A few weeks ago, Sally Rooney expressed in theIrish Times her support for Palestine Action, declared a terrorist group in the United Kingdom, and announced that, from then on, she would allocate the royalties from her books and audiovisual derivatives to finance the pro-Palestinian direct action network. A few days later, the Global Sumud Flotilla set sail for Gaza, led by icons such as Greta Thunberg and Ada Colau, along with activists, musicians, doctors... Likewise, at the Venice Film Festival, writer Annie Ernaux and filmmaker Céline Sciamma read a statement denouncing the "worst genius."
The current situation can be interpreted in several ways. Some say that any form of pro-Palestinian activism is a whitewash: an attempt to position oneself on the right side of history at a time when recognition of the genocide is practically unanimous. Some say, however, that it is in vain: what difference will a few symbolic food supplies make if the Flotilla manages to reach port? Where will the words of Ernaux and Sciamma fit into a festival based on luxury, excess, and celebration? Others say that it is a foundational gesture, a strategy to change the framework of collective thought: to intervene in public opinion and transform it. Now, why is public opinion being transformed? Is it because more and more voices are being raised against the destruction, or because the destruction continues without limits, even sweeping away moderation and the defense of thestatus quo Of the most conservative? And there are still those who say it's actually a desperate gesture, a vindication of one's own collective agency in the face of governmental inaction: the old saying "only the people save the people." Be that as it may, and however you read the situation, it generates frustration and helplessness. It's true: there's no manual for the exemplary citizen in cases of genocide. Nor for the artist. How do you take charge of the historical moment in which you live?
Marina Hyde asked herself this question a few days ago in The Guardian, and declared: "Ending the horror in Gaza still depends on the worst people in the world," referring to Netanyahu and Trump, but also to the owners of the digital platforms we fill daily with denunciatory content. He previously stated that there is no manual for being an exemplary citizen in cases of genocide, but there is a convention to prevent and punish the crime of genocide, approved in 1948 by the UN General Assembly (ignored by most of the signatories). Hyde is right: we ignore our historical responsibility, and we turn to social media as a consolation, which "atomizes and narcotizes" us.
And now, the question: how do I end this article? Hyde concludes with a certain despair, but with a good dose of realism: "The path to peace still runs through the politicians in power." But I won't be cynical about the objections I mentioned earlier. There is a great deal of intelligence in all of them: Rooney knows that funding Palestine Action won't save anyone, but he's aware that it puts the UK on the ropes (will they arrest him as a terrorist? Will they censor his books?); and I doubt any member of the Flotilla crew believes they will end the famine in Gaza (will they succeed in time?), but if they are detained again in international waters, the pressure on their political leaders will increase. The "bad guys," as Hyde says, will eventually decide, yes, and the road ahead is still "long, perilous, and precarious." But if history has made this path forged by the powerful familiar, as Hyde claims, history has also made the path of disobedience familiar.
Or ventriloquism, which involves moving the lips so that a voice that is not one's own can be heard. The philosopher Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak wrote in depth that in Can subordinates speak? (published by Manifiesto with a Catalan translation by Helena Borrell Carreras and Maria Comas Carreras) affirms that no powerful voice (recognized, public, heard) will ever be able to speak with certainty for those without a voice: it can only be a spokesperson. This has always happened, and the struggles that reach us, we know, are never the struggles that are being fought: they are a derivative, a substitute, an echo. Do you remember the photograph from twenty years ago in which Edward Said threw a stone towards Israeli territory? Perhaps it was useless. Or perhaps it was: first, to say that it was a "gesture of joy" celebrating the withdrawal of the occupying forces from Palestinian territory; second, to explain the precarious struggle of those people, with stones, against one of the most powerful armies in the world. I'd like to think that Sally Rooney, Flotilla, or Annie Ernaux do exactly the same thing. From here, the best we can do is to never stop talking about it.
