A Decent Place to Live

A while ago, I attended a Drag King show in Barcelona that opened with words akin to this: "We dedicate this show to the ongoing massacre in Palestine."

A wave of bitter sadness washed over the audience. People perish under bombs in hospitals –their bodies torn apart after already weakened by illness. Mothers give birth anywhere, and instead of breastfeeding their children, they get infected with deadly bacteria; children suffer from starvation, and those who don't suffer from it have already died of hunger; men are denied the right of fear, even those with already missing body parts. Some sleep on filthy streets every night. Palestine remains distant; citizens from other latitudes are too far away to smell the burning flesh.

The drag show began. I lost my train of thought. The notion of false masculinity lingered, hinting at a deeper truth: perhaps it's through embracing the theatrical that we uncover the essence of genuine masculinity –one that serves not to dress with but to embody. Palestine is erased. I keep the word “massacre” in my mind a little longer and imagine a carpet stained with blood, then I remember Kubrick’s The Shinning, the eerie twins, and that's how I forget that massacre is an indiscriminate slaughter of innocent people. And that's how I forget that people are being killed in Palestine.

Near my home, a bookstore showcases random phrases about the war in Palestine. At my university, Palestinian flags flutter. We deliver impassioned presentations on unrelated topics and dedicate them to Palestine or the war in Ukraine (rarely will we talk about wars in Africa, Asia, or Latin America, nor dedicate anything to them). I know I frequent the right places, yet I'm overwhelmed by what feels like turbulence.

At first, I'm bothered by the disconnect between a drag show and the war on Palestinian soil. Lonely phrases seem to melt away into saliva. I wanted to shout at them, the drags and the audience, "More must be done! A mere dedication falls short!" I shout a little to myself, too; I should be doing more (I think of a poem I'd like to write about naming things for the first time).

Then time happens benevolently, granting me a moment of clarity. No individual or collective effort will be enough until the war ceases, until the tears dry, until peace prevails. That’s a hard pill to swallow: no effort will be enough until the goal is achieved. We shouldn’t pat ourselves on the back for mediocre efforts or avoid using the worn-out word “enough," which hurts us so much when we lose perspective and seek the comfort of maternal affection.

We must take to the streets, attend gatherings, foster dialogue, and share curated knowledge in cafes and social media platforms. Collectively, we can hold each other accountable, keep track, and remind one another  –when some get distracted, and others forget– what kind of life we are living and the history we are shaping. We are pushing a large rock uphill, just like Sisyphus, only to watch it fall irreversibly and then push it again. However, each time we reach the peak, we gain perspective. When we return to the starting point, we remember our struggle. The paths we take resemble each other but are not the same. The large rock we push loses stones along each route.

"Freedom is a constant struggle," Angela Davis wrote. Freedom is about endurance. Wrong and facile logic abounds –like equating Hamas with the government led by Putin or treating calling out the state of Israel or the Zionists as anti-Semitic. It's an act of generosity, both towards ourselves and others, to approach any matter or relationship with compassion, but never with self-indulgence. Identity may be forged through activism –as supporters of Palestine's freedom– but it's a secondary gain. Reflecting on life, a process of observation and adaptation, marks the first step towards meaningful change. But no big changes are achieved with one single step.

There's always more to be done. Perhaps we need more platforms for dialogue, more opportunities to delve into complex issues beyond surface-level discussions. We must confront the perpetrators who shield themselves as the children of those who were victims. Perhaps we should reevaluate our daily actions to ensure they don't inadvertently support oppression (list of companies that have supported the state of Israel), and perhaps we must stop simply being comfortable with our perspectives. Each of us does what we can with what we have, and while comparison may be tempting, it only diminishes our collective efforts.

Dedicating a few fleeting words to the ongoing genocide before a satirical play, at least at first glance, seems less than enough. Initial reactions can be misleading, as there might be much to reflect on given the myriad of possible connections between masculinity as an oppressive mechanism and the state of Israel as a perpetrator. A drag king performer reminds me that a Friday night in Barcelona, the beautiful, is also a Friday night of slaughter in Palestine. Let's remind each other of history. Such effort is not enough, but it's valuable, which is more meaningful than enough, because it's not meant to be measurable.

We may not have experienced war at firsthand, but injustice concerns us all because there is no decent place to live until we all live in peace.

El derecho de vivir en paz, by Víctor Jara addresses the Resistance War Against America, also known as the Vietnam War. The singer-songwriter dies at the hands of Pinochet's regime in Chile.