Process journal for a project that is a quest ~ an openly shared path of questioning and
analysis and a space for (un)learning, (re)orientation and creative
exchange.
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For a long time now, I have been (and still am) asking - in which way
can I best apply my skills to this changing world? I am working on a project that is the
beginning of an answer. It is an attempt to tie together the threads of
my own history and experience and trace onward the lines of connection
and affiliation. Like ripples on water or a system of roots underground.
An openly laid out structure that can hold whoever or whatever is looking
for cover and transform in accordance with those encounters ~
I have always been drawn to stories. Growing up in rural Wisconsin,
the lusciously green rolling hillsides around me were a backdrop to
written fantasies that filled my mind. I grew up in a small pocket of a
community nestled away in the Driftless Region - an area untouched by
the flattening force of glaciers of the last ice age. I learned to read,
to sew, to harvest vegetables and to sleep under the stars on a small
farm surrounded by cornfields. At the time I had no idea how lucky I was
for the bountiful simplicity that was this way of life and for the
vibrance and support embedded in the local community.
That appreciation has come with time and the distance of compared and
contradicting experiences. Upon graduating high school and seeking
speed and chaos and cultural diversity, I moved to Brooklyn, NY to pursue a BFA
in fashion design and sustainability studies from Pratt University. I
was drawn to creation in all its forms but had spent the previous years
immersed in the making and changing of clothing and felt a resonance
with this material as my medium.The transition from remotely rural to
urban chaos was made easy by the artistic and supportive bubble that
university created and I was able to digest this influx of input by
throwing myself into my practice. The studio became home and the
textures and ensuing designs were the solace through which I attempted
to evoke the natural connectedness felt through being in nature. And
despite the intensity of the city, I continuously found new ways of
feeling at home. Biking through the streets at all hours of the night I
would capture snippets of sunlight reflected in high windows and murky
puddles or get lost in a downpour at Prospect Park. The buzz of the city
was channeled through its inhabitants and the life and the people were
filled with unabashed energy. Patchworks of languages and cultures and
dreams - each street corner with a whole world hidden behind its back.
The people and their dance with the city was a never-ending source of
inspiration but it was the serene strength in the waves of the ocean and
the murmured softness of the trees that I wove into the folds of my
designs.
After the four years of university and keen to expand my lived
experience beyond the country and culture in which I had spent most of
my life, I moved to Berlin. I was drawn to the openness and
unconventionality that seemed to run through the city, as well as the
options presented for living more alternatively. Wishing to apply my
skills professionally while continuing to expand my learning, I began
working a design team to gain industry experience and further explore
the role of clothing in an larger-scale more business-y context.
These two years of industry experience coincided with the first two
years of the pandemic and what felt to me like everything turning inside
out and upside down and then back again. Admittedly, a part of me I
wanted this. I was in a privileged enough position to somehow be
comforted by the dissolution of certain structures and what felt like
the drawing back of the curtains on the sturdiness of normalcy which had
previously been taken for granted.
It was a time of difficulty and of deep questioning yet also a time
of illumination and new germination. As I worked to uproot the social
and institutional learning that brought me to this place, I made space
for new voices of avenues of thought. Stories of resilience and
regeneration and feelings of being and community and fullness. To uproot
the stories of competition and conflict that are sold as the norm and
realize there is a whole new world of collaboration in its place. Nature
is living example. 🌱
These stories and their learnings are my guiding stars; stepping
stones forward through the murky waters of upheaval back to a place of
connectedness and a place of trust. Trust in our constant potential to
transform and expand as well as trust in our collective resilience.
We drove five hours northward, following the curves up the Mississippi as the width of the river shrank beside us. Our origin was the Driftless region of southwestern Wisconsin and our destination was a set of coordinates on Anishinaabe territory in northern Minnesota. We took turns driving, sharing stories and uncovering memories as we passed through luscious grassy meadows and dense green forests. Stella is the closest to a sister I have, our years of friendship creating a bond that feels effortless. As we each grow into our lives and pursue individual journeys, we return to share with one another newfound learning and unearthed understandings.
Rolled open windows to winding country roads of deep familiarity. Yet this trip was not one of mere exploration and as we neared our destination my stomach tensed with each plastic pro-pipeline sign that littered the roadside. This was rural Minnesota afterall, prime pipeline country and ground zero for the conflict we were heading to the heart of. Dilapidated buildings and American flags dotted passing yards, the red white and blue symbolic of imperial aggression upon sacred tribal territory. The connotation of violence stood in harsh disconnect to the vivid and luxurious beauty of this natural environment.
Over the past months, water protectors had been organising a fight against the construction of a tar sands pipeline, putting their bodies between harsh iron drilling equipment in attempts to slow the destruction. The movement was led by indigenous community members who were welcoming and caring for allies and fellow fighters travelling in from across the country. Pockets of hope, stars in expansive darkness of a night sky - these camps were places of courage and storytelling. Of wisdom sharing and deep listening. Of sleeping on the earth and feeling each assault on the earth in one’s own body. Of an ever-present hum of resistance.
Dusty purple streaked skies over the expansive wilderness as we finally pulled up to the camp. The air was different here, the breeze warmer. The summer sun was soft on our skins, the mosquitos ruthless. Milling about were people of all walks, greeting us with smiles and wearing t-shirts with hand printed protest art. Make yourself comfortable, there’s a nice alcove over there to pitch your tent, go get some dinner while it is still warm; melodic welcomes greeted us as we followed the dirt path down to the water. Ferns of hip height covered the forest floor and the dense canopy of green arched overhead. Tents were nestled into the curves of the valley and dotted along the river embankment. Here the mighty Mississippi river was a mere five metres across but she still flowed with a swift current. This was one of the two planned intersection points where the pipeline planned to pass beneath. Just one of the 200 water crossings through which 750,000 barrels of tar sand were to be pumped. Just one of the innumerable times since the inception of this country, in which corporate interests and government greed nullify another indigenous treaty. In the gambling game of nature for capital, the surrounding Great Lakes Region tossed up as collateral damage. How does one get through to those propelled by this insatiable thirst to conquer and control, whose vision is blinded by money and power? Perhaps the system can take the blame yet it is individuals who are oiling the gears of it, separating people from land and erasing centuries of history, culture and community. One act of violence closely followed by the next, as the pretence of superiority isolates and divides. These ways of thinking are woven into the very language I am writing in, hidden in the ‘it’ used to describe non-human life forms.
After Stella and I found a protected alcove amongst tender saplings and high growing trees for our tent, we went up to the base-camp and introduced ourselves to the organisers. I stood back, cognizant of my own ignorance and aware of my role as a visitor in this space. While we were both new here, Stella has a lifetime and lineage of indigeneity passed down from her father, a Ho-Chunk elder and dedicated activist. ‘Have you been to the lodge yet?’ Amber asked. I could tell immediately that she was someoone in charge, her direct gaze and clear voice immediately commanding respect and her dark skin and long dreaded braids conveying her belonging to this place.
The lodge is the sacred prayer site in which a fire was kept alive day in and day out, and that the camp was there to protect. It sits on a crest directly overlooking the banks of the river, and is directly above the site at which the pipeline is to be dug. The lodge is a space of careful reverence into which one may not enter unless directly invited. Amber bid us to go and we returned back to the water’s edge, following the winding footpath through the woods and maze of ferns. A slim figured woman with two tight braids and a beaded necklace was tending the lodge when we arrived. Her long red skirt swishing her ankles as she circled the densely padded dirt floor and stoked the ever burning fire with a wooden staff. Stella and I and Juergen, a new friend we met along the way, entered into the clearing and the woman introduced herself by her indigenous name, correcting us as we tried rolling the unfamiliar consonants off our tongues. ‘Most people call me Daygots’, she said, her smile opening the space to our presence. She was from the Oneida tribe and had also recently arrived at the camp. ‘Have you ever heard our creation story?’ The smoke from the fire wafts up into the clearing as her voice transports us.
Long, long ago there was only water and sky. Vastness of blue as deep and as wide as one can possibly imagine. And in the highest heights, the realm above, there lived the Sky People. They were sealed off from below, until one day, a man dug into the roots of the great tree and created a hole to Under. Sky Woman was drawn to the glittering surface beneath, leaning so far out of the hole until there was no going back. Down she fell, limbs stretched in flight as the winds pulled at her clothes and tangled her hair. The creatures from below saw her coming, drawn at first to the light coming from the hole in the Sky World. They gathered together in counsel - who would be the one to receive this visitor from above? It was the turtle who offered his back and he swam to the place, just there where the woman from above touched onto the water. Sky Woman got comfortable on the back of the turtle, stretching her limbs and bringing feeling back into her numb extremities. She looked around her at the endless horizon, stretching infinitely in each direction. Only sky meeting water as far as the eye could see. But she was not alone. Besides the patient and generous turtle she was perched upon, several other creatures from the water and sky had gathered around her, watching their beautiful visitor from the Sky expectantly… ‘Does anyone know where I can find some Earth?’
The story, paraphrased from my foggy memory, continues - but I will not. Written words do no justice to the profound power of oral history, in which one has the ability to transition from being a mere spectator to an acting participant in the revolution of life around us. These stories are not separate but have been a deep part of who we are and, even more so, are formative into who we become. Our world is shaped through understanding, which is taught and learned within society. In times of increasing scientific explanation, the stories told about the organic world around us are more often stale formulaic constructions than such imaginative quests. Just as a heart rate monitor cannot convey how it feels to listen to the beat of a heart, the inexplicably expansive realm of feeling remains beyond the grasp of logic or reasoning.
A slender snake passing on the earthen path before me breaks my reverie and returns me to the present moment. I am walking softly here, aware of my lack of knowledge and the depth of unlearning I must uproot from years of institutionalised education and the rigid hierarchies of professional training. I am deeply touched at the receptiveness with which the local indigenous members have opened their space and welcomed those of us without direct native heritage onto their land. I don’t yet know how to be a water protector but I am here to learn and I have come to the right place. This camp is the ‘welcome centre’, the first stop along the line of protest camps in northern Minnesota. Come, lay aside your ego and previous realities and listen to the teachings of land, spoken through the voices of the elders who know her so well. Here we are not separated into individual identities but are brought closer to our roots. Some must look closer than others, but if we lean in far enough we will discover indigenous ancestry within all of us. The clash is here, in backyard of my childhood, because of this pipeline. Yet its importance extends far beyond the headwaters of the Mississippi. If you look closely, the frontlines are everywhere.
At this camp the group of active members was close to ten, with additional people flowing in and out each passing day. Chores were divided up and Turtle cooked each meal at the base for us, eaten on wooden stumps in a large circle. At all times there was a small group of people keeping the fire in the lodge alight. On the second evening, Stella, Juergen, Alex, Caroline and I took the shift, swiftly passing through the hours of the night as we huddled into the dynamic discussions of the group. Each of us from different corners of life and place, our conversations wove together of their own accord, floating from comfort to conflict and turning over the stones of our knowing to compare the underneath. Nothing felt off limits as we learned the corners of each other’s minds and illuminated our own in the process of exchange. The darkness around us amplified the warmth of the fire and the aliveness of our words. While at times the weight of the world felt heavy on our shoulders and devastatingly overwhelming, with each turn it also seemed a bit lighter. Unlocking new doors and practicing languages of being, feeling, dreaming. And somehow, despite difference, closer than apart. The wee hours approached and our bodies claimed fatigue, yet our thoughts were still awake and resistant to break the wholeness that our togetherness had created. Finally, as the glow of the sun started saturating the velvet sky, we slowly rose. The world around us was slowly waking up again. The air was quiet and expectant under another dawn of rebirth. From the river’s edge, steam was rising off the surface and melting into the luminescent rose pastels violets that held place for the sky.
This newborn clarity colours my memories of these days, while the warmth in my centre is held by the words of an elder on our last night around the fire. As the glow of the flames warmed our upturned faces and the cold of the evening hugged in around us, Panther told us a story that he gathered while participating in the resistance at Standing Rock. ‘No matter what happens here, it is important for you to remember; even if this fire is put out, you carry within you the embers. Take care to tend to them and when the time is right, be ready to use their spark to light another fire.’
In the first weeks of 2021, I travelled to Bosnia and Herzegovina with the grassroots organisation BLINDSPOTS - a group focused on bringing attention to humanitarian crisis zones that are often overlooked by mainstream media - to lend hands in the critical support of refugees traveling along the Balkan route. There is a severe shortage of relief being provided for the thousands of refugees that are gathered in Bosnia, especially in the border canton of Una Sana. Across the country, the few camps that do exist are over-filled and under-funded, leaving the majority of migrants to survive in heavy snowfall and subzero temperatures on their own. To make matters worse, unregistered humanitarian aid has been outlawed by authorities and those caught distributing supplies or allowing residence on their property must pay heavy fines - or in the case of foreign supporters can additionally be forced to leave the country.
By cover of night and with an assemblage of stealth- tactics, a small network of local and foreign volunteers is providing the life-support of an estimated three thousand refugees (1) that are living in squats - self constructed shelters in abandoned houses and factories and in surrounding forests under open skies.
I had spent the last months reading reports and gathering firsthand accounts of the crisis that has been unfolding in Bosnia over the past years, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of what I witnessed. The hardships endured by the people I met are immeasurable and the attempt to understand their situation feels to me nearly impossible.
For several people on the move, a multiple year journey is between them and their home countries (from Algeria, Afghanistan, Iran, Morocco, Pakistan, Syria and others) by the time they finally reach the long-awaited doorstep of the EU, only to be confronted with an atrocious lack of even minimal humanitarian support and appallingly systematic human-rights abuses (2). In a seemingly endless cycle of brutality, asylum-seekers often make it as far as Italy only to be denied their right to asylum and sent back to horridly inadequate camps (3) and sometimes even to the streets, of Bosnia.
Vahid, 17.
He left Afghanistan with his 15 family members 4 years ago.
2 years in Moria, 1 year in Tessaloniki, 1 year getting through Bosnia and 4 months here.
41 attempts at crossing.
When we met he told me the rest of his family left again on another try while he stayed behind due to a foot injury. They left without a phone and it had been 4 days since he had heard anything.
~
I don’t know if I have ever been filled with such despair and such motivation at the same time. To witness the adversity, the pain and the struggle was and will remain to be an immense wake-up call. The extreme inequality that exists in the world today and the blatant, systematic refusal of governmental bodies to treat fellow humans with any measure of respect or decency - is deplorable.
Consolidation of power and resources that makes up the tune of today, is made possible through dehumanisation and exploitation of millions of people. This disparity has been amplified throughout the Coronavirus pandemic, and is further gathering momentum as governments and institutions grasp up the excuse to strengthen their borders and hoard their resources. Where the circulation of wealth is passing between a smaller and tighter group of hands and entire communities, cultures and histories are treated as pawns to be flicked off the playing board without a second of consideration.
I was deeply touched by the exchanges I had during the short time I was able to spend in Bosnia - with locals, with fellow supporters, and most of all with people on the move. The german term, überlebenskünstler, clumsily translated into english as ‘survival artist’, attempts at giving credence to the incredible resilience and dauntlessness which the refugees carry with them. Theirs is a world in which their mere existence is refused to be acknowledged and nearly everything they have has been repeatedly stripped away. And still, the openness of their expressions and the smile in their eyes was always less than a second away. On nightly wood runs we would be asked to come in for coffee, for dinner or just to talk. Inhibited by the language barrier, our exchanges were often simple yet carried along by a warmth and an ease that one is not accustomed to in the urbanised normalcy where I’ve spent a large part of my life.
One interaction in particular is resonated deeply with me. It was a conversation with a local Bosnian woman who has been secretly providing support to refugees since they first arrived in her town. In the mornings before work, she packs an extra breakfast for the man selling water bottles on the street. During her lunch break she will go home to make and pass out more food or let someone use her shower. On numerous occasions she has opened her home to a family in need, and fortunately her neighbours have not yet said anything.
It’s simple, she said. No human being can tell someone that they have less of a right to belong on this earth than someone else. That their right to warmth, to shelter, to safety, is less important because they happened to be born on the wrong side of a line. It is only natural for us to help one another.
In a world and during a time that feels like a volcano of complication, her words ring clear. It is simple. Or at least, it can start as such. We need to de-establish the socially imposed notions of scarcity and of competition and restructure our relationships towards collectivity and consonance.
🌿
Here is a beautiful short film by Martina that tells the story of another local supporter and poignantly elucidates the scene of the Una Sana canton;
A Film by Martina Troxler and Matt Barton // Directed by - Martina Troxler // Camera - Matt Barton // Edit - Jhiliem Miller, Martina Troxler (Soohm Films) // Music - joja music (Jaqueline Müllers) // Soundmix - Kai Unger
Sources;
1. https://www.thenewhumanitarian.org/news-feature/2020/12/2/bosnia-migrants-asylum-winter-eu-border-pushbacks
2. https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2019/03/croatia-eu-complicit-in-violence-and-abuse-by-police-against-refugees-and-migrants/
3. https://freedomnews.org.uk/the-unique-solidarity-of-velika-kladusa-in-bosnia/
Additional Articles and References;
