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| This writer and a friend remapping the streets of New York City, creating Sacco and Vanzetti Square. |
Books reviewed in this essay:
Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor
From #BlackLivesMatter to Black Liberation, Haymarket Books, 2016LA Kauffman Direct Action: Protest and the Reinvention of American Radicalism, Verso 2017LB Bogad, Tactical Performance: The Theory and
Practice of Serious Play, Routledge, 2016Eric Laursen The People’s Pension, The Struggle To Defend Social
Security Since ReaganAK Press, 2012Stevphen
Shukaitis,Compsition
of Movements to Come: Aesthetics and Cultural Labour After the Avant-Garde, Roman and Littlefield, 2015invisible
committee to our friends semiotext(e),
2015Kelly Cogswell, My
Life as a Lesbian Avenger, University of Minnesota Press, 2014Gregory Woods, Homintern How Gay Culture Liberated the
Modern World Yale University Press, 2016Alexander
Nehamas On Friendship. Basic Books, 2016
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| Rebel Friends in action through time, from the CUNY Professional Staff Congress, to queer salons, Lesbian Avengers, to Freedom Riders. |
“It was
the best time of my life,” you hear the lament over and over throughout the
stories people tell about their experiences with the Freedom Riders and subsequent movements. Some reflect with a sense of satisfaction; others
with a feeling of loss for the kinship networks that dispersed after movements ended.
Others can’t bear to recall what
happened, ambivalent about the campaigns that got away, the wars and
corporations they were not able to stop, victories which eluded them, their
dreams interrupted by the alarm clocks of reality. To make sense of these complicated sensations,
many write, reflecting on their trials, conflicts, victories, lost
opportunities, the friendships they made.
Along the way, social movements ebb and flow. As some wane, others arrive,
picking up pieces of the old, adding their own chapters. And inevitably, new stories, programs,
policies, and even a few books take shape. These social ties – extending solidarity
– help us connect movements, lives and struggles.
A current of radical friendship and love runs
through these efforts. Here, people act
up about what is wrong together; they sing, get arrested, tweet and take care
of each other. Doing so, they engage in
a distinct practice of friendship. For writer,
Cody Charles this is:
Through the process, we do great things. In Gay Men’s Friendships,
Peter Nardi argues such friendships offer a nexus between individual and
community experience, linking peoples’ lives with larger social forces. Over
time, these radical networks create their own collective mythologies and
culture tales, which influence each other, creating still more stories and
scholarship. This small essay considers a some of this ever evolving world of
activist-scholarship. Part
autobiographical, this review essay assesses some of the recent literature that
has shaped, informed, or come out of the activism of the recent movements and
the feedback loop that creates. Some
of these books impact movements; others reflect the stories of movements and
friendships which changed their lives, relating conversations about networks,
protests, performances, and constellations of ideas forcing our democracy to
contend with ideas – from anarchism to AIDS, environmentalism to Black Lives
Matter.
Like those
in many of those in the books here, I have long taken inspiration from the collectives
I’ve been in or am currently a part of; some are reading groups, organized
around salons where we share ideas. Most
of my books grow out of these collectives, their stories, conflicts, and affinity
groups that have met during jail support or afterward to talk about what happened,
where we went wrong, what we did right, what we’re going to read, build, protest,
or plan next.
One of the more highbrow groups I participate
in is Stanley Aronowitz’s Institute for the Radical Imagination. Over my three years in this group, we’ve all
shared a conversation taking us from autonomous Marxism to deconstruction,
through a dialectic of race and class, and back to questions about political
economy and Nietzsche. Last Saturday, we
met for four hours. It can be
long. So afterwards or even during our
meetings, I usually ride off, the stories from our texts - Singh’s Black is a Country or Du Bois’ Black Reconstruction
in America - lingering as I make my way to speak outs at Rikers Island,
garden, biking events, and protests over aggressive policing, incarceration and
profiling of outsiders.
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| What would Baldwin think? |
In between Institute for the Radical Imagination sessions on
historical materialism, a few anti-consumer activists and I started the Activist Informed Reading Group. For a year now, we’ve discussed novels and
essays related to questions from the Black Lives Matter Movement. We started with Ta-Nehisi Coats’ Between the World and Me. But we adored Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, Richard Wright’s Invisible Man, and Audre Lord’s Sister
Outsider. Each seemed to offer a
glimpse of far away so close grief, an estrangement still resonating with us
today: “It must be remembered that the oppressed and the oppressor
are bound together within the same society,” Baldwin writes in Notes of a Native Son, confessing his
ambivalence about identity in our reading for next Saturday. After his father died, Baldwin reflects, “I had been away from home for a little
over a year. In that year I had had time to become aware of the meaning of all
my father's bitter warnings…I had discovered the weight of white people in the
world. I saw that this had been for my ancestors and now would be for me an
awful thing to live with and that the bitterness which had helped to kill my
father could also kill me. ...”
As
we met, read and acted up, waves of mass protests over the deaths of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and many others pulled us into
an age old conversation. Black Lives Matter
brought generations of bodies into the streets, ideas clashing and melding. With roots in the Black Power Movement, the
milieu that inspired Baldwin, and even Occupy, Black Lives Matter expanded this
dialog, among “kinship” networks, as well as strangers supporting ever
expanding pickets, rallies, and tweets about a dirty secret of institutional
racism and income inequality, exposing them for the whole world to see,
activists essentially screaming “don’t kill me.” The Black Panthers were formed to hold the
police accountable. Doing so, members
read Marx and built a program, something Elaine Brown suggests is lacking in Black Lives
Matters. Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor’s From #BlackLivesMatter to Black
Liberation builds
on and extends this conversation about liberation, public space,
policing and race. “Today, though, the
face of the Black Lives Matter movement is largely queer and female,” argues
Taylor (p. 165).
This, of course, is a point, echoed
throughout the texts covered in this review essay, particularly LA Kauffman’s
work tracing the influences of queer and feminist thinking, transforming activism
and movements wide and far. “This
resurgence of disruptive direct action in people-of-color-led movements didn’t
start in Ferguson,” writes Kauffman, citing
precedents including the Republican Convention protests in Philadelphia in
2000, the massive immigrant rights marches of 2006 and the summer 2013
acquittal of George Zimmerman for the killing of Trayvon Martin in Florida. “But
it’s the tenacious young black organizers on the frontlines in Ferguson, many
of them women, who clearly deserve the most credit for the scale and character
of this nationwide upsurge. Their risk-taking in the face of the tear gas,
rubber bullets, and military gear of the police there—and their strategic use
of social media to broadcast their message and methods—have transformed
grassroots protest in the United States. In both Ferguson and New York, the
protests have been decentralized, with different groups and organizers taking
the lead at different points.”
The example is not without precedent. Women in ACT UP, Ella Baker in
SNCC, have long cultivated and supported multi-issue, U.S. social movements,
even in the face of substantial opposition. This through line informs activism
in countless ways. We see it in Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor’s efforts to
connect MLK’s prophetic words and questions, with compelling street actions in
which people come together, share righteous rage, a little solidarity, care,
and friendship. And certainly it is
never easy to write a book about a movement still continuing in cities across
the country. Taylor’s response to Martin
Luther King’s Testament of Hope from 1969 reminds us that movements are bundles
of stories, building on each other’s narratives: “I am not sad that black
Americans are rebelling; this was not only inevitable but eminently desirable.
Without this magnificent ferment among Negroes, the old evasions and
procrastinations would have continued indefinitely.…”
writes King. “They have
left the valley of despair; they have found strength in struggle; and whether
they live or die, they shall never crawl nor retreat again. Joined by white allies,
they will shake the prison walls until they fall.” King’s words resonate across
cohorts, connecting all of us. “America must change.” I remember hearing them
as a kid, watching the Jefferson’s sit coms, and reading about them today.
After the Staten Island grand jury chose not
to charge the policeman who strangled Eric Garner death, I recall receiving
text messages about where the movement was taking place. I was going meet everyone after teaching my
policy class. “It’s at the FDR,” the
texts explained. That is a huge freeway, I assumed they meant beside the
freeway. “It is on the freeway,” one of my friends texted back. So I rode my bike. Two young activists I had never met helped lift
my bike up, giving me a hand up onto the highway, where as far as I could look
in either direction, bodies filled the freeway. It was like that for days. I’d hear screams and protests and arrests
outside the Brooklyn Bridge where I was teaching, only to get out, and join the
beautiful spectacle of bodies filling the streets to remind the world that
something terribly was and people were not going to just go along to get along.
Walking, I saw people I’d seen out at similar rallies in New York since Abner
Louima was sodomized by the police in 1997, Amadou Diallo was shot for pulling
out his wallet in 2000, and Rodney King watched the group of police who beat
him as he sat facing the ground, let off free in Los Angeles in 1992. Daily
protests followed these moments, each striking in their exposure of a lingering
wound that just doesn’t seem to be going away.
In the streets, I’ve seen activists unarrest participants, shifting
public discourse, and policy around criminal justice. For much of that night on the FDR, I marched
with the Treveon Martin Organizing Committee, who framed their efforts in terms
of friendship and affinity among equals:
“We are meeting in streets, corners, bridges and highways
daring to take back what is ours. And we will not leave one of ours behind. We
will not leave our friends, comrades or lovers in the hands of the white
supremacist police state. People have de- arrested people before us, and we
will continue this tradition. We envision a world where the police are
abolished and will live this dream by manifesting it in the present and that
means delegitimizing the police and state at every chance we get. Our desire
burns today’s empires into tomorrow’s ashes. We are not the first and we will
not be the last. We are numerous. We are the future and the now. We are here.
We can’t stop. Won’t stop.”
Much of the abundance of the movements grows from a sense of
radical love, a commitment to forge ahead.
Each rally is a bit of a meeting, extending a conversation. Some days,
we meet in the streets, others in community gardens, or Grand Central Terminal,
or a bike ride or even a living room to discuss a book, plan an action or share
a meal. The best of the writing about movements we read in the salons involves
activists who are able to mix theory, history, their observations and a jigger
of narrative to describe the world’s problems and movements, reflecting on the
lessons of their experiences. It is a
particular joy when activists I have known through these years have come out
with new books which help explain it all.
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| LAK at OWS Sandy. 2012. |
LA
Kauffman’s book Direct Action:
Protest and the Reinvention of American Radicalism comes out early next
year. I’ve been reading her essays for
years now. It’s amazing to finally seen
the come together, spinning between the anti-war movement to ACTUP, Global
Justice to Occupy. This work’s origin is worth discussing in itself. Kauffman started drafting this story in the
early 1990s in San Francisco. With each
wave of movements, she added a chapter, connecting current struggles with long
forgotten efforts, such as the long
forgotten Mayday actions 1971 when activists filled the jails of Washington DC. The Seattle direct actions of 1999 forced a
whole rewrite. Kauffman’s writing about the links between social movements,
connecting seemingly dispersant lines between Earth First in Oregon and the
Community Gardens of the Lower East Side, the queer and feminist organizing with
the Alter-globalization movement inspired us those of us who knew Kauffman in
the Lower East Side Collective and the Anti-War Movement of the early 2000s. With each wave of street actions Kauffman took
part in, her book grew larger. She
blogged out it, published chapters and interviews in countless books, including
mine, and the story seemed to grow. But
the text never quite came out. And for a while there, her famous direct action
book started to feel akin to Joe Gould’s secret oral history of the world that
never quite saw the light of day. At some point after the Iraq war mobilization,
Kauffman finally put down the manuscript and stopped talking about it.
But in the last couple of years,
she started posting ideas about her book again.
She helped organize the successful
plan to force New York City to do away with plans to turn the Mid-Manhattan
Library into a condo. And she started writing again connecting Black
Lives Matter with a long conversation about radical activism, feminism,
questions about what happened to the American left
after the Sixties and the movements from which it grew. LA Kauffman posits:
Reflecting on the years of movements and drafts of the book, Kauffman explains: "The emergence of the movement for black lives brought the whole story together. In the end, the longer that I worked on the book, the shorter it became -- it's a distillation of all those years of thinking, reporting, and organizing."
Finally,
some two plus decades after it started, Kauffman’s book has a due date with
Verso. Connecting the uses of
direct-action blockades, occupations, and campaigns of recent activist
movements as laboratories for experimentation and renewal, she traces the
evolution of disruptive protest over the last 40 years to tell a larger story
about the reshaping of American radicalism.
Her history showcases the voices of key players as social movements
shifted from class to identity to multi issue based organizing, from ACT UP to
Occupy Wall Street to Black Lives Matter.
Direct Action is the most compelling of movement narratives.
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| Bogad and Shepard in action, fighting for CUNY, back in the day. Photo by Andrew Boyd! |
Kauffman’s
organizing with the Lower East Side Collective, the Absurd Response to an
Absurd War, and the Library Lovers drew in countless cohorts of activists,
inspiring us over and over. Along the
way, we produced our own stories, which Kauffman supported. Several practitioners from our old Anti War
Action Group, have published new books in recent years. LM Bogad was one of leading performers in
this short lived affinity group which brought questions about the absurd into
the anti-war movement in 2002 and 2003. His work, Tactical Performance: The Theory and Practice of Serious Play
traces questions about efficacy, theory, and performance he’s long contemplated
as a scholar, performer and practitioner. Full of photos and accounts actions and pranks,
Tactical Performance is a manifesto
of mirth. Bogad is perhaps the only
activist I know who can make issues of debt relief, government surveillance,
and even foreclosures on homes, sources for both humor and interrogation. He’s quick to point out the uses of humor to
take down bullies, as opposed to those without power. The book includes stories of his performances
with his affinity groups from Reclaim the Streets, the Billionaires, the Absurd
Response, the Clandestine Rebel Clown Army, the Oil Enforcement Agency, Yes
Men, La Pocha Nostra, and even as a student carrying the weight of the US
military on his shoulders, with a little support from this writer. Carrying a six-foot-long paper Mache bomb
through Tompkins Square Park before a demo, we saw the police watching us. “Get
the bomb out of the park,” the police loudspeaker warned us. Walking, at first we thought the warning was
for real. Then we saw the cops
smiling. And we smiled. Later at the demo, Bogad spoke with the
police, finding common cause while breaking lines between street activists, the
police and our competing storylines. For
Bogad, this simple street performance amounted to a dialectical clash between a
theater of dominance and a theater of liberation. Yet, even the police seemed to appreciate our
act. Bogad’s ethnographic consideration
of the workings of these groups is telling and thoughtful, critical and
supportive.
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| Bogad in action. |
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| Bogad's books. |
Part of
the surprise of knowing the activists, is being able to see them frame their
stories and programs in innovative ways. For example, I would have never thought of
Social Security as a topic for a renowned New York anarchist. Yet, this is exactly what happened with Eric
Larsen’s The People’s Pension. In the same way Bogad and Kauffman build
on the workings of affinity groups to frame their studies, Eric Larsen molds his
history of Social Security in terms of a conversation about mutual aid. Larsen, a friend from New York, worked with this
writer, Bogad, Kauffman and the others in the anti-war movement. Much of the time we were doing this, a
smaller group of us used to meet at the Odessa, a dingy café in Avenue A, to
talk about the writing projects we were involved with and read each other’s’
stuff. Drinking coffee together in a squatted
school house in the East Village, sharing meals, reading drafts of our stories,
we connected activist narratives with broader questions about the world and
movements in constant flux. David Graeber, then at Yale, would drop by, sharing
drafts of his ethnographies on Madagascar and the Direct Action Network in New
York City. Stevphen Shukaitis used to come,
bringing the notes for projects on Autonomous Marxism and aesthetics that would
later take the shape as his book The
Composition of Movements to Come, Aesthetics and Cultural Labour After the
Avant-Garde, his new book. How does
the avant-garde create spaces that subvert regimes of economic and political
control, he asked. How do art, aesthetics and activism inform struggles over
everyday life in movements? In between
our own books, we renamed streets in New York City for the anarchists
Sacco and Vanzetti, read Emma Goldman’s
books, discussed commodity fetishes, and watched movies, such as René Viénet's 1973 Situationist film "Can
Dialectics Break Bricks?" Outside,
the movements we cared about were evolving and shifting, from alterglobization
to antiwar and so on.
And Eric Larsen told us
about his ever expanding study of Social Security. It was hard to imagine how
such a project fit into a salon about anarchism, but Larsen offered a grounding
rational for the project, suggesting Social Security’s roots could be traced
“back decades, to European anarchist and socialist pioneers who extracted the
idea of social insurance from the practice of mutual aid and to reformers who
created the first US worker’s compensation laws during the Progressive Era,”
(p.21). Created through the mobilized
efforts of Progressive Era Reformers, the social program which began the US
welfare state, “embodied the tension between the desire to create a society
founded on the principle of mutual aid and another set of priorities, the same
ones that had already motivated other industrialized countries to establish
social insurance programs,” (p.21).
Social Security offered the sprout of a Socialist future planted in a capitalist
present when we were not sure this system would survive.
Like the
friendship networks traced throughout the other movements in this story, Larsen
sees social security as a public commitment from one cohort to another, a way
of expanding mutual aid across generations.
It is a model that embodies a faith that we can all look out for each
other. We can share resources, barter,
and care about an I and a thou. To
describe the program, Larsen looks to the work of Thomas Paine, who, “proposed a
rudimentary system of economic security in his 1797 pamphlet, Agrarian Justice,”
(p. 13). While Paine’s concept did not
take off, the idea never quite went away. “[S]omething similar was gestating in
Europe, in the minds of such figures as the French anarchist Pierre-Joseph
Proudon, who didn’t envision government being involved, and German socialist
Ferdinand Lasselle, who did. Both saw
social insurance as a way to take localized or occupationally-based mutual aid
networks that had existed for hundreds of years and expand them to the national
level… it would help bring about a transformation of society along cooperative
lines,” (p.13).
Still, the
experiment became law in August of 1935, ebbing and surviviugn through the
century. Truman expanded it. Conservatives attacked it. It survived Reagan’s “reform” of the program
and Clinton’s efforts to “end welfare as we know it.” When I
first started talking with Larsen about this, President Bush had put his sites
on privatizing the program. But the
proposal went nowhere. And Laursen kept
on writing. By the time his work came
out, the Obama administration was negotiating with Republicans to reduce the
program to almost nothing. The idea of collective
cooperation at the foundation of the program, remain wildly popular. Today, supports argue that Social
Security should be expanded to reach more, and take care of new cohorts of
retirees.
At the heart of such
thinking is mutual aid. This is an idea movements have been organizing and
supporting for ages. Never perfect, this idea grows from self-organization among
cohorts of like minded peers.
One of my favorite books
from the Activist Informed Reading Group was the invisible committee’s recent
opus, To Our Friends. An homage to freedom, friendship, and
autonomy, this work helps explain why mutual aid still matters, expanding on
the insurrectionary possibilities of pleasure, the power of our own invisible
committees. After all, “To become a revolutionary is to assign oneself a
difficult, but immediate, happiness,” (p. 237).
This thinking grows out of movements of strangers meeting, connecting, challenging
social mores, powers and principalities.
For these anonymous authors “Writing is a vanity, unless its for the
friend. Including the friend one doesn’t
know yet…” (p.238-9). In this way, an
Eros effect expands.
This is an idea expanding across movements. Sarah Schulman once argued that
the goal of the Lesbian Avengers was to get their members girlfriends. The point of queer movements was to create
their own script. Kelly Cogswell’s new memoir, Eating Fire: My Life as a Lesbian Avenger, seems to embody such
thinking, offering funny observations about street life in queer New
York. Take an afternoon from the fall of
1989. “I was on my way home to get a
falafel after class at NYU when I got caught up in a shocking mob of drag
queens all dressed up as the pope and his cardinals with enormous red hats and
robes. There was also her courtiers with
giant wigs and sequins,” (p. 20). Spanning the
twenty years from the Culture Wars through the War on Terror, Cogswell captures
the feeling of a starting a new world, as participation in a group of Lesbian Avengers changes her life
and the culture around her. She endures
hour upon hour of excruciating meetings, finds true love, several times,
chronicling ups and downs before the group implodes. This is a story about friends, fights and
efforts to create a wonderful abundance of liberatory bodies in space dovetailing
between ACT UP and upswing of the global justice movements.
Through these movements, friendship informed new ways
of thinking. As ACT UP veteran Jay
Blotcher confesses. “I didn't have a manifesto
guiding my maiden voyage into the turbulent waters of activism; I made it up as
I went along. Unwittingly, I was echoing the experience of comrades of decades
before. The friendships and sexual connections powered the political passion.”
And gradually, the world changed, as the culture became a
little queerer. At least this is the
contention of Gregory
Woods’ fascinating work Homintern How Gay
Culture Liberated the Modern World.
The author is frank to confess he looks to novels as evidence to trace a
distinct story about queer people, their dramas, stories, salons, and beat hotels
where everyone crashed in Paris. From Oscar Wilde to the gay liberation era, Woods
considers a period in which increased visibility made acceptance of
homosexuality one of the measures of modernity. “The paederasts are beginning
to count themselves and find that they make up a power in the state,” the
author quotes Friedrich Engels in a letter to Marx on the 22nd of
June 1869, in a rebel friendship like few others. They may not be organized,
but “the victory cannot fail to arrive for them,” Engels continues (p.1). “My
right and left arms round the sides of two friends” wrote Walt Whitman, whose poetry
impacted Marx. “All the hands of
comrades clasping…” (p.1). The two
friends – Marx and Engels - seemed to understand the potent force of
comradeship, injecting this sensibility into left wing discourse (“Workers of
the world unite!”) (p.2). One step up, two steps back, the Oscar Wilde trails
reverberated throughout the next century.
Nonetheless, queers quietly met, organized salons, made art, shared
ideas, and created families of choice - often in secret. Cyril Connolly and his
group of queer writers, including W H Auden, tongue and cheekily dubbed their network
of gay artists, the “international homosexual conspiracy”, the “Homitern,”
referring to the Comitern, the Communist International organized by Lenin in
1919. But some did notice. British
critic, Valentine Cunningham worried about the “guarded coteries bonded by
shared private codes” among Auden’s friends, bemoaning the “private passions”
of this “magic homosexual circle” (p.14-15).
Still, the world was changing. “The queer is the artistic arbiter of our
age, chum. The pervert is the top guy now,” Wade warns Marlowe in Raymond
Chandler’s The Long Goodbye (p.29).
Their secret society of comrades was changing things. Throughout Homitern, Woods reminds us that theater
counts; what happens in cabarets matters.
Aesthetics changes things.
Conflict shifts ideas. Actions
create reactions, even when the remains leave lives in ruins. Zigging and zagging from Harlem in the 1910s
to 1920s Paris, 1930s Berlin, 1950s New York, between Giovani’s Room and the
Cabaret, Homitern offers a pulsing
portrait of twentieth-century gay culture which seemed to change everything.
This is Kaufman’s point, expanded through Woods’ narrative.
A subtext of these stories
is, of course, friendship. To this end, Alexander Nehama’s On
Friendship considers the workings of the process, the fights we
have, the conflicts, the ways we grieve the losses, make meaning of, and handle
our connections. To introduce his study Nehamas reflects on
the workings of a group of high school friends, who’ve met and stayed in touch,
shared drinks, and evenings over literally decades of conversations, their long
term engagement having an “all embracing effect on the shape of their lives.” Over time Nehamas came to see, “that these people are who they have
come to be at least in part (and it is a large part) because of their
friendship, even when motivated by a desire to a common past, is also crucial
in forging a different future” (p.3). Still,
some topics and social mores would be broached.
These underlying dynamics, schisms and contradictions are the subject of
his study of philosophy of friendship. We all have friendships.
We value them. They are born, we
enjoy them, and conflicts arise.
Sometimes we handle them and deepen the relationship and sometimes a
breach is never reconciled; they just fade away and we despair. And loneliness takes hold. From the very beginning, Nehamas is open
about his misgivings. “We forget as well as the grief that comes with the end
of a friendship. We ignore the fact that
friendships, even good friendships, can sometimes be quite harmful,” confesses Nehamas. “Even the best of friendships sometimes conflict with the
morally right thing to do- when loyalty to a friend, for example, takes
precedence over discharging one’s duty to others. Friendship... has a double face,” (p.6). A
theme of my interviews on friendships involves the lingering sentiment of those
who feel like they are let down or left behind by their friends. We do not know
much about how they work or why they break down. So, Nehamas looks to the philosophers, tracing
writing about the subject from Aristotle to Emerson. Friendship is central
ingredient of a well lived life, offering an image of who we are what we might
become. This is a space where we connect our lives with much larger stories and
social forces.
Friendship is a vital
part of the movements and stories traced throughout these narratives. But so
are so many other stories. So lets go
out, take one of these books along, and add a new chapter in this ever evolving
question about how we live, experience democracy, reclaim the commons, expand mutual aid and answer questions about who we are. Through these social ties we can keep an eye on who is being targeted, fight back, put on our stars, look out for each other, remember and care. We are all in together after all. We are all in it together. We need each other after all.
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| The Holocaust in the Netherlands: Anti Jewish Measures (1942) |
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