Of blockades and broom closets
Jun. 29th, 2007 09:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabotabbyOn this, the beginning of a long weekend that commemorates the transfer of First Nations land from one group of brutal occupiers to another, Mohawk warriors have blocked off bits of their land that someone built a highway on to disrupt the travel of the descendants of said brutal occupiers.
As is just and fair, the government of Canada will be charged with theft, murder, kidnapping, and attempted genocide.
Just kidding! Instead, they're charging protester Shawn Brant with public mischief.
Now seems like a good time to talk about colonialism and what it is. See, I have a metaphorical model in my head that I can't shake, and it applies to the relationship between indigenous nations and settler nations everywhere. It's pretty simple, and because of its simplicity, I often can't have a meaningful conversation with other people of my national and/or ethnic background about the people we've displaced.
The model goes like this: You live in a house. As far as you know, you own the house, or at least no one else does—your family has lived in that house for generations. But one day, a strange family arrives from out of town. According to their municipal by-laws, they own your house.
You rifle through your files, finding all sorts of documents that attest to the fact that your family owns the house, but the strangers insist that their town's by-laws are legitimate, and yours are not. Over your protests, they move in. They seem vaguely puzzled that you're sticking around in your own house—don't you understand that it belongs to them now? They've planted their flag outside!
Of course, it comes to blows. You won't leave, they won't leave, and it gets physical. They beat you, and you beat back, but they were prepared for this and you weren't. You lose pretty much every fight. Finally, though, they acknowledge that you were here first and, as nice as it would be for them, you're not just going to evaporate.
"Do you want the doghouse?" they ask. "You obviously built that."
"I want my house back," you reply. And because you're a reasonable person—and because the strangers are armed—you add: "You can live here. There's enough room in this house for all of us to live comfortably."
"Screw that." They give you the broom closet in the basement. "There," they say. "We're even now."
You fight back, of course. You always fight back. Mostly they ignore you, but every so often, they come downstairs to give you a thorough beating and tell you that you're violent and savage. They bemoan the fact that your family and theirs are always fighting, and couldn't you just stop with the violence—as if you were even to start with. As if their first act, their violent home invasion, had never happened at all. As you grow increasingly despondent, they shake their heads in disbelief: "What's wrong with you? Can't you get yourself together? We gave you your broom closet back—we've been more than generous."
And as you both grow older, their part of the house renovated and gleaming, and your children cramped in the broom closet, they say: "Don't you know that this house is free and equal? It's a house for everyone!"
They ask: "Why are you so angry?"
You realize, with a sense of horror, that they really have no idea.
As of this morning, the OPP and the Mohawks have reached a deal to reopen the highway. God forbid someone should be inconvenienced.
As is just and fair, the government of Canada will be charged with theft, murder, kidnapping, and attempted genocide.
Just kidding! Instead, they're charging protester Shawn Brant with public mischief.
Now seems like a good time to talk about colonialism and what it is. See, I have a metaphorical model in my head that I can't shake, and it applies to the relationship between indigenous nations and settler nations everywhere. It's pretty simple, and because of its simplicity, I often can't have a meaningful conversation with other people of my national and/or ethnic background about the people we've displaced.
The model goes like this: You live in a house. As far as you know, you own the house, or at least no one else does—your family has lived in that house for generations. But one day, a strange family arrives from out of town. According to their municipal by-laws, they own your house.
You rifle through your files, finding all sorts of documents that attest to the fact that your family owns the house, but the strangers insist that their town's by-laws are legitimate, and yours are not. Over your protests, they move in. They seem vaguely puzzled that you're sticking around in your own house—don't you understand that it belongs to them now? They've planted their flag outside!
Of course, it comes to blows. You won't leave, they won't leave, and it gets physical. They beat you, and you beat back, but they were prepared for this and you weren't. You lose pretty much every fight. Finally, though, they acknowledge that you were here first and, as nice as it would be for them, you're not just going to evaporate.
"Do you want the doghouse?" they ask. "You obviously built that."
"I want my house back," you reply. And because you're a reasonable person—and because the strangers are armed—you add: "You can live here. There's enough room in this house for all of us to live comfortably."
"Screw that." They give you the broom closet in the basement. "There," they say. "We're even now."
You fight back, of course. You always fight back. Mostly they ignore you, but every so often, they come downstairs to give you a thorough beating and tell you that you're violent and savage. They bemoan the fact that your family and theirs are always fighting, and couldn't you just stop with the violence—as if you were even to start with. As if their first act, their violent home invasion, had never happened at all. As you grow increasingly despondent, they shake their heads in disbelief: "What's wrong with you? Can't you get yourself together? We gave you your broom closet back—we've been more than generous."
And as you both grow older, their part of the house renovated and gleaming, and your children cramped in the broom closet, they say: "Don't you know that this house is free and equal? It's a house for everyone!"
They ask: "Why are you so angry?"
You realize, with a sense of horror, that they really have no idea.
As of this morning, the OPP and the Mohawks have reached a deal to reopen the highway. God forbid someone should be inconvenienced.
