Quiet Activism

Civil war is raging in Syria, there are more refugees than ever, Britain is out of Europe, Trump is president. Environmental degradation is increasing at an exponential rate. 

David Bowie, Prince and Leonard Cohen died. As have Alan Rickman, Ronnie Corbett, Gene Wilder, Caroline Aherne and Victoria Wood- all were great comics and actors. 

There have been so many huge political and cultural shifts this year that have had effects on much of the world. And effects on me too. 

Every death of someone I respect but have never met makes me grieve a little. Every perceived death of cultural or political freedom makes me grieve a little. Every creative cul-de-sac makes me grieve a little. My greatest long-term worry is the destruction of the world's environment for human habitation and how this will affect my child and all others after me- this is the most serious problem the world has ever seen and most politicians display a wilful impotence for positive action. 

But grief provides a sense of impotence too, for me at least. Had Ruby not died I may have been more motivated into environmental activism, animal rights and political agitation- I was more politically active as a younger man although more politically conservative- but as I find myself moving harder to the left and towards libertarianism the older I get, the less motivated I am to be an activist. 

Or maybe this is semantics. Maybe I need a new definition of activism. My experiences have proved that only the most extrovert actions and the tiniest personal actions are the ones with greatest effect. I don't have the drive for large political actions any more- I rarely attend rallies and marches, I don't tear down posters, scream at police or conciously encourage discord- but instead I try to contribute a thousand tiny actions all pointing in the same direction to facilitate harmony. My grief has filtered out all the extraneous bullshit and the time-wasting shouting and has crystallised the importance everyday personal actions.

In short, I do what I can. And what I can do in the face of nationalism disguised as patriotism, or xenophobia disguised as border control, or exclusivity disguised as personal defence is not to shout as loudly as I can but instead live ideally, to persistently express ideas of equality across our differences and with a thousand tiny acts of tenderness. Seeds sewn often take root. 

As has been noted elsewhere, fascism doesn't arrive in jackboots with a shaved head, it arrives smiling as a friend. And when good people smile back and stare at fascists square in the eyes, fascists avert their gaze. I don't want to define myself by what I am not (atheist, anti-fascist) but by what I am- a humanist and a human trying their best. Scarred maybe, forever a little bruised and sometimes more delicate and more anti-social than I look. But I am tough and flexible and I am driven by hope and by love.