99) From the River to the Sea

The tears didn’t come until I was walking home. I guess in order for the feelings to really surface, I had to get out of the noise and drumming, chanting and dancing, smiling faces, haunted but friendly eyes, and children, lots of children, more children (proportionally) than I have EVER seen at any protest or demonstration, by far, including the big Greta-inspired climate change march a few years back.

Once it was just me & my djembe, walking down the street in the dark, it hit me.  Right in the heart.  Such a complex mix of emotions I cannot possibly describe them adequately.  So much gratitude and love from the people who were there.  For me.  Me?  Some white dude with an African drum, attending a protest in support of Palestine?

Yes.  Love.  Not “for me”.  For everybody.  It was so obvious.  Let me tell you, I’ve been in some warm & fuzzy crowds before, because honestly, the anti-oppression, humanitarian and environmental protest communities tend to be pretty warm and fuzzy a lot of the time (regardless of what *some* people believe about “social justice warriors” and the “radical Left”).  The vast, vast majority of people at these types of demonstrations and protests are deeply kind, and it’s so clear when you are there on the ground.

That’s one of my very favourite things about the whole act of attending protests for a more peaceful and just world.  For the most part, it brings out the best in humanity.  At least, the chunk of humanity not wearing uniforms and riot gear.  

But this!  This was different, even compared to that very high comparison standard.  I felt Loved.  Literally.  By old men, young men, old women, young women.  Even the kids, peering up at me through eyes filled with a heart-rending mixture of fear, shyness, and shining hope.  I’d catch their eye and give them a smile and the sun would rise in their faces like it was the first dawn after Noah’s flood and they just got the news that land was discovered. I’m not saying this was “for me” or had anything to do with ME, specifically. It was for anyone, I believe. Their hearts are so open, you just have to be there, Connect, and the love flows spontaneously.  

I laughed with so many people.  Sang.  Danced.  Drummed like there was no tomorrow.  (Owwwwww, my hands…..)  Talked about resistance, history, and the fact that the tide DOES seem to be turning (excruciatingly slowly, but still…), not only in world opinion (cuz it’s always been pretty solidly against hardcore Zionism, with the notable exception of the USA and those who suck up to it, like Canada), but even here, in Canada, in the Western media even (a tiny, tiny bit anyway).  Sure, there is still LOTS of bias and TERRIBLE reporting and rampant prejudice.  I’m no head-in-the-clouds Pollyanna when it comes to how the colonial powers, and their populations, view the oppressed.  

But still, things ARE changing.  People here in Canada ARE more aware of what’s really going on. There’s much more open discussion about the brutal imbalance of power and use of force by “both sides” (as the media spins it), than there was a decade or so ago when “Operation Cast Lead” was brutalizing the imprisoned population of Palestine in the transparent language of “self defence” propaganda. Yes, things are changing. Bloody slowly, but maybe THIS, NOW is the tipping point that’s been prayed for, for 73 years. 

People gave me their phone numbers.  One guy offered to teach me their cultural rhythms on my drum, and I’m going to call him this week and set up a lesson.  At most protests, a couple of people will, usually with my encouragement, give the old drum skin a few good slaps and delight in embarrassment and excitement as they hear its resounding bass respond.  But this time, I can barely remember the number of people who gave the drum a complete workout, far more skilled than I am.  Mostly, they were men, but one older woman (older than me, that is), several younger women, and one absolutely adorable little boy, about 7, who snuck in a good whack when I wasn’t looking, and then immediately withdrew to hide behind a woman I assumed was his mom.  But he peeked out, and I smiled at him and we Connected.  It was beautiful.  

Love.

I have three kids, three nieces, and two sisters.  We’re a close group.  I love them dearly and they know me, right to my soul.  We’re Family.

I have a lifelong best friend, and a lifelong mentor/other-best-friend, who I’ve known for 40+ years.  I’ve shared everything with them and I feel completely SAFE and SEEN in their presence.  We’re Family.

When I was in high school, I had a close-knit group of friends, four of us especially.  We did everything together, grew up together, got in lots of trouble together, and knew we’d have each other’s backs, no matter what.  We’re Family.  

When I was in grad school, I had a roommate for several years, and we established a wonderful, chills vibe in our home together, saw each other at our very best and very worst, and accepted each other across the whole spectrum of our experiences.  He’s Family. 

And tonight, in a crowd of strangers, of different skin tones, language, religion, and basically every single possible demographic difference from me (except gender, I suppose, for half or so of them), I felt once again, that I was Family.  That is a rare and beautiful thing, and never, literally never once in my entire life, have I felt that feeling with people I don’t even know.  That feeling takes, for me, YEARS to germinate and blossom.  But tonight, it took minutes.  

I have also never seen such ENERGY at a protest.  And I’ve been to a lot of protests.  From climate change to the G20, anti-government-surveillance to anti-poverty, indigenous self-determination to protesting outside the US consulate over Iraq.  I’ve been to the largest protest in Canadian history, and I was one of the 1000 or so people arrested in the largest mass-arrest in Canadian history.  

But never have I seen passion and commitment and true, to-the-bone solidarity as I did tonight.  And joy. 

Yes.  Joy.  

These are people whose families and communities are, right now, experiencing practically unimaginable terror and violence.  Their future is a question mark.  And their people have lived as literal prisoners, for 3/4 of a century.  That’s three generations, an entire human lifetime, birth to old age, imprisoned.  

And they feel joy.  Along with rage, fear, and no doubt often hopelessness.

I don’t have words to describe what that feels like, to encounter that depth of love, community, sharing and openness.  It’s….Well, straight-up, it’s one of the most absolutely beautiful experiences I have had in my 49 years on this planet as my current incarnation.  

So, to my brothers and sisters, thank you. You collectively inspired me and touched my heart tonight. I will raise my voice with you, anytime, “From the river to the sea…”

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P.S. I have to talk about COVID for a second, because I’m sure that some people reading this (or seeing it on the news) will, quite likely, think something like “Covidiots, how dare you get together in large numbers in the middle of a pandemic!  How disrespectful.  How counterproductive.  Don’t you know you’re risking people’s lives?  People who weren’t even there, who are just at home minding their own business?”

I thought about this, a lot, before making the decision to go.  It wasn’t a small decision for me.  I have extremely high blood pressure and am in a “high risk group” for COVID.  I have three children.  Wasn’t this irresponsible?  For me?  My kids?  And everyone else following COVID protocols in the hopes of finally ending this damn pandemic and getting our freedoms back?

Two key things guided my decision to go:

First, I did look at the existing research on COVID transmission in outdoor gatherings.  Turns out, there is some, especially after the protests against police violence that were sparked by George Floyd’s murder.  The conclusion was, these events are basically safe.  They are NOT “super-spreader” events.  

There are two key differences between a protest and other outdoor events like golfing or going to the beach.  First, virtually everyone at protests like this wears masks.  This is why Black Lives Matter protests are not super-spreader events, but anti-masker protests and especially, Trump rallies, are.  (Yes, there is clear evidence for this.)

Second, at protests, you just go to the protest, outside, and then you leave and go home.  At the golf club or beach, you go inside, use the bathroom, get drinks, buy ice cream, etc., and this is where most transmission occurs.  So, the available evidence indicates that protests-when-masked are about as safe as walking down the street to buy apples. 

Second, I thought about the ethics.  Let’s say going to the protest IS a bit of a risk.  IF that’s true, then you WOULD be increasing the risk to other people, somewhat.  That’s a real issue, and a real ethical concern.

But, the bombing and killing of Palestinian civilians and children especially, is a greater ethical concern.  Period. 

And that’s enough for me.  The Palestinian children who have been killed this week did not choose this.  Nobody in power seems willing to put a stop to state violence “just because it’s a pandemic.”  In fact, it’s VERY WELL KNOWN that Israel, while leading the world in vaccination rates for its own citizens, has done an absolutely abysmal job of ensuring “their neighbours” (as Gal Gadot so vaguely referred to the millions of Palestinian people living in Gaza and the West Bank) also have access to these life-saving, pandemic-stopping vaccines.  

So, I went.  And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Okay, that’s enough words.  I have enormous feelings welling up in my guts, my heart, my eyes.  I think the best thing to do right now is to honour those feelings, to remember the people I met tonight and danced, sang, chanted and drummed with, the children who smiled at me, and the love that was everywhere, as palpable as the wind that blows around the whole world, and ruffles our hair.