On the first day someone asks me if I have any Ukrainian heritage. I say I had ancestors from Odesa, but they were Jewish, so they weren’t considered Ukrainian, and they wouldn’t have considered themselves Ukrainian. My job is every day I go through boxes of Ukrainian textiles and I write a physical description, take measurements, take photographs, and upload everything into the database. I look up “Jewish” in the database and there is no result.
Some objects have no context at all, some come with handwritten notes or related documents. I look at thick hand-spun, hand-woven linen heavy with embroidery. Embroidery they say can take a year or more. I think of someone dressed for a wedding in their best clothes they made with their own hands. Some shirts were donated with photographs of the original owners dressed in them, for a dance at the Ukrainian Labour Temple, in 1935. I handle the pieces carefully, looking at how they fit the men in the photos, and how they look almost a hundred years later packed in acid-free tissue. One of the men died a few years later, in the war. He was younger than I am now. The military archive has more photographs of him with his mother, his father, his fiancé. I take care in writing the catalogue entry, breathing in the history, getting tearful.
I imagine people dressed in their best shirts at Easter, going around town in their best shirts burning the houses of Jews, in their best shirts, killing Jews. A shirt with dense embroidery all over the sleeves and chest has a note that says it is from Husiatyn. I look it up and find that it was largely a Jewish town, and Ukrainians lived in the outskirts. There is a fortress synagogue from the Renaissance period, now abandoned.
When my partner Aaron visits I take him to an event at the museum where a man shows his collection of over fifty musical instruments from Ukraine, and he plays each one. Children are seated on the floor at the front. We’re standing in a corner, the room full of Ukrainians, very aware that we look like Jews, but not sure if anyone recognizes what that looks like anymore. Aaron gets emotional over a song played on the bandura.
A note with a dress says it came from the Buchach region. I find a story of Jewish life in Buchach in the early twentieth century, preparing to flee as the Nazis take over. I cry over this.
I’m cataloguing a set of commemorative ribbons that were placed on the grave of a Ukrainian Nationalist leader, Yevhen Konovalets, after he was assassinated. The ribbons were collected and stored by another Nationalist, Andriy Melnyk, who took over leadership after Konovalets’ death. The ribbons are painted or embroidered with messages honouring the dead politician. I start to recognize the word for “leader”, the Cyrillic letters which make up the name of the colonel, the letters “OYH” which stand for Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN in English). The OUN played a big part in the Lviv pogroms in 1941, I learn. The Wikipedia article has a black and white image of a woman in her underwear, running in terror from a man and a young boy carrying a stick of wood. The woman’s face is dark, her nose may be bleeding. Her underwear is torn, her breast exposed. I’m measuring, photographing, recording the stains and loose threads in the banners that honour men who would have done this to me.
Every day I can’t stop looking at my phone, looking up the news from Gaza, tapping through Instagram stories that show what the news won’t. Half my family won’t talk to the other half, after I share an article by a scholar of Holocaust and genocide studies, who says Israel is committing a genocide. My dad makes a comment that compares Gaza to the Warsaw Ghetto. This gets him in trouble. My aunt says I must have learned this antisemitism at university, but there is no excuse for my dad.
This morning I see images from Israeli attacks in the West Bank, where they are not at war. There are naked bodies on the dusty ground. I’m not sure if they are alive. This is what I think of when I see the image from the Lviv pogrom. If what it means for Jews to be safe from oppression is to become the oppressor, I don’t want safety. I don’t want to speak about Jews as if we are one People, because I have so little in common with those in green uniforms and tanks. I am called a self-hating Jew but I think I am a self-reflecting Jew.
I don’t know how to articulate how it feels to be handling objects which remind me of Jewish traumas I inherited only from history classes and books. Textiles hold evidence of the bodies that made them and used them. I measure the waist of a skirt and notice that it is the same as my waist size. I think of clothing and textiles that were looted from Jewish homes during pogroms. I think of clothing and textiles that were looted from Palestinian homes during the ongoing Nakba. Clothes hold the shape of the body that once dressed in them. Sometimes there are tears, mends, stains. I am rummaging through personal belongings in my nitrile gloves.
I am hands-on learning about the violence caused by Ukrainian Nationalism while more than nine thousand Palestinians have been killed by the State of Israel in three weeks, not to mention all those who have been killed in the last seventy-five years of occupation, in the name of the Jewish Nation, the Jewish People — me? If we (and I am hesitant to say “we”) learned anything from the centuries of being killed, it was how to kill. This should not have been the lesson learned. Zionism wants us to feel constantly like the victims, like we need to defend ourself, like violence is necessary, inevitable. I need community that believes in freedom for all, not just our own People. I need the half of my family who believes in this necessary “self-defence” to remember our history, and not just the one that ends happily ever after with the creation of the State of Israel. Genocide should not be this controversial. We should not be okay with this.
Tomorrow I will go to work and keep cataloguing banners that honour the leader of an organization which led pogroms. I will keep checking the news, crying into my phone, coordinating with organizers about our next actions, grappling with how we can be a tiny part in ending this genocide that the world won’t acknowledge, out of guilt over the ones it ignored long ago.
What, you mean the CEO of the website the banned hundreds of Black bloggers for being “Russian influence ops” and keeps turning the switch for the Palestine tag on and off and keeps banning pro-Palestine bloggers is a natsec freak who believes in conspiracy theories about the nefarious Russians and Chinese trying to destroy Democracy™️ through posting? I’m absolutely shocked
I’ll link the video here but orthodox jews who opposed israel’s occupation were attacked. This was never about judaism and israel never cared about any jews which is known but is coming more clear now than ever. many anti zionist israelis are in danger for opposition towards their government
some of the ‘visible mending’ ive seen has been cool, but it almost feels like too much emphasis is getting put on mending being this cutesy, artsy thing, that at least a handful of people are going to look at it and be like 'oh, that looks so pretty and skilled, i could never do that’ and then just throw out otherwise perfectly mendable items. like, if you can do visible mending, golly gee that’s swell, but what’s more important is that something gets mended, even if it’s more incospiciously, or it’s visible in a bad way.
hole, meet cloth. cloth, meet thread. does it match? are the stitches good, let alone pretty? who cares, hole is mended.
sashiko embroidery originated among working-class japanese to make their clothes last longer. it IS a skilled artform, but really all you have to do is print off a graph pattern & follow it. the geometric design looks nice, but the primary purpose is to create strength & durability. function is more important than form. if people see accessible art forms with all the steps laid out for them & still think they could never achieve it & that throwing out their clothes is a better option, that’s a different issue.
also: the white house comment line is open at 202-456-1111 (I’ve seen that their hours are T-Th 11-3 ET but I can’t find confirmation of that.) you may have to wait on hold for a bit (laughably they have the exact same hold music as my hospital’s billing department. we live in a society.)
Hey guess what bitches Poland had a general election last Sunday and we said “fuck you” to the current fascist Orban-wannabes en masse, in a record-breaking historic turnout of 74% (that’s a better turnout than the 1989 election which toppled the Soviet regime), with people of all ages standing in lines till 3 am to vote, young people actually outnumbering the elderly for the first time ever; and the result is that the progressive pro-EU coalition won and will form the next government. Been in in a stunned-but-celebratory mood since Sunday night.
The US is deeply segregated not only along racial lines, but along class lines as well: from housing to schools to healthcare, many of our major institutions are designed to allow rich people to keep poor people as far away from them as possible.
Where do rich and poor people interact with one another? If I’m reading this study right, it’s restaurants. Which restaurants? They find that some of the most cross-class locations in the country are cheap full-service restaurants: “Olive Garden, Applebee’s, Chili’s and IHOP.”
The more I think about this finding the more it makes sense. Places like Olive Garden are some of the only locations in US society which are simultaneously “nice” enough to draw in high-income diners and cheap enough to attract low-income diners. Rich people go to, say, Outback Steakhouse because they see it as a cheap and easy meal that’s better than fast food, poor people go because it’s one of the closest things to a nice steakhouse you can eat at without dropping $100+ per person.
Other cross-class locations: churches, libraries, credit unions, alcohol stores, the DMV. Locations which worsen class segregation: golf courses and country clubs, bars, museums.
This reminds me of the most fantastic book liveblogs I’ve ever read (by ozy thingofthings). It’s Times Square Red Times Square Blue by Afrofuturist scifi author Samuel Delany.
(full but paywalled review by that liveblogger here, although the visible portion of the text should give you an idea of what a weird and fantastic book this is)
A lot of it is about The Venus Theater, which showed adult films until a push to close all the porn theaters also shut it down in 1970. It was pretty normal to jerk off in the theater and cruise for (mostly m/m?) sex – both of the sex worker and non sex worker variety (although the line was very blurry). It was normal to e.g. jerk off your neighbor.
Delany was a college professor at Amherst the time he was a Venus regular. He had social and sexual relationships with a large number of people he met at the Venus Theater, including homeless people – he kept up correspondence with many of them, including at least one who went to prison. When establishments like the Venus shut down, one reason he didn’t like this was that he thought it was unhealthy for society to get rid of spaces with high levels of inter-class contact.
Delany draws a distinction contact and networking. The Venus was contact, and more formal “people of various backgrounds who are interested in X, come mingle” events are networking. And if you get rid of interclass contact spaces, interclass networking spaces have to ‘take up the slack’ of facilitating connections, and they… can’t do it. Example about parenting from the linked blog post:
In a city, contact requires certain specific characteristics to thrive. You need socioeconomically diverse spaces with mixed commercial and residential uses, and which provide basic services like restaurants, public bathrooms, and small shops. Without that setup, you don’t get contact. (…) [If you’re at a park close to your house and] there aren’t any public bathrooms, it’s a jerk move to not let a mom at the park your kids are playing at use the bathroom in your house, but you don’t want to just let any rando into your house. So you’re reluctant to talk to moms you don’t know. (Real thing!)
And here’s Delany on the value of public spaces that facilitate sexual contact:
Similarly, if every sexual encounter involves bringing someone back to your house, the general sexual activity in a city becomes anxiety-filled, class-bound, and choosy. This is precisely why public rest rooms, peep shows, sex movies, bars with grope rooms, and parks with enough greenery are necessary for a relaxed and friendly sexual atmosphere in a democratic metropolis
After reading the above Delany quote I sat back in my chair, grinning wildly at the ceiling. You may not like it but this is what the optimal take looks like
Probably the first time in over a year I have seen a legitimately new take, game recognize game.
How do I reconcile my intense sympathy and support for Palestine while also living in the ancestral lands of Native Americans? As a black man, where exactly could I migrate to and be accepted by the local populace? I am lost on this point.
While the question of black nationhood is a complicated one, I think there’s a deeper misconception, conveyed by the idea of migration, that should be addressed, here - decolonisation does not mean physically removing non-indigenous people from the land.
Decolonisation means the destruction of the colonial state, and the return to sovereignty and self-governance of the colonised nation. Decolonisation of Palestine does not mean that ‘israelis’ living in Palestine must be removed - but that they must no longer be occupiers, they must no longer be beneficiaries of a state that opresses the indigenous population. In the case of Palestine, many of them will likely leave of their own accord anyway - they do not want to be residents of Palestine, but occupiers of it - but in more entrenched settler colonies, there’s no reason to expect everyone who isn’t indigenous to up and leave. Rather, recognising the occupied nation they actually live in, accepting its governance and authority, and renouncing any illicit gains the occupation granted them (like stolen homes and land) is much more in line with what decolonisation looks like.
The issue is not, and never was 'foreigners living on our land’, it has always been the military occupation, repression of indigenous nations and nationhood, and elevation of settlers to a privileged class on the back of exploitation and base robbery of occupied nations.
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