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It's simple: Cite Black Women.We have been producing knowledge since we blessed this earth. We theorize, we produce, we revolutionize the world. We do not need mediators. We do not need interpreters. It's time to disrupt the canon. It's time to upturn the erasures of history. It's time to give credit where credit is due. For centuries people have listened to our ideas and reproduced them without citation. For centuries people have be content with erasing us from mainstream bibliographies, genealogies of thought and conversations about knowledge production. We have also been fed up with it for centuries. Just take some time and do some serious research about the work that Black women have done on the politics of citation and the need to cite Black women. I won't do that labor here for political reasons: 1) we, Black women, are always given the burden of doing labor for everyone else; 2) we all must learn to do the hard work of research on our own (thank you Linh Huah for reminding me of this). everyone needs to take responsibility and do the hard work of research. Support our work. Cite Black Women. All proceeds from t-shirt sales go to the Winnie Mandela School in Salvador, Bahia.
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This piece by Andreia Beatriz dos Santos, co-coordinator of the React or Die! Campaign of Brazil, presents a meditation on the lived experience of police terror in the working class Black communities of Salvador, Bahia. It is a first hand experience that evocatively reflects on the precarity of survival in zones plagued by anti-black terror. It is at once an essay and a poem. "Khawuleza, Mama" is a reference to the title of Miriam Makeba's 1966 recording of the song. It is a phrase that South African children would cry when the police invaded their neighborhoods during the apartheid period. By choosing this title , Andreia chooses to make an explicit connection between the actualities of living under the constant threat of anti-black policing in Brazil, and the similar circumstances for Black people living under the shadows of white supremacy elsewhere and at other times. The result is a powerful composition that is at once painful and poetic. The essay is presented in its original Portuguese and the English translation. - Christen A. Smith "Khawuleza, Mama": A Requiem for Bahia
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Any Saturday afternoon
A beautiful sunny day, in the blackest city outside Africa. Black children running through the streets, young black men chatting on street corners telling their histories and stories. I was on the street, talking to my children and my husband. A black family chatting in the street. Other families sweeping their sidewalks. Men and women cleaning their homes. People in bars, drinking with friends. Black communities in their routine defined by the absence of public services and basic sanitation, but living with dignity. A routine interrupted by the armed presence of the State. Everything stops and tension ensues: One military police car passes through the community's streets, men with guns pointed it out the windows, just like hunters when seeking their prey. Some people stop, some close the doors of their houses and windows. Others just observe the movement of who makes the rounds, just like prey, they look for the best exit in case of an attack by a hunter. We didn’t move. But I kept track of the looks of the two men playing a role given by the governor who manages life in the state of Bahia. I then remembered the governor's words when they asked him about the actions of the Rondesp police in Cabula on February 6, 2015: …"player" …"goal" …"gunner" My tension rose and my heart fluttered with the flush of adrenaline I thought: Hunter ... hunting ... trophy ... The children slowly stop and seek protection from their mothers they already know the effects of the state's presence in their communities. That presence, that level of violence, that brutality. This cruelty that does not fit in handouts or stop with recreational wheels driven by state and those who are well meaning. Mothers looking for their daughters and sons Everything happens in a few minutes, but the intensity makes it seem like it lasts for hours. As if even the sewage that flows under the open sky and the walls of the simple houses adapt their curves and architectures to the passage of the police car. They’ve gone! They left, some celebrated. The daily routine restores itself gradually. Doors open, Looks both ways down the street, seeking confirmation that they will not return. Some mothers tell their children to stay close And children ask their mothers and fathers to stay close. Mothers are those women in the community who care for all, look after everyone, make themselves vulnerable and defend the generation of provide the defense of the generation of black youth from the local community, the extended black family. This is the routine in one of the blackest neighborhoods of the city of Salvador, with the lowest Human Development Index (HDI) of the city, our state capital. Where there is not enough health and quality of education, where there is no garbage collection regularly, where sanitation is poor or non-existent, where the military police makes their rounds, systematically observing and intimidating people who are on the streets. I revisited Miriam Makeba (video link below) singing "Khawuleza" recorded in 1966. I see heavy images of South Africa, during the peak of apartheid. Black men and women watching their tormentors making their rounds, bringing death and slaughter. Children crying, children running. Black men being persecuted to death. Desperate black women protecting their bodies, souls with their life. Here, black families are immersed in a world of pain and suffering, by several absences, but the presence of the round, the presence of fear of the hunter, the fear of being hunted, the anguish of oppression, omission and action. I see black sisters in mourning, mourning the loss, prior to death, of the bodies. Everyday tension is there, is here; is in the past, and is in the present. Joy visits our people at times. Between one round and another, between arrivals and departures, but the tension and uncertainty are close by. Khawuleza, Povo Negro, Khawuleza, Mama! |
Um sábado a tarde qualquer.
Lindo dia de sol, na cidade mais negra fora de África. Crianças negras correndo pelas ruas, jovens negros conversando pelas esquinas contando suas histórias e estórias. Eu estava na rua, conversando com meus filhos e meu marido. Uma família negra conversando na rua. Outras famílias varrendo suas calçadas, Homens e mulheres limpando suas casas. Algumas pessoas nos bares bebendo com amigos. Comunidades negras em sua rotina estabelecida por ausência de aparelhos públicos, de saneamento básico, mas vivendo com sua dignidade. Uma rotina interrompida, mas também estabelecida pela presença armada do Estado. Tudo pára e a tensão se estabelece: Uma viatura da polícia militar atravessa as ruas da comunidade, homens com armas apontadas pra fora das janelas, como caçadores quando procuram suas presas. Algumas pessoas páram, outras fecham as portas de suas casas e janelas. Outros só observam a movimentação de quem faz a ronda, como presa a espreitar a melhor saída em caso de investida do caçador. Não nos mexemos. Mas observei atentamente os olhares dos dois homens investidos naquela função pelo governador que gere o Estado da Bahia. Naquele momento eu me lembrei das palavras do governador quando questionado sobre a ação dos policiais da Rondesp no Cabula no dia 06 de fevereiro de 2015: “(...) jogador, (...) gol, (...) artilheiro”. A tensão aumentou e os batimentos cardíacos rapidamente responderam a descarga de adrenalina. Pensava: “caçador...caça...troféu...”. As crianças lentamente vão parando e procuram a proteção de suas mães, pois já conhecem os efeitos da presença do Estado em suas comunidades. Aquela presença, aquele nível de violência, aquela brutalidade. Esta crueldade que não cabe em apostilas ou que não cessa com rodas lúdicas promovidas pelo Estado e pelos bem intencionados. Mães procuram suas filhas, seus filhos. Tudo acontece em alguns minutos, mas a intensidade faz parecer que tudo dura horas. Como se até o esgoto que corre a céu aberto e as paredes das moradias simples adaptassem suas curvas e arquiteturas à passagem da viatura da polícia militar. Eles vão embora! Passaram, comemoram alguns. A rotina se reestabelece aos poucos. Portas são abertas, olhares para os dois lados da rua, buscando a confirmação de que não voltam mais. Algumas mães orientam as crianças a ficarem por perto e as filhas e os filhos pedem às mães e alguns pais para ficarem por perto Mães aqui representam também àquelas mulheres da comunidade que cuidam de todas, olham todos, se expõe e impõem em defesa da geraçãode jovens negras e negros da localidade, aquela grande família negra. Esta é a rotina num dos bairros mais negros da cidade de Salvador, com o mais baixo Índice de Desenvolvimento Humano(IDH) da capital. Aonde não chegam saúde e educação de qualidade, aonde não chega a coleta de lixo regularmente, onde o saneamento básico é precário ou inexistente, onde a polícia militar mantém suas rondas sistematicamente, observando e intimidando as pessoas que estão nas ruas. Revisitei Miriam Makeba (link do vídeo abaixo) cantando “Khawuleza”, gravado em 1966. Me vem intensamente imagens da África do Sul, auge do apartheid. Negras e negros observando seus algozes e correndo das rondas, da morte, do abate. Crianças chorando, crianças correndo. Homens negros sendo mortalmente perseguidos. Mulheres negras desesperadas protegendo os seus com o corpo, com a alma, com a vida. Aqui, famílias negras mergulhadas num universo de dor e sofrimento, pelas várias ausências, mas pela presença da ronda, pelo medo do caçador, pelo medo de ser a caça, pela angústia da opressão, da omissão e da ação. Vejo irmãs negras em luto, chorando a perda anterior à morte dos corpos. Tensão quotidiana de lá, no passado e aqui no presente. A alegria visita nosso povo às vezes. Entre uma ronda e outra, entre chegadas e saídas, mas a tensão e o por vir incerto estão por perto. Khawuleza, Povo Negro, Khawuleza, Mama! |
Khawuleza (Faster), Black People, Khawuleza (Faster), Mama! !
*Khawuleza mama
Khawuleza mama
Khawuleza mama
Khawuleza mama
Nank’ amapolis’ azongen'endlini mama, khawuleza
Nank’ amapolis’ azongen'endlini mama, khawuleza
Jonga jonga jonga yo khawuleza mama, iyeyiye mama, khawuleza
Jonga jonga jonga yo khawuleza mama, iyeyiye mama, khawuleza (2x)
Bathi jonga jonga jonga yo khawuleza mama
khawuleza mama khawuleza
jonga jonga jonga yo khaw
*Khawuleza mama
Khawuleza mama
Khawuleza mama
Khawuleza mama
Nank’ amapolis’ azongen'endlini mama, khawuleza
Nank’ amapolis’ azongen'endlini mama, khawuleza
Jonga jonga jonga yo khawuleza mama, iyeyiye mama, khawuleza
Jonga jonga jonga yo khawuleza mama, iyeyiye mama, khawuleza (2x)
Bathi jonga jonga jonga yo khawuleza mama
khawuleza mama khawuleza
jonga jonga jonga yo khaw
by Christen A. Smith
“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.” – Audre Lorde, “The Transformation of Silence into Action” (1984)
This week has been very difficult. The death of Freddie Gray still haunts us along with the ghosts of injustice that took away his life. I am tired of watching us die. We are all tired of watching us die. As a black mother, my body aches every time I see the face of anybody’s child flash across the news. Necks snapped, shot in the chest, choked to death. The looping videos twist my stomach and catch in my throat. I cry, but crying is not enough. The pain is so great that at times it is difficult to even speak. This was especially the case for me this week, as I, like many of us, watched Baltimore burn with rage, hurt and anger.
I did not mourn the buildings and the property damage. I could honestly care less about CVS. CVS is going to be just fine as are all of the other buildings, cars and inanimate objects that cannot possibly have breath taken away from them. Freddie Gray's family is never going to be fine again however. If you will not let us vote, if you respond to our peaceful protest with resigned indifference, if you insist on killing us, then you should not be surprised when the nation catches fire. These kids don't have any other political outlet because this nation has taken away every single possible path to survival that they could ever have and they know that. Youth basketball league and after school programs ain't gonna cut it anymore.
No, my grief is anger. I am mourning our nation’s inability to hear our children screaming out in pain. Their anguish is as illegible as their humanity. I do not question why they loot and burn because I know what it’s like to need to speak and not be heard. To need to cry and not have tears. To need survive and not feel hope.
Much of my family is from Baltimore. I grew up going to family reunions there with my grandparents in the summers. Baltimore is a place that has always brought happy memories for me: crab cakes and card games, music and laughter, so many aunts, uncles and cousins you don’t know who’s who. So as I watched Baltimore burn this week, I felt a double pain: a sense of a loss of innocence and grief over the loss of life. For me this loss of innocence is not just about watching a city that I truly love crumble. If you know anything about Baltimore you know that it has been crumbling and burning for many years. No, loss of innocence also means recognizing that we as a nation seem unable to afford black people dignity.
The all-too-familiar utterance of the word “thug” from middle class black politicians and community “leaders” has been disconcerting and shameful but not unexpected. The sector of the black middle class that religiously upholds respectability politics would rather call hurting young people "thugs" than deal with the harsh reality that their ascent to power and capital gain has been built on their disavowal of working class black identity and their exploitation of their “exceptional” black status. In other words, the very “thugs” that they disparage are the very people that they have needed to use as stepping-stones to achieve their class status. And lest we think that this makes Baltimore about class and not race, let us remember that black middle class status depends on the structures of white supremacy. Black middle class acceptance by mainstream society depends on its differentiation and distancing from “non-respectable” blackness.
I'm tired, sad and angry. I am tired sad and angry because no one seems to think that the state killing black people is a reason to grieve or hurt or burn things down. The unconscionability of our humanity is devastating and depressing, leaving me at times without the words to speak.
Yet, silence leaves too many things unspoken, and it will not protect us. “Your silence will not protect you” (Audre Lorde, 1984). No, we must speak truth and unleash ourselves from the “tyrannies [we] swallow day by day.” We cannot let our tyrannies lie rotting in our bellies, festering from the pain we carry in our wombs. No, we must speak.
“And of course I am afraid, because the transformation of silence into language and action is an act of self-revelation, and that always seems fraught with danger.”
“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.” – Audre Lorde, “The Transformation of Silence into Action” (1984)
This week has been very difficult. The death of Freddie Gray still haunts us along with the ghosts of injustice that took away his life. I am tired of watching us die. We are all tired of watching us die. As a black mother, my body aches every time I see the face of anybody’s child flash across the news. Necks snapped, shot in the chest, choked to death. The looping videos twist my stomach and catch in my throat. I cry, but crying is not enough. The pain is so great that at times it is difficult to even speak. This was especially the case for me this week, as I, like many of us, watched Baltimore burn with rage, hurt and anger.
I did not mourn the buildings and the property damage. I could honestly care less about CVS. CVS is going to be just fine as are all of the other buildings, cars and inanimate objects that cannot possibly have breath taken away from them. Freddie Gray's family is never going to be fine again however. If you will not let us vote, if you respond to our peaceful protest with resigned indifference, if you insist on killing us, then you should not be surprised when the nation catches fire. These kids don't have any other political outlet because this nation has taken away every single possible path to survival that they could ever have and they know that. Youth basketball league and after school programs ain't gonna cut it anymore.
No, my grief is anger. I am mourning our nation’s inability to hear our children screaming out in pain. Their anguish is as illegible as their humanity. I do not question why they loot and burn because I know what it’s like to need to speak and not be heard. To need to cry and not have tears. To need survive and not feel hope.
Much of my family is from Baltimore. I grew up going to family reunions there with my grandparents in the summers. Baltimore is a place that has always brought happy memories for me: crab cakes and card games, music and laughter, so many aunts, uncles and cousins you don’t know who’s who. So as I watched Baltimore burn this week, I felt a double pain: a sense of a loss of innocence and grief over the loss of life. For me this loss of innocence is not just about watching a city that I truly love crumble. If you know anything about Baltimore you know that it has been crumbling and burning for many years. No, loss of innocence also means recognizing that we as a nation seem unable to afford black people dignity.
The all-too-familiar utterance of the word “thug” from middle class black politicians and community “leaders” has been disconcerting and shameful but not unexpected. The sector of the black middle class that religiously upholds respectability politics would rather call hurting young people "thugs" than deal with the harsh reality that their ascent to power and capital gain has been built on their disavowal of working class black identity and their exploitation of their “exceptional” black status. In other words, the very “thugs” that they disparage are the very people that they have needed to use as stepping-stones to achieve their class status. And lest we think that this makes Baltimore about class and not race, let us remember that black middle class status depends on the structures of white supremacy. Black middle class acceptance by mainstream society depends on its differentiation and distancing from “non-respectable” blackness.
I'm tired, sad and angry. I am tired sad and angry because no one seems to think that the state killing black people is a reason to grieve or hurt or burn things down. The unconscionability of our humanity is devastating and depressing, leaving me at times without the words to speak.
Yet, silence leaves too many things unspoken, and it will not protect us. “Your silence will not protect you” (Audre Lorde, 1984). No, we must speak truth and unleash ourselves from the “tyrannies [we] swallow day by day.” We cannot let our tyrannies lie rotting in our bellies, festering from the pain we carry in our wombs. No, we must speak.
“And of course I am afraid, because the transformation of silence into language and action is an act of self-revelation, and that always seems fraught with danger.”
Author
The Silence Transformation Collective is a transnational, multi-lingual healing space for black women to share their reflections and thoughts on life and survival. It is inspired by Audre Lorde's [1984 (1977)] essay "The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action." There she writes, "I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood." Here, we dare to speak and share, recognizing that our silence will not protect us.
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