It has been a somber couple of days, wandering the rainy streets of Amsterdam while checking our phones for updates on Sebastian. Nora is stoic, her dark curls nestled around her pale cheeks. This morning, just before he was intercepted by the Israeli military, and threw his phone in the ocean, he wrote her a quick loving note.
The Tows are family to us. Sebastian is Nora’s best friend. He’s a soft spoken, deeply thoughtful poetic young man who is also steadfastly committed to aid, relief and freedom for Palestine.
Nora and Sebastian share the profundity of having lost both their fathers to a brain tumour. I think this has given them an awareness and a heart for those who suffer. HIs activism has often shaken me out of my complacency and sense of helplessness.
He is part of the peaceful global sumud flotilla, trying to bring food and medical supplies to the people of Gaza and he was kidnapped yesterday by the Israeli government in International waters. They’ve illegally intercepted 60 boats. He’s a Canadian and American citizen (please write your governments and taviv.consular@international.gc.ca and sos@international.gc.ca)
As we wandered down the 9 Straatjes we saw Palestinian flags with new eyes. I’m aware that I only started writing letters when one of my own was threatened. I am aware of forwarding posts about this when my “gentle readers” are already saturated. I am aware of my privilege, wandering these tidy streets in my new shoes, blinging my credit card to ride the tram freely over bridges and through tunnels. I am aware that medical supplies and food are stuck in an unmanned boat while people starve in Gaza. I don’t really feel like a stroopwafel right now.
We hit no landmarks, we retained no names. We jostled past tourists along the canal, then entered a neighbourhood with pricy shops advertising fine linen. We gave up on google and settled for an espresso on the cusp of the red light district. As Nora sipped her thick black brew, a woman in red and black lingerie stood in the window, pulling at her bra straps, shifting her weight from foot to foot, sore and bored. The barista brought over my credit card: I had dropped it on the sticky floor in my distracted haze.
We wrote our letters to our MPs and the prime minister and the embassy and global affairs. We prayed. We waited. We considered jumping on a plane home. And what would that accomplish? Nothing.
Let’s make the most of now.
How? We’ll see Maxine.
The more I read Indigenous authors, the more aware I am of a colonised mindset and I think about this in particular when I travel. I don’t want to “conquer” the Netherlands: check check check. I don’t want the FOMO – did I get all the Dutch masters in?! Should I buy a Nijntje keychain?! Did I get a bulb from the tulip fields? Did I take a selfie in front of a Rembrandt, planting my flag, “I was here”. Travel is a post industrial revolution pilgrimage. How can I avoid being a cog in the tourism machine?
The most valuable part of this trip has been connecting with friends and family. And, okay, Maxine introduced us to bitterballen. How how how do they get that meaty gravy inside that crunchy ball? I don’t know but I was grateful, as I dipped another in hot mustard and tried not to burn the roof of my mouth.
It was great to get out of our heads and the overwhelm of it all and focus in on our time with her. She is the director of the de Ateliers coaching program. Renown visual artists come in and mentor about twenty chosen resident artists who are supported with technicians and big beautiful studio spaces. It’s a remarkable institution in a gorgeous building. We met some of the bright ambitious cohorts, all sweatered and casually put together in a way that says “I’m an artist living on next to nothing, but I know my colours and silhouettes”. One of them was Joyce Joumaa, a Lebanese Canadian whose videographic work is politically charged. I was excited to meet her.
We followed Maxine through the oude Pijp as she pushed her bike in her trench coat. We chased bitterballen with an old school steak dinner. We laughed and spoke of deep and silly things and poured red wine and got back into our bodies again.
The next day we went to the Van Gogh museum. it’s the only event I planned all week. I couldn’t believe all the people looking at the paintings through their phone cameras, taking photos: acquisition, acquisition, acquisition – often without looking directly at the real thing.
I really appreciated hearing about Van Gogh’s relationships with his artistic colleagues and his family. So often narratives about him are focused solely on the violence he inflicted on himself. I had no idea how prolific he was and how his brother funded his entire artistic enterprise. Then Theo’s wife, Jo, carried on the legacy of Vincent’s work. His mental illness left him excruciatingly lonely and self destructive, but I was moved to know that he was also respected and loved. I came out of there reminded of the importance of community.
Nora and I met up with Rick and Silvia for one of the best sandwiches on the planet at the Wolf bakery. The sourdough was so fresh, it was steaming when we pulled it apart. They strolled with me around the 9 Straatjes in the pouring rain: admiring house boats, climbing roses and the “dancing houses”. I noticed how tall Dutch people are. The legs on these folk! It’s like they are genetically programmed to puddle jump the canals.
Nora’s now off to see a pal and I have the evening alone.
I get overwhelmed by social activism. The liberal minded, or those of us who aspire to be awake, can try to wrap our arms around the whole world, all the people, all the issues, but it can be patronising and create a sense of overload and guilt. It can devolve into virtue signalling and a moral superiority without actually accomplishing much. We have terrible inequity in our own country, let alone hold Palestine, Iran, DR Congo, Ukraine, Lebanon, Sudan – how can we do nothing, though?
No. I do believe in the circles of care, from family to global.
Yet, how do we travel into the crisis and conflicts in countries and cultures that are not our own, without doing harm, without also treating activism like a check list?
Social activism is like traveling to a country, I can’t do it all. Nor should I try to.
Aha.
Tomorrow I will write more letters, do some more reading, thanks to Sebastian who has shown us a path. Then I’ll go and see the Moco (museum of modern art) and have dinner with the family.
Sebastian has focused his attention primarily on Gaza and he’s made authentic connections. His courage has already been effective. He’s not trying to save the world. But he is trying to save 1.6 million people from starvation in Gaza. Those are the sights he’s seeing.
