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Ungdomshuset

Ungeren sagði:
Ég býst við að fréttaflutningur af Ungdomshuset hafi náð eyrum ykkur síðustu daga. Ég fékk sent bréf frá Pernille bekkjarsystur minni í dag og innihald þess er bréf/hugleiðingar Tomas bróður hennar. Hann er einn af þeim sem hafa verið mikið í Ungdomshuset og því getið þið núna skyggnst aðeins inn í tilfinningar þeirra sem finnst virkilega á sér brotið. Áhugaverð lesning og sterkar skoðanir!

Dear everyone who cares.





My friend. I want to tell you about the events taking place in Copenhagen,
right now. Please check out indymedia.dk , modkraft.dk , ungeren.dk or just
indymedia.org to learn what is happening, because I'm not going to give you
details. I am going to tell you another story. These days, one particular
image is ceaselessly haunting me. It is not an image of shattering bottles
bringing fire to police vans, or of my friends beaten, or people turning
the streets of my city into a zone of conflict and violence. It is not an
image saturated with the acts of revenge, retaliation and brutality, for by
now, my eyes have already become tragically accustomed to these horrors. It
is neither an image of rows of cops certain of the legitimacy of their
power, nor that of bands of activists and demonstrators thrilled by
experiencing the power they collectively hold, as they share the knowledge
that the streets have been reclaimed, temporarily liberated. It is not an
image of myself in telephone conversation with my mother, trying to explain
to her where all this rage is coming from, or an image of myself reading
the patronising news paper analysis of the conflict, performed by middle
aged men, firmly secure in their university positions. It is not an image
of Ruth Evensen - the leader of the (wannabe) Christian sect who bought our
Ungdomshus, neither of Ritt Bjerregaard - the City Mayor whom has utterly
failed in finding a political solution to a social problem, nor of all the
other faces that I should consider my enemies right now. It is neither of
these. Haunting me is an image brought to me on the front page of my
regular news paper. It is an image of two army helicopters in the first
deep blue light of morning, suspended above the rooftop of Ungdomshuset,
special forces descending with meticulous precision and timing, prepared as
they are for initiating the events that I call my life these days. Again,
my eyes fixate on their silhouettes as they crouch, performing their
profession. On the wall beneath them, a sentence confesses to me in white
paint that 'I still feel like rioting.' And I know exactly what it means. A
menace, a warning, and a prophecy. But most of all it is an embittered
expression of resignation. And I do feel like wrecking havoc in return for
the loss that I suffer when I see this image of beautiful choreography of
men, machine and building. For me it is a tragedy. For them, a job. Perhaps
merely so. It is not just my house they break and enter. Here, where I
and You and We have build communal playgrounds for art and politics. You've
been there, the two of us shared coffee and cake, thoughts, romance,
excitement, plans, visions and memories. We have shared knowledge,
experience and experimented with living our crazy, sad and exciting lives
on our own terms. Here, we have squatted hearts before buildings. Here we
have given and been given and taken and enjoyed and suffered. It is not
just a house, because a house is merely a collection of bricks and mortar.
It is not just a symbol, because a symbol is a reference for something
else. It is more than that. It is a space that we have carved for ourselves
to live in. Yes, it is a space-time where You and I have lived. Those men
in the cold light of mourning violate that space and I feel it to the very
bone of my being. I cannot remember the last time I have felt such sorrow
and such rage.As these men crouch, they must know exactly what they are
doing. I wonder what kind of hearts work their chests, what considerations,
reasonings and second thoughts riddle their minds. And I feel completely
alienated from them. What kind of people are they? Do we even share the
same humanity? The image of those helicopters haunts me because it makes me
feel something I do not want to feel. I do not wish to hate those uniforms,
but I do. I do not wish to consider them my enemies, but I do. I do not
wish to consider them humans broken, trained, disciplined, completely
conditioned and dehumanized. But I do, because it is the only way I can
make sense of what they are doing. They must know what they are asking
for.And whatever they asked for they have received in plenty. I guess you
know all about it by now. You've seen the pictures of fires, fights and
frictions. You've read the stories and dramatic reports from breathless
reporters on the spot. Some call us spoiled kids, rioters and hooligans;
some call us victims; some call us perpetrators and criminals. Some call it
a passing fad. I call it a becoming. Yes, a becoming. For we are a
generation painfully learning that we are not given what we want, need and
desire no matter how nicely and politely we ask for it. They don't care to
listen until we force them to and by then it no longer matters, because by
then the means we have used to make them listen disqualify whatever have to
say. Like the social and political rights we enjoy today rest on the blood
of our fathers and mothers before us, so we have learned that we'll only
get what we want when we resolve to take it. This is the nature of our
becoming. This is the nature of the revolution and revelation that I
suffer. What we desperately need is space and self-determination. When we
see our space diminishing and our freedom delimited, not by coincidence or
accident, but by the political determination of those who will recognize
our desires as relevant, then we can no longer afford to simply tolerate or
accept it. We respond by any means, for these are truly our lives. And
they are being violated. I return again and again to the image. It emanates
the calmest of violence and I understand that if you oppose the State, the
Powers that be and remains the same, i.e. the motherfuckers, if your
desires lead you astray, if those desires leave only a thirst and demand
for freedom that cannot be ignored and if you are determined to remain
loyal to that desire, then you will be broken, beaten, bruised, isolated,
marginalised, impoverished, cast out, ridiculed, patronised, you will be
made invisible, ultimately destroyed. And I know that I cannot walk away:
this, if anything, is my only certainty. Dear Friend, you have heard this
song sung before and I hate every second of it. I do not wish to consider
these people my enemies, but I do; I do not wish to believe the world is
hostile, but I do; I do not wish to feel violated, but I do. I do not wish
to harbour such anger. But I do. I do not wish to be what I am in this
moment; I hate every second. But those men of the rooftop in the early
mourning leave me no other choice. The image will not leave me alone and I
cannot forget. That is the nature of my becoming.I miss you, my friend.

Thomas B.

Ummæli

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