Raising Cain...

Coloring my first experiences in the South

I had mixed feelings about my family’s move to North Carolina. It appealed to my love for exploration and discovery, but meant I would be farther away from extended family and home places. In balance, it was a pretty significant rupture. My anticipatory narratives about the move drew upon military metaphors and American Civil War history that was still, in 1957, less than 100 years old. I was a Yankee. What would happen when people in my new neighborhood found out?

I find a couple of things about this recall quite revealing. What's implied (and confirmed in more recent meditations on these recollections) is that I already had a view of the South and a way to think about living there, all in the absence of any actual experience of such. The narrative suggests I had internalized the North-South conflict -- there's "them" (Rebels) and "us" (Yankees) -- and understood that the Civil War was not really over.

Silent Sam, a controversial statue of a Confederate soldier on the campus of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. As with many other confederate monuments in the South, some see the statue as a symbol of historical remembrance while others see it as a symbol of racial oppression. The monument has been a site of protests since the 1960s. Photo credit: Wikipedia

 

Equally interesting to me is a sense that people of color had, in my own psyche, either been rendered invisible or otherwise objectified in the worldview I held by age 9.

Over the next few years I would also preserve -- in conscious memory -- experiences that would later make alternative narratives to this colorblindness, this invisibilty, possible:

In Chapel Hill, a gas station near our house had a "No Coloreds" sign on the door. A neighbor who managed a Howard Johnson's gloated about chasing n*****s away from his restaurant with a shotgun. Housing was still segregated, as were public schools, more than 3 years after the decision in Brown v Board of Education (yes, of Topeka, Kansas, an hour-and-a-half from where I grew up).

Under legal pressure, the university had admitted three African Americans to its law school in 1951, and the first undergraduates entered UNC in 1955, two years before we moved there. While UNC laid claim to a progressive attitude toward integration, testimony by Black students who enrolled says otherwise. I vaguely recalled that my parents got involved with a boycott of the Carolina Theater. I decided to do an Internet search to see if I could learn more about civil rights activity in Chapel Hill while we were there, and about this protest in particular.

Protests outside the Carolina Theater, Roland Giduz Photograph, North Carolina Photographic Collection, Wilson Library, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill

 

I found a photo and a little about the protest fairly quickly. When I dug deeper to learn about Chapel Hill's demographics in the 1950s and 60s, or who organized the Carolina Theater protest, or who led civil rights work in the community, my initial searches bombed out. However, I eventually found a link to the doctoral dissertation of civil rights historian Yonni Chapman: Black freedom and the University of North Carolina, 1793-1960. Chapman shed some light, in his preface, on my difficulty finding alternative narratives to the white supremacy view that pervaded my experience in North Carolina:

As I surveyed the secondary sources about black lives in Chapel Hill, it turned out that while a great deal had been written about the town and the university, very little had been written about African Americans. Published works generally ignored or distorted black contributions to local history, particularly the black freedom struggle. References in these sources to African Americans were scarce and often patronizing. (xiv)

I also found a reference to organizing by students at UNC that likely related to my parents' engagement in the protests. "In November 1958," writes Chapman, "the Campus Y Human Relations Committee launched an initiative to reduce discrimination in Chapel Hill restaurants and theaters directed against black UNC students." Their fact-finding efforts revealed that the Carolina and Varsity theaters, as well as most of the restaurants in town, had strict segregation policies. After a survey showed that 67% of the students supported equal privileges for all UNC students, four of the group's leaders met with white business owners to negotiate their request for equitable access. According to Chapman, the owners showed signs they were moving toward this goal when negotiations fell apart in February of 1960. Two days later, Black students from Lincoln High School staged a sit-in at the Colonial Drug Store farther west on Franklin Street in the black community.

In Chapman's analysis of this series of events, I not only connected the dots to personal memory, but gained insight into a significant piece of my own story. The shift from a white, rural, conservative culture into a white, urban liberal one happened when my mom remarried and we moved to the university setting of Chapel Hill. I definitely understand my step-dad -- a white liberal sociologist -- as a primary influence on my evolution in this lineage. Chapman caught my attention with these observations:

The evidence seems to suggest that this support was extensive and that some students were ready to put a great deal of work into challenging Jim Crow….At the same time, some of the weaknesses of white student support for black freedom are illustrated by the fact that the Campus Y students were seeking an end to segregation for UNC students only, rather than for all African Americans….As would turn out to be the case time and again, good intentions and liberal methods would prove to be ineffective in the confrontation with power....However, many of the students had their hearts attuned to freedom, and they learned from their failed efforts. In particular, the bold actions of the black high school students seemed to stir many of them to thoughts of more aggressive action. (pp.320-322)

 

[Commemoration of Chapel Hill’s Peace and Justice Plaza, August 28, 2009.] "Civil-rights historian Yonni Chapman, Rev. J.R. Manley, Freedom Rider George Houser and NAACP chapter president Eugene Farrar were among those who celebrated the unveiling of the new historical marker." (Archives of the Carrboro Citizen)

Chapman's work clearly reveals a dynamic presence of Black citizens in Chapel Hill as a key force for racial justice and social change. Yet, in the five years we lived there, I recall seeing only a few Black people, and meeting even fewer. One occasion, in particular, had a profound impact similar in significance to that with the "colored man in Bogue".

At that time we had moved farther from the center of town and the junior high. I usually walked or rode my bike to school. My route took me past the home of a classmate whose family had a friendly cocker spaniel. One morning as I passed by their house, their dog came racing down the hill into the street. At the same moment, a car had made a left turn from Franklin Street, and hit the dog.

I went to the dog immediately to see if I could help. The driver of the car stopped and got out. He was a Black man, probably in his 40's or 50's, dressed in a dark suit and wearing a hat, very similar to the kind my Grandpa Fred and many other men wore back then. I pointed to the house where the dog lived and said I could go up and get someone. I remember that this man was very gentle with the dog, and said he would take care of it. I told him that Dr. Vine's¹ office was down the street and that he could take the dog there. He nodded and said several times that he'd take care of it. I helped him pick up the dog and put it into his car. Intuitively, I sensed that he didn't want anyone else involved. I trusted that he intended to help the dog.

The short story is that neither the man nor the dog ever showed up at Dr. Vine's hospital. My classmate and her family never saw their dog again. Beyond that, I don't know what happened. I felt very sorry that a family lost a beloved pet. Because I assumed that a promise to "take care of it" would include taking the animal to Dr. Vine and re-uniting the dog with his owners, I also felt betrayed.

Another interesting piece of this recollection is that, when I did tell others what had happened, I intentionally avoided saying that the man was Black. Did I do this because I understood how dangerous it was for Black people in this environment? Was it the implicit message I had intuited based on how this man responded? Or some other reason yet undiscovered? I don't know for sure.

I do know that both systemic oppression and the fear-based violence against Black bodies back then continues today in the United States. I don't judge that man for his choices that day. I carry this memory as a reminder that white supremacy hurts everybody.

We left North Carolina in the summer of 1961. That fall, integration of Chapel Hill schools began on a small scale. In researching this post, I listened to many interviews of students who went through this. I can't help but wonder how my life might have unfolded had we stayed longer.

In my next post I'll look at my high school years in a small, mostly white college town in Ohio, and an integrated community in Cleveland suburbs.

^{_____________________________}

¹My dream job back then was to be a veterinarian. I had found a mentor in Dr. Louis Vine, whose veterinary hospital was on Franklin Street close to where we lived. I often went over there a few hours on Saturdays, and Dr. Vine would let me watch him treat his furry patients. After each one, I would toss any used materials into the trash and wipe down the exam table with disinfectant. I also helped calm the animals during this process which built the confidence I drew on that day to help that injured dog.

Related links:

John Kenyon Chapman Papers, 1969-2009 (Louis Rounds Wilson Special Collection Library at UNC)

These interviews at Oral Histories of the American South with people who grew up (or went to school) in Chapel Hill really helped me understand my experiences there better: Walter Durham, Fred Battle, Raney Norwood, Sheila Florence, Kathryn Cheek, Thurman Couch, Joanne Peerman, Gloria Regester Jeeter, Charlene Regester,  Floyd McKissick.  

 

 

 

 

LAUNCHED TODAY: A Vision for Black Lives: Policy Demands for Black Power, Freedom and Justice

I knew The Movement for Black Lives was preparing a new platform for release this summer, and this morning I found news of the launch in an email. It's really awesome. I hope folks will check it out and endorse the platform as an individual or group. You can access the platform, policy briefs, booklet (in English or Spanish!), list of organizations involved, platform endorsement form, and all kinds of images for use on blogs and social media here or using the link in the sidebar.

Twitter Hashtag: #Vision4BlackLives

Good work, everybody!

 

Healing the collective trauma of American lynching

Many things trouble me about the dark era of lynching, but several features in particular blow my mind: Lynching was still going on in the United States until I was 8 years old, if not longer. Some of the lynchings drew huge crowds of white Americans, sometimes as many as 10 to 15 thousand at a time. Accounts of lynchings reveal an over-the-top savagery in attacks on bodies of people being lynched. Relatively few white people -- including clergy -- spoke publicly against lynching, and for many years, neither federal nor state governments did anything to stop it.

As I was writing my previous post in this series on truth and reconciliation, I already knew that the next post would focus on lynching. I just wasn’t sure how to narrow that focus for a blog post, since lynching is a huge and complex subject with multiple levels of meaning shaped by many variations of lived experience, past and present.

The answer came this week, which is, for Christians, a holy week remembering the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus. In a series of meditations and connections through the Internet beginning Thursday, April 2^nd, I was inspired to zero in on lynching as a form of mob/state violence intended to evoke terror and thus control a feared “other”.

In 2002, while in Atlanta for a workshop, I had the opportunity to see James Allen's Without Sanctuary at the Martin Luther King Center. This exhibit -- which James Cone describes as "a kind of pornography"¹ -- features photographs of lynchings in the United States. Photographers who took these pictures printed them as postcards and sold them at public spectacle lynchings² to white people who came to watch.

Many years later, I’m still thinking that seeing Allen’s collection was, for me, an experience in the real, that place of immediate, raw experience -- of injury, astonishment, horror, or terror -- that can’t yet be put into words. Beyond all other questions arising from my exploration of America’s lynching history, this question of trauma has been one of the most compelling. As with other forms of outrageous violence, it’s likely that everyone involved -- unless they somehow were not a human being in the first place -- not only suffered psychological trauma but passed impacts of that trauma on to their descendents.³

 

Ida B. Wells-Barnett, was among those who spoke out publicly against lynching and inspired Black resistance to it. Photograph by Mary Garrity from c. 1893. (This version of the original has been edited.) [Wikipedia]

 

Before I saw Allen’s exhibit, I was vaguely aware of lynching but had never heard people really talk about it. Just as many people today think American society is “post-racial”, I must have assumed lynching and its impacts were all in the past…nothing to see here, move along. Though it’s taken me a long time to talk about it, I have no question that I lost my innocence and ignorance of lynching that day in Atlanta. I have come back to it many times since, though, exploring my experience, inviting new layers of meaning to emerge and be spoken, if only to myself.

Now I’m sensing a shift of energy with all of this. In the past few months, and especially during this holy week of Easter, I understand more than ever that a movement to open the record, to heal trauma and other consequences of lynching is underway. It is firmly anchored in the spiritual dimension of life, and flows from there. It won’t be about how far we can get our minds around it, but how far we can get our hearts around it.

I love the way James Cone brings all these connections together in his conclusion to The Cross and the Lynching Tree³:

The cross of Jesus and the lynching tree of black victims are not literally the same—historically or theologically. Yet these two symbols or images are closely linked to Jesus’ spiritual meaning for black and white life together in what historian Robert Handy has called “Christian America.” Blacks and whites are bound together in Christ by their brutal and beautiful encounter in this land. Neither blacks nor whites can be understood fully without reference to the other because of their common religious heritage as well as their joint relationship to the lynching experience. What happened to blacks also happened to whites. When whites lynched blacks, they were literally and symbolically lynching themselves—their sons, daughters, cousins, mothers and fathers and a host of other relatives. Whites may be bad brothers and sisters, murderers of their own black kin, but they are still our sisters and brothers. We are bound together in America by faith and tragedy. All the hatred we have expressed toward each other cannot destroy the profound mutual love and solidarity that flow deeply between us—a love that empowered blacks to open their arms to receive the many whites who were also empowered by the same love to risk their lives in the black struggle for freedom. No two people in America have had more violent and loving encounters than black and white people. We were made brothers and sisters by the blood of the lynching tree, the blood of sexual union, and the blood of the cross of Jesus. No gulf between blacks and whites is too great to overcome, for our beauty is more enduring than our brutality. What God joined together, no one can tear apart.

 

For further exploration:

Lynching in America: Confronting the Legacy of Racial Terror (Equal Justice Initiative, 2015)

Legacies of the Cross and the Lynching Tree (This article is an adaptation of the Conclusion to The Cross and the Lynching Tree by James H. Cone, Tikkun, 1/26/12)

The Cross and the Lynching Tree (James H. Cone, Kindle Edition, 2011)

Christian Soldiers (Jamelle Bouie, Slate, 2/10/15)

Easter Reflection: What Story Are We Telling? (Shannon Dycus, The Mennonite, 3/27/15)

Good Friday in America (Rev. Osagyefo Uhuru Sekou, Fellowship of Reconciliation, 4/3/15)

America's Willful Ignorance of Our History of Lynching Feeds Racial Hatred (Christen A. Smith, Melissa N. Stuckey, Alternet, 3/24/15)

Without Sanctuary: Photographs and Postcards of Lynching in America (James Allen, 2000)

________________________________________________________

¹ Cone, James H. (2011-09-01). The Cross and the Lynching Tree (p. 98). Orbis Books. Kindle Edition.

² The Equal Justice Initiative's recent report, Lynching in America, identifies public spectacle lynching as one of six features of terror lynchings. Most of such lynchings shared one or more of these features. See p.6 in either the pdf summary or the full hard copy report.

³ In the final chapter of Lynching in America, Equal Justice Initiative addresses issues of trauma and healing from the legacy of lynching in some depth. See pages 62-73 of the full report, available from EJI.

⁴ Cone, James H. (2011-09-01). The Cross and the Lynching Tree (pp. 165-166). Orbis Books. Kindle Edition.

Truth and reconciliation, honor and healing, and another leap into the deep end of the pool

The history of the United States is a history of settler colonialism —the founding of a state based on the ideology of white supremacy, the widespread practice of African slavery, and a policy of genocide and land theft. -- Roxanne Dubar-Ortiz in An Indigenous Peoples' History of the United States (Revisioning American History) (p. 2, Kindle edition).

I wrestle with questions about black dignity in a world of white supremacy because I believe that the cultural and religious resources in the black experience could help all Americans cope with the legacy of white supremacy and also deal more effectively with what is called “the war on terror.” If white Americans could look at the terror they inflicted on their own black population—slavery, segregation, and lynching—then they might be able to understand what is coming at them from others. Black people know something about terror because we have been dealing with legal and extralegal white terror for several centuries. Nothing was more terrifying than the lynching tree. -- James H. Cone in The Cross and the Lynching Tree (Kindle edition).

  Slave trader's business in Atlanta, Georgia, 1864. Photo by George N. Barnard [Wikipedia]

 

Earth has a long and troubling history of oppression and exploitation -- humans against one another, the land, air, water and other species. Fortunately, humanity has many ways to bring love and justice to bear on the consequences. As a justice activist, I’ve engaged in a lot of them, but the focus that has inspired me most and longest is that of healing and transformation, both personal and planetary.

Events that have unfolded or intensified in the past few months -- police brutality and resistance to it emerging with the #BlackLivesMatter movement, Native American and First Nations resistance to the KXL Pipeline, corporate land grabs and other challenges to sovereignty and protection of sacred lands -- lead me to believe it’s time for another leap into the deep end of the pool. I’m thinking that this will take the form of a personal truth and reconciliation (honor and healing) process.

Specific ideas about this came in moments of introspection, but they clearly were infused with voices calling from the frontlines of the resistance. I thought about my connections to these struggles, connections beyond those that have come as a result of involvement in social and environmental justice work.

 

Photograph from the mid-1870s of a pile of American bison skulls waiting to be ground for fertilizer. [Wikipedia]

 

Among my ancestors were settlers who arrived here on the Mayflower. And some who were slave holders. I am a descendant of colonists, people who anchored ideas and values of white supremacy into this land and built a nation upon them. Sometimes it's difficult, in light of ongoing oppression and exploitation in the United States and elsewhere, to integrate the realities of my lineage. But for reasons that I’ll explore in a future post, distancing from ancestors delays transformation and healing -- for everyone.

I’ll also detail in a future post how I determined where to jump in. For now, the short story: on November 27^th last year, while others came together to celebrate Thanksgiving, I curled up alone with An Indigenous Peoples' History of the United States by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz. Just before Christmas of 2014, I found the portal into the past of my slave-holder ancestors through The Cross and the Lynching Tree, by James H. Cone.

The ideas in these books don’t support the version of American history or the “American Dream” I grew up with. As I write this post, I have finished both books. The places they took me were intense and, some of them, unexpected.

From Raising Cain to Resurrecting Abel

The quote is from MLK's 1967 speech, Where Do We Go From Here?  Photo credit: Wikipedia

 

Recently I changed the name of this blog (and another one at WordPress) from Raising Cain to Resurrecting Abel.

In my world view, the Biblical story of Cain and Abel is, in part, an allegory related to a specific episode or enactment in the early spiritual history of mankind on Earth. In particular, it encodes some specific information about ancient patterns of relationship that became anchored so tightly into the fabric of planetary life that we, as a human race, continue to struggle with it.  This relational pattern is — for the human collective — as enduring as what we might call a personality trait at the level of psychological development and expression.

And we see it every day. We know the pattern by many names: master-slave, racial caste systems, haves and have-nots, privileged and oppressed, structural racism. How those relationships play out, and the efforts of peace and justice activists to transform them, have been the focus of this blog.

What is it that draws people to justice work? For me there is no one answer, but, certainly, the notion that we are accountable to one another in some fundamental way seems to be at the heart of it. And with that idea has come a question: if we are accountable to each other (and to other species) how are we to be, know, and act in our lives to bring harmony for all life on Earth?

Hexagram 43 of the I Ching has some clues, I think...at least I seem to come back to it almost every time I ask myself this question. A major idea here is that one must "fight without quarter" if good is to prevail over evil. Then follows a pretty significant "however":

 

In a resolute struggle of the good against evil, there are, however, definite rules that must not be disregarded, if it is to succeed. First, resolution must be based on a union of strength and friendliness. Second, a compromise with evil is not possible; evil must under all circumstances be openly discredited. Nor must our own passions and shortcomings be glossed over. Third, the struggle must not be carried on by force. If evil is branded, it thinks of weapons, and if we do it the favor of fighting against it blow for blow, we lose in the end because thus we ourselves get entangled in hatred and passion. Therefore it is important to begin at home, to be on guard in our own persons against the faults we have branded. In this way, finding no opponent, the sharp edges of the weapons of evil become dulled. For the same reasons we should not combat our own faults directly. As long as we wrestle with them, they continue victorious. Finally, the best way to fight evil is to make energetic progress in the good.[1]

I have long been curious how (specifically) ancient Cain consciousness won out ("Cain slew Abel"), setting the pattern for modern structural oppression. It seemed to me that knowing the details might be useful in very practical ways for justice work. When I put the question out to the universe, I got the sense that the original dynamics were in fact being re-enacted in ordinary affairs of humankind. So, for the past few years I've been looking at American politics -- as a ripe example -- to see what details are hidden in plain sight.

 

I'll tell the long story in future posts.

 

But here's the short story, and the reason I renamed my blog: Hexagram 43 is, for me, a blueprint for the core practice of justice work in a new Earth that is emerging -- cultivating awareness, intention and skillful means for making energetic progress in the good. And one thing this means for me is to focus on resurrecting Abel consciousness rather than raising Cain's.

---

[1] Richard Wilhelm (Translator), Cary F. Baynes (Translator), (1950, 1967). The I Ching or Book of Changes, Bollingen Foundation Inc., New York, N.Y.

 

Related Posts from this blog's archives:

Raising Cain: rediscovering ancient roots of structural racism

Cain and Abel in the 21st Century

See also: Shasta-Alaska 11 -- Resurrect Abel Consciousness (9/5/14, Healing Haven Under Hilarion)

Related articles

Anger, Privilege, and Invisible Injustice: What Cain and Abel Have to Do With Ferguson

The Genesis of Justice

Links on justice issues at Raising Cain @ wordpress

I am now posting links to articles on justice issues primarily at my Raising Cain @ wordpress blog. I hope to post more of my own writing on these subjects here at Raising Cain on Typepad. Lots going on. Much to write about. Much to heal in this country and on this planet.

A Nazi History Lesson - In These Times

This is one of the better articles I've seen that addresses "alienated whites in Obama's America" in a way that invites exploration...though I'm sure there are many whose world view's are so rigidly fixed that a civil, constructive discussion is not yet possible:

This is not an article about how Bill O’Reilly is just like Adolf Hitler. Nevertheless, there are parallels between the multiethnic Habsburg Empire and the contemporary United States, in particular the racial alienation felt by some in the ethnic majority after previously marginalized minorities gained a measure of political power.

via inthesetimes.com

Related articles

The resistible rise of Adolph Hitler

Nazis: A Warning From History (Full Series)

Rev. Lennox Yearwood: The Music of Our Struggle: Celebrating the Hip-hop of 2012

Interesting article from Rev. Yearwood...music and justice, music and healing...

As we celebrate the changing of years this is a good time to look back on the momentous year we endured. And to rejoice in the hip-hop music of 2012 that provided the soundtrack on our journey to hard-fought victories, and helped us cope with tragedy.

via www.huffingtonpost.com

On the 150th anniversary of the largest mass execution in US history, 60 riders from South Dakota reach Reconciliation Park in Mankato, Minn.

Today, after a 300-mile ride from Crow Creek, South Dakota, 60 people -- some of whom are ancestors of 38 Dakota men who were hanged on December 26, 1862 by order of President Abraham Lincoln -- reached Reconciliation Park in Mankato, Minnesota, to hold a ceremony on the 150th anniversary of the largest mass hanging execution in US history.

I first learned about this dark piece of history a couple of days ago, Christmas Eve. I decided to watch the film made about the first ride -- Dakota 38. I was so uplifted by the story of this healing journey that I wrote about it on my In Hawk Space blog and shared it on Facebook as my 2012 Christmas greeting.

In that post, I focused on just a few thoughts that the film stirred up. Today my process with the film and the event continues to unfold. Discussion in the last teleconference call of a psychoanalytic class I'm taking this semester turned to the intergenerational trauma that all people living in North America share. I have been interested in this subject for awhile, but the idea has taken on near-passion status for me in the last year or so. It's a wonderful triple intersection of my practice of psychoanalysis, my volunteer work as a justice activist, and my interest as a spiritual student in the idea of raising Cain.

It was clear to me from the film that these Native Americans, from their own experience of oppression, know that we are all traumatized, and that the way through it is to reconnect with our own pasts and work together to find new ground so that we, both as individuals and a human family, do not keep paying the trauma forward.

I'll be sharing more on this notion of intergenerational transmission of trauma in future posts.

For more coverage of the ceremony in Mankato today see also:

Dakota Indians mark hangings of 1862 with trek on horseback (Yahoo News, 12/26/12)

150th anniversary of the Dakota 38 hanging -- Photo Gallery (Mankato Free Press, 12/26/12)

Related articles

Dakota Indians remember largest mass hanging in US history

Santee tribe to honor anniversary of executions

Dakota Indians mark hangings of 1862 with trek on horseback

David Palumbo-Liu: The need for the other narrative in Gaza

I keep a framed print in my office: It depicts a cat just sitting peacefully (I can't remember the artist). The caption is: "What people need is a good listening to."

I have proven this true time and again -- at least for myself -- not only in my healing practice but in the practice of peace work and justice activism out in the troubled world beyond my quiet holler here in Tennessee. Thus, I was happy to find an amazing OpEd by David Palumbo-Liu at truthout.org yesterday.

Since then, I've spent quite some time deciding where to share it. The thoughts and feelings that have prevented a quicker sharing relate to an indepth (and ongoing) contemplation of the fractured communities, the violence, anger and hate that currently blinds us as a human collective to our essential oneness, our peaceful, loving and cooperative nature.

I think a lot about how we can ever heal all the wounds that keep us from a reunion with the Self and the Source that we as a human race abandoned so long ago. I think we will figure it out. Social healing is a complex process, but I am confident that one of the skills we'll all need is an ability to listen through the heart first, and only then let the words pass on to the head through that powerful field of compassion that allows us to hold extremes simultaneously in one center.

Palumbo-Liu's article offers an opportunity to practice such a thing and to learn more about it, I think. He speaks here about young people in Gaza, but it's clear to me that we could take such an invitation to deep listening anywhere on Earth right now and move ourselves toward something better:

Believing their story is never allowed to be heard, Palestinians have a feeling of dispossession described most eloquently by the late Edward Saidi.  Now Gazan youth are pleading for the world to listen to their rage, sorrow and frustration, and their commitment to a cultural and political project that will endow them with rights and possibilities for life.

via truth-out.org

I discovered more great posts at David Palumbo-Liu's website. He also has a Twitter feed @palumboliu. When I get a minute, I'll add his website URL to Raising Cain's News and Blogroll in the sidebar.