The fact that Stalinists roamed the campus of the world social forum really did nothing to impress you with the world social forum. I mean, what’s the point of doing a song and dance about social justice and all this ‘another world is possible’ hoopla if it’s to end up having to listen to participants glorifying war criminals. Seriously. You’d be better off at Fashion Week. At least there no one is pretending they’re doing it for the good of humankind.

However, the Rev, with his sweet, forgetful nature, was soon enough feeling better and while severely criticizing and despising the pro-criminals people (KLEB!) he managed to meet up with every comrade under the sun he could get his hands on, attending meetings, organizing and coordinating campaigns, drafting statements as if they were going out of style.
He even went to Gafsa to talk with the workers on strike there an offer his solidarity, luckily without falling into a phosphate mine while he was at it.

You? Oh, after telling a SWP member that you belonged to the 4th International (just to see his face fall, you like being mean to people),you spent most of your time in Sidi Bou Said, like a lizard in the sun.
The fact that you don’t know the difference between the third and the fourth international is irrelevant, and in any case, when the Rev explained it to you, you were not impressed.

I mean, who CARES if the USSR was a state capitalism system or a degenerate proletarian state? Seriously people, that’s what they’re fighting about.

Who cares? I asked the Rev. The USSR is extinct anyway. For fuck’s sake.
The Rev looked at you ever so kindly, then laughed. Truth be told, you thought, these people could do with a laugh. And with a serious make over.

You’re in the process of founding your own international. Invitation only, of course.

You Are Not My Comrade

The world social forum is a ginormous gathering of people thinking creatively together and sharing ideas to create a more just, equal world.

Or so they’ll have you believe. Participating in the opening march, I found myself severely thorn. The march was aimed, as all marches, at reclaiming the streets but also , on a more specific level, at demonstrating to governments preaching austerity measures, oppression, discrimination and neo-liberal policies than another world is possible, that standing in solidarity with all people of the world was possible, and that us, the people, were to become one and fight the capital back.

Oh sure, you had more Comrades than your eyes could handle, you had your usual Che Guevara wanna-bes (I almost wrote lookalikes here, but then thought better of it) and you had your various flags and banners, all calling for more solidarity, more self-determination,more peace).
Among which, flags and banners of Pro-Bashar Syria, with pictures of Bashar to match, with ‘we’re all with you’ slogans to boot.
Now Oxfam marching away as if they owned the place (which they probably do, given than they’re one of the main donors of the world social forum, along with the French Institute and Bread for the World (imperialism? Neo-colonialism? What? Where?)) I could probably stomach, regardless of the fact that the irony of the presence of an organization feeding a 100% into the neoliberal paradigm of NGOs slowly taking on the economic and social duties of the state at such a march was apparently lost on them. I could even stomach, albeit with some difficulty, the countless people wearing Hugo Chavez T-shirts and his pictures, calling him Commandante as if he fought alongside Lenin in the Russian Revolution, even if these people seemed totally oblivious that the world social forum was taking place in a region that has direly and is still direly suffering from the catastrophic effects of dictatorships and that aforementioned Commandante was one of the closest and fiercest supporter and friend of Gaddafi and Al Assad. I can understand Venezuelans value Chavez for the improvement of their socio-economic conditions he brought to his country. I do. What I don’t understand is the very basic anti-imperialism rampant in the left that makes every little middle finger extended to the USA and Israel a supreme act of anti-imperialism that deserves reverence by all.
It is this minimal and quite limited understanding of anti-imperialism that leads some leftists to remain staunch supporters of perpetrators of monstrosities such as Gaddafi and Al Assad. I won’t even bother to go into the details of how much considering Al Assad an anti-imperialist is wrong. News update my comrades, imperialism and neo-colonialism can also be performed by other states than the US, and in the case of Syria, I don’t recall Al Assad opposing the imperialist tendencies of Iran and Russia. As for neo-liberal policies, I will only refer you to this article, explaining at great length how much Al Assad’s policies created a greater class divide, how much whatever economic ‘improvement’ and integration within the globalized economy only benefited a small clique of big cities bourgeoisie. Surely that’s not how Comrade Marx intended socialism and communism, am I right?
As of those still living in the delusion that Assad is opposing Zionism and will free Jerusalem, kindly inform me what he has done to free his own territory, the Golan, before he takes on freeing Palestine. Apparently there are plenty of ammunition to kill and slaughter his people but there are none available to free the Golan.

It is for all these reasons that I do not get the enormous pictures of Al Assad within the world social forum March. It is because war crimes are happening, it is because mass slaughters are happening, it is because peaceful resistance and opposition were met with ferocious repression, torture and unlawful use of force that I do not get, my sweet Comrade, how you can smoke your oh so not subversive weed, look me in the eyes, and tell me that we’re all with Assad, the great anti-imperialist.

Surely, my Comrade, this is not how Comrade Marx intended it?

How to live with a revolutionary without losing your head (or peace and lovin’ his)

At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality… We must strive every day so that this love of living humanity will be transformed into actual deeds, into acts that serve as examples, as a moving force.
Comrade Che Guevara

The Rev is kind.
You are mean.
Do you kind of see where the problem is now?

The Rev, ever the humanist, sees the good in people, perceives judgment as the ultimate sin, and finds excuses to the wickedest behaviors through material reasons. ‘You have to try and UNDERSTAND why this person chose to behave that way! Stop judging! Who are we to judge? We’re all humans! Maybe their material circumstances do not permit them to behave in another way and in any case, this is all the faults of capitalism that has fucked up people’s lives and brains!”. The fact that the person whose attitude you’re judging has just performed some horrible act and behaved appallingly is irrelevant. The Rev uses kindness as the flag he will brandish when the revolution conquers.

In another life, the Rev was Jesus Christ. You tell him so repeatedly. That upsets him. His kindness doesn’t extend to questioning his atheism.
As previously said, you’re mean.

But beware! Being kind does not a hippie make, for the Rev is Not a Hippie. On the contrary, he doesn’t particularly likes hippies. Nothing major, his sweet, non judging, all accepting nature would never allow it, but in the privacy of his office, he will eventually mutter darkly at all that lovey-dovey, away with the fairies, let- us-braid-each-other’s-hair-with-wild-poppies hippie approach to collective action. Make no mistake: the Rev might be kind, but to be successful the revolution absolutely needs the hard core organized party preached by Comrade Trotsky. Minds can not be fogged by weed: you shall be alert at all times to fight the attacks of conservatism, patriarchy and neo-liberalism and to educate yourself and others on the politics of oppression.

The downside to the Rev’s kindness is that he kinds of expect people -you- to be as kind as him. And people-you- can not be arsed to do so. You just don’t have it in you, I mean, all this gentleness, Jesus Fucking CHRIST, it’s exhausting. You don’t know how he does it. He helps older people carrying heavy luggage at the airport. You curse them under your breath, wishing they would go AWAY so you can FINALLY advance in the line and go HOME. He plays with crying children on the train/plane/everywhere, cooing peekaboo like a soccer mom while you hide behind your book, cursing under your breath about over indulging parents and impolite children. He goes to every protests, nay, strike that, he organizes every protests known to mankind and arrives the first, lugs around props and materials for street actions, suffers never-ending, so-boring-you-want-to-slash-your-wrists-and-die-a-slow-painful-death conferences and still manages to come home with a smile. You go to work, you buy shoes, you’re exhausted, you make fun of him carrying his banner and still manage to go home with a frown.

In short, the Rev is impossible to live with. I mean, his saint-like behavior just reflects badly on you. You know you’re mean, you don’t need to look it in polite company while he’s saving a kitten or something and you’re yelling ‘To hell with the kitten! I’m cold!’.

You hate to say it, but sometimes you wonder if the Rev, with his positive outlook on life and expanding heart, isn’t your natural Prozac.
I mean, think of it this way: with him around, you don’t need a mood enhancer and think of the money you’ll save for shoes!