A messy update for you this month. I have some confessions that have been weighing rather heavily upon me, as of late.
Genocide continues in Gaza, yet I have stopped watching, reading the news, keeping myself informed. I have become a slacktivist, occasionally reposting some pretty Instagram tiles onto my stories to absolve myself. I now scroll past headlines, and leave emails from APAN unread. I haven’t attended a rally since — I’m not sure.
This happened by accident. I suspect I don’t have to explain, because I’m sure too many of us are in the same boat. Insert explanation that is ultimately just an excuse here, boo-fucking-hoo: I’m sure Palestinians are exhausted too.
I’m laying this bare now, so that I can document, role-model and share my current, messy process of reconfiguring myself as activist. It is not because I am seeking forgiveness or sympathy, or because I think reflecting upon and naming privilege is a radical act in and of itself (I beg us to stop doing this, in fact). It is also not because I believe in moral perfectionism and one single way to be activist, and am self-flagellating because I have well and truly failed to meet expectations. This is not me subjecting myself to a public shaming — even though I do think shame is a vital part of social transformation, and that, often, what we mourn as cancel culture is really just accountability culture.
I don’t feel that it is generative, or particularly helpful to the cause, to punish myself (though, admittedly, it has been a little emotionally punishing to write all this out, knowing that you will be reading). Rather, I’m confessing because I need to write this all down, re-calibrate, make sense of how I am falling short, and find ways to do better rather than feel better.
To give you a sense of the bigger picture debate I’ve been struggling with: I’ve been trying to interrogate what it means to be an activist, as well as who I personally am as one. Sure, I think of myself as scholar-activist-practitioner — because I read, think, contribute to policy discussions, construct arguments, and participate in academic and other forums with political commitments on my sleeve. I also remain engaged in the community sector, where I have previously held roles with titles including “ambassador”, “advocate”, “advisor”. Yet, I have never held a position as “activist”, and have nearly always chosen to work alongside and with affiliations to institutions (even whilst remaining a little disloyal to them).
It’s also true that I have tended not to focus upon those get-your-hands-literally-dirty, body-on-the-line activities and strategies that have long served as bedrocks of activism, of social movements: protests, strikes, letter-writing, boycotts, petitions, leaflet-ing and various other civilly disobedient and/or non-violent tactics. And whilst this does not mean that what I do won’t also contribute to activist goals, even if how I do what I do is not (that particular brand of) activist, it feels important to me that I consider why I shy away from those grassroots, community-grounded, relational practices.
Does that questioning come from a paranoia that I’m not a good (enough) activist, not fitting a certain mould? Yes, probably: social anxiety, unfortunately, curses me with a relentless habit of checking myself against others, scrounging for validation, et cetera, et cetera. But, again, I don’t think I want to ossify a moral standard of perfection. I do, however, want to ensure that I am engaging in some kind of reflexive self-critique, because that is accountability.
After all, I’ve directed similar critiques at others — for being happy to speak around white feelings whilst toeing the line; for tolerating the status quo whilst offering the excuse of “change is slow”; for doing the work but only if the work can also come with awards and nominations for OAMs and Australian of the Year accolades. The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.1
I suppose what I’m getting to is a two-part self-critique. For starters, I recognise that I am not, or have not been, activist enough, because I have become immune to the calls to action that communities have been pleading for us to support. Although I can tell myself that there is only so much time and labour I can offer, that would be a cop-out: social movements are based upon the many small things that many people can do as a collective, and I am surely in a far more secure position than many to be taking on some of those small things.
If I have the time for stupid reels of cats falling off benches, then I can sure as hell make time to write a few more emails. If I have the attention span to listen to podcasts, then I can also muster up the attention span to go along to film screenings and contribute those fundraisers. And look, to be frank, I have always struggled with protests (crowds make my skin crawl), but that does not mean I cannot be keeping myself informed about the ways the rallies have evolved their specific demands, and have identified new targets. That does not mean I cannot watch footage, or find other ways to materially assist those goals.
Materially — it is these material things that I am not doing, which are often the heart of those organised calls to action. This is what troubles me the most. Reading and writing and thinking like an activist is all well and good, but more work is necessary to turn epistemic justice into material, structural, real justice. Sara Ahmed has been helping me think through this, as has my thesis: you can talk about intersectionality or being a feminist, and understand intersectionality and being a feminist, whilst still enacting the very forms of violence here that you are seeking to resist over there. You can turn into a paper feminist killjoy, one who identifies as one but fails to show up, demonstrate solidarity, answer when they hear calls for help. I am at risk of being paper activist.
That is not to say that reading and writing and thinking work is not activist work. Discourse, culture, knowledge — these are certainly key battlegrounds of the struggle. I guess that brings me to the second half of my two-part critique: even to the extent that I have been engaged (hardly!), or “doing the right things” (only every now and then!), I can’t say that I have done them particularly effectively. I have been reading a little about settler-colonialism, but not very much, and not books specifically about Palestine, or Isra*l. It’s been a while since I last wrote about the university sector’s entanglements with Isra*l’s militarism and suppression of anti-colonial protest; I have scarcely even made comment on my private social media accounts. I have done my thinking alone, independently, rather than in community. And though it’s crucial to take responsibility for your own education, I surely have a responsibility to share and teach and communicate what I am learning, too.
If I am insisting upon being a scholar-activist-practitioner, then I should be ensuring that I use my skills as a scholar, and practitioner, in service of my activism, no?
So, enough talk — here’s my to-do list. I’m sharing it with you so that you can hold me accountable, and in case it is useful for you too.
Read
As a matter of priority — daily updates, relevant essays, and yes, even just Instagram posts. I will be more intentional about not scrolling, not looking away. I will read mindfully, so that I am digesting words and images more carefully, even when uncomfortable. I will also seek out a reading list, and dedicate some time to Palestinian literatures, whilst acknowledging that I will need to think carefully about how to carve out those larger chunks of time.
Write
About what I’m reading. It will help me consolidate the oceans of information that shape our current media environments — for myself, and for others.
Think
About what the current, ongoing genocide, and the lack of political will here in Australia to take more drastic action to intervene / sanction / condemn, means for intersectionality and public policymaking, and my research findings. It may not be germane to my specific research questions, and yet, I don’t think it would be right to not at least consider what the implications may be. What does it mean to be a public servant that champions intersectionality, yet must remain apolitical? How do we grapple with anti-racism and community wellbeing at a time when legitimate political dissent has come to be dismissed as vilification?
Do
Boycott, Divest, Sanction. I will look at an updated list. I will be methodical about what I may need to replace with alternative products or services.
Increase my contributions to mutual aid call-outs, including by sharing and encouraging others to also give. I can offer excuses about my limitations elsewhere, but I cannot deny that I can give financially.
Mention Palestine, a lot, in conversations that are not supposed to be political (when safe to do so). I’ll be strategic, of course: it will not always be fruitful, and can do more harm than good, to appeal to those who simply cannot be moved to care about ethnic cleansing, and whom will not be able to hear me in good faith. Nevertheless, it is time for me to be a little braver, a little more willing to create awkward, uncomfortable silence.
Writing a thesis has taken a lot out of me. It has consumed my existence. Nevertheless, I can’t keep refusing to confront the irony — of producing research about intersectionality, social justice, and dismantling oppression, whilst being a willing bystander to the intersectional, social justice, anti-oppressive project that is Palestinian freedom.
1 Look, whilst we’re at it, this is another great shame of mine: I’ve read far too little Audre Lorde for a girl writing a thesis about a Black feminist analytic. It’s embarrassing.
2 Separately to this, though I hope relevant — I’m also starting a book club of sorts: the Killjoy Book Club. It came out of me wanting to catch up more regularly, and drum up more conversation, amongst scholarly friends — but I now also think it would be an excellent way to bring together comrades from different sectors and disciplines, and facilitate learning differently. Again, playing to my strengths: I sit at the nexus of so many institutions and fields, and have become adept at navigating those borders and translating messages across them. It seems only right that I try to put that strength to use.