FIMBULVINTER - anarko-primitivism på svenska

Everyday should be Fuck The Earth Day! ~ Vildrote

"Polisen ser allvarligt på den skadegörelse som organisationen Jordens befrielsefront tar på sig. Bland annat ska organisationen ha anlagt en brand vid tele- och radio tornet i Äskya." 

 - http://www.smp.se/nyheter/almhult/organisation-tar-pa-sig-skadegorelse(600135).gm#comments  

 - http://www.sr.se/webbradio/?Type=db&Id=1123078

 Agueli 

Jag har ingen egen blogg och ska nog inte skaffa mig en heller, men ibland har jag små saker att berätta och jag tänkte att det kan jag väl göra på Fimbulvinter när det är relevanta saker, kanske som här slå ihop flera små inlägg i ett.

—

Igår satt jag på en bussterminal när en kvinna satte sig bredvid mig och tiggde pengar. Hon kunde inte prata svenska, men räckte fram en lapp där det stod att hon var en änka från Rumänien och hade tre barn varav ett var en bebis och ett hade leukemi. Jag tvekade länge medan hon envisades, för när det gäller tiggare får jag alltid en känsla av att de ljuger för mig och hittar på snyfthistorier, och jag hjälper gärna folk men hatar att känna mig lurad. Sedan såg jag på barnen som flockades runt henne, och de såg verkligen sjukliga ut, på ett eller annat sätt, och jag tänkte att även om barnen bara är sminkade att se sjukliga ut så krävs det misär för att en människa ska sjunka så lågt. Så hon fick en slant, och vi fann att vi båda kunde tyska, så jag skrev en ny tiggarlapp åt henne. Hur som helst, vad jag egentligen skulle berätta om var svenskarna som satt omkring oss. De satt tysta, såg rädda ut och viskade mellan sig. Hur kunde de vara så ynkliga? En kvinna böjde sig t.o.m. fram till mig och frågade om hon skulle kalla på väktare. Ni som läst texten jag skrev ner ur en bok nyligen förstår säkert hur paff jag blev!

—

Häromveckan sydde jag mitt första plagg på flera år, en rejäl luvtröja. Skapelsen, med mig inuti, finns att beundra på alternativ.nu. Den känns bra på många sätt; den består helt av naturmaterial, kostade under 150 kr i material, tyget är återvunnet, och den är varmare än någon (betydligt dyrare) luvtröja jag provat ute i handeln. Plus att ull är bättre än bomull och syntet med tanke på svett och regn.

—

Det här är en artikel som rörde upp mina känslor igår:

John Gatto: Shocking Origins of Public Education

Den handlar om det amerikanska skolsystemet och avslöjar hur man med vilje tillverkar skadade människor där. I början av 1900-talet slog sig industrijättar och akademiker samman och planerade hur man skulle bryta ner skolbarnen till viljelösa arbetare som bättre passade de industriella kraven, för folkets bästa förstås. Allt det här finns offentligt dokumenterat. I mitten av 1900-talet togs planerna i bruk och läskunnigheten minskade dramatiskt (och har fortsatt minska). Nu skryter en affärsjournalist för hela världen om att den amerikanska ekonomin är så oslagbar tack vare att man i skolbarn, arbetare och konsumenter lyckats ingjuta en konstant skräck för utanförskap.

Det låter nästan för bisarrt för att vara sant, men även om det vore osant finns det många kärnfulla stycken om skolan:

Schools were conceived to serve the economy and the social order rather than kids and families — that is why it is compulsory. As a consequence, the school can not help anybody grow up, because its prime directive is to retard maturity. It does that by teaching that everything is difficult, that other people run our lives, that our neighbors are untrustworthy even dangerous. School is the first impression children get of society. Because first impressions are often the decisive ones, school imprints kids with fear, suspicion of one another, and certain addictions for life. It ambushes natural intuition, faith, and love of adventure, wiping these out in favor of a gospel of rational procedure and rational management.

…

The constant scrambling for attention and status in the close confines of the classroom., where those are only officially conferred by an adult who lacks both the time or the information (to be fair), teaches us to dislike and distrust each other. This continuous auction of favors, has something to do with our anger, and our inability to be honest or responsible, even as grown-ups. Yet, ironically, irresponsibility serves the management ideal much better than decent behavior ever could. It demands close management, it explains all those lawyers, all those courts, all those policemen and all those schools. Now either we are structurally undependable, necessitating constant policing, or somehow we have been robbed of our ability to become responsible.

Ska man utreda skolmassakrer borde man börja i den här ändan, den stora “elefanten i hallen” som ingen ser, innan man tittar på lätta måltavlor som rockmusik och vapenindustri. (Om en massa öbor skulle gå och dränka sig, så skulle nog Michael Moore och andra dagisfrökenpolitiker tycka att de korkade öborna har för mycket vatten omkring sig, som inspirerar dem att gå och dränka sig.)

—

Eberhard

Japp, det har varit tyst från Vargatid, zinet framför alla zine, en tid. Men nu är vi igång igen. Är du intresserad av att skriva eller har du något redan färdigt som vill publiceras, så tveka inte att skicka in det. Ni som skickat in grejer till oss redan - oroen er icke - vi har kvar det. Vi garanterar inte att allt kommer med som skickas in, för ibland får vi väldigt mycket. Från nästa nummer kommer vi ha mer övergripande teman i Vargatid. Så har du texter eller idéer som du passar in under rubriker som Överlevnadskonst & Urslöjd, Motstånd & Metoder, Självhelande & Andlighet, Framtidsvisioner, Berättelser & Sagor, så tveka inte – kontakta oss.

• recensioner av webplatser, böcker, tidningar och filmer
• artiklar kring var vi står och hur vi ska kämpa
• översättningar

~ Vildrote & Snusmumrik 

Vargatids hemsida | e-post Vargared. | Vildväxande kollektivet 

“We Take Care of Each Other”

Shortly before leaving Malaysia I was asked to meet with a visiting psychologist. He had been told to talk with me, he said. Perhaps I could explain something that baffled him.

He had been taken to see one of the two mental hospitals in Malaysia and had been told that there was not a single Malay patient. There were a large number of Chinese, a few Indians (from India, Pakistan, or Ceylon — but all of them were referred to as Indian at that time), perhaps even a few white people. But no Malays.

“When Malays make up half the population of this country,” he said with anger in his voice, “then it is impossible that there would be no mentally ill Malays. And what makes it all even more unacceptable,” he added, “is that in the other mental hospital it is the same: no Malays. What is going on?” he wanted to know.

From his manner I could tell that he was almost convinced there was some sort of conspiracy. From his point of view it was impossible, unthinkable, that a population of several million people did not have any crazy people, angry people, dangerous people who should be locked away in mental hospitals. I suggested we visit some Malay villages.

By that time I knew the country fairly well. I had visited many Malay villages and I knew where we would be welcomed, where we could easily talk with people. I doubt that there is any culture, anywhere, that does not have a certain amount of shyness about letting strangers in on their most frightening psychological conditions. Mental illness is not something you can discuss easily on a first visit. But I felt certain that the villagers I knew would be willing at least to talk with us.

The same driver who had taken me around many times before agreed to drive us. The visitor and I sat in the back, talking psychology. He said he had heard that I had made a “sort of study” of the Malays. Yes, but my study was really about dietary behavior, and my own interest was in healing systems, healers, and the many issues around what we call medical services. But I felt I knew the Malays fairly well — after all, I grew up a few hundred miles from here among other Malays in Indonesia. And yes, I was a psychologist.

We discussed at length what I thought were the central values of Malay culture. I remember trying to explain the words halus and kasar.

“Kasar means crude, rough, loud, insensitive –”

“And,” the driver added, “thick, curly, or kinky hair, the kind of hair that feels like steel wool.”

I continued: “Halus means soft, gentle, polite –”

Here the driver turned back again, and with a smile added, “It also means soft straight hair: Malay hair.”

“Halus,” I said, “is what the culture says all Malays are or should be. Kasar is what foreigners are — loud Chinese, ruthless white people, crude Indians.”

Once more the driver turned around. He asked me, “What about the Orang Asli, the aborigines? They sometimes have curly or even kinky hair. Are they kasar?”

“You know very well that they are the essence of halus,” I could not help saying.

“Yes,” he mused, “that is true. Maybe that means they are the old Malays. Do you think that is possible?”

There was indeed one group of aborigines whom anthropologists and government officials called proto-Malays, supposedly the stock from which Malays evolved. The Sng’oi, the only group aborigines I knew, had sometimes intermarried with Malays, but they had a different culture, although in this case they certainly had similar values.

It was true that Malays were told from earliest childhood that to be Malay is to be halus. Malays did not raise their voices, they —

The driver could not help another interruption. “Yes,” he said, “that is true in the kampong. But in the city it is getting very difficult to be Malay, when all around you there are kafirs (unbelievers) who are kasar.”

I hope the visitor could sort out our discussion, which was held in Malay with the driver and in English with the visitor.

We visited two villages that first day, spending time being introduced to the head of the village, to some of the elders, as the visitors called them — the older people who happened to be around. We walked here and there. We talked with children. We admired their rice fields. We were served sweet tea in the community shelter of one village, very sweet lemonade in the next.

The visitor asked some pointed questions, but no, nobody had ever heard of a person who had been crazy, or dangerous, or mentally ill.

The next day we visited three villages, the last one quite far away; we did a lot of driving that day. The second village, however, began to provide an answer to the question the visitor had asked.

It was the middle of the day, the time when nobody moves, let alone works, if it can be avoided. We stood around under a large tree, trying to catch a little breeze. Our discussion with the elders was leisurely and vague.

From the corner of my eye I saw someone flitting from one tree to another, obviously trying to hide. I looked again but did not see anything more. Then again I saw someone — a man, I thought — flitting from one hiding place to another.

The visitor, too, had noticed. We asked why anyone, at this time of day, would run from one hiding place to another. Whom was he hiding from?

“Oh,” someone said, quite nonchalantly, “that is our thief.”

We said, “Your thief?”

“Yes, he likes to steal things.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No, of course not. Why should we? He is one of us, he lives in this kampong.” And that was the end of the discussion.

A week later the visitor joined us again for a last trip to a village even farther away. This time as soon as we arrived we were dogged by an old woman, bent with age but spry and very active — almost hyperactive. She had strange mannerisms, she mumbled, and every now and then she would scream out what sounded like curses. Then she would shuffle closer to us and cackle like a madwoman.

Nobody in the village took much notice of her, except once, when she wanted to touch the visitor’s camera. One of the men called her by name, took her elbow, and said, “Come now, grandma, do not bother us, we are talking.”

She wandered away, mumbling, screeching every now and then, until she disappeared and we could not hear her anymore.

The visitor asked what was wrong with the woman. Oh, nothing, everyone assured us. That is just what she does. It does not bother anyone.

It would not occur to Malays to have this woman committed to a mental hospital. After all, she is part of the village: She is one of us.

Nor would it occur to Malays to have the police come to take the thief away: He too is one of us.

That was why there were no Malays in the two mental hospitals.

How about violent behavior? the visitor wanted to know. Are there not dangerous people in your kampong? No, no, everyone was quite sure that there were no dangerous people.

“How about that woman?” he persisted. “She yells and curses — does she not sometimes strike out at someone?”

It is difficult to phrase a conditional sentence in Malay, but even with a great deal of explaining, the people in this kampong were quite sure that this woman had never struck out at anyone.

“Not even a dog?” the visitor wanted to know.

No, not even a dog.

Driving back the visitor grumbled; he was sure they and we were hiding something. There must be violence, he said. Maybe not often, but sometimes.

I mentioned that the only cultural expression of violence in Malay culture is amok, a word that has become synonymous in many other languages with rage — even uncontrollable rage. Amok, however, is extremely rare.

Someone who goes amok loses control over his actions. He — usually a male, although not necessarily — takes whatever weapon comes to hand, often a parang, and blindly mows around him, slashing at people, houses, animals, trees — anything that is in his path.

Malays say he is blind (mata gelap, literally “eyes in darkness”), he cannot even see where he is going; he weaves like a drunk, sometimes he falls, he stumbles over pebbles.

What do people do with a person who has gone amok? the visitor wanted to know?

The driver turned to us again: “Oh, it is dangerous to come too close in the beginning of his amok, so people run away. Later on they always catch him.”

“And then?” the psychologist asked. “Do they punish him?”

No, they would not punish him. Why would they punish him for being blind? The driver added that he had not heard of an amok in many years. “But today,” he added, almost sadly, “the police would probably catch him and then he would go to jail.”

The psychologist wanted to know whether there were any programs to treat amok or other mental illnesses. “Or perhaps there is even prevention?”

No, not that we knew.

Malays kept their mentally ill to themselves — and they did not think of them as ill. Some people behave one way, others behave differently, but they are all people of our kampong.

Eberhard

Most Malaysians had probably forgotten that the word they used for the strange, primitive, very shy people living in the deep jungle of the mountains (sakai) means “slave”. They rarely thought about those jungle dwellers who wore few clothes and were rarely seen anywhere. In fact, the Sakai, the slaves, were an almost mythical people; few Malaysians had seen them.

After I grew to know the Sng’oi, the People, and when I knew they accepted me, I apologized for having spoken of them as slaves before I knew what they called themselves.

We were sitting around the embers of a little fire in the early evening. There was a flickering oil lamp shedding some light on the porch of one of the little shelters. In this settlement there were four houses; no more than fifteen people lived here. After the sun went down, we sat around, talking now and then, mostly just being together.

I had learned a little of their language, I tried to understand some of what they were saying, but I never became really fluent. My apology was a simple phrase. I said I hoped they did not mind that I had called them Sakai. I was not sure whether I had said it right, and for a long time there was no reaction at all.

I imagined that I saw smiles on a few faces, but it was dark. I could not be sure. Long silences were not unusual among the People. Often someone would say something that would be followed by silence until, finally, one person would answer. This one person obviously spoke for the group, but I often wondered how he or she knew what to say for the group.

This time, again, one person answered. He - a rather adventuresome young man, I was told later - spoke slowly, simply, for my benefit perhaps. “No,” he said, “we do not mind when others call us Sakai. We look at the people down below [de bodde uppe i bergen, Eberhards anm.] - they have to get up a certain time in the morning, they have to pay for everything with money, which they have to earn doing things for other people. They are constantly told what they can and cannot do.” He paused, and then added, “No, we don’t mind when they call us slaves.”

Eberhard

Hej
Välkommen till min magisterexamen i fri konst på Galleri Mejan den 19:e - 30:e april 2008. Jag har byggt en hydda i skogen. Jag visar den och dess bakgrund och arbetet med den; på galleriet och med en gratis busstur till skogen. Under tiden kommer också olika grupper ge sina tankar om boende, arbete och liv genom föredrag, bild och film. Utanför galleriet kommer en tiepi finnas, där vi eldar och pratar med dom som vill.

Välkommen!
Jennie Öberg

Igloon är en symbolladdad, temporär arkitektonisk form som jag använder mig av i utställningen IGLOO CONSTRUCTION, Iglookonstruktionen är byggd utifrån traditionella och urgamla tekniker men utförd i ett främmande material, torv. Liksom snön har torven en egen process av nedbrytning och naturalitet. Skulpturen är placerad så att den integrerar i och synliggör den omedelbara omgivningen - Galleri Mejan och Stockholm.
Vernisaggekortet, ett annat verk, se: www.jennyberntsson.com

Välkomna!
Jenny Berntsson

ARBETE BOENDE LIV - Jennie Öberg
Magisterutställning 19-30 april
Galleri Mejan, Exercisplan 3, Skeppsholmen, Stockholm
Mittemot Moderna museets entré. Öppet 20-30/4 kl. 12-18

19/4
VERNISSAGE                                KL.13.00
GUIDAD BUSSTUR TILL SKOGEN    KL.14.30
MIDDAG                                      KL.18.00
FÖREDRAG                                  KL.19.00-23.00

URBAN COWBOYS
Elin Johansson och Jona Elfdahl
BOENDEFRÅGOR - PÅ LIV OCH DÖD
Erik Hårdstedt och Nico Schmidt
FINSKA LANDSORTENS KÄRLEKSREVOLUTION
Ett schamanskt revolutionsprojekt från finska landsbygden
TAWA
Urbefolkningsrepresentanter inleder med en Inkaritual och berättar om Andiska grundläggande naturlagar och principer

MUSIK, FILM, SAMTAL OCH ELD SPONTANT UNDER UTSTÄLLNINGEN

26/4 bla.
KULTIVATOR
Bildkonst och jordbrukskollektiv
TOMMA RUM
Konst och kommunsamarbete som använder oanvända lokaler runt om i Sverige under somrarna. www.tommarum.se

Urban Scout Rant: Emerging Rewilding Culture

- Svartbjörn