terça-feira, 25 de agosto de 2020

“What it means when a man falls from de sky” by Lesley Nneka Arimah

Amazon.com: What It Means When a Man Falls from the Sky: Stories ...

Ps: Esse post tem spoilers. 

Descobri esse poderoso livro de contos ontem. Li as primeiras duas histórias. “The Future Looks good” and “War stories”. São histórias curtas, cheias de poesia, ritmo, música mesmo. The Boston Globe descreveu o livro como inventivo e “wildly playful”. Eu concordo. Arimah sabe brincar com as palavras. Ela sabe jogar sobre nós pedaços de histórias como quem põe na nossa frente pedaços de um quebra cabeça complexo, bonito a sua maneira, mas também escuro. Tão escuro. Eu também tenho uma tendência forte de escrever sobre injustiças com uma pena pesada. Tem como ser de outro jeito? Não sei. Acho que o que sei é que tem vezes em que a denúncia de uma injustiça por meio da literatura para alcançar significado inteiro tem mesmo que acabar nesse chão de escuridão e desamparo. A personagem principal da primeira história, que enquanto tem as chaves na fechadura não nota todos aqueles que estão atrás dela, termina de um jeito trágico. Nós, os leitores, acabamos por saber muito pouco sobre ela. Sabemos que ela foi uma filha, uma neta, uma irmã. Ela deixa de existir de um jeito violento. “The Future Looks Good” é um conto sobre feminicidio. Mais uma história de violência doméstica em que um homem que não sabe ouvir não se vê no direito de assassinar uma mulher. A mulher que por conta dessa violência já não tem mais como ser desaparece do mundo antes que nós, leitores, tenhamos a chance de realmente saber quem ela é. Imagino que a autora quis justamente pintar essa imagem forte. Mais uma mulher que é eliminada pela violência de mais um homem que se vê senhor do mundo, antes mesmo de ter a chance de mostrar ao mundo quem ela é.

“War Stories” é outra historia pesada e escura, mas contada com uma certa leveza. Tudo começa com a descrição de um mau comportamento da menina na escola. Ela levantou a blusa de uma outra menina, pra provar as outras meninas que a tal não tinha os sutiãs sofisticados que dizia ter. Esse incidente faz com que o pai volte a lhe contar o velho conto do período da guerra, que ele já tinha lhe contado tantas vezes, sempre pra lidar alguma lição. No incidente ao qual o pai sempre retorna ele perdeu a arma. Procurou pela mesma por três dias, sem sucesso. Mais tarde descobriu que o seu superior tinha pego a arma enquanto ele dormia. Como punição ele foi enterrado vivo. Nunca mais voltou a esquecer a arma. A menina diz que o pai nunca lembra ou fala de outra coisa senão o período da guerra. Como se não houvesse nada antes ou depois da guerra. Esse conto recebi ao fim e ao cabo como uma declaração de que se uma pessoa é atravessada por uma guerra depois de um certo ponto, ela acaba ficando presa naquela guerra pra sempre. Tudo o que ela pode ser são as histórias daquela guerra. O pai da menina lembra de todos que morreram na guerra. Explica que ele não morreu porque correu. Bebe e desaparece. No meio do caminho falam de Emanuel. Alguém que ela conheceu. No meio do caminho descobrimos que ele também esteve naquela guerra. Sobreviveu. Mas mais tarde tirou a própria vida. Durante a guerra ele atirava em cobras. Uma vez um bando de moradores da vila vieram atrás dele. Queriam prestar contas com aquele que estava assassinando seus deuses. O comandante então disse a Emanuel que se ele matasse mais uma cobra ele o entregaria aos homens da vila e deixaria que eles fizessem com ele o que bem entendessem. No meio do caminho, uma cobra imensa, que já tinha sido vítima de um tiro, antes da chegada dos homens da vila, mata um menino, antes de deixar de existir. O pai conta isso tudo a menina sem perceber que está dividindo demasiadas verdades. Mais tarde, na escola, ela se vê em outra situação em que esperam que ela outra vez revele a verdade. Mas ela já está cansada dessa função e não quer saber da verdade. Os pedaços não são apresentados nessa ordem e nem sei se essa foi a ligação que a autora fez. Recebi-os um pouco assim. Como se o pai preso numa vida feita só de historias de guerra estivesse de algum modo tentando desenhar para a filha que uma vida pra ser inteira precisa de mais do que verdades, precisa também de amigos, de comunidade, precisa ser vivida de um lugar que é do mundo e para o mundo.

Recomendo a leitura.

Um abraço e inté a próxima.

segunda-feira, 24 de agosto de 2020

existing as an immigrant in Bergen

 

I went to a panel discussion today called “Job Creation for and by Immigrants and Internationals”. I did not really know what to expect. What called my attention was the inviting playing with words. “For and by”. The immigrants themselves are seem like creators, facilitators, doers. Is that it? Yes, exactly.

The woman responsible for the panel said in the beginning that what she wanted to address with us were the challenges that skilled immigrants face in Norway. It was a great surprise to see in front of me a panel made of six black women. Just this image would have been worth the night for me. I imagine that most people in Norway associate the expression “skilled immigrants” with white, European men from North Europe. Because of that simply the gesture to expand the social mirror would have been worth the hours listening to Chisom Udize, Leila Rezzouk Rossow, Fungi Otemoller, Dora Poni Loro, Kathleen Offman Mathisin and Irene Kinunda Afriyie.

But I got much more than that. Do you know the cozy feeling of been hugged by understanding after a long cold winter went though you? That was how I felt. I’ve been in Norway for almost five years now. I am definitely not an example of a well-integrated, neither a well assimilated immigrant. I am an outsider. I am learning how to be a joyful outsider that at times finds its momentary place in the streets of Bergen. But for a long while I was simply an angry and lonely outsider that did not even find the words to explain how isolated she felt.

Today, Chisom Udize, started the conversation with an injection of honesty. She said that she lived in many countries before, but that Norway was the first place where she found very difficult to be able to be herself. Before continuing sharing what I heard these wonderful women saying I should clarify that I cannot be hundred per cent sure about how much they actually said and how much was made up by my own obsessions. What I am sharing here is how I received their reflections. It is kind of an unfiltered conversation between their sharing and my obsessions. Thus, if any of what I am writing here pisses you of, I am the only one to blame.

Chisom presented herself as a “love migrant” that came to Norway with a job after marrying a Norwegian guy. Despite the circumstances of her arrival she confesses that she struggled a lot to integrate in Norwegian society. With a great sense of humor, she talks about the depressive mode that she felt into. “I got angry with everything and everyone, including my husband, for bringing me to this cold place”. She says that even fish, that she used to like before, she started to hate, because it was such a Norwegian thing. In Norway, for a while, she felt like she was not allowed to be herself. There was the obligation to shrink.

I’ve heard before the expression the obligation to be grateful, that Hannah Arendt uses so well to explain the assimilation imposed on refugees. I knew that for me, an immigrant that is not a refugee, but instead an economic migrant, such expression was not exactly appropriate. It is not really that I have an obligation to be grateful. After all, contrarily to refugees I am not on the place of those that are (mistakenly) seem like absolute victims that need to be saved. However, I am in this place of a foreigner, of someone that is welcome but just until that specific line and just as long as I am able to give the right answers. I did not know how to name this experience of existing as a foreigner in Norway, until today. Part of it is this obligation to shrink. An obligation to not say everything that you think or see. Trying to fulfill this obligation, blindly, it becomes very easy to lose oneself. Shortly, the obligation to shrink is the obligation to assimilate.

And talking of assimilation what is the difference between assimilation and integration? Is there a difference in practice?

Arendt denounces that assimilation is existentially harmful because it robs a person of her possibilities to be who she is, forcing her to exist simply as a what. In my case, if I would assimilate, I would be a Brazilian mother living in Norway, unable to participate in the public life with my distinctiveness. I did not assimilate, but for a while, all that I could be were my what. A mother, a Brazilian women, a student of philosophy, a foreigner. I found a job as a cleaner. I did not really think about what I was doing. I did what I was told that I should do. “If you really want to work there are opportunities in Norway”. It is not easy to find the words to explain. It is simply too much. The loneliness, the lack of the language, the lack of interest in who you are, the impossibility to show who you are, the life in the place that societal rules define as your place in this society. As a foreigner you should start working as a cleaner, or in the barnehage or at Kiwi. I tried. I was not one of the strong ones. The days of raw invisibility and mechanic work made me feel even more lonely and uncapable. When I realized I’ve become just this mass of nothingness. Without the chance of acting as who I was I kind of forgot who I were. To rediscover myself was not easy. It is not easy. But it is possible. I know that there is a difference in between assimilation and integration.

To be integrated is to find ways to be part of Norwegian society where I can still be myself. In practice that might be very challenging, as Irina reminds us with her great sense of humor. She confessed that often she wonders whether or not she is integrated now. Was she integrated after founding a job? Or the integration only came that day when she accepted her friend’s invitation to hang on the woods? Does the amount of rain in Bergen plays a role in her integration process? After all it is in part because of the rain that she does not make use of her African wardrobe very often.

From what they all shared what I heard is that in order to be truly integrated one needs to kind of find a balance between knowing who one is and understanding the society where she is. Moreover, they all seemed to agree that in order to be able to do that one needs to find or to invent a community to be a part of. I could not agree more. Not that long ago I started building my own little community made of amazing, strong women here in Bergen. It is this real life working in progress creative project of friendship that give me hope that maybe one day I will feel like I belong here.

For me to belong somewhere is to feel like I can simply exist, without having to resist all the time. They talked about belonging today as well. The stories they had to share were different. For one, Bergen knows how to be a home, for now. But she does not really belong here, and what reminds her of that are those shoulders that here are not really able to relax. For some what was urgent to share was that one does not need to be able to belong to just one place. She feels like she belongs here and also to her first home. Wherever her family is is where she belongs. She also said, in another moment of the conversation that luckily, she was not born in Norway. “I was born and raised in a small village in Congo. I grew up climbing trees and eating fruits. I wish everyone was born there”. I found it so beautiful and raw. For someone like her, that does not fit into the Norwegian social mirror, it is not easy to be born in Norway. You always need to deal with the question “but where are you really from?” as if because of the color of your skin there would be an intrinsic impossibility of been hundred per cent Norwegian. She does not dream with been hundred per cent Norwegian. Instead, she dreams with a world where everyone could know the joy of belonging to a tree and knowing the sweetness of fresh fruit. More importantly, she is busy being herself, no matter where she is, and despite the fact that in this unjust world the way we treat refugees often impose on them the obligation to become whoever their saver wants them to be.

It was great to spend a few hours listening to those brave women talking about the problems that they face in Norway as immigrants. What amazed me the most were their strength to point out the injustices and problems, such as racism, unconscious biases, without letting their hopes die. They are constantly asking themselves how they can be part of the solution. I asked them in the end what is the place of anger in their process of becoming who they are in Norwegian society. With different words they all acknowledged that although anger is part of what they experience they all do a conscious effort to channel it in a constructive way, that somehow finds its place in their projects of making themselves visible. Because in the end of the day, to have a chance to belong, one needs to feel like what she does and what she has to say matter. Otherwise one ends up feeling like she does not matter, and she should be satisfied with the margins of society. This is why, on one hand, it is so important when one of us finds the courage to say “I belong to Norway and Norway is lucky to have me here”. On the other hand, it is also important to acknowledge that for women of color in Norway it is a struggle to invent ways to belong. As Chisom puts it: “I struggle with belonging in Norway. In an African country I didn’t have to think four sentences ahead. Norway is slowly becoming home. But not because it was given to me. But because I’m fighting for it. I’m building my community. I started inviting people for coffee. On the other hand, there is a constant reminder that I don’t quite fit in. Also, in Nigeria, I’m just me. I don’t represent all the other immigrants that are coming after me”.

In sum, it was a gift to be surrounded by powerful foreigner women that challenge the places that are normally seem as the appropriate ones for those that look like us, that is, those that do not kind of fit into the Norwegian social mirror, yet.