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Tuesday 24 March 2015

Farewell (signs of spring)

A little over a year ago I began this blog.  And now that a year has passed I do believe that this will be the last post.  What I wrote formed a kind of almanac of sorts--a collection of reflections on my environment, on the changing of the seasons, on books I had read, and on news items that concerned me.  As winter is beginning to abate and the coming of spring seems like a very real possibility, so it is time to bring this to a close. 

In February I wrote of the winter, of its fierce cold: "I suspect I'm not the only wondering, Can I stand it much longer?" The answer, for all of us, is, of course, yes, we stood it.  We faced it. And here we are, on the verge of spring once more.  In Norway House there is still a lot of snow on the ground and the river is still frozen solid, but the other day I saw a crow by my house--and that's a sign of spring in this part of the world.  Soon, too, the eagles will return.  

And so we end with a return: of crows, eagles, spring, new life. 

Tuesday 10 February 2015

Re. Munro's Dear Life

I just recently finished reading Alice Munro's most recent short fiction collection, Dear Life.  I enjoyed it tremendously.  And it is easy to enjoy Alice Munro's fiction--though serious, she is never grim. In many of her stories there is a spirit that finds life (in all its complications, disappointments, confusions) nevertheless fascinating and even enchanting. 


Now a Nobel laureate, Munro enjoys an international reputation, one that's likely secure for generations to come.  But I hope we never lose sight of our Alice Munro, because she is one of Canada's most important regional writers.  Her region is southwestern Ontario during the mid-twentieth century decades, back when there were no wineries and no cappuccinos.  Back when southwestern Ontario was a smaller place, a more constricting place.  

When I read Alice Munro, I see my family with greater clarity. For my mother and mother-in-law both came from that time, that place.  And through her stories I see the context of their lives.  In turn, I can see the context of my own life, too.    

In May 2014 I wrote about Farley Mowat shortly after his death; I wrote of how he reminded me of home.  I can say the same about Alice Munro.  And I believe that is one of the greatest compliments I can give to a writer:  your writing reminds me of home, your writing made me think about where I came from. Your writing put home into focus for me. 

Wednesday 4 February 2015

The heart of winter

Once again we are in a deep freeze with temperatures below the minus thirty mark.  Fingers are cold, toes are cold. The toque doesn't seem to work and the parka doesn't keep out the wind.  The car won't start. When I walk into the woods in Norway House - braving the fierce chill - the only other signs of life are the Ravens and occasional Grey Jays.   There are few tracks in the snow.  

This is the heart of winter.  December is past, January is part, the rest of February waits. And I suspect I'm not the only one wondering, Can I stand it much longer? Will February bring a respite from the cold? Will March? This is the point at which we feel stretched, taxed, tired from the cold.  And even though I do love winter, even I am feeling the burden of the the harsh days, harsh nights.  

One hopeful sign: the daylight hours are increasing.  And at least the days aren't grey, for in northern Manitoba the sun does shine for much of the winter--and that's always a welcome boost. But today I was outside for only small stretches at a time - five minutes here, twenty minutes there - and my face feels burned.  My skin feels hot, sore, leathery. The way skin feels when you spend a summer's day out on the water.  I have acquired a kind of freezer burn, I suppose.



There are few tracks in the snow.  But the tracks that I do see when I head out onto the trails on Fort Island (the island on which I live in Norway House): Wolf tracks.   Yes, indeed.  Even the Conservation Officers have confirmed that there is one Wolf on Fort Island, perhaps two. Often when I'm on the trails, the Wolf's tracks are the only other set of prints beside my own. Though it's difficult to explain why, I take great satisfaction in this.    



Thursday 15 January 2015

But what if it's not really about freedom of expression?

Most of the discussion circulating in the media and social networking tended to frame last week's Charlie Hebdo killings as a freedom of expression issue.  Radical Muslims, angered at the cartoons featured in CH, attacked the magazine's offices, killing 12 people in hopes of silencing the publication for once and for all.  In response to this, people from across the world stated their support and solidarity for the magazine, or, more generally, for the value of freedom of expression in western society.  The hashtag #jesuischarlie arose as a rallying cry. 

But what if it's not really a freedom of expression issue after all? In an earlier post on this blog (see below), I treated it as such.  I must admit, though, I had my doubts.  The reason for my doubts: it's far too easy to echo #jesuischarlie and to restate the value of free speech--and yet that doesn't address the real concerns, the real problems.  

Certainly the killers wanted to silence the magazine; certainly they were not in favour of free expression.  But affirming that we are in favour of it doesn't address the pressing issues: why did the killers become killers? Why did they arm themselves and seek out an opportunity to commit murder at a magazine office?  What forces - social, economic, religious - played upon them so that what they did was, in their minds, the best option? 

Repeating #jesuischarlie again and again does not in any way begin to discuss those issues. It only affirms something that we can assume has already been affirmed.  A value that was never really questioned by most westerners (it's safe to assume most of us already value free expression).  We have built our societies on this value--though how well our societies live up to this value is another matter.  

In short, instead of making affirmations, we need to be asking questions.  

*

Joe Sacco's provocative cartoon titled "On Satire" asks some difficult questions. And in turn Chris Hedges article "A Message from the Dispossessed" provides a few uneasy answers. 
  
Borrowing from Sacco's "On Satire," published in The Guardian last week, it seems to me that we do indeed need to sort out "how we fit in each other's world."  

#CharlieHebdo

Monday 12 January 2015

Hashtags are not actions

Two events from last week struck at the heart.  They struck at the heart of anyone who believes in the need for free expression.  The events: the killing spree at the offices of Charlie Hebdo, a French satirical magazine, by radical Muslims (for more info. see here); the flogging of Saudi Arabian blogger Raif Badawi, who received 50 lashes for creating a "Free Saudi Liberals" website (for more info. see here).  Over the next few months, Mr. Badawi will receive 950 more lashes.

Social media was a-fire with these stories, especially the Charlie Hebdo killing.  The hashtag #jesuischarlie quickly emerged as people posted messages of support and solidarity, indicating that they value freedom of expression and resist the fear that the killers sought to create.

But what does it mean to say "I am Charlie"?  As for myself, I'm hesitant to make that statement.  The images that I've seen of Charlie Hebdo's now infamous cartoons don't inspire me.  They seem to be puerile, juvenile, repellent. The images would understandably offend any Muslim--moreover, they would offend any sensitive person in 2015.  If I say, "Je suis Charlie," what kind of a discourse am I inviting, supporting, nurturing?

And there's the rub.  If we value freedom of expression - as words, as music, as imagery - then we can't pick and choose.  We have to accept it all.  Freedom of expression can't solely protect those opinions that harmonize with our own.  The true test of our dedication to that freedom is the willingness to be offended.  So the choice is clear: though I'm holding my nose as I say this, "Oui, je suis Charlie."

*

But that's not enough. For all those who Tweeted their support for Charlie Hebdo, who Tweeted and Facebooked photos of themselves holding pens: it's not enough. You need to take it a step further.  A hashtag is not a political action, a selfie of a pen-in-hand won't make a difference.  To show true solidarity, please considering joining PEN, please consider joining Amnesty International and please use your freedom to aid a writer in need: Raif Badawi.

 In the wake of #jesuischarlie, another hastag has emerged: #jesuisraif. And I wish I could echo those words and say "I am Raif Badawi" as a measure of support on my Twitter and Facebook accounts. But the literal meaning of those words paralyzes me.  Because I know that I am not Raif Badawi. Because I don't believe that I would have had the courage to do what he did, to risk what he risked. Because I don't believe that I would have the courage to face what he must face every Friday until all 1,000 lashes have made their mark across his back--simply for doing what I'm doing right now, blogging about something that feels important.

But what I have done - what I hope that you'll do, too - is write a letter or email protesting his treatment.  If #jesuischarlie, then you know what to do next.

Amnesty International's Badawi campaign

PEN Canada's Badawi campaign

#CharlieHebdo