Montreal Serai

Like many Montrealers I was deeply affected by images of my city going up in flames in our newspapers. It seemed that the riot in Montreal North was sparked by the police shooting of Freddy Villanueva, an unarmed 18 year old youth of Latin-American origin. As I was avidly reading the news, I was appalled to find out that there were four shots that were fired from the same gun – a police gun. When the images of police cars being lit on fire and barricades being erected hit our local TV screens, it seemed that we had a bona-fide race riot on our hands – something that one would associate with cities like Los Angeles or Paris – not Montreal. In order to inject some positivity into the situation, I decided to write a song for a three-fold purpose: 1. To encourage dialogue about violence in our city. 2. To move people towards demanding a public inquiry into the events of Montreal-Nord. 3. To plead that “It’s high time that something gets done” in terms of offering young people alternatives to the street gangs: Sports tournaments, hip-hop dancing, martial arts, studios for rap artists, etc. We need to nip this problem in the bud before Montreal becomes like any other American City. We have to get to the root of the problem. Because this was a timely issue, a friend of mine encouraged me to record the song right away and get it out to the radio as soon as possible – so I did. I called up some musician friends of mine to record the song:

Moe Clark: Back-Vocals Sage Reynolds: Upright Bass
Mark Nelson: Drums Matt Lipscombe: Vocals and Guitar

It was recorded by David Sturton at DNA Productions. It is already playing on CIBL in Montreal and CKRL in Quebec. I hope it can help my city in bringing about a positive change. Living by the Gun audio (mp3) It’s high time something gets done

The youth and the police are living by the gun
Late one night in Montreal

Freddy and his brother were having a ball

Playing dice in a public park

It was getting late

It was getting dark

Along come two officers of the law

They were intrigued by what they saw

They said to Freddy’s brother we want to talk to you

He resisted, so they drew

Four shots were fired from same gun

There was only one at the scene

The policeman said it was self defense

But what can that possibly mean?

It’s high time something gets done

The youth and the police are living by the gun

His mother set a white dove free

So there would be no more misery

No more tears on a sister’s cheek

No more tears gas canisters on the street

The people watched the evening news

Hoping justice would come of this abuse

But the cops involved in this altercation

Had a week to come up with some fabulation

Four shots were fired from same gun

There was only one at the scene

The policeman said it was self defense

But what can that possibly mean?

It’s high time something gets done

The youth and the police are living by the gun

I’m not saying it’s anybody’s fault

That the violence here is like some kind of cult

And I know that the cops were afraid for their lives

When they took that innocent boy’s life

When they took that innocent boy’s life

It’s high time something gets done

The youth and the police are living by the gun

Words and Music : Matthew Lipscombe Credits: Guitar/voice: Matt Lipscombe

Back Vocals: Moe Clark

Upright Bass: Sage Reynolds

Drums: Mark Nelson

Recorded at studio DNA, Montreal by David Sturton

©Matthew Lipscombe 2008. All rights reserved
For more information please contact:
Matt Lipscombe: (514) 678-4222

Email: matt.lipscombe@gmail.comwww.myspace.com/mattlipscombe

The Obama victory was jubilantly celebrated in Washington DC (sometimes referred to as Chocolate City). I was there for the Clinton victory over Bush1, but that was a quaint tea party compared to this wild bumping throw-down. I squeezed myself into the downtown Bohemian Caverns, an African American-run club. Throbbing with people packed on three floors grooving to the DJ’s funk/african tracks, they cheered watching the CNN visuals of Obama’s march across the nation. In the first floor restaurant that had a more sophisticated clientele than the college-age crowd in the nightclub, bartenders were leading call-response chants of “O!” “Bama!” When the media declared him the winner, the joint went bedlam. The bartenders jumped on the bar spraying us with champagne as people were simply deliriously euphoric.

Outside, U Street became the tribal gathering point as thousands jammed and danced in the streets in joy, accompanied by the honking of cars and their sound systems. Strangers come up to me high-fiving or hugging. It was still rocking when I left there at 2:30 am. The streets around the White House drew thousands more who gathered to celebrate and evict Bush. I’ve never seen this city so happy, nor so loud after midnight.

Why? Why were people crazy happy then? Something huge had happened. There was the joy that America could really elect a black man for president – the same America that enforced race laws until only a few years ago, and still practices race discrimination and hatred. Many had been scared that the Republicans would steal yet another election (Lord knows they tried). Ending eight years of Bush neo-fascism also primed the celebration. For blacks, it was more than just a transcendental moment in their 400 year American history shared with others, it was intensely personal in a collective sense. I/we had crossed a raging river.

Obama, for all his problems (like his current pick of Zionists and right wing democrats to shape foreign policy) is unquestionably an extremely charismatic superstar who speaks of us rather than I. His mass rallies and now his victory featured his message that the cynicism of yesterday must be replaced by the hope and possibilities of our shared future. (See his brilliant speech on race: “A More Perfect Union” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrp-v2tHaDo ). This is a message that I find to be radical in these fearful and reactionary times. For progressives, the window of opportunity to mobilize others to push Obama from the right back to the center or the left-of-center is now. It might close soon.

Here’s a link to a video of people doing the Electric Slide on U Street from music pumped out of an SUV: http://www.flickr.com/photos/scottmontreal/3096713361/

Here are some of the photos from that night of celebration:

Apocalyptic Phone Call, 2002

On the phone, you told me you’d found Jesus,

that you never really lost him, just strayed,

made your way back,

and I should read my gospels,

all of them, Old Testament

and New, familiarize myself

with Daniel-you knew now

you named your son

after him.

You said you’d seen signs on the news,

the earthquake in Istanbul,

how the fault line in Turkey

originated in Jerusalem, where a mosque

stands heretically over the stone

of Abraham, and in Cape Town

some high force winds passed through.

No one had been expecting them.

The sound of running horses.

I asked, Was it a sirocco?

and you replied, Did you hear about this?

Before I could mention Grade 8 Geography,

you continued on to say the winds

had a Muslim place of origin, that

Jesus had talked about the Anti-Christ,

signs of his presence, how

you now believe this to be Mohammed,

and that all those following him

are being led away from God.

Jesus says it, you said, and Daniel.

It all matches up.

Distraught you couldn’t convince me, I tried

to ease your panic. Don’t worry, I said.

If Jesus does show himself

at the end, I’ll tell him

my sister was right all along.

I didn’t hear your reply.

Dolphins Don’t Blow Each Other Up

Front page article:

a South African scientist’s claim

that despite the large size

of their brains

underwater mammals

are not very smart.

He berates them for accepting

man-made borders, waxes on

about the greater number of ganglia

lesser of neurons

being more a sign of their capacity

for bearing ocean temperatures

than one of intelligence.

But do dolphins bicker

in front of offspring

or, at a party with friends,

find any opportunity

to cut each other

down

to

size?

Do they start wars

on pretence

alone?

Humans, hungry,

might jump through hoops for food.

I would do it for sex

or a day at the spa. And who is he, this

privileged scientist, that is above escaping

the narrow confines

of his own supposition.

© Julie Mahfood

---

Julie Mahfood lives near Montreal where she hosts WIRE, a quarterly reading series for Montreal’s West Island writers. She has been shortlisted in THIS Magazine’s 2008 Great Canadian Literary Hunt; her work has appeared in the Literary Review of Canada, The Antigonish Review, and others and as well on the CD DuBref Session 1: Spoken word anthology.

Apocalyptic Phone Call, 2002

On the phone, you told me you’d found Jesus,

that you never really lost him, just strayed,

made your way back,

and I should read my gospels,

all of them, Old Testament

and New, familiarize myself

with Daniel-you knew now

you named your son

after him.

You said you’d seen signs on the news,

the earthquake in Istanbul,

how the fault line in Turkey

originated in Jerusalem, where a mosque

stands heretically over the stone

of Abraham, and in Cape Town

some high force winds passed through.

No one had been expecting them.

The sound of running horses.

I asked, Was it a sirocco?

and you replied, Did you hear about this?

Before I could mention Grade 8 Geography,

you continued on to say the winds

had a Muslim place of origin, that

Jesus had talked about the Anti-Christ,

signs of his presence, how

you now believe this to be Mohammed,

and that all those following him

are being led away from God.

Jesus says it, you said, and Daniel.

It all matches up.

Distraught you couldn’t convince me, I tried

to ease your panic. Don’t worry, I said.

If Jesus does show himself

at the end, I’ll tell him

my sister was right all along.

I didn’t hear your reply.

Dolphins Don’t Blow Each Other Up

Front page article:

a South African scientist’s claim

that despite the large size

of their brains

underwater mammals

are not very smart.

He berates them for accepting

man-made borders, waxes on

about the greater number of ganglia

lesser of neurons

being more a sign of their capacity

for bearing ocean temperatures

than one of intelligence.

But do dolphins bicker

in front of offspring

or, at a party with friends,

find any opportunity

to cut each other

down

to

size?

Do they start wars

on pretence

alone?

Humans, hungry,

might jump through hoops for food.

I would do it for sex

or a day at the spa. And who is he, this

privileged scientist, that is above escaping

the narrow confines

of his own supposition.

© Julie Mahfood

---

Julie Mahfood lives near Montreal where she hosts WIRE, a quarterly reading series for Montreal’s West Island writers. She has been shortlisted in THIS Magazine’s 2008 Great Canadian Literary Hunt; her work has appeared in the Literary Review of Canada, The Antigonish Review, and others and as well on the CD DuBref Session 1: Spoken word anthology.

The Case for Literature. By Gao Xingjian. Yale University Press, 2006.

Gao Xingjian, playwright, novelist, essayist and painter born in eastern China and self-exiled in Paris, was named a Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres by the French government in 1992. In 2000 he went on to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. In the words of Mabel Lee, his translator, The Case for Literature, the title of Gao’s Nobel lecture and of this present book of essays, is a demonstration of “the intellectual and aesthetic dimensions of the thinking that informs Gao’s creative writings.” It is also precisely what the author claims it is: a plea for the centrality of literature as the “universal observation on the dilemmas of human existence and nothing is taboo”. Gao explains that “restrictions on literature are always externally imposed, by politics, society, ethics and customs, which set out to tailor literature into decorations for their various agendas.”

Gao’s thesis is deceptively simple. The writer is neither a hero nor an idol. Conversely, he is certainly not a criminal nor an enemy of the people. Literature “has to do battle with the subversive commercial values of consumerist society”. He reminds us that writers like Kafka and Cao Xueqin were never published in their lifetimes, that they lived mostly on the margins and seams of society, expecting neither recompense nor social approval. He also warns us against thinking that writers are prophets. In fact, he stresses the importance for the writer to live in the present, to cast off delusions and to shed light on his own self.

What has all this to do with the loss of human rights, the subject of this Montreal Serai issue? A lot. By the mere fact of living in a highly collectivized society, call it communist China, Confucian China or just plain racist and nationalistic China, the author suggests that he lost his freedom of expression, a most basic right in any humanistic society. Gao believes that a writer can only speak for himself and never for a group. He never decries political participation by the writer, but warns his readers that the only “responsibility a writer has is to the language he writes in.” In fact, he laments the tendency of societies to expect writers to be spokespersons for the dominant ideology. He very strongly believes that a writer should “return to being an ordinary person, born in original sin and without special privileges or powers, because this is the most appropriate position from which to observe the human world.”

A word about truth. For Gao, the search for truth can never be exhausted, and that search can take place through fact or fiction or a mixture of both. What matters is that “literature is a refuge for the free spirit and the last bastion of human dignity”.

Since this is a collection of essays, the content of this book does not add up to a cohesive whole. In “The Modern Chinese Language and Literary Creation”, Gao explains the difficulties involved in translating a highly dialectical language like Chinese which is contextual and includes calligraphy in its aesthetic sensibility into European languages which are Cartesian and hence clearer, but more limited. “Another Kind of Theatre” is an outstanding exploration of the meaning of theatre. “Theatre is action”, Gao says succinctly.

Towards the end of the book, in “The Voice of the Individual”, the author finally touches the subject of Chinese intellectuals and individual rights. In his opinion, before the 1911 revolution, China’s intellectual class was peopled by scholars or gentry who were only concerned with Confucian morality. Daoist intellectuals were oriented towards nature, hence non-action and Buddhist intellectuals, by striving for Nirvana, further eroded individualism. Individualism, posits Gao, is “a recent product of the rationalist traditions of Western Protestant culture and the subsequent flourishing of capitalism”. In the past Chinese intellectuals found it hard “to separate learning and literary creation from politics” and contemporary intellectuals continue to do so. In China, “There is still no guarantee of basic human rights such as freedom of speech, publishing and news reporting”. Gao urges writers to just try to save themselves instead of trying to save monolithic China, which is what he did by hiding in the forest for six months. He is also talking about himself when he says “Chinese intellectuals have suffered extreme hardship”. However, he carefully differentiates between true individualism and “a tragic belief in the supremacy of the individual”. For Gao, basic human rights involve limited freedom, since “responsibility and cooperation, respect and tolerance are necessary preconditions for realizing the will of the individual and the expression of the self in modern societies”.

Gao’s lapidary conclusion is that “the existence of literature” – and of writers- “depends on the writer’s willingness to endure loneliness.”

For information on writers imprisoned or exiled, from China or elsewhere, please consult: http://www.pencanada.ca
Maya Khankhoje is a Montreal-based short story writer, poet, essayist and reviewer. Her English translation of Paulina y la Golondrina Azul, (Paulina Wonders) by Carmen Cordero, was published last November in Madrid, Spain.