What is the "Let's Get Persecuted" Project? - Share your story.
Alarming as the title is, it stemmed from a very stimulating conversation at a bar with a fellow musician, about our similar experiences with racism, he, half Native, me, Jewish. After comparing unfortunate anecdotes, and somewhat comforted by the commiseration, we both agreed on what seemed obvious: That we'd rather be the oppressed than the oppressor, and on that note, I raised my glass and sardonically said, "Let's Get Persecuted." He grinned, pointed at me and said, "You've GOT to write a song called that." I did that night when I got home. I wrote it as a mock love song, a sarcastic invitation to bond over the shared horror.
My first few performances of it were tentative. I felt the song might offend. It might present an unlikeable attitude. It might be too absurd, or inappropriate. I didn't want to make anybody uncomfortable, but then... a few suggestions from fellow musicians to stop apologizing for my song, I slowly began to understand I had the right to self-expression, if nothing else. The song stemmed from real emotion and experience, and expressed a kind of defiance. What I was really scared of, I think, was performing it in front of actually racist people. What would happen in their head if they listened to the words? But then what really turned it around for me was seeing people from all sorts of places turned on by the song, nodding their heads with serious expression, or shaking it and smirking, and sometimes mumbling their approval, or even cheering. They were the people that the song was for, and if I was too chicken to perform it, then I was a hyprocrite for writing it.
When I asked Ana Diaz, my good friend and videographer in Berlin, what song she thought we should do for our second video (the first, "The Falcon," she did so exquisitely.. you can see it on the VIDEOS page), she said, "Let's Get Persecuted," without hesitation. I had to agree because I wanted her to be invested in the project, but I wasn't sure how on earth we were going to render this rather twisted song visually. It is always a major ethical question how to artistically convey true horror without minimizing it, or glossing over it.
I must say I am pleased with the result. But I want to tell you what happened during the filming, and how it turned into the "Let's Get Persecuted" project.
The day of the shoot was in the spring of 2013. I was ecstatic that despite our usual last minute scramble, we managed to pull it all together. The location, (my favourite Berlin bar, Artliners), was perfect. We got there at 8 a.m. (no small feat for a bunch of artists and barflies!). Yvonne, the owner came to make us coffee (bless her soul). We rearranged things for the shoot: photos and pictures off the walls, furniture reshuffling, covering things with black fabric and tape. Chris set up the lights, the actors, all punctual, all in costume, and I shuffled off to the bathroom to get myself ready. Red dress from Ana she just happened to have, impossibly high heels from the flea market, jewels and gloves borrowed from a nearby burlesque shop, and make-up bought at the dollar store, the rest, borrowed.
We shot a few scenes, and then, the ones of me singing on stage, with the other actors below. Bright lights in my face, Ana holding the camera, pointing it in turn toward me and the others. I was giddy with excitement, joy and gratefulness for the precious time my friends were putting into this, loving the way they looked, the way they 'got' their roles, trying not to fall 'arse-over-kettle' on account of the heels, trying to suck-in my stomach, and feeling my teeth with my tongue for any stray lipstick, I did my best to focus on my performance, as filming time was limited. I was in the zone of making a video, and it felt great.
But then something big happened. One of the 'persecutors,' as directed, started to taunt (in character), in what I thought was both a grotesque and believable gesture that was both violent and mocking. I witnessed it while still focusing on my part, and my stomach turned. And then with a sudden jolt, I was no longer in the zone of making a video, I was in the zone of the meaning of the song, as if I'd forgotten all along what the song was actually about. The actor's motion was so cruel I forgot for an important moment where I was standing, and remembered suddenly where I was standing.
I felt nauseous but had to keep singing and dancing, because we had to finish the job. But from that point of the filming on, I was out-of-body. Still happy that we got our productive day and everyone did their job superbly, but troubled by that moment. It reminded me of a novel I'd read about the Holocaust, about a man who survived as a musician, who one day had to keep playing while they shot his wife in front of him. I remember thinking then that the only appropriate response would be to lose your sanity completely. My singing and dancing while the actor bullied was like a tiny, symbolic parallel, not that I dare compare the two situations, but with the full force that symbols have, I was reconnected with the purpose of the song.
I was glad, in a way, that it happened, but when I got 'home' that night, at my dear friends' nearby apartment, I realized that when the video was ready, I could not just go on facebook and say, "look at my new music video," proudly showing off another musical accomplishment. The nature of content warranted something more. But what? I had to ask myself clearly, "What are you trying to say in this song? How can you just throw out a line, "let's get persecuted," when it is so utterly horrific a phenomenon?"
The answer that came to me was this: This song is about the perseverence of dignity, about not stooping to the level of the persecutor, about protecting that within us which is untouchable even to the death, (our souls, our stories, our songs), and about solidarity between cultures and groups of people who have suffered, and continue to suffer persecution, in all its ugly forms. This is not a celebration of persecution, but a celebration of thriving in the face of it and standing up against it by, first of all, calling it out.
And so, with that in mind, I invite you to share a story if you've got one, about yourself, a friend, or a family member who you think exemplifies the perseverence of dignity in the face of persecution. It doesn't have to be a dramatic tale of heroism, (but can be). Something that has inspired you and made you proud, or a simple commemoration of somebody. Use the contact form, send a few lines or a paragraph, and picture if you can. Let us share stories of courage and hope and solidarity, so we may carry these in our hearts alongside the horrors. I will be posting your stories on this page, and taking them on the road with me.
Here is the video!!!
My first few performances of it were tentative. I felt the song might offend. It might present an unlikeable attitude. It might be too absurd, or inappropriate. I didn't want to make anybody uncomfortable, but then... a few suggestions from fellow musicians to stop apologizing for my song, I slowly began to understand I had the right to self-expression, if nothing else. The song stemmed from real emotion and experience, and expressed a kind of defiance. What I was really scared of, I think, was performing it in front of actually racist people. What would happen in their head if they listened to the words? But then what really turned it around for me was seeing people from all sorts of places turned on by the song, nodding their heads with serious expression, or shaking it and smirking, and sometimes mumbling their approval, or even cheering. They were the people that the song was for, and if I was too chicken to perform it, then I was a hyprocrite for writing it.
When I asked Ana Diaz, my good friend and videographer in Berlin, what song she thought we should do for our second video (the first, "The Falcon," she did so exquisitely.. you can see it on the VIDEOS page), she said, "Let's Get Persecuted," without hesitation. I had to agree because I wanted her to be invested in the project, but I wasn't sure how on earth we were going to render this rather twisted song visually. It is always a major ethical question how to artistically convey true horror without minimizing it, or glossing over it.
I must say I am pleased with the result. But I want to tell you what happened during the filming, and how it turned into the "Let's Get Persecuted" project.
The day of the shoot was in the spring of 2013. I was ecstatic that despite our usual last minute scramble, we managed to pull it all together. The location, (my favourite Berlin bar, Artliners), was perfect. We got there at 8 a.m. (no small feat for a bunch of artists and barflies!). Yvonne, the owner came to make us coffee (bless her soul). We rearranged things for the shoot: photos and pictures off the walls, furniture reshuffling, covering things with black fabric and tape. Chris set up the lights, the actors, all punctual, all in costume, and I shuffled off to the bathroom to get myself ready. Red dress from Ana she just happened to have, impossibly high heels from the flea market, jewels and gloves borrowed from a nearby burlesque shop, and make-up bought at the dollar store, the rest, borrowed.
We shot a few scenes, and then, the ones of me singing on stage, with the other actors below. Bright lights in my face, Ana holding the camera, pointing it in turn toward me and the others. I was giddy with excitement, joy and gratefulness for the precious time my friends were putting into this, loving the way they looked, the way they 'got' their roles, trying not to fall 'arse-over-kettle' on account of the heels, trying to suck-in my stomach, and feeling my teeth with my tongue for any stray lipstick, I did my best to focus on my performance, as filming time was limited. I was in the zone of making a video, and it felt great.
But then something big happened. One of the 'persecutors,' as directed, started to taunt (in character), in what I thought was both a grotesque and believable gesture that was both violent and mocking. I witnessed it while still focusing on my part, and my stomach turned. And then with a sudden jolt, I was no longer in the zone of making a video, I was in the zone of the meaning of the song, as if I'd forgotten all along what the song was actually about. The actor's motion was so cruel I forgot for an important moment where I was standing, and remembered suddenly where I was standing.
I felt nauseous but had to keep singing and dancing, because we had to finish the job. But from that point of the filming on, I was out-of-body. Still happy that we got our productive day and everyone did their job superbly, but troubled by that moment. It reminded me of a novel I'd read about the Holocaust, about a man who survived as a musician, who one day had to keep playing while they shot his wife in front of him. I remember thinking then that the only appropriate response would be to lose your sanity completely. My singing and dancing while the actor bullied was like a tiny, symbolic parallel, not that I dare compare the two situations, but with the full force that symbols have, I was reconnected with the purpose of the song.
I was glad, in a way, that it happened, but when I got 'home' that night, at my dear friends' nearby apartment, I realized that when the video was ready, I could not just go on facebook and say, "look at my new music video," proudly showing off another musical accomplishment. The nature of content warranted something more. But what? I had to ask myself clearly, "What are you trying to say in this song? How can you just throw out a line, "let's get persecuted," when it is so utterly horrific a phenomenon?"
The answer that came to me was this: This song is about the perseverence of dignity, about not stooping to the level of the persecutor, about protecting that within us which is untouchable even to the death, (our souls, our stories, our songs), and about solidarity between cultures and groups of people who have suffered, and continue to suffer persecution, in all its ugly forms. This is not a celebration of persecution, but a celebration of thriving in the face of it and standing up against it by, first of all, calling it out.
And so, with that in mind, I invite you to share a story if you've got one, about yourself, a friend, or a family member who you think exemplifies the perseverence of dignity in the face of persecution. It doesn't have to be a dramatic tale of heroism, (but can be). Something that has inspired you and made you proud, or a simple commemoration of somebody. Use the contact form, send a few lines or a paragraph, and picture if you can. Let us share stories of courage and hope and solidarity, so we may carry these in our hearts alongside the horrors. I will be posting your stories on this page, and taking them on the road with me.
Here is the video!!!
THE STORIES
1) "It's Ok - She's Not Muslim" - by Suzanne Amro
Many years ago, I replaced a woman who was on sick leave teaching at an elementary school. At the time there was a resource teacher in my class who very much missed her teaching partner (the one I was replacing). She and I were from different generations and schools of thought and it showed. But she was in my class almost every day so we did our best to get along. She was extremely well-intentioned and loved the kids. And I loved them too. So, we had that. And I truly believe that she was defending her dear friend's place in the world every time she insisted that I do things the way they had been done by her. So, we found things to laugh about together and made each other tea. She spoke to me often about her son. One afternoon, as we were cleaning up, she told me about his fiance. It was the first time she had mentioned her and I remember exactly what she said. “He is dating an Arab girl. But it's okay - she's not Muslim. He hates Muslims as much as I do.”
I cringed. There was no way for her to know my background: I have one of those names that could be from a variety of different cultures. And I have one of those faces too. I am like a spy (and a warning): whenever you think the “other” is not in the room with you, think again! My mother is Canadian; She grew up Protestant and has an Irish/Sottish/English background. Traditionally, the history books favour this half of my DNA. But my father is Egyptian and I was brought up Muslim. Like many others, I offer up very little in the way of religious categorization. No cross, no hijab. As such, I am privy to opinions such as my ex-coworker's. I also work with kids who have that disquieting capacity to mirror society's biases. Sometimes, in response to learning about my Muslim Egyptian side, they say things like, “Oh, but you look normal!” and “Oh, but you're so nice!” I am always a little bit dismayed at these proclamations because of what they reflect, but I also take it in stride. I think of it as a teachable moment. Cognitive dissonance doing its best work.
So, when this teacher reassured me of her future daughter-in-law's lack of “Muslimness” (feeling safe in her assumption that I shared her concern about it) part of me was dismayed, but part of me took it in stride. She probably hadn't experienced what I have experienced. At least I knew that she hadn't been properly introduced to the Muslims in my family and their friends. People who would take my face into their hands and tell me that I am beautiful in such a way that I know they are not talking about looks. People who would argue over the honour of having me stay at their place when I was far from home. People like my aunts and uncles, who accept, with quiet grace, that I have not followed their path. People like my grandmother, who told me that she loved my mother the moment she laid eyes on her. And kept loving her 18 years later, after she divorced my father in spite of her hope that they would stay together. People like my father, who asked for my mother on his death bed even though she had left him and his religion. People like my stepmother, who has visited her departed husband's ex-wife and first set of children armed with smiles and chocolate. People like the complete strangers who, at my father's funeral, looked at me, wrapped their warm arms around me and wept because they know that dealing with death is a human experience and we all mourn when one of us mourns. I could have said all of this in response to my coworker's hatred. I could have felt outraged and hurt and protective.
But what I remember most was feeling sorry for how embarrassed she would be if she knew. If only she knew who was in the room with her. And knowing that she was about to be embarrassed because I was about to tell her. To be honest, I still feel very sorry for embarrassing her. I have an extreme aversion to making people aware of their unintended social gaffes. But, here's the thing: I did it anyway. Our comfort (hers and mine) was the collateral damage in this struggle. The fact was that the “other” was not somewhere else to be gossiped about in conspiratorial whispers. (And, let's face it, we are probably all guilty of doing this at one point or another). So, when she told me that she hated Muslims, I found myself responding in a conversational tone: “Half my family is Muslim.” I said nothing else, and she said nothing else. The words had sort of spilled out of my mouth but once they had, I knew there was nothing else to say. Her hatred was probably learned, probably automatic, founded on a history heavy with conflict, sorrow and resentment. And here's the other thing: I wasn't angry with her because, to be honest, it is possible that one or two members of my family might have said a similar thing about someone with her background – until they met her. When they met her they would still have chosen to get to know her and invite her into their homes and smile at her. And I think that she might have done the same.
When Orit first asked me to write about a time when I responded to persecution with dignity, I balked. I rarely feel especially dignified! Moreover, I am all too aware of the arbitrary luck with which I have been endowed: where many are subjected to acts of persecution every day, I am rarely the direct recipient of these acts. Historically and genetically, I contain the blood of the oppressors as much as I contain the blood of the oppressed. And as a human being I contain both the oppressor and the oppressed within me. I can never really make a clear distinction between the two. But I know that on that day, I managed to ride out my ambivalence and take a side. Not against this woman but against the idea that the “others” are in another room/country/world. The “others” are always right in front of us. With us and within us.
Suzanne Amro
Many years ago, I replaced a woman who was on sick leave teaching at an elementary school. At the time there was a resource teacher in my class who very much missed her teaching partner (the one I was replacing). She and I were from different generations and schools of thought and it showed. But she was in my class almost every day so we did our best to get along. She was extremely well-intentioned and loved the kids. And I loved them too. So, we had that. And I truly believe that she was defending her dear friend's place in the world every time she insisted that I do things the way they had been done by her. So, we found things to laugh about together and made each other tea. She spoke to me often about her son. One afternoon, as we were cleaning up, she told me about his fiance. It was the first time she had mentioned her and I remember exactly what she said. “He is dating an Arab girl. But it's okay - she's not Muslim. He hates Muslims as much as I do.”
I cringed. There was no way for her to know my background: I have one of those names that could be from a variety of different cultures. And I have one of those faces too. I am like a spy (and a warning): whenever you think the “other” is not in the room with you, think again! My mother is Canadian; She grew up Protestant and has an Irish/Sottish/English background. Traditionally, the history books favour this half of my DNA. But my father is Egyptian and I was brought up Muslim. Like many others, I offer up very little in the way of religious categorization. No cross, no hijab. As such, I am privy to opinions such as my ex-coworker's. I also work with kids who have that disquieting capacity to mirror society's biases. Sometimes, in response to learning about my Muslim Egyptian side, they say things like, “Oh, but you look normal!” and “Oh, but you're so nice!” I am always a little bit dismayed at these proclamations because of what they reflect, but I also take it in stride. I think of it as a teachable moment. Cognitive dissonance doing its best work.
So, when this teacher reassured me of her future daughter-in-law's lack of “Muslimness” (feeling safe in her assumption that I shared her concern about it) part of me was dismayed, but part of me took it in stride. She probably hadn't experienced what I have experienced. At least I knew that she hadn't been properly introduced to the Muslims in my family and their friends. People who would take my face into their hands and tell me that I am beautiful in such a way that I know they are not talking about looks. People who would argue over the honour of having me stay at their place when I was far from home. People like my aunts and uncles, who accept, with quiet grace, that I have not followed their path. People like my grandmother, who told me that she loved my mother the moment she laid eyes on her. And kept loving her 18 years later, after she divorced my father in spite of her hope that they would stay together. People like my father, who asked for my mother on his death bed even though she had left him and his religion. People like my stepmother, who has visited her departed husband's ex-wife and first set of children armed with smiles and chocolate. People like the complete strangers who, at my father's funeral, looked at me, wrapped their warm arms around me and wept because they know that dealing with death is a human experience and we all mourn when one of us mourns. I could have said all of this in response to my coworker's hatred. I could have felt outraged and hurt and protective.
But what I remember most was feeling sorry for how embarrassed she would be if she knew. If only she knew who was in the room with her. And knowing that she was about to be embarrassed because I was about to tell her. To be honest, I still feel very sorry for embarrassing her. I have an extreme aversion to making people aware of their unintended social gaffes. But, here's the thing: I did it anyway. Our comfort (hers and mine) was the collateral damage in this struggle. The fact was that the “other” was not somewhere else to be gossiped about in conspiratorial whispers. (And, let's face it, we are probably all guilty of doing this at one point or another). So, when she told me that she hated Muslims, I found myself responding in a conversational tone: “Half my family is Muslim.” I said nothing else, and she said nothing else. The words had sort of spilled out of my mouth but once they had, I knew there was nothing else to say. Her hatred was probably learned, probably automatic, founded on a history heavy with conflict, sorrow and resentment. And here's the other thing: I wasn't angry with her because, to be honest, it is possible that one or two members of my family might have said a similar thing about someone with her background – until they met her. When they met her they would still have chosen to get to know her and invite her into their homes and smile at her. And I think that she might have done the same.
When Orit first asked me to write about a time when I responded to persecution with dignity, I balked. I rarely feel especially dignified! Moreover, I am all too aware of the arbitrary luck with which I have been endowed: where many are subjected to acts of persecution every day, I am rarely the direct recipient of these acts. Historically and genetically, I contain the blood of the oppressors as much as I contain the blood of the oppressed. And as a human being I contain both the oppressor and the oppressed within me. I can never really make a clear distinction between the two. But I know that on that day, I managed to ride out my ambivalence and take a side. Not against this woman but against the idea that the “others” are in another room/country/world. The “others” are always right in front of us. With us and within us.
Suzanne Amro