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[под взглядом горгоны]

Получил сегодня утром письмо от Томаса из Копенгагена, к сожалению, пока не перевел на русский язык, постараюсь сделать, читайте взгляд очевидца на события последних дней в Копенгагене:

This is a letter written by Thomas Buro. I'm really bad with keeping good contact lists in my personal mailaccount, so I have used the LACK account to reach you people. Please forward this letter to anyone you believe will care...Sincerely, Thomas Buro



Dear everyone else who cares.

My friend. I want to tell you about the events taking place in Copenhagen, right now. Please check out indymedia.dk , modkraft.dk , ungeren.dk or just indymedia.org to learn what is happening, because I'm not going to give you details. I am going to tell you another story. These days, one particular image is ceaselessly haunting me. It is not an image of shattering bottles bringing fire to police vans, or of my friends beaten, or people turning the streets of my city into a zone of conflict and violence. It is not an image saturated with the acts of revenge, retaliation and brutality, for by now, my eyes have already become tragically accustomed to these horrors. It is neither an image of rows of cops certain of the legitimacy of their power, nor that of bands of activists and demonstrators thrilled by experiencing the power they collectively hold, as they share the knowledge that the streets have been reclaimed, temporarily liberated. It is not an image of myself in telephone conversation with my mother, trying to explain to her where all this rage is coming from, or an image of myself reading the patronising news paper analysis of the conflict, performed by middle aged men, firmly secure in their university positions. It is not an image of Ruth Evensen - the leader of the (wannabe) Christian sect who bought our Ungdomshus, neither of Ritt Bjerregaard - the City Mayor whom has utterly failed in finding a political solution to a social problem, nor of all the other faces that I should consider my enemies right now. It is neither of these. Haunting me is an image brought to me on the front page of my regular news paper. It is an image of two army helicopters in the first deep blue light of morning, suspended above the rooftop of Ungdomshuset, special forces descending with meticulous precision and timing, prepared as they are for initiating the events that I call my life these days. Again, my eyes fixate on their silhouettes as they crouch, performing their profession. On the wall beneath them, a sentence confesses to me in white paint that 'I still feel like rioting.' And I know exactly what it means. A menace, a warning, and a prophecy. But most of all it is an embittered expression of resignation. And I do feel like wrecking havoc in return for the loss that I suffer when I see this image of beautiful choreography of men, machine and building. For me it is a tragedy. For them, a job. Perhaps merely so. It is not just my house they break and enter. Here, where I and You and We have build communal playgrounds for art and politics. You've been there, the two of us shared coffee and cake, thoughts, romance, excitement, plans, visions and memories. We have shared knowledge, experience and experimented with living our crazy, sad and exciting lives on our own terms. Here, we have squatted hearts before buildings. Here we have given and been given and taken and enjoyed and suffered. It is not just a house, because a house is merely a collection of bricks and mortar. It is not just a symbol, because a symbol is a reference for something else. It is more than that. It is a space that we have carved for ourselves to live in. Yes, it is a space-time where You and I have lived. Those men in the cold light of mourning violate that space and I feel it to the very bone of my being. I cannot remember the last time I have felt such sorrow and such rage. As these men crouch, they must know exactly what they are doing. I wonder what kind of hearts work their chests, what considerations, reasonings and second thoughts riddle their minds. And I feel completely alienated from them. What kind of people are they? Do we even share the same humanity? The image of those helicopters haunts me because it makes me feel something I do not want to feel. I do not wish to hate those uniforms, but I do. I do not wish to consider them my enemies, but I do. I do not wish to consider them humans broken, trained, disciplined, completely conditioned and dehumanized. But I do, because it is the only way I can make sense of what they are doing. They must know what they are asking for. And whatever they asked for they have received in plenty. I guess you know all about it by now. You've seen the pictures of fires, fights and frictions. You've read the stories and dramatic reports from breathless reporters on the spot. Some call us spoiled kids, rioters and hooligans; some call us victims; some call us perpetrators and criminals. Some call it a passing fad. I call it a becoming. Yes, a becoming. For we are a generation painfully learning that we are not given what we want, need and desire no matter how nicely and politely we ask for it. They don't care to listen until we force them to and by then it no longer matters, because by then the means we have used to make them listen disqualify whatever have to say. Like the social and political rights we enjoy today rest on the blood of our fathers and mothers before us, so we have learned that we'll only get what we want when we resolve to take it. This is the nature of our becoming. This is the nature of the revolution and revelation that I suffer. What we desperately need is space and self-determination. When we see our space diminishing and our freedom delimited, not by coincidence or accident, but by the political determination of those who will recognize our desires as relevant, then we can no longer afford to simply tolerate or accept it. We respond by any means, for these are truly our lives. And they are being violated. I return again and again to the image. It emanates the calmest of violence and I understand that if you oppose the State, the Powers that be and remains the same, i.e. the motherfuckers, if your desires lead you astray, if those desires leave only a thirst and demand for freedom that cannot be ignored and if you are determined to remain loyal to that desire, then you will be broken, beaten, bruised, isolated, marginalised, impoverished, cast out, ridiculed, patronised, you will be made invisible, ultimately destroyed. And I know that I cannot walk away: this, if anything, is my only certainty. Dear Friend, you have heard this song sung before and I hate every second of it. I do not wish to consider these people my enemies, but I do; I do not wish to believe the world is hostile, but I do; I do not wish to feel violated, but I do. I do not wish to harbour such anger. But I do. I do not wish to be what I am in this moment; I hate every second. But those men of the rooftop in the early mourning leave me no other choice. The image will not leave me alone and I cannot forget. That is the nature of my becoming. I miss you, my friend.

Thomas B.

[Antagonist]

Грустно это всё.

[heart]

hey ho http://community.livejournal.com/anarch ... 55652.html