Five Years Since the Death of Mark Duggan: Where are we now? George Amponsah’s ‘The Hard Stop’ explores

On Terrorism: Overcoming Your Fear of Words

Words are powerful. Sticks and stones may well break bones but words sow the seeds of doubt, fear, anger and every other emotion that makes people behave in strange and unpleasant ways.

Words with fuzzy meanings that often stay hidden when they shouldn’t and crop up where they are not needed are powerful. These words that no one really knows the meaning of, but that everyone is afraid of are also dangerous. They are the words who grant authority to those who use them and instil fear in those who hear them. There is an unspoken assumption that whoever is brave enough to use them is best suited to confront their consequences and so often we fail to remark when the repercussions of these words are as brutal as the words themselves.

One of these words is terrorism. Few of us really know what terrorism is but we are sure that its gravity is unparalleled. Terrorists are dangerous, evil, soulless monsters. We take no risks with terrorists because they are crazy, their ideology is incomprehensible and they will do anything to anyone with no remorse.

Terrorism, according to google, is the use of unofficial or unauthorised violence for political aims. This is not exactly the apocalyptic description of the clash of civilisations we now associate with the word, but a very accurate description nonetheless. Historically, terrorists have had very little in common in terms of their ideology, their stature during their era or their remaining legacy. Take Nelson Mandela, Malcolm X, Mussolini or King Leopold II of Belgium as examples. International heroes, cult heroes or brutal dictators according to history, but all terrorists according to their contemporaries. They all used violence, or the threat of violence, to achieve their political aims as many freedom fighters and/or dictators do.

The words terrorist and terrorism have become so mutated in the media today that we no longer have any idea of when it is appropriate to apply them. A while ago Russell Brand pointed out that if he killed a bunch of people and said it was in the name of Christianity he’d be accused of insanity, not terrorism. Yet Lee Rigby’s murder, the “Sydney Siege” and #Leytonstone have all been blindly considered cases of terrorism which have inevitably propelled a climate of fear, the real victims of which will always be any and everyone who follows Islam.

We are quick to pick up on how crazy these terrorist monsters are but we are slow to have a real conversation about mental health and its effects on these cases. The fact that the family of the perpetrator of the attack in Leytonstone last week had tried to have him sectioned because he was so unwell was a lot slower to catch people’s attention than the relationship he had with his religion. Which of those two elements was more of a driving force in this event?

If you voted for David Cameron in 2010, and I tried to kill you screaming that it was for socialism, would your first thought be that I am a terrorist or that I am insane? A white man in Charleston shoots up a church in the name of white supremacy. Mental health. A white man in Tesco stabs a member of the public in the name of white supremacy. Barely even makes news. Man in a tube station stabs a passenger in the name of Syria, it’s declared a political act within hours and the Prime Minister finds it worthy of saying both the word “ain’t” and “bruv” in one sentence. Sorry, what just happened?

Whether the actions of Sydney’s Man Haron Monis, Lee Rigby’s killer Michael Adebolajo or last week’s perpetrator constitute uses of unofficial/unauthorised violence for political aims is anyone’s guess. Perhaps some were wholly clear in their political aims perhaps others were simply not capable of executing a political agenda due to their mental state. What is truly worrying about the way this situation is being addressed are the actions taken through counter-terrorism with the complicity of the citizens who live in fear of their neighbours because of stories like these being framed as a part of some kind of wider war.

The fear campaign launched by the US media following 9/11 was so intense and so effective that even today 51% of Americans believe that the CIA’s use of torture was justified. The average American is 187 times more likely to starve to death than be killed in a terrorist attack.

The word terrorism has become synonymous with war on ‘our’ soil which invokes a trans-national mesmerising panic. This fear of ‘terrorism’ is so tangible that support for anything being done that ‘keeps people safe’ is seen as a necessity. Fuelling this fear by rushing to place this label on events that may or may not have considered political intention is reckless and manipulative.

This use of a word which at its root is a synonym for horror, alarm, panic, shock or dread is so powerful that governments and intelligence agencies have been using it for years to launch all kinds of agendas from wars to border control. Today, the government program Prevent which civil servants are legally obliged to partake in permits a seriously worrying encroachment on the civil liberties of Muslims in the UK. The fear of something whose actual threat is almost impossible to gauge has led to an aggressive and punitive policy that silences the voices of Muslims all over the country. And all this begins with a word. If we just take this word, analyse it and the context that it’s being used in, we can finally begin to liberate ourselves from the fear that is so often used to acquire our silent compliance.

Please note: this is an edit of an earlier work. The original can be found here.

Is There Room for Black in the Union Jack?

As a Black person in the UK, unfair portrayal in the media, over-policing and a lack of power and representation in the political system can often make it seem as if the Black British identity is a contradiction in terms. Are we a part of Great Britain or are we simply visitors, permanently on the outskirts of ‘real’ British society? As cultures understood to be Black become a part of mainstream British consciousness, from Notting Hill Carnival to grime music, our place in society seems to, at least superficially, have been confirmed. Last night, a group of concerned individuals, four panellists with an audience of around a hundred, sat down to unpick the question: is there room for black in the union jack?

The first step towards understanding Black Britishness involved attempting to converge over a definition of Blackness itself. Beginning aesthetically, the chair challenged the panel to define his own ethnicity. With a mixed heritage from Turkey, Ireland, the Caribbean and more, how can we attempt to categorise him using a term whose meaning is so multifaceted. Surely Blackness is more than the aesthetic of having skin a shade somewhere between caramel and cocoa?

Regardless of your heritage, existing in the UK with skin dark enough for you to be perceived as Black, will result in a shared experience with those from the African diaspora. This of course was another key interpretation of Blackness. It was suggested that all those who come from Africa, whether modern day migration or historically through slavery, can be considered Black. Aesthetically, being North African is not the same as being Sub-Saharan African which can look very different from being Caribbean or African American. Again this would produce a range of experiences of interaction in white spaces. One thing that was not disputed was the idea that Black denotes a collective identity. Those who ascribe to being Black may not share nationalities or skin tones, and we may find huge cultural differences amongst ourselves, but somewhere along the line we’ve all acknowledged that we share Blackness.

The conversation then transformed into a more theoretical approach, based not on shared experience or identity, but on the social and political structures that uphold Blackness. Blackness was invented or imagined prior to the trans-Atlantic slave trade to create a system of hierarchy of humanity, which could defend treating those with black skin as sub-human. Race, it has been thought for some time, is a social construct. A construct to hold in place the divides in a society that contains both Black and white people. When describing the connection between Africa and Blackness, one panellist claimed that blackness was born not on the continent, but on the slave ships. This begs the question: can there be blackness without whiteness? By calling ourselves black, are we subscribing to an identity that was invented by an oppressive white power who developed the term in order to enslave us? In the French language the word négre was the term used to refer to their slaves, it is the root word of négritude, developed by Aimé Césaire in the 20^th century. Translated into English it will sometimes read Black and it will sometimes read nigger.

A conversation on ‘political blackness’ as a useful or logical term then ensued as we debated the need for allies versus the need for all Black spaces in pursuit of the emancipation of the Black voice. A comparison to the term “politically female” was used to highlight one panellist’s view that the term was a “non sense” reiterating the connection between Blackness and Africa and referring to the term as the “bastard child of white supremacy”. Joshua, a member of Black Dissidents which is comprised of black and brown activists, rightly pointed out that Africa was drawn out of white imagination, just as blackness was; white supremacy plays a role in the construction of all of these identities. The fear that ‘political blackness’ could lead to spaces in which conversations sub-consciously become focused around the protection of non-Black feelings and even slip into anti-black discourse is a legitimate one born of political experience. Nonetheless, for multiple members of the panel solidarity amongst those that are facing oppression seemed to be a priority. In a global capitalist world, the black bodies that were used as capital to fuel the industrial revolution during the slave trade have been replaced by the black and brown bodies that are currently being exploited in the production of goods that most of us consume today. We rounded off with a quote from Nigerian author Chimamanda Adichie who once said “I am not in the business of policing blackness”. We can define ourselves for ourselves without desperately attaching labels to others, which is what I believe we should endeavour to do.

Moving on to the idea of where we may fit into the Union Jack, we dipped into the concept of Great Britain which was built on the empire from which so many Black Brits came. Given the role of Black and brown exploitation and labour in the construction of the empire and hence the ‘greatness’ of Britain, there can be no union jack without Black. The difference is that white British people (in a very limited number of localities) are now faced with Black co-citizens rather than subjects, real human beings in neighbouring houses with equal rights.

This led, for some members of the panel, to a complete rejection of the question rather than a response. Questioning whether there is room lends itself to asking for room, which I wholeheartedly reject the idea of doing. The connections between the UK and the islands and continent that paint my heritage were forged long before my mother arrived at the port. That Black Britishness can exist is no more a point of contention than the existence of Britishness in any form.

The last section of the debate focused on “solutions” or rather, steps forward. As someone tweeted, unless we intend to make some kind of change is there a difference between healthy conversation and idle complaining? The response from the panel was a resounding yes, educating oneself and deepening an understanding of the society around you and your place in it, is always time well spent.

End everything. That was the suggestion put forward by OOMK zine member Fatoume. The system is so destructive and corrupt to the core that it allows for consistent racial abuse, the stripping of the humanity of Black people who are only ever allowed the opportunity to exist in one dimension, never given the space to be a fully-fledged individual. You cannot be Black, mediocre and successful. Black Americans are killed daily by the police force, Black Brits are 8 times more likely than whites to be stop and searched, racism is real and it keeps our bodies in a constant state of fragility.

Interestingly, I came prepared with a host of solutions on how we can better make Britain work for us as Black people and create a brighter future for our children through better education, self-organising, Black produced art, literature, media and so forth. The solution lay in the ethos that we need to make things for ourselves by ourselves in order to build the communities that we live in, so that we can be freer to be the people we want to be and do the things we want to do.

I had forgotten that as Steve Biko stated, and Joshua reminded us, “the most powerful weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed”. We are constantly policing ourselves by reshaping our speech and posture to appear less threatening. We internalise the racist values purported by the society that we grew up in and we manifest this through fear of Black male bodies on dark nights, worshipping thinness, straight hair and other quintessentially white standards of beauty and through the pursuit of wealth that we have been taught is to be valued above all else, even the freedom of those we would call our brothers or sisters.

First and foremost we must liberate our minds. Liberation is knowing both logically and emotionally that the ideology of hierarchy and exploitation that propelled the fusion of the Black and the British is not only inhumane and absurd but it cannot and will not negate your worth as an individual. You are a human being and you, your humanity and your culture are beautiful. The process of unlearning values that are at the foundations of the society you live in may well be unending, but liberation is believing in your own worth and equality and then forgiving yourself for having ever not done so.

I’ll end with a beautiful quote from Somayra Ismailjee: “In a system built to trample upon and exploit our existence, to suppress and deny our humanity, self-love is a revolutionary act. Knowing your own worth is essential to resistance, and recognising your own beauty a meaningful act of defiance.”

Thank you to Active Media, Decolonising our Minds and Take Back The City for allowing me the opportunity to share the panel with such great thinkers and beautiful speakers. Thank you to Ramairo, Joshua, Fatoume and Kevin for a fantastic conversation.

Tammy, Keisha and Kendrick: Black Women’s Liberation and Section 80

Listening to Kendrick Lamar’s “To Pimp A Butterfly” I couldn’t help agreeing with this writer that the liberation that Kendrick both propels and embodies does not include black women. Nowhere on the record does Kendrick attempt to incorporate the oppression of women into his message or create an alliance between men and women of colour who may interact with societal structures in a similar way. Delving deeper into his catalogue I discovered Section.80, an ode to a generation of crack babies, bastards of the Ronald Reagan era and general fuckups, which confidently includes stories of women from this same milieu. On this album, he intentionally creates a tandem where the tracklist reflects Kendrick’s inclusion of both men and women in his reflection on today’s black millennials.

This enthusiasm to talk about issues that affect women, I met with mixed emotions. Keisha’s Song (Her Pain) was on my top played list, in isolation from the rest of this album, for months before I came across Tammy’s Song (Her Evils) which I listened to with narrowed eyes for a long time before sitting down to write this.

On first listen Tammy’s Song appeared to be a demonization of a woman for showing only a superficial loyalty to the man she claims she rides for whilst being ready to jump into bed with another man should her partner ever betray her (which he does). Worse she finally abandons men altogether instead opting for a same gender relationship. With this understanding, I foolishly almost dismissed the track as even worthy of analysis. However, Kendrick shows far too much empathy for “these vulnerable girls,” and the fact that Tammy and Keisha are such focal characters in the album makes the track as a demonization seem an incomplete analysis. On closer inspection I realised that Kendrick was not rejecting Tammy; he pitied her.

Tammy, a woman who takes knock after knock and finally finds a trouble free relationship, is not celebrated for the qualities she possessed that led her through a journey that seems to have a happy enough ending to me. Instead, her story is represented as an example of a broken society and those who endure it. Ab soul’s take on her story sums up the complete stripping of Tammy’s agency and power as he asks “what if Tammy came across a real man who didn’t play games like children?” My response to which would be, maybe she would’ve ended up in the same happy same-sex relationship that everyone seems to have confused with some kind of inferno on earth?

Kendrick’s apparent commitment to uniting the struggles gave me so much hope, but I couldn’t help but feel, the more I listened to the album, that he still wasn’t quite there. Of all the ‘evils’ that surround a woman’s existence the one you felt most strongly about was a ride or die chick who ends up dating a woman? Really? You think that’s our key, defining issue?

Kendrick’s empathy for the black woman who constantly falls victim to the whims of the men this society has created, forms an important part of his identity on an album that seeks to address the range of ills that the whole generation has experienced. Now, there may well be an element of tragedy in a woman whose life is dominated by failed relationships such that she gives up on finding a true love opting instead for a safe bet. But 1) I don’t think that’s how most women find themselves in relationships with other women, 2) how is this a useful starting point or contribution to understanding the issues that affect women or a black woman’s experience more generally? 3) How can we define these events as reflective of “her evils”, what exactly does Kendrick even mean by this term? Searching for the balance in that thin line between empathy and pity we have to simultaneously consider the structures that restrict Tammy whilst recognising her agency and ability to make independent decisions that best benefit her.

We have to find the balance between holding members of society, and society as a whole, accountable when needs be and stripping women of their agency and power. Women can do things for ourselves by ourselves and we urgently need to move away from the notion a woman who deems that her happiness will not be determined by men or male approval, is too angry/delusional/psychotic. Tammy, as Kendrick’s creation, gives us an insight on the perception of a woman who appears strong, confident with ownership of her own body and who is done with destructive relationships with men. This move is not perceived as empowering, intelligent nor self-loving, it is instead represented as an unfortunate choice made merely out of convenience. Why reject the idea that she is liberated or empowered and view her instead as the victim of whimsical men?

Conversely, I had no real issue with Keisha’s song until I held her story up to Tammy’s. Thinking about agency, power and responsibility, and especially considering Ab Soul’s commentary, the red flags begin to appear. Keisha is a young woman who was abused from the age of 10 before turning to prostitution which eventually seems to lead to her death as she is stabbed to death by her rapist. Ab Soul, reflecting on her fate, asks: what if Keisha was celibate? So whilst Tammy is stripped of her self-determination, Keisha is awarded hers? Perhaps I’m missing something, but the end of prostitution would in no way lead to the end of sexual violence towards women, as prostitutes are not the perpetrators of these crimes. Again, I felt like Kendrick had come so close, but so far to actually adding some positive fuel to the discussion.

After listening to Section.80 so many times I’d lost count, I essentially found I’d come a full circle. Where To Pimp A Butterfly’s black liberation doesn’t mention black women, Section.80’s celebration of the dysfunctional does, but does that mean that it takes any significant steps forward in the representation of women in hip hop? Not really.

Although, Tammy is rebranded from being loud, tough and emotionless, she is still merely represented as collateral damage. Keisha, or Brenda, or Sasha along with the many nameless women who’ve featured in hip hop through the years as useless tragedies make for a decent track, but they are songs which lack in any kind of enlightenment. Honestly, I didn’t need to look as far as the female characters in his work to gauge where Kendrick positions himself in relation to women as tracks like “Hol’ up” say it all. But a song which fantasises about sex with an air hostess (not because he likes her, just because he wants to dominate her and claim ownership to the first class life she represents) and in which he claims “I call a bitch a bitch, a ho a ho, a woman a woman” apparently wasn’t enough for me.

Kendrick Lamar may well be hip hop’s saviour, and maybe even the saviour of a generation of lost black men, but unfortunately, he isn’t mine. Sexism in the music industry isn’t going anywhere and there are so many more subtle ways in which it is embedded in the business, a reflection of the credits alone reveals a glimpse of this. The reality is, I’m not going to stop listening to Section 80, just like I never stopped listening to To Pimp A Butterfly after reading For Harriet’s analysis. The only thing that keeps me sane is knowing that elsewhere on the planet, there are droves of other black women being semi-liberated by Kendrick Lamar with me.