post activist

is it real?

June is doused with salty water. Salty because the wind carries it from the sea, of the sweats from the humans, and some cries and heat. The internet is smooth, but I'm so sad. An iteration rendered from Anastasia Kubrak, perfectly mirrors the obscene technopolitical life we dwelling in. I know I know, there always somewhere lies a possibility that the internet is not so smooth. Infrastructure fails us trillions times. As you happen to be in an open field of a music festival, in a tram stuck in underground tunnel, or spontaneously in the Uni but eduroam seemingly out of service. If so and so, the internet is weak. It makes the grey sky more dull and miserable. But if you’re daydreaming, you see yourself live in a place where you can watch Love is Blind in the mountain. You doomscrolling till you see the first sliver of the sun emerging from the ridge. 5G everywhere, can’t escape. Same with the news, the good ones and the bad ones, you see they sail through submarine cables, mobilizing across continents, eventually landing like a dandelion on the field of a hippie music festival.

*

You post a statement.

First and foremost, in order to make a point on the internet, in response to the news— all kind of news, you need to showcase, to exhibit your position. Make it visible. It must be ostentatious, a tragic play always needs a martyr. Social media is your sanctuary. In there you’re protected, from the rabble, the dissonance, the imminent battles and the ongoing ones. The crowd comment under the sarcastic meme post about art, politics, and warfare. They repost it, sometimes yap or condemn. More times they expect, of institutions and pubic figures, accounts that have minimum 1k followers to post. Things like statements or open letter become handy, you make yourself really clear worldwide. But how wide can it be for profiles like mine only shows 260 followers? Now we start counting. On average every post I got ~60 likes, says the stats.

I saw somewhere on the internet that Doechii gave an acceptance speech on BET award, addressing the LA protest and the oppressed. She wore a bright cherry MIU MIU dress, “There are ruthless attacks that are creating fear and chaos in our communities in the name of law and order.” When we will finally start to communicate these things in real life? No one likes to say it out loud in a public space. The topic is censored by yourself and the people in power. Or you simply have other concerns back home. The agenda didn’t traverse with the internet so that general people care less about it.

At times, the grit operates differently on the safety net, where the comrades swarm; words filled with love and care, a utopia/ dystopia in every few seconds. The echo of love and care is so loud that I start to feel bad making such a point of something so terrible. It aches my body, the pictures and videos of the most atrocious and dehumanizing deeds. No matter how many likes on the statement people posted doesn’t help. I’m still sad, nothing alleviates. The statement is static, is dead, is inhuman until it is act upon, as the voices reach the air saturated with salt and humidity. The taste of sadness.

While posting statement on the social media cannot mitigate the condition of the suffering subjects, their minds and bodies, what does this act actually facilitate? Can we still call it activism when the activists are confronting the screens and the participants are essentially “the followers”? Who are we virtually speaking to? The algorithms?

*

I turned off my phone, my computer and stopped typing.

The statement for our team was ready. It was not perfect but hopefully everything we need is on the paper.

On the field of a hippie music festival, or alternative as my friend said, the cloud was aggregating. There’s a huge clump of ominous— almost like dust and dirt in the sky. I felt the moisture starts secreting above us. Some people from our group sticked the printed statement on the loudspeaker, several statements all in all, from us and from some performers. One person as the representative of our hosting team read it in front of the audience, bearing the immediate reaction and the look in their eyes. I have so much respect for those people who endure the pressure at the frontline, either on the streets or stage. Their voices are more infectious, more powerful than me. I clutched my hand at the front roll seat, listening, taking all the moments with me. There were an old couple getting up, but halting there for a bit. Some people came closer. Some just share the space and time with each other, breathing in the pre-stormy togetherness. Nothing dashing, photogenic. Literally there’s nothing to post for social media—and no need to. Later the music steeped in, breaking the still. All things started to move again. The drunk man kept wonky; the kids observed a terrarium on the floor; friends thronged under the tent to shelter from rain. The noise prevailed, we found ourselves again in a normal music festival.

I don’t remember their faces, their expressions— compassionate or despised, bored or attentive. I can’t even be certain about if we make anything different in the festival. If we really create a room for conversations? I was too scared to see, as a person who has different skin color, passport, and agency. Or the fatigue just washed away my memory. Making a point in real life, is no reassurance, no pat-in-the-back, no countable hearts. Situating yourself in front of someone and looking into their eyes is daunting, sometimes cruel, as it hurts feelings and divides things. But the colors of course is not only black and white, things can be in-between. A conversation will not happen when it’s single sided.

I remember a conversation I had with a person about the referendum of legalizing same-sex marriage in Taiwan. This was six years ago. Apparently we have different views. I debated so hard and tried to persuade. At last we were both red and sulky, agree to disagree. There was silence for a bit. Since we were in a car, couldn’t really stride out, two of us decided to move on after digesting everything. I assume she voted differently from me after all. The law was fortunately passed, and i’m glad having that conversation with her.

So many things have changed since, protests, elections, unseat petition…much more conversations were held along the way. I missed several whilst I am here as a foreigner. I feel sorry to my friends who fought for us; at the same time, how could I ask them to see and prioritize the urgency in West Bank through my post? I struggle in two social medias thus two realities. Yet, “We all deserve to live in hope and not in fear.” says Doechii again. Maybe moments like the small/ huge victory of legalization of same-sex marriage attest to those acts making; they are more tangible, much more bigger than myself. It is not exhibitionist, not for the sake of letting people know what you think. It is for the things that movable and changeable in the system. One line from Rosi Braidotti still engraved on my mind, said, the system can only be changed from within. After all, where can one escape to, really?

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