I was in Denmark the day after the election. I don´t think I´ve ever seen my country like that. Quiet. Shocked.
People on the streets staring into the abyss of the pavement, friends looking each other in the eyes “I don´t even know what to say…”
For so long we´ve been living in the illusion that democracy is a gimmick and nothing really matters anymore… but then came the election.
I´ve been telling you for years. “The facists are coming! The fascists are coming!” I said and you smiled, forgivingly.
Well now they´re here and the real shocker is that they´re US.
The emigrant hostile party of Dansk Folkeparty won. They won big. Can´t blame the people who voted for them though (then you´d be an intolerant bleeding heart humanist) for the scenario is no longer post-apocalyptic, it´s real: Europe is building a fortress out of iron and stone, giant walls all around us, guards with machine guns aiming at drowning children.
The refugees may die, we do what we do to protect ourselves, such is the credo. And they won.
“Be a good looser” they say.
Raise your concerns and you´ve got the whole pack aiming for your throat. It´s better to be quiet. Everyone is so quiet.
They want the guarded borders back. They want the emigrants who don´t wag the tale out. Gays, artists, intellectuals… none of that matters anymore. Set the table. Red and white squares. Sing the song. Drink the ale. Eat the (tortured) pig.
My son is in trouble.
I drove all night down through Sweden to be with him.
I´m going to stay right here for at least a month, until I know more. My instincts are tense and alert.
I´m going to stay in this country for as long as it takes.
While I´m in this country, while I observe…. I listen to the murmur.
On the right side of the ocean. On the wrong side of the wall.
My two feet, my two eyes, present at the war.
They want to run to the woods. They want to escape. They want to throw the towel into the ring, they whisper that´s it´s becomming dangerous, better to leave but I don´t think they will.
A new reality is already settling, once it´s fallen into shape we´ll accept it just as we have accepted the destruction of the planet and the exploitation of the poor.
We probably wont even do anything when they load the emigrants onto animal transports and the train disappears, it disappears and now it´s gone.
My son is sick and so is my country. So is the planet and so are we.
I won´t use this space to write about my son but I can tell you this: more than ever I know now what to do.
I found certainty in my instincts.
Humans don´t give up. It´s not in our nature.
We pray, we hope, we fight, we negotiate. That´s what we do. That´s what I´ll do.
Can´t change the things outside on my control- but I can expand my motherly love, I can shape it into a golden halo of light, I can lay my hands on my childs shoulder, I can look him in the eyes, I can be there, in the pain, I can find meaning in others but not in my self alone.
I think you should stop talking about running to the woods unless you actually mean it.
Make believe and pretending won´t get us out of this situation. The dangers are very real, the situation is very tense, this is life at the edges
So you´re shoked, shaken by life and death, your eyes wide open. All of us have a choice, this is the choice:
“To be or not to be
that is the question
whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer
the stings and arrows of an outrageous fortune
or to take arms against a sea of trouble
and by opposing overcome them”
My friends lend me their summer house. This is where I´ll live for now, Thunderboy and husband holding down the fort.
In the forest.
I bought this postcard and placed it in front of the computer. It makes me think of the conversations that has taken place on this blog lately. I´ve realized why it´s easier for me to put into the words the hurt and the sorrow, why it´s difficult to write about the joy and the bliss. It´s because we write to fix what is broken. This is how you fix what is broken:
Look at the wound. Recognize that it´s there.
Lick it to clean it. It´s disgusting but you have to do it. You have to clean it.
When it´s clean you let the holy air and the difficult time do their task.
Maybe you want to sprinkle the wound with herbs, rub it with ointments… but then comes the real challenge.
You place your hands on the wound.
You let love and light flow from your hand (meaning: you actions) into the wound- and so you heal the motherfucking wound, you fix what is broken. There is nothing more to say. You know what to do.
This is what we do now.