What is تطبيع and how can we act against it?

I wrote a text for the Mustekala “Hard and Soft Power” -issue which has nine submissions by 11 artworkers. What is تطبيع and how can we act against it? introduces تطبيع as a process through which structural injustices inflicted on Palestinians by the State of Israel are made to appear ordinary and acceptable. We also translated the BDS guidelines on it to Finnish with BDS Finland and Sumud association volunteers.

A merit of the writing is how it aligns with Omar Barghoutis presentations of BDS which they offered in Helsinki last year. The alignment is present in optimism on people’s agency for determining political futures. I’m proud about producing a graceful text in which the facts are present but not the focus. If the text is impactful, it is because of how the terrain is laid out.

Instead of referring to research, I build mostly on events where people have expressed their thought by speaking and grassroots medias. This situatedness is an asset. There are old school references, such as Subcontractors of Guilt by Esra Özyürek, The Grammar of Resistance an interview of Abdaljawad Omar (I discovered their writing on Rusted Radishes) and a recent dissociation by Bram De Smet on Slow Erasure. But these writers are presented as leaning to what people are expressing at events, and through their art.

The aim is to reduce the authoritative force of text. I think this is close to what Aruna D’Souza is after in their definition of art writing: structures revealed by their touch, not by their bones. Only beauty has transformative power.

For the past two… Or actually five years, we have tried to explain to different groups, organizations, and individuals, in cabinets and on the streets, what is taking place in Palestine and what to expect locally, when we take Palestine on as a lens. We’ve drawn from the best research available. Yet, it is clear that people are not moved by the precision of arguments: impact comes from organizing, which is inherently beautiful because it is messy and passionate.

We’ve participated in extraordinary beauty in the streets for over two years. Once we ran out of generator fuel and a demonstration concert was almost cancelled. But people gathered in crisis, shared shame and responsibility, and resolved the matter. It was theatrical but invisible for the public and translating that event into an image or a performance would take a lifetime, because it unfolded as collective hormonal intelligence. The affordances of the city where revealed in stress as the hivemind computed alternative energy sources, the decibel level needed for an acoustic performance, and routes to the closest petrol station. The moment desires to be deposited as a scar in our brains. It was and remains real.

There have been numerous moments, where we’ve figured out stuff against the odds. These add up to a skill, and for example in reference to the news, people are unfazed by propaganda because we’ve learned to proof information from each others faces, in minute changes in skin tones and the timbres of our voices.

Reflecting on Europe and Finland, the text recognizes how silences around colonialism, racism, fascism and economic exploitation have enabled present inequalities and political complacency. In other words: international rule based order has been broken by our silence on settler colonialism, apartheid, occupation and finally the genocide. I take this further to express that the silence has removed the mandate of present institution leaders and conclude, that to remain in power, failed leaders will downplay injustices and further restrict dissent. This will have catastrophic effects if we are not prepared, and now is the time to act because it’s safer in the front.

What is missing from the text is a realization that an exception confirms the rule: notable leaders of the political west are framing current U.S. actions as deviations from a rules-based order. This narrative allows them to take distance while minimizing scrutiny of their own complicity or passivity in ongoing crises in Palestine and across the wider region. This distancing risks becoming a mechanism for whitewashing deeper issues present within international order. Once electoral cycles pass in the political west, there is a strong possibility of a rapid return to a old normal which reproduces the same systemic shortcomings. In this sense, Trump-era politics are not a disruption: its energy normalizes and roots authoritarian tendencies on a global scale.

Understanding the mechanisms of تطبيع gives us tools to defend free expression, and resist an authoritarian rift. The text expresses that working against تطبيع is a process of decolonizing knowledge production and places hope in structural alliances, which for example Apartheid Free Zones manifest. Alliances depend on upkeep, and on practicing solidarity. In an attempt to localize the concept I present it as model for scrutinizing connections to Russian civil society.

Our Greatest Times

When returning from my studio on the E Train last week, I stumbled on something weird about text. As I immersed myself deep into my book I noticed the distances between individual characters changing the more I understood what was written. Have you ever experienced the same? I used my thumb as a ruler, placing it over short sentences to verify the movement of their characters. To my horror I observed that anything placed on top of the words changed dimensions too. Convinced that I was witnessing words changing their meaning, I hastily changed trains at Pasila and returned to my studio to study the phenomenon. In my experiments, I noticed the effect was strongest in sentences referencing different guidelines and rules. I proceeded to measure the character dispersal rate and observed that different watch instruments indicated widely different dispersal speeds. For example, a watch made from a fossil did not measure significant changes and even helped to contain character movement and alphabetical jitters. But a watch containing Kurängen spring water accelerated letter movement: I saw words recompiling anew as if they were in a whirlpool. To permit safe return home I geared up with watches that affected character dispersals at different speeds. Passing the city, I used them to control the movements of floating letters and entire words, which had dislodged from between book covers and blocked my passage by hovering mid-air in public spaces. With practice, using my watch instruments I could reorder entire chapters when I needed to make room for thought. Armed with my timepieces I finally made it home and have since continued patrolling the district at night time. If you witness floating characters please get in touch immediately +358505729743

Score for the “Our Greatest Times” -performance executed by exhibition overseers & art mediators at Survival Kit 15 Measures: Wear the watch you enjoy the most and ask the public “What time is it?” when you get bored. Script details in in Latvian and English (.pdf) provided to the exhibition overseers. “Yli-Vakkuri’s frustrated, altered wristwatches, decorated with nonsensical objects, seashells and rocks, point to hiccups and ambiguities in the linear timeline.” Xenia Benivolski (e-flux)

 

Virgincore

Becoming a Virgin came easy for them. Their pose and gait echoed determination in the matter, even before anyone could spot the badge on their sleeve. There were a few others committed to the cause in their school but they didn’t hang out —as advised— only meeting during scheduled training like today and eventually when deployed. This helped them avoid falling in love and aided remaining in love.

They felt a tap on their shoulder and knew to lower their comsystem, focusing on the lecture. A Con-Kar Virgin waiting deployment had entered the room and gazed patiently at the recruits.

“Welcome.” They spoke in a soft tone and continued by providing a thorough account of their privileges.

Their account was short, not reflecting the absence of such but rather providing the first lesson of the day… How to express them in a manner which does not take any unnecessary space or time. The condensation was punctuated with a shallow nod and a kind eyed gaze touching all the attendees. All in equal measure for total accountability.

They were captivated by the instructors’ passing gaze. It was serene and fair, both acknowledging the acuteness of the moment and allowing it to pass. These were the moments which kept them in the Virgincore program despite their families disapproval. Participation set a trajectory, an articulated path, witnessing it provided them a sense of freedom few could afford.

In truth their family was proud of their commitment but horrified to express it. The lockdown of Inner cities was firm and opportunities to protest or feel publicly were scarce. The Virgincores commitment and performances had become a lifeline. For many the Virgins, serving as proxy were the only way to experience anything at all. Being constantly reminded of their service was, for their family, a privilege beyond what they could afford to express.

They dozed into a comfortable slumber listening to the Con-Kar Virgins introductory notes. After this the trainees exercised the cone position, entered a diamond position and performed privilege exposures by meticulously naming all their skin hues.

A trainee of their age expressed skills in identifying tones in the ultraviolet spectrum. “I am hamdazzle, slisre, peelorg and my arms are fiibfer below the elbow…” the group gathered around bewildered. Noting the disruption the instructor explained: “Please observe, the ultraviolet spectrum is a novel area and our vocabulary is not yet codified on the colours in this domain.”

They all continued documenting the uttering and tuning their irises, hoping to catch a glimpse of what the gifted practitioner witnessed. This overtook the rest of the session.

At the same time the Elders Council voted on a Proposal for the Third Declaration for Provisional Measures for Cancelling the Scheduled Grant Reset Events. The proposal had no binding articles, most voted “blank” anyway and just in case someone had issued a veto too. In the grand scheme the impact of the measure would have been marginal anyway. The chair inhaled deep into the microphone adjourning the assembly. They all headed to tea in full ranks. As the bulky iron doors of the Elders Councils tea chamber were sealed the Pre-emptive system initiated its daily calculation.

The Pre-emptive system, an orb on a stick appearing to be hovering in the middle of the bunker plaza, assesses all known vectors and maps the impact of the Elders decisions on the severest of recent conflicts across and plots proportional responses. If the maths suggested an immediate Grant Reset, the Virgincore advisory group was automatically notified and tasked to dispatch Virgins to halt the escalation. This time the call arose for seven and the Virgincore advisory group sent them out without hesitation. “A Virgin per Gigaton” the clerk, noting the process muttered.

The training was interrupted by seven brass chimes. The trainees, currently engaged in a group massage turned to the Con-Kar Virgin for advice. “Comms” they spoke softly and all formed a circle on the floor all opening their devices and immersed in the blue glow they emitted.

Collectively they witnessed Virgins being loaded into their shells. “That’s 7 gigatons worth of de-escalation! It’s a big one, wonder which front they will be dispatched to?” someone asked as others nodded. “One is a trainee! This is serious! Look, just like us!”

Trainee Virgins were only sent accompanied by multiple Con-Kar Virgins as the risks of trainees micro-flinching before impact was high. In the unfolding scenario, accompanied by six Con-Kar, a trainees yield could overexeed their intrinsic potential. Performance depended on timing. The Virgin capsules were serene ovals, fitting a laying body. After being closed the kind eyes of the Virgins inside were projected on the capsule’s outer shells. The trainees looked diligently for signs of regret in the eye projections. None should be expressed during loading for the operation to succeed in maximum yield.

The stream glowing blue from their comsystem appeared slow paced. The only distinct markers on the pods were eyes showing on their outer hulls. Each gray pod taking an unassuming position in a neat row, all flown straight towards the front line. Assessing the carrier vessel’s speed was difficult as the scale of the ruins under it, in the greyness of the torn landscape, was endless.

Then, the vessel’s hatch opened determinately. Air flow caught on a loose strap which shook violently in the wind and in the scale of things it was the only thing moving. The eyes on the capsules did not blink as they were dropped. Trainees immersed in the blue glow could see shells falling down appearing as gray rice grains, reflecting the terrain as they descended. Very soon the capsules were too small to be distinguished from the rubble and the hatch closed smoothly.

A text scrolled in the blue glow: “Seven Virgins dead from impact. Visuals too graphic to share. Casualties include a Trainee. Elders Council pleased, Grand Reset Averted”. The glow then displayed the eyes of the decided, their final eye blink before the capsules impacted. They all looked confident, with absolutely no regrets. The last pair on the stream were of the trainees’. Their pupils dilated, as a microscopic expression of divine delight.

In response the Con-Kar Virgin produced a tear, which positioned itself neatly on the outermost corner of their eyelid, politely making for an easy wipe. “Class dismissed” they spoke and all knotted. Each walking home a different path and keeping distance from the crowds. They could feel their pose changing as they departed but closer to home their gait had a light touch. Washing their feet before bed they spotted a new hue on their skin. It was paslax but they could see it only for an eye blink.

Dandelion

They were looking for puzzle pieces under the sofa. The green piece which father called nallen kenkä was the last part missing. But they only saw a yellow ball and soft cloth there. “This cloth you wear around the neck” they remembered, with the white hapsut which feel neat to roll between fingers.

Someone was doing the dishes in the small room. Metal bowls chimed in the sink, the tones muffled by soap bubbles. They wanted jam their hands into the white foam but felt an urgency to find something. The yellow ball was too far to reach, so they gave up and sat legs straight on the rug. It tickled.

They needed to scratch their leg bends and as they did they felt wet noodles between their fingers. Pulling on them hurt so they turned and saw spaghetti coming out of their feet. It wiggled coming out and they could feel the tips of the treads moving fast, looking for cracks to settle in.

It was exciting. Mother would be proud of them because they grew in size. They shouted in delight and stood up. As they stood they reached high, they were all grown up and the spaghetti was blasting from their fingertips towards the floor. The tips crawled into cracks seeking for moisture and they felt their throat opening at ease.

The cry had severity to it but mother remained calm. Being alarmed by every alarm would be too much, so they dried their hands before attending to it. The shout had not been that of pain but excitement. While passing the narrow corridor leading to the living room they heard something curiously scraping the floor.

Entering the room, they had to support themselves by touching the wall. They knew they were too late but still shouted the child’s name before dropping to their knees. This cry was of pain but muffed to not to alarm what remained. They looked around for support but we’re alone now. The child had turned into a flower, standing tall on the living room floor.

They saw proudness in the sadness and felt accomplished. Mother sat down with their eyes in awe, then placed their hand on their chest, all fingers pointed out and nodded with approval. This helped them to spread their petals out evenly. Every leaf fresh and soft. New buds formed on their shoulders and they settled their chest leaves towards the sun.

A week passed and they were planted to the garden. From there they gained a way to travel, surprising their father and sister by quickly pushing through the soil with a smile. Sister cried in delight every time. Father too, but they had a concerned expression as if they had lost something. Occasionally they turned a patch of the meadow yellow, appearing right before mother passed it.

Wobbling in the sun.

Frosty blue scars

They climbed on the mounts of a nearby forest and took stand on a peak which had an engraved forehead reading PIMPELIPOM. The chill of the night had reached them and leatherpants were not enough. Dead dried trees around them, some climbed by children only last year.

Where they stood, there was no horizon. Every direction covered with brown branches. Rooftops peaking behind them, faking to be a distance away. Red roofs, appearing as sea. Assessing the direction of the wind was easy. They worked against their instinct, turned to confront it and shouted into it.

The words travelled forward, then solidified in the cold breeze, returned backwards with added speed, entering their mouth and piercing past the back of their scull. They continued shouting, having their voice slam trough to their body, inscribing passing words to flesh as permafrosted outlines.

After passing the words continued deeper to the dark and mixed into other distant cries. They were not alone but not with anyone. The concern was not what they felt witnessing this, rather that everything witnessed made them incapable of feeling anything at all.