Rebirth and Revolution: the Return of Yaa Asantewaa’s body PART II

Continued…


The invasion of Libya (and subsequent barbaric public execution of its Head of State –Muammar Gaddafi) by US and NATO is a perpetuation of imperialist aggression against Africa. Although some might choose to forget a geographical reality that Libya is part of Africa, the recognition of this reality is necessary if we are to fully activate the vision of Pan-Africanism and confront the forces of imperialism and neo colonialism. The recent experience of the ACCRA 25, which includes members of the A-APRP and CPP (Nkrumah’s Conventional Peoples Party) highlights the persistence of the struggle in Ghana and Africa generally. On the 21st September (which officially celebrates Nkrumah’s birthday) activists began a peaceful, legal march toward the US embassy in Accra to protest against the US/NATO led invasion of Libya. Ghanaian police swarmed the demonstration claiming that the march was illegal because the protesters had disregarded a prohibition order. 25 (hence the dubbing of ‘Accra 25’) of the protesters were arrested, taken to the police station in Accra before being handed over to the BNI (Bureau of National Investigation - Ghana’s FBI/MI5) where they were interrogated and detained overnight. Local and International pressure and the acknowledgement by the Ghanaian officials that the demonstration was in fact legal led to the swift release of the protesters.


A few things are noteworthy here. First –unity of consciousness, that is the Pan-Africanist ideology in action saw the linking together of various organizations and people from across the world who pressured the Ghanaian authorities into releasing the protesters. Second - this unity of consciousness identified the enemy as neo-colonialism and imperialism; for how else must we regard the response by the Ghanaian authorities when their interest of protecting Ghana/Africa and taking a stand against any form of aggression against its sovereignty should have been aligned with the demonstrators. Instead they sought to suppress an activism the like of which Kwame Nkrumah advocated and which led Ghana to independence. Third – and I’ll leave it here (though other conclusions can be drawn) the power of Social Media/Networking was instrumental in spreading the word about the incarceration of these freedom fighters. The significance of this is that activism and the Revolutionary impulses that we’re presently experiencing are taking on new forms which we must embrace. Facebook and Twitter will not seem so technical, pointless or cumbersome when we can use these as means of mass resistance, political education and organisation. But you don’t need to rely on these new forms of technology – forwarding relevant emails can be equally effective in participating in revolutionary activism. Still – we can never underestimate the power and impact of word of mouth.

How does the foregoing relate to my time in hospital as outlined in Part I of this Shout?

The battle over my body was fought during August the same time as the UK uprisings which was catalysed by the killing of a young African man Mark Duggan. I say ‘killing' because I’m tired of the euphemisms used by the IPCC (and the Media) in its claim of ‘independence’ from the Met Police: “it is regrettable that someone has died...” This death did not occur peacefully in his sleep or from any natural circumstance. This was the consequence of an assault; a confrontation. Mark Duggan’s death has the sign of an assassination (murder by design). But why might this be the case? The answer may be found in David Cameron’s words to parliament about ‘empowering the police,’ ‘fighting back’ and identifying the ‘face of the rioters’, about ‘supporting the victims’ of the uprisings. Undoubtedly Mark Duggan’s killing and the ensuing uprisings enforce the image of black (mostly male) youth as the prevailing enemy in our society.


To “empower the police” there must be perceived disorder and chaos (‘rebellion’, ‘rioting’) in society. That disorder must have its face. Who are the victims that will now be supported? Is the government really concerned about small businesses? Of course not! It is orchestrated so that the general population see themselves as the victims who are in danger of attack from black youth. Given that the general population (comprising the working and lower middle class) is suffering socially and economically from the zealous measures by the government, the creation of disorder strategically relocates the image of the enemy. In other words don’t blame your impoverishment, unemployment and disenfranchisement on the government - and its headstrong involvement in invasions into other countries – look over there at those young black boys -rather at black people including community figures like Darcus Howe.


The image of black people as enemy persists through institutions like the BBC allowing so called intellectuals like David Starky unwarranted airtime to vent his incendiary notions solely to add fire to fire. This puts us constantly in a reactionary position. Brazen persistent attacks and offences by Western Europeans have placed Africans wherever we are in a position of perpetual struggle whether we care to identify with it or not. This of course is not to disregard the fact that there are genuine social, cultural and economic deprivations that are impacting us generally and which were the underlying triggers of the uprisings. Cost of living is high; hiked university fees denies opportunities to young people, especially those in African communities; there is a severe lack of opportunities for young people (but also generally with whole sections of work forces being made redundant); public services are severely reduced (closing of libraries, community centres in areas with larger numbers of Africans – like Haringey and Hackney); public sector jobs (where a number of Africans work) are being drastically cut. Although the diabolical squeeze is felt by working and lower middle classes whether Africans or Europeans, the face of these problems culminating in the uprisings has been assigned to African youth.


So while I slept, London burned, but ever so briefly; enough time though to signal a stirring in consciousness. Starky’s comments are simply the code of racism – nothing new about it. This code is systemic in institutions like the BBC. Generally the British Media imposes unconsciousness – tells you what to think, how to perceive the world. In hospital I heard an African patient denouncing the ‘rioters’/’looters’, claiming that they were opportunists and should all therefore be locked up. Contrarily a European patient countered that the uprisings were the consequence of a lack of opportunities for the youth, working and lower middle classes and condemned the government for its blatant alliances with the banks. I am trying to show here that unity of consciousness as called for by Pan-Africanism will identify clearly that the enemy of oppressed and exploited people is racism, capitalism, imperialism and neo-colonialism. Those structures enrich the few through the labour and exploitation of the mass. Some of us may believe the struggle against these forces is outside of our present cultural experience, and therefore remote - in Libya, Iran, Egypt, Venezuela, Iraq, Congo, Ivory Coast, Guyana, Jamaica, Trinidad, Brazil- an endless list of States impacted by the demonic tentacles of neo-colonial/imperialism/capitalism - and therefore has nothing to do with us. Some of us might think that the Mark Duggans, Smiley Cultures, Mumia Abu Jamals and Troy Davises of our world got something they deserved owing to erroneous criminal charges against them. But for me these are the conclusions of unconsciousness (that is not thinking or rather being seduced into thinking/accepting something that doesn’t make sense) which, empowered by governments to dominate the thoughts of the general public, the Media goes to all lengths to engender.


Thus it is that I have been considering my time in hospital amidst the period of ‘uprising’ in relation to Yaa Asantewaa in her exile and the woman in Revelations 12 who was forced into the wilderness. My body had been under siege (as a site of struggle) by a number of fibroid tumours for years. Though considered benign (in that they wont cause death) they are still harmful and mostly affect African and Asian women. Research about the cause is emerging but this doesn’t appear to seriously consider the specific causes of fibroids as they relate to African and Asian women. Diet is not a lone contributor; hormonal imbalances are also considered (your doctor may not relate this to you though) as causes as well as a stressful lifestyle. I can only allude to what may have caused mine – I have no accurate way of being sure. But removing them was an unavoidable necessity. After the operation to remove them risks manifested and ignited a deepening battle to preserve my life – and ultimately my regenerative function.


The regenerative function – that is life (rebirthing) – is expressed out of Love. Thus a body riddled with tumours can be said to reflect Love in stagnation. It is a body embattled (under siege), confused, stressed and un-liberated. The body has to be freed of limitations imposed upon it by these inhibitors of Love. I’m not here speaking about love in the reconstituted and false form pertaining simply to romance and sex. I’m speaking of Love as the driver of humanity; Love as the apex of spiritual evolution; Love as manifestation of the Universal and Creative Life Force. Full expression of this Love - in essence Divine Consciousness - is realised when its inhibitors are challenged and defeated. Yaa Asantewaa’s struggle against the forces of colonialism (inhibitors - oppressors, colonisers, imperialists) was borne of that Love (of her people and for humanity). The pregnant woman in Revelations 12 was pursued by inhibitors (Satan, the ‘deceiver of the world’ – capitalism, imperialism, neo-colonialism) of the Love she carried in her regenerative capacity. Love then as driver of humanity cannot complement oppression but is relentlessly pursued by such forces (capitalism/imperialism) that seek to destroy it.


This Love of which I speak is that of Auset when she challenged Set (an inhibitor, oppressor – our unconsciousness- reflecting our spiritual and creative dormancy) by collecting the dis-membered pieces of Ausar’s body. Her immaculate conception of Heru (rewritten in the Bible as the Mary/Jesus story) is symbolic of the conquering, transformative force of Love when actualised by Truth, Wisdom and Justice. This power of Love as the driver of humanity underpins the struggle for liberation against forces of oppression; for it was Heru - the son of Auset and Ausar -who eventually defeated the oppressor Set. Victory over Set was not easy. Heru and his followers were outnumbered by Set and his army. But Heru adhered to the admonitions of Tehuti (“Wisdom”). He became conscious that the battle against Set may be won only by his awakening consciousness, developing an understanding of spiritual intelligence and better organising his followers -his angels- metaphoric disciples that are faculties of spiritual consciousness.


In his book Metu Neter Anuk Ausar Ra Un Nefer Amen puts it this way: “[Heru’s] victory came from humbling himself to the intuitive guidance of the wisdom faculty [Tehuti] which is received through perfection in meditation, or oracles, or counsel from a sage. Intelligence has always defeated might and steel...Set will be defeated through truth, but one must stand up to him at all costs, and confront him with all means possible”(pg.151, my bolds). The African Revolution then requires an awakened consciousness that will in the fullest light direct our economic empowerment, social, cultural and spiritual evolution. Our collective activism toward achieving the objectives of Pan-Africanism underlies a powerful act and expression of Love.

Victory over the fibroids and comprehension of my purpose in the Pan-African struggle could not be attained without elimination and renunciation of the inhibiting factors in my consciousness. For that process of elimination would signal my readiness for Love- that my regenerative function was attuning itself for my rebirth. But it would be some time before my consciousness was thus awakened. After the fibroids were removed I was told there was an obstruction in my bowels which initiated the second operation. This obstruction and the resulting laparotomy compounded the length of time I was in hospital. Although the fibroids were removed, their mark of distress (oppressing my body) remained in the form of this obstruction. We recall here the wrath of the ‘great red dragon’ who pursued the remnant seed of the woman who had given birth to a male child (associations between this story and the story of Ausar, Auset and Heru are not strains of the imagination but a reality). In a similar way we may recall the slithery, vile and pernicious reach of imperialism and neo-colonialism aggressing against Africa. The struggle to restore my regenerative function I liken to the struggle to unify Africa; to re-member (bring its dismembered parts or body) into realignment. For this to manifest the objective of Pan-Africanism is paramount. Unconsciousness has to be replaced by consciousness and that consciousness has to become unified. The UK uprisings lacked unity of purpose, and therefore the organisation to make a more significant impact that we could identify as revolutionary. But small steps build pyramids.


Becoming conscious requires elimination/renunciation of redundant ideas and experiences; the relinquishing of harmful emotional and psychological experiences. A bowel obstruction can be said to express an unwillingness to release and let go those harmful experiences that entrap the emotions and psyche. This hinders spiritual development and that awakening consciousness that would enable ascension to the Divine (God within, not without and abstract) through the route of love. For it is Love that opposes oppression; it is Love that must be born (as Heru) to challenge ‘the great red dragon’ (Set); it is Love that must defeat imperialism, capitalism and colonialism in the revolutionary struggle for the unification of Africa and the saving of humanity.


So I was prepped for a third procedure, which I had seriously considered was a signal of my demise. But I chanted to the Creative and Universal Life Force and all my ancestors to relieve me. The result was that I didn’t have to have this third operation after all. We all exhaled. I have had to relearn everything as though I were a baby again. But I give thanks for everything; for the Love all around me without which my body would now be mere bones. I have scars; physical, emotional, psychological. But like Africa, remapped, divided and desecrated the struggle of my rebirth continues. And I know that day will come. Heru will defeat Set; the Red Dragon will be destroyed. The precision of my rebirth was marked by the birth of my grand niece on my birthday 16th October. This for me is a wonderful sign of life’s perfecting rhythm through which I feel most humbled and truly blessed.

Shout Out

Rebirth and Revolution: the Return of Yaa Asantewaa’s Body PART I

Momma yenkafo no eeei,
Yaa Asantewaa eeei,
Obaa basia a oko aprem ano eeei,
Obaa Yaa eeei!’

(‘Hail her!
Yaa Asantewaa
A mere woman
Who fought against the cannon!
The Woman Yaa’)

Folk Chant as homage to Queen Mother Yaa Asantewaa


I was told that I would be in hospital four days following the operation. It had taken over two years for me to decide to have the operation but by now I felt assured that I was in good hands (Divine Order). Instead of four days, however, I remained in the hospital for four weeks. Complications from the first caused me to have a further operation. My immune system became severely compromised (it didn’t exactly break down – I was on a drip and unable to eat or drink for three weeks) for which reason the medical team insisted I have a blood transfusion (I had instructed that this should be given only as a matter of life or death). I wasn’t dying but my haemoglobin had fallen way below the level at which they would normally transfuse (my cries of resistance now seemed futile and irrational). As well as this, my wound became infected and had to be opened to release inflammation.


Due to the severity of the infection and the discovery of yet another internal obstruction it was decided that I should have a third procedure. By this time my family and friends feared I might not make it. In truth when I was told about this third procedure I felt that some greater force was seeking to utterly destroy me; not satisfied that the two earlier/major operations had failed to do this. My chanting intensified. I called on my family to add their prayers and chants to mine – rather I needed them to intensify their support -which had so far been remarkable- in uplifting me. Early one morning I was prepped to have the third procedure at which point psychologically I felt I was about to complete the battle with an unrelenting enemy. It would be a final confrontation out of which there could only be one victor. Who would be the victor and what “victory” would mean to me is what I’m hoping to express in this Shout. To do this I will consider the story of Yaa Asantewaa whose name I have claimed as a cultural realignment with my ancestry. I use her story to link some issues upon which I’ve been reflecting since coming out of hospital. These relate to my spiritual development (rebirth), my renewed commitment to Pan-Africanism as a stance against racism, imperialism, capitalism and neo-colonialism and my activism in the revolution which objective is to dismantle these oppressive, dehumanising forces and thus to further the cause of humanity.


Most of us know the legend of Yaa Asantewaa. Her death is recorded as 17th October 1921 so in honour of the 90th anniversary of her transition this very day I will briefly outline her story for those who might not be aware of this remarkable African warrior and ancestor. Queen Mother of Edweso (Ejisu) part of the Asante region of Ghana she led a war (otherwise referred to as ‘rebellion’) against the British Colonials who sought complete dominance of the Asante Empire. This war (1900-1) was the last in a series of such wars between the Asante and Britain throughout the 19th Century. It is also remembered as the last war in Africa to be led by a woman. Having seized power of Kumasi, the Asante capital and exiling its King Prempeh I and other members of Asante government, including Yaa Asantewaa’s grandson, Edwesohene (Chief of Edweso) Kofi Tene to the Seychelles, the British demanded the Golden Stool which symbolised the soul of Asante.


This brazen and offensive demand by Frederic Hodgson, the British governor of the Gold Coast (now Ghana) incensed Yaa Asantewaa. She wondered why members (men) of the Asante Government were allowing Hodgson airtime to insult them by his facetious demand when instead they should be demanding the return of King Prempeh. She declared that where the men exhibited cowardice, contrary to the fighting spirit of Asantes of old, like Nana Osei Tutu I she would rouse other women to fight the British and thus liberate her district Ejisu, Asante generally, its King Prempeh and her grandson from their exile. Her brave campaign lasted a year before she was captured and also exiled to Seychelles. There she died on October 17th 1921. Prempeh I was repatriated to Kumasi in 1924 whereupon he later negotiated the return of all exiled Asantes. Yaa Asantewaa’s body along with others was exhumed and returned to the Gold Coast in 1930 where she received a royal burial.


Following a trip to Ghana in 2002 I adopted the name of this remarkable African woman who sacrificed her life for her people. At the time I didn’t know very much about her. I was born on Thursday, like Yaa so the adoption made sense. It would take me several years later to register a spiritual precision in our birth and death. I was born on 16th October. My name was changed by Deed Poll which was signed 9 years ago on 17th October 2002. This was not a deliberate convergence. I was not aware of her birth and death dates when I chose the name – just about the campaign she led against British Colonials – which was for me inspiring enough. It might be considered coincidental but I prefer to see this as an intuitive activation, a spiritual vibration that signalled the poignancy of my rebirth. Thus more than a symbol of patriotism, resistance, liberation and womanhood, Yaa Asantewaa for me also represents continuity and the incarnatory vibration of struggle. This vibration of struggle would see Ghana achieve Independence in 1957, the first Sub-Saharan African country to do so. Yaa as (earth – “Asase Yaa”) mother, as warrior, as freedom fighter metaphorically birthed a son of revolution, Kwame Nkrumah. The significance of this is that her exile to the Seychelles didn’t halt the struggle for liberation.


The return of Yaa Asantewa’s body (remnants of her spirit one might say) to Ghana in 1930, the same year Nkrumah had completed his theological studies, symbolises a re-memberment of the struggle not only for Ghana’s liberation but that of Africa. Nkrumah pursued the struggle for liberation with a new emphasis – Pan-Africanism. Inspired by the ideas of Marcus Garvey and others he called for unity of all Africans, diasporic and continental for mass organisation and politicisation which movement would confront and ultimately defeat the forces of imperialism and colonialism. This Revolution as underpinned by Pan-Africanism calls for the participation of the mass without which it carries little force. Thus it is that Nkrumah declared that, "all people of African descent whether they live in North or South America, the Caribbean, or in any other part of the world are Africans and belong to the African Nation." Nkrumah called for the creation of an All-African People’s Revolutionary Party - as we find in the A-APRP - which was realized by Kwame Ture, amongst others in 1968 and which continues to activate towards the liberation and unification of Africa and its people. The party also works with other organizations committed to the freedom of all oppressed and exploited peoples across the world.


Yaa Asantewaa’s body then (as depicted here, emaciated and frail) can be regarded as a symbol of struggle and resistance; as Africa under the siege of colonialism. Metaphorically I also relate her story to that pregnant woman in Revelations 12 who was pursued by the ‘great red dragon’ - her pregnancy being a symbol of rebirth, renewal, freedom, the emergence of self, transformation of society, liberation (awakening consciousness)- in essence the battle for humanity. The ‘red dragon’ by which the woman was viciously pursued I relate to the evil hands of imperialism, capitalism and neo-colonialism clutching at every corner of the earth to destroy humanity. Like that woman who had to ‘flee into the wilderness’ whilst a battle ensued between Archangel Michael (“and his angels!” – support from the mass) and the Devil (“and his angels” - forces of oppression/exploitation), Yaa Asantewaa was exiled whilst Ghana remained a site of struggle for its independence. This was achieved when colonialism (‘the great dragon’) ‘was cast out’.


But the story didn’t end there. The last verse in Revelations 12 writes: ‘and the dragon was wroth with the woman, and went to make war with the remnant of her seed.’ An indulgent interpretation sees this ‘woman’ (and therefore Yaa Asantewaa) as Africa (by extension the oppressed world) and the ‘remnant seed’ as Africans who are perpetually confronted by the instruments of racism throughout our lives and the forces of imperialism, capitalism and neo-colonialism (incarnatory vibrations of the ’great red dragon’) which continue to blight our reach toward self-determination.


TO BE CONTINUED: you’ll have to wait for the second installment to hear how I relate the foregoing to my time in hospital which will be posted at the end of the month.

Embracing Love: the spirit of aliveness (edited)

By Neiman Marcus
“Give me my heart. Let it pump again life’s power in me, infuse my hands and feet with spirit. Give me my heart. Let me rise and walk.”
Awakening Osiris, Normandi Ellis
Love: a Regenerative Power
Love, some say is dead or near it. Modernity has meddled with our capacity to fully express our love. Technology has seriously compromised tactility; we touch and swipe screens, not each other. Persisting wars, marking most of our lifetimes is antithetical to love and a vital sign of an overlying disconnection with love’s regenerative power. Daily images of destruction (degenerative power) are paraded before us; of bloodied or blown apart bodies, distressed peoples, particularly children, abstractedly clinging to some strand of humanity to stop the violence and madness; bombs explode like fireworks at a festival and the media reports on it are orgiastic. As a sign of how advanced we are in warfare, unmanned fighter planes with unmemorable names bounce through Syrian skies like models on their catwalk. Confrontations and struggles against enemies are fangled commodities of terrorisation. Terror, not love is en vogue. Something of the heart becomes desensitised by these images, and our tears remain coiled in their ducts. Yet against the emotional tyranny of destruction the heart yearns to be reacquainted with its purpose; tears crave the slow journey from their ducts down the contours of the face, slipping into our mouth for us to taste the salt, sweetness and pain of genuine love. What follows here is a gentle whisper drifting towards those hearts in search of deepest love as the regenerative power of their aliveness.

Queen and her King

In the transience of death Ausar (Asar) pleads for the rekindling of his heart. The heart fires life, infusing the body with spirit. Those words – ‘rekindling’ and ‘fires’ are not whimsical but are effectual in the awakening of Ausar. This is how he will ‘rise’ and ‘walk.’ Shaman Patrice Somé of the Dagara (in Burkino Faso) says that fire is both regenerative and thus constructive and degenerative and therefore destructive (1998, 205-7). In other words fire is both positive and negative. Modernity, technology and persisting wars are symbols of fire in the Western world – relating to rapid progress (of a kind), ‘restlessness,’ ‘radical consumption’ and ultimately ‘death’ (literal and metaphoric). Fire in this context is expressed negatively. When expressed positively, according to Somé, ‘fire is the element that keeps people connected to their purpose and to the world of spirit.’ Fire in this sense ‘emerges as vision, dream, and intimacy with the ancestors.’ It is in this context – the exploration of fire as the ‘warmth of being, creativity and life’ – that I present an interpretation of Ausar's’ plea for the return of his heart. Ausar, being symbolic of Divine Consciousness, of transcendence, of elevation, of the risen, the crown chakra - in short the GOD WITHIN PRINCIPLE, which is the source of the regenerative power of love. The expanded consciousness embodies LOVE; for it KNOWS itself. It HONOURS its power, its creativity, its purpose. It does not hide or refracts from the responsibility to PROGRESS through love. To love is to live, to embrace and perpetuate the boundless beauty of our universe.

Blackartdepot

The (Ether)real thing
The heart houses the ethereality of love – love of course is not tangible. The eye would strain to see it physically; hands would eternally ache attempting to touch it. Yet love emanates. We know of love because its power electrifies when fully expressed or ignited. The light of love can be blindingly manifested in some people. They radiate it with ease and serenity it’s impossible to walk past them without absorbing its force. If modernity has not restricted one's capacity to be still you will be still and pause there, basking in love’s manifesting radiance. And how sweet, how beautiful that moment. And how painful too because a distant memory now pervades your being; you ache to relive some mythic height that once was part of you. The breath of life stirs within you. You feel newness manifesting. You feel pristine – as though you have just emerged from some dreadfully long sleep, or from the depth of the ocean onto an untouched island. You have arrived as if you’re the first to make impressions on its beauty, marvelling at the whitest, cleanest sand, the bluest water. Palm trees shimmer gently against azure sky as if to realign your heart to a slower beat; “the struggle against the tide is over; you have emerged; take it easy; breathe; let go,” those palms are whispering. Thus Ausar knows his need of the heart as the pump that will ‘quicken’ his rebirth, releasing him from sleep, dream and death. His desperate plea then is to feel, to experience creativity; it is to splendidly live again.

Water Goddess, Graphicsbeam.com

How resonant is this plea in our lives? How conscious are we of any dream to feel the quickening of spirit? I’d venture that many of us are unaware that this really isn’t it; that the stuff in our lives is not the substance of life. Such a reflection remains at the level of the unconscious and is a silent ritual. Our preoccupation with contrivances (the stuff in our lives) is a kind of mantra or meditation – our focus is misaligned. That negative fire-the rush toward some apparent need to satisfy some apparent lack – (which is overconsumption and distraction) allows us little, if any, time for Self reflection. But reflection is necessary if we are to be alerted to the deadness of our spirit. Consequently we exhibit creative dormancy and the debilitation of Self. Put another way how conscious are we that we are spiritually asleep or dead? What time do we give to understanding the matters of the heart? And if we attend, even briefly to such matters are we properly freed from the burdens of our present and past? Because a superficial study of the heart cannot reacquaint it with its purpose – that is as giver and sustainer of life and the aspect through which we experience the beauty and abundance of genuine love.

Ausar and Auset
Create it, then live the dream

And it is this – to embrace the regenerative power of love again that Ausar makes his plea for the return of his heart. To desire life without love is to exert degenerative power since it is possible to live without love in our lives. But that would vex the soul, would be a devilish deviancy within community and ultimately a pernicious disregard for humanity. Love is greater than those burnt-out relationships we cling to as though life was still there. Love is not fear but freedom. Love cannot express under the weight of our bitterest experiences. Those have to be cast aside or out like the demons they are; though you naturally accept that they have vitally shaped your life and contributed to where you are now. Love is not demanding; it is not control of another’s will to love, nor is it CONTROL of any kind. It is not a heavy chain by which our emotions are unwittingly dragged through extremes. Love is the power that unlocks that chain. Love is light. It does not hide for fear of discovery. It is creative power, a bareface dream - or leap. And like a flower unfolding from its enclosed posture during the night, love awakens the woman/man in you. You must be ready for this, and yield. And once love has freed you thus it requires you to make some hard choices. For love has led you to a crossroad. This is necessary for the perfecting of our journey. Here we might wish we were apportioned two lives but that would never do because love has a rhythm that is natural and precise. No matter how painful the decisions love has brought before us we must attune ourselves to that rhythm rather than force the recreation of another, which would be an offbeat. With back arching and poised like a ballet dancer ready to make an exhilarating leap, our breathing steadied we must dare to dance down either side of that crossroad. And that without looking back or returning there to the unforgiving past, worn out experiences - and lest like Lot’s wife we freeze in that posture for eternity.

Rhythms of aliveness
Love’s rhythm is the spirit of our aliveness variously expressed as: an intensity of physical attraction/connection; electricity hotting an impromptu embrace; a sudden readiness to expose the soul; an extreme, almost irrational urge to protect and nurture; the meddling memories of teenage affairs and adult indiscretions; a sense of falling into something unknown but being unable to stop it or flying fearlessly through different worlds or swimming in deep waters; crippling vulnerability; memories of past hurt, either as instigator or receiver; an emotional pendulum of bitter sweetness; haunting melodies from your subconscious captivating current mood; a desire to start a new life; beginning a new life in reality in some entirely new place; surges of passion opening the sacral chakra; acute awareness of the delicateness of the heart; dialectics of spirituality for signs that connections are precise – that what is happening, how it’s happening, the force with which it is happening was written; standing at the top of stairs suspended in the air with a voice you know is ancestral whispering - ‘hold tight’ and ‘don’t be afraid’ - 'go for it! Trust'; the simultaneity of assurance and uncertainty; happiness then fear - that way round – and then fear then happiness as the emphasis alternates confusingly; combustibility, rather the possibility of imploding from the intense energies surging through your body. The rhythm fades, the chemistry dies through our lack of will to good - which is eternal. Love is after all not a wasteful, idle thing, but a powerful alchemical pursuit. It is the becoming, the knowing of self; the consistent flow of regenerative energy.

Asar Mikael

From Peakblackness, Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis

And finally, in its expression of aliveness love enables the release of trapped tears from the confines of their ducts. A thumb gently rubs them away - rather smoothes them into your face – ritualistically as though they want you to bathe in your tears and be cleansed thus; they rest their soft hands under your chin, tilting your head ever so slightly. Their eyes meet your eyes, each soul reaching for its reflection, lips touch lips. The tenderness of the heart is exposed. Your breath stops momentarily, then you gasp as you emerge once more from spiritual death. Your heart has been reacquainted with its purpose. Love pervades your being. The fire of life ignited. Someone is there beside you. “How did I get here?” They ask. And you say in the softest, sweetest voice as though whispering some mythic secret: “I summoned you from the depth of my imagination. The key to my life, the perfecting of our journey is there in the ignition. You put it there. But are you prepared to share the ride. Are you ready to dance with me down the road of enchanted love which some say is dead or dying? Because although I cannot say for sure where that road will lead my feet now refuse to be still when the spirit of aliveness is the sweetest melody my heart has ever known. And I want to feel it again and again as the breath of life now stirs ecstatically within me, colouring my being with the ethereality of genuine love.”

In search of a spiritual muse: awakening the God/Goddess

For Denise

The search must be sincere and profound; the spiritual querent committed to the simplest or most extreme demands of the outcome. There is a still space within each of us that can be accessed in the quietest moment of contemplation. When we have stopped or at least paused long enough to tap the interior door of consciousness. To avoid psychical meltdown, consciousness requires this slowing down, pausing or stopping to advance us spiritually.

This meltdown manifests in various ways relative to current social deprivations and depravations. Depression, psychotic breakdowns, spiritual and cultural vacuousness are subtle forms of a kind of madness caused by an imploding society. An example of what I mean – we were told earlier this month that following “actionable intelligence” of his whereabouts US Special Forces killed Osama Bin Laden and to respect his Islamic tradition buried his body at sea. “Justice had been served,” President Obama reportedly said. Was this assassination a judicial practice? If there was so much respect for Bin Laden’s Islamic tradition why was there such disrespect for our perception of justice?

Now - if you faithfully believe in the system, in the literal meanings of things; that all alleged criminals had to be given a trial because not only the Law but humanity dictated it, how do you respond to this blatant violation of said belief? You are expected as if it’s a movie to suspend disbelief whilst staring mindbogglingly at a released image of Obama apparently watching the ‘unfolding mission’ of Bin Laden’s killing. But this is not a movie and that vital suspension of disbelief – if you run with that course- precipitates the onset of madness. No amount of headscratching can explain what you’re seeing, what you’re hearing. It’s befuddling and you little realise that you are caught in the matrix of insanity. If, however, spirit forces you to acknowledge that what you’re seeing/hearing is madness and you fight it you have missed a real opportunity to advance your spirituality.

A kind of madness is also evident in that reluctance by some of us to realise that Obama’s complexion does not make him less Capitalist or Imperialist. He is seductive because he’s not dumb sounding, nor seeming like Bush but his intelligence alone should never have been trusted. He was never my Messiah because I am not looking for one. To hail him as such is to voluntarily imprison my spirit and thereby relieve me of the profound and sincere responsibility of the search. That profundity is necessary because my spirituality is not a wilting modicum that is satisfied by religious dogma, zealous Sunday sermons or masterly political orations. Obama is a ready-made muse, a sort of accessible one-for-all, with that smile that charms (if it yet does not sicken) and those words that mesmerise (if they yet do not frustrate). The seduction was easy because as Africans the familiar messianic trap (from the time of the Maafa) was thrust before us – some God is always descending, expected, arriving from outside of us to bring light and lead us out of our miserable darkness. And now that many of us accept that the white image is untenable we look for it in the black. What is transferred is the belief that our salvation is the responsibility of someone other than ourselves. When they deprive us of this what is our recourse? Some of us will never reach the point of asking this question - so steeped are we in the matrix of insanity.

When we stop or pause long enough to contemplate our place in the matrix I think something extraordinary happens. And embracing this ‘extraordinary thing’ is both a perceptible calling and salvation from that psychical meltdown. It’s a way of keeping your head when those around you are losing theirs through the persistent pressure of peering out. Embracing this ‘extraordinary thing’ I’ll simply call awakening the God/Goddess.

The serious querent searches because the spirit is tired of the mirage and its psychic grasp leaning you toward meltdown. They know there is more to Self but are not certain what it is. In one of those pauses when the still space is accessed the spirit speaks. The language is not complex but it is intuitive and might only point to some unexplainable notion, some vagueness of thought that we need to engage further when we return from that still zone. We cannot remain in that zone, but we’ve dipped in long enough to touch something or be touched by something that requires a further push. Presently it is superficial – the spirit is weary that the querent might not be ready for the fullness and withholds the totality of potential mystics. Some of us remain at the initiatory stage – that first touch- because the push toward the deep already reveals too intense a commitment –it feels more like a pull; like some greater, invisible force directing your movements counter to your will. But the push, your giving in to spirit, affirms your readiness for the depth of revelation.

It is not always possible to identify how or why the search began. Sometimes it comes at the end of something – or at the point of its rupture. Trauma can force us to the interior space we’ve avoided all our lives. A feeling of disempowerment or realisation of spiritual deadness might be the catalyst but whatever the reason once we’ve embarked on this path we should keep journeying towards that fulfilment. For now the God/Goddess is awakening. Spirit might reveal, as an example, this God/Goddess to be the dual principle of Yemaya Olukun. Yemaya, contracted from ‘yeye emo eja’ – meaning one whose children are like fishes, in Ifa represents the Mother of creation, Mother of the Ocean, the symbol of motherhood and fertility. When paired with Olukun this becomes a deeper expression of a power that resides at the bottom of the ocean. The name Olukun is likewise a contraction that fully refers to the owner of the oceans and symbolises a persevering, stern, majestic force that complements the nurturing, forgiving capacity of Yemaya. The ocean we might see as a physical expression of subconsciousness from where springs creativity.

Initially you might not recognise or be able to identify the God/Goddess principle in this way – as Orisha. Furthering the push might eventually lead you there. But there has been an intuitive activation; the spiritual landscape is now open. There is no doubt that what you’re feeling is real. Your head feels light. You feel possessed by a quiet, yet demanding power. People randomly tell you that “you’re amazing” though you cannot see how or know why. But you are bursting with a remarkable aliveness which has evaporated foregoing trauma. It’s a secret, delectable sweetness that no politician, no pastor, teacher, counsellor, doctor, friend or lover has fed you. The awakening God/Goddess is a reclamation of your power. And it is all yours. There is but one crucial consideration –this reclaimed power will last only as long your readiness to make the serious commitment to meet the simplest or most extreme demands of spirit.

The killing of David Emmanuel and the cause for vigilance

For those lost lives not forgotten but whose names are too numerous for an epigraph

Anger has to be regressive. It otherwise consumes the heart and stupefies the mind. But how do we respond when we hear about another victim of police heavy handedness in enforcing the law? Some might sit and sigh – shake heads and exclaim ‘how sad!’ Some of us will feel so enraged that sitting and sighing won’t alleviate that vigorous pounding in our hearts. We feel compelled to do something. Some will have an acute understanding of the experience because of the recent killing of their son or brother or husband, uncle or sister or mother or daughter. And by recent I mean as close as the experience is to their heart. But will it revive their anger and frustration? For a moment - maybe. But anger burns energy and the time for it has long past. The tirelessness of those campaigning for justice shockingly against the police is durable because their anger has regressed. In its place, action, will, determination. Spirited action and the conviction that they will succeed, however long it takes, however tiresome the fight or mightier their opponent. And if some of us are not angered or stirred to action this does not mean we do not empathise. But the lack of action or expression of empathy can cause some of us to make sweeping and confounding remarks, which this Shout hopes to address.

Contrary to a floating view that some of us only attended the march on 16th April because it was for Smiley Culture, for me it was because I was yet again faced with the memories, none more harrowing than that of Joy Gardner nearly twenty years ago and other deaths committed by the police throughout my lifetime in this country. My sister because her son had been arrested by police and forced to do community service for committing no crime whatever. My 22 year old niece because she wanted to be part of a collective committed to bringing change to her generation. I wonder whether the suggestion is that we shouldn’t act/protest in order to avoid the accusation of bandwaggoning or misguided idealism. I make no apology for participating in the march last week, whatever my reasons. If some of us are considered guilty of acting out of some fabricated and belated concern how then must those who did not participate in the march be judged? Should we consider them more righteous because they didn’t choose to ride the Smiley Culture bandwaggon? Should we denounce them as exercising nothing short of wanton apathy? Of course not. Everyone does “their thing a little way different” and within the timeliness of their own convictions.

Smiley Culture’s death has given the cause another profile because of his status, this is true, but the march called attention to the reality that deaths in police custody have for too long perpetuated with impunity. It highlighted that figures of victims alarmingly accelerate whilst the police responsible retain their liberty at our taxpaying expense. This freedom not only means they are above the law but that they are empowered to commit these inhumane offences again and again – in the name of the law. What this calls for is for every one of us to be at all times vigilant.

Last night I observed two policemen exercising their stop and search powers. They’d pulled over a black man; he seemed to be in his forties. His was not a flashy, sportsy car; if anything it looked like a family car (I’m useless at naming the models). Although I kept walking I was same time trying to observe what was happening as I have so many times done when I see police handling brothers. The man was being cooperative as far as I could tell; stressing almost jovially that he had wanted that particular model of car as opposed to the latest, but the policemen weren’t appealed by his light heartedness; after all he was ‘suspicious.’ They were instead seriously trying to find some kind of criminal act on his part. I continued my journey, sensing that the policemen might not get the satisfaction they craved from the guy, who seemed far too relaxed – and if I could stretch the thought- familiar with what was happening to him.

About an hour later I was speaking on the phone to a friend when he started railing at someone for rushing up to him. I thought it was a road rage moment with some random other driver. He was asking the other person why they’d approached him so aggressively when he was sitting in his car talking on the phone – that is he was emphasising that he was not committing any crime. It was then I realised he was talking to the police. They were asking him if the car was his (again, it was not flashy, nor noticeable). He told them it was. They were challenging his every word, which was heated because he couldn’t understand what they wanted from him. There have been a lot of guns and gang problems tonight so we’re checking everyone out – I heard them telling him. Fine – he responded, but why have you approached me so aggressively, I’m not doing anything wrong, I’m sitting in my car having pulled over to speak on the phone, minding my own business. They then said there was no need for him to be speaking to them the way he was (heatedly) when they were only doing their job. A beat of silence, then my friend asked them if they were going to arrest him or what to which they said no and left. Not before shouting after him “and don’t do it again.” My friend, enraged, yelled back at them “do what again?” but they had driven off. He was so vexed that we didn’t speak much more after this. But before we said limp, frustrated goodbyes he said that when they were pressing him he started to doubt himself, wondered if he had done something wrong; maybe he had started to speak to me (on his mobile) before he had pulled over. It took effort of will to be confident he hadn’t done anything wrong. Part of his anger was owing to the fact that a female relative had recently been assaulted by the police. The bitterest part, however, was that the experience was in his psyche causing him to repeat a few times before hanging up that "they’re starting this thing again."

Is it seriously possible that we’re seeing a resurgence of police over exercising their powers discriminatorily against black males? Would that not seem to frustrate our demonstration last week and the many isolated, low profile campaigns across the country? It reminds me of something I heard Robert King one of the ‘Angola 3’ say when he recently visited the UK. Asked whether they had support from any high profilers (celebs) to free Herman Wallace and Albert Woodfox (the other two ‘Angola 3’) from further enduring solitary confinement in the US penal system, he said this: he believed the cause was best supported by ordinary people at the grass roots; he knew for a fact that the night Obama was elected a number of random arrests of black men were made as a message that nothing was going to change – the (white) man was still in charge. So rather than a resurgence I would say that the excessive use of force, killings and harassment of black people (mostly men) by the police is a perpetuation of a wheel in motion. Hence the march was also for the most recent custodial killing of Kingsley Burrell Brown in early April.

To be vigilant then is to ‘keep careful watch for possible danger or difficulties.’ After I hung up the phone to my friend I replayed the scenario and saw that his life could have easily been snatched from him by those policemen. I would have heard the killing on the phone but who would believe it -even with the evidence on our phones? Those policemen (read vigilantes) would still walk free and I would know they were guilty. The IPCC would be called to investigate – welcomed in fact by the police to do so – and yet the men who had killed my friend would be acquitted. The wheel in motion perpetuated. What faith can we have in the IPCC when they’ve not secured any conviction for a policeman involved in the death of someone in their custody? There is no faith in the IPCC because it is impossible to know precisely what makes them independent from the police.

At the march a sound call was made by Sean Rigg’s sister. Sean was another victim of police brutality – killed whilst in their custody in 2008. His sister through trembling, tear choked voice asked why it was that with CCTV cameras everywhere there wasn’t any in the backs of police vans. Why don’t they record their ‘busts’/’raids’ as a matter of course? It’s a rational call given that the numbers are mounting on both sides – policemen are being accused of offences which they deny and young - mostly black men are dying in suspicious circumstances whilst in their custody. Video evidence would be used to support either side to give the public assurance that justice is being properly and fairly served. It would also whittle out wheat from the tares. Surely not all policemen are deserving of Smiley’s cockney translation from “Ole Bill” to “Dutty Babylon.” But can I seriously say that to the families who are frustrated by a system that since the horrific hounding and eventual killing of David Oluwale as far back as 1969 has been so wicked, corrupt and unjust.

It will be noted that I make a bold assertion with the title and constant references to ‘killings’. To refer to these as ‘deaths’ is a euphemistic play on words for which now is not the time. After all, we’ve been told that Smiley Culture ‘killed’ himself. That means a ‘killing’ took place. Like his nephew Merlin Emmanuel, whose dignity and composure as the family’s spokesperson is commendable, and other members of the black community I cannot accept the scenario given by the police. We’ve been asked not to jump to conclusions until the outcome of the investigation. In other words, we’re expected in the meantime to accept the account given by the police that Smiley stabbed himself through the heart whilst he was allowed by them to make himself a cup of tea. We must accept this insulting account whilst allowing the police time to embellish their story. This would take some doing though – rather like trying to polish a worthless piece of diamante to see it if might magically turn to diamond.

To the comfy cohort who raise the argument that Smiley was on a drugs charge I ask whether this vindicates his killing by police. And is this drugs charge punishable by death? A charge does not mean guilt. That is for the court to decide. What in any case does that alleged charge have to do with the present incident? I am reminded here of the crucifixion of Jesus – a David, an Emmanuel whose people told Pontius Pilate (symbolic of the Roman system) to go ahead and crucify him. Our march last week represented the root of ‘vigilance.’ It was a kind of ‘vigil’ meaning ‘a period of staying awake during the time usually spent asleep, especially to keep watch.’ To that cohort who condemns our actions we say that’s your right - for while you criticise and sleep we’ll keep vigil for your sakes as well as ours and future generations who deserve to live freely with dignity and without fear. I walked behind a friend whose shouting vigorously and passionately summed up our feelings about what we’re protesting against: “HUNDREDS OF YEARS WE BEEN HERE AN’ DEM STILL AH PISS PON WE.” To that we say resoundingly enough is enough.

Shout Out

Olive Morris: A voice unedited

Just look at you
barefoot and free
commanding
me to see
your full face of pride
demanding
that I stand beside
you chanting

The Red Brick
knows no way
to drum your dreams
and anguish
and seems so silent
though a troubling pitch
of noise screams -
unfinished business

Rippling my miserable
mediocrity
compelling me to rise
from sleep’s wanton
inactivity
to talk much less
and for god sake do
something.

For Olive Morris –International woman

Certain admissions are woefully embarrassing. But the honest heart must attend to them in some way or other. Must be nearly two years now that I’ve had a picture in my house of a sister I hadn’t until now attempted to know. So why is she on my kitchen wall? She must have put herself there – at least spiritually. I did the physical action of printing it out along with other pictures of Black icons in the seventies and laminating it - this was for a ‘decades’ party I was having. After the party I kept her there – not through any kind of laziness – she just seemed to belong. She’s smiling beneath Marsha Hunt – ‘big fro... lil fro warriors’ is the caption I wrote. I didn’t even find the picture myself. A sister emailed it to me saying, ‘I had to forward this to you as Olive Morris and you so resemble...it’s a good resemblance to have as she was a warrior sistah,’ My reply was ‘thanks. My skin’s crawling.’

Spirit knows the significance of vanity on a feeble conscience. But it’s always a matter of time before the divine purpose of a connection is manifested. I didn’t take time to look for Olive. It seemed enough to parade her on my wall, utterly pleased at the physical resemblance. People would ask, confusedly, if it was me they were seeing. And I wouldn’t properly reply, I’d giggle - idiotically almost, basking in something I didn’t comprehend. Who was this woman? If they asked me her name, I really couldn’t say. I didn’t feel embarrassed that I couldn’t explain who she was; that I didn’t consciously register her name after being forwarded the email. The resemblance seemed to me to say all that was necessary. How shamefully wrong that was.

After the last Shout, which privileged three brothers it’s as if I felt her spirit straining for some of that – or the same. What about me – she was saying. Don’t forget me. The picture on the wall began to take on new life, pressuring me to look for, not simply at Olive. The purpose of those two years hence connection was manifesting. How many times had I driven past that building in Brixton where she has been memorialised? But on discovering this, something still bugged me about how little she is known. I don’t know if I’m saying that the building isn’t enough or whether there’s something too silent about it – maybe something missable as well as missing there. Online entries about her note unspecific birth and death dates – ‘1952-1979’. But when exactly? I needed, for some yet unfathomable reason to know the precise dates. I kept searching but every entry was thus limited and it annoyed me. I know the annoyance was probably more at myself for my belated interest.

I determined to visit the Lambeth Archives where I was sure I could find her exact dates of birth and death. That place – which houses archival material about Olive – was snaky to find. My heart was drumming as I drove round and round, knowing with each mistaken turn (no sat-nav in my beat up banger) that I was so very near to finding Olive. Once there, I was overcome with that satisfied feeling of achievement. The effort mattered. Two boxes – one they couldn’t find without some tumbling up – held images and recordings of a life briefly lived. My eyes lit up – this seems pathetic now- when I noticed a passport because I was determined more than anything to know how specifically brief that life was. Olive Elaine Morris was born 26th June 1952 and died 12th July 1979 after completing almost exactly 27 years of life. I breathed.

The life was brief but full. It expresses that utmost urgency of spirit that is beyond the weights of gravity. She was on spirit side from time and so utterly fearless. That’s what we see in that barefooted feature – some spirit up in the face of human oppressors. The warrior weapon is her voice – an unbounded one – whose pitch and dramatic soprano held accented Jamaican notes. The adorable lyrics of that line crucially said everything about what she meant. How do I know how she sounded? It is simply that the loudspeaker is still sounding: ‘stop police Nazi activity in Brixton’ shouts from one of her flyers. The leaflet highlighted the systematic harassment of Black youths in Brixton following one of the many Notting Hill Carnival riots. That harassment persists in differing signs.

One of the photos in the archive - and there are so many that depict snatches of a full-on activist’s life – is particularly grievous. It is 1969, Olive looks mashed up – you can see the ashy skin even though the image is black and white. You notice still a troubling smirk escaping despite the ordeal. She looks much older than 17. The picture was taken at Kings College Hospital following a police assault. At the back she found it necessary to inscribe “taken at about 10pm on 15th Nov ’69 after the police had beating me up.’ You’ve read the verb correctly – that’s exactly what she wrote, ‘beating...’ Why struggle to find the past tense of a verb for which the action is perpetual.

Yet there's an image that delighted me – made me smile someplace surreal - one where Olive is up in the face of two policemen. The veins in her neck are straining as if she’s attached to invisible chains pulling her in the opposite direction. A white woman is watching, as others are, stunned, silenced by this warrior’s unrelenting will.

On 14th March 1986 she was honoured with the naming of Olive Morris House in Brixton. You will have passed it many times. But I don’t think that if you’re now compelled, as she has made me to really look for her that’s where you need begin. Spirits don’t remain where they’re buried - in cold coffins and tombs. Memorial buildings tell you that they’ve once lived but hardly say for what and how. And if you’re really curious to know why so brief the life and for what purpose it came, perhaps you’ll have to be ready like Elisha when Elijah was mystically caught up and had to leave behind the prophetic mantle.

Shout Out

Living Lights

“We need more light about each other. Light creates understanding, understanding creates love, love creates patience, and patience creates unity." Malcolm X

“Emancipate yourself from mental slavery none but ourselves can free our mind. Have no fear for atomic energy, cause none of them can stop the time. How long shall they kill our prophets while we stand aside and look. Some say it’s just a part of it, we’ve got to fulfill the book.” Bob Marley, 'Redemption Song'

“I believe I'm going to die doing the things I was born to do. I believe I'm going to die high off the people. I believe I'm going to die a revolutionary in the international revolutionary proletarian struggle.” Fred Hampton

Certain energies come in with a force so swift gravity alone cant keep them down. They’re beyond gravity’s pull. They almost seem as though they weren’t born or as though they aren’t real or living as you or I. Yet they are very real because it feels as though you know them – as though you’ve always known them deeply, intimately, truly. Throughout this month, three brothers have been riding my spirit. I don’t know what I mean by that but perhaps I can briefly illustrate in these words which I trust will serve as libation to their memory.

February, though annoyingly short (thanks to Roman egotistical dalliances), is significant for various reasons. I came to England in February over thirty years ago. It was treacherously cold and I’d been stuffed into an awful hand sewn blue suit whose style was still hankering back to the 70s to make the special, life changing trip. I looked ridiculous – it was some strange prickly fabric – I think I even had on platform shoes with those never-ending rubber heels! Anyway we had been here for just one year when I vaguely recollect hearing that Bob Marley had died. He was born in February. I cant quite explain it and I don’t care how curious it sounds but there has always been in some remote part of me a belief that I was related to Bob Marley. Rather, that he was someone I really knew.

The song that sticks most in my mind is ‘War’. As children we used to play about with the words, unaware then of their import; rhyming ‘East with ‘sheh crease’ and ‘north’ with ‘under sheh skirt’ and so on; childstuff (obviously male inflexed). I know now that they stemmed from an address made by Emperor Haile Selassie to the league of Nations in 1963. I’ve since used the words of this song as part of my lectures to reveal that the cry for human dignity will ever be prevalent – that as long as one group of people believe in their superiority over others there will always be a humanitarian struggle; that, as we see across the middle east, this struggle is also about systems of beliefs that deny people their human rights. And as we almost voyeuristically watch what’s unfolding there we might take some sordid pleasure in believing that this human struggle is an abstraction that is removed from our experiences. But subtly we’re being pressured and squeezed and frustrated but we have too many distractions to really deal with how crucially we’re being affected. How should we describe a government for which the majority of a nation’s people did not vote? How should we regard the chop and slice of crucial social and community services (libraries, schools, hospitals/NHS care, etc), and the arbitrary increases in everything (especially and despicably the price of education) by our government? And hauntingly as ‘War’ alludes Africa continues to be raped of its resources, its people enslaved by the global economic trade system that denies their right to self sufficiency. So the chant for freedom and redemption that we hear in the undying rhythms of Bob is like a constant invective toward those systems that have no regard for humanity. But systems topple; ‘none can stop the time.’ It is only a matter of time.

February is also when Malcolm X died. I’m not sure when Malcolm entered my soul. There was always a picture of him floating about the house – that one with him and the gun, guarding his home peering through the window; the words ‘by any means necessary’ were on the bottom banner. Again, Malcolm came to me as no stranger. He looked like someone I knew; someone I’d always known. There’s this black and white picture of my father which must have been taken in the 60s. He’s wearing thick rimmed spectacles just like Malcolm. He has that same penetrative, intelligent, serious stare as if there is so much contained within him. Like Malcolm my dad died young. I didn’t literally know him - so it’s the same spiritual soul deep type of knowing of an ethereal presence that I have for Malcolm.

That quotation about the light is my favourite because it speaks again about the middle meeting toward human compassion, dignity and intelligence. It’s urging us to reach toward the spirit of humanity which is our light. Malcolm here is at peace with himself and conscious of his light. That consciousness was deep enough for him to know, be prepared for the death that would come when he was only 39. In his ‘Redemption’ song Bob was conscious too of his mortality, of his light; of his time to return. Redemption has a lonely sound, because that road Bob knew he had to tread alone. And Malcolm was that prophet gunned down when he was surrounded by so many – that’s the way of assassinations, it's true, but it was timely, unstoppable – his light was that swift force, that fleeting star. Although swift, he left his light on. When you listen to him or look at a picture of him after a while it stops appearing as though you know him, but it’s as if he knows you. Actually it’s as if he’s marking you or demanding something of you. Maybe it’s that you never forget or that you acknowledge the greatness of his light. It might get to that point of anxiety because you’re not sure how deeply you would be or whether you know anyone who is prepared to die if that’s the cost of expressing their truth.

The only connection with Fred Hampton and February is that earlier this month I saw the screening of a film that looks at his murder. Another prophet – it cannot be denied – gunned down by the system of white supremacy against which he fought. Not only fought, but, as the above quotation illustrates, he was prepared to die denouncing. Most remarkably Fred was only twenty one. Twenty one. His light was so immense, so bright it shone all through his face, deep into his sharp dimples and lit up his everywhere. His light terrified the ‘pigs’ –the white supremacists who weren’t down for his kind of Truth. What was so wrong in demanding that African Americans protect themselves against the terrorists that were the American Police primarily but also the system that denied them human rights? What was so wrong, so criminal in creating a food programme for children? What was frightening about providing free medical care for poor African Americans and actually European Americans too? What was so outrageous about persuading street gangs that they were not each others’ enemies and to stop fighting one another? Anyone who looks at that kind of manifestation of pure light and Truth and declares it threatening, as J.Edgar Hoover did, is by contrast uncompromisingly evil. For just as there are light beams there are dark forces. Hence the struggle of humanity is not something that happens in specific decades – like the 60s (Civil Rights), or 70s (more Civil Rights, Vietnam War; racism in the UK), or 80s (unemployment, more racism in UK) and so on – but it’s perpetual, an ever present phenomenon. And you can feel it now – that revolutionary thing biting, but we sit and we watch and hardly believe in what we’re feeling because truly it’s frightening.

None of these prophets really died. That’s a physical thing that they seemed beyond. That’s why they were ready for death, knew it had to come but that it was nothing for them to fear – a necessary fulfilment of their book. In The Murder of Fred Hampton there’s a clip of his girlfriend, Deborah Johnson (now Akua Njeri) describing the morning he was brutally murdered. At the time she was 8 months pregnant with their child, Fred Hampton Jr. As she’s talking baby Fred is upfront in the camera, bubbling and sounding and all lit up, demanding we focus on him. And we do; we cant help it because Fred Jr bears perhaps not only the image of his father – nothing uncanny about it – it just is – but he is also brimming with the same kind of ‘high’ and light for which his father lived. He was born about three weeks after his father was killed – his mother barely escaping with the two lives, despite also being shot at by ‘pigs.’ The undying light of his father’s spirit resounds in his words ‘you can kill a revolutionary, but you cannot kill the revolution.’ But the ‘pigs’ will keep trying as Fred Jr will attest.

Betty Shabazz, Malcolm’s wife was also pregnant when he was assassinated. One of the twins born six months after her father’s killing made more news this February for a trail of offences that we’ll never truly understand. We daren’t think it’s a shame because we don’t understand how deeply she is affected by the power of her father, and mother’s light. The struggle of their family is ever, like that of humanity – it’s ancestral if we recall the wicked way Malcolm’s father was killed and the torment of the family by KKK terrorists. For Bob also there was a child born weeks after he died. Whose skin doesn’t crawl when we hear one of those children extending their vocals not merely to exact their father’s sound, but to perfect the image of his light?

I don’t mind that they have toyed with my spirit this month. It has been a kind of comfort. I don’t ever want to forget them; nor do I ever feel weirded out by that feeling that I’ve always known them. When I hear their sound, watch the manifestation of their light through their orating/singing, when the rhythm of their words penetrate my soul I feel both at once alive and enraged. And both I want to feel. In that way I can bask a little, meditate somewhat in the reflection of their light and get a bit closer to that something for which I too might be prepared to live and die.


Shout Out