Rushdi Tamimi

Earlier today, Rushdi Tamimi, age 31, died of a bullet wound sustained on November 17 at a protest against the Israeli bombardment of Gaza in the West Bank village of Nabi Saleh. According to tweets from his cousin, Manal Tamimi, Israeli soldiers hit Rushdi repeatedly with rubber-coated steel bullets and, after he had fallen, shot him in the side with a live round. (For a more detailed and disturbing account, see this report.) Beginning just before the four-minute mark, the video above documents events that transpired after Rushdi was shot. He left behind one daughter, four years old. He was the brother of Neriman Tamimi, in whose home I stayed for several weeks in June and July of this past summer. Neriman’s husband, Bassem, has been confined to an Israeli prison since October 24. Rushdi was the second resident of Nabi Saleh to be killed in the last year, and the first Palestinian to die in the protests that have swept the West Bank since the Israeli assault on Gaza began last week. (Another, 22-year-old Hamdi al-Falah, was shot and killed in Hebron later in the day.) I did not know Rushdi, but I know Nabi Saleh well enough to understand how enormous and painful a loss this is for the entire village. My heart goes out to his family and to those who loved him. 


Ongoing moment of silence


O L.A., you foul temptress, I think I might even miss you.

I wanted to go to Los Angeles, but I knew no one there capable of organizing my meetings. The few German anarchists I had corresponded with in that city had advised me not to come. Certain of my lectures, especially the one on the sex question, they wrote, would militate against their work. I had almost abandoned the idea of Los Angeles when encouragement came from an unexpected quarter. A young man whom I knew as Mr. V., from New Mexico, offered to act as my manager. He was to be in Los Angeles in business, he informed me, and he would be glad to help me arrange one meeting. Mr. V., who was a fine Jewish type, at first attracted my attention at my lectures: he attended every evening and always asked intelligent questions. … He was a likable person and I agreed to have him organize one lecture.

In due time my “manager” wired me that all was ready. When I arrived, he met me at the station with a bunch of roses and took me to a hotel. It was one of the best in Los Angeles and I felt it inconsistent for me to put up at such a fashionable place; but Mr. V. argued that it was mere prejudice, a thing he had not expected from Emma Goldman. “Don’t you want the meeting to be a success?” he asked. “Of course,” I replied, “but what has it to do with me staying in expensive hotels?” “Very much,” he assured me; “it will help advertise the lecture.” “Such matters are not considered from that viewpoint in anarchist ranks,” I protested. “The worse for your ranks,” he retorted; “that’s why you reach so few people. Wait till the meeting; then we will talk.” I consented to remain.

The luxurious room he had reserved for me, filled with flowers, was another surprise. Then I discovered a black velvet dress prepared for me. “Is this going to be a lecture or a wedding?” I demanded of Mr. V. “Both,” he replied promptly, “though the lecture is to come first.”

He had rented one of the best theatres in town, and surely, my manager expostulated, I must understand that I could not appear in the shabby dress I had worn in San Francisco. Moreover, if I did not like the gown he had chosen, I could change it. It was necessary that I make the best possible showing on my first visit to Los Angeles, “But what interest have you in doing all this? I persisted. “You told me you are not an anarchist.”  “I’m on the road to being one,” he replied. “Now be sensible. You have agreed to have me as your manager, so let me manage this affair in my own way.” “Are all managers so solicitous?” I inquired. “Yes, if they know their business and they like their artists a little,” he said.

The following days the papers were full of Emma Goldman, “under the management of a wealthy man from New Mexico.” To avoid the reporters Mr. V. took me out for long walks and rides in the Mexican quarter of town, to restaurants and cafés. One day he induced me to accompany him to a Russian friend of his, who turned out to be the most fashionable tailor in town and who talked me into letting him take my measurements for a suit. On the afternoon of the lecture I found a simple but beautiful black chiffon dress in my room. Things appeared mysteriously, as in the fairy-tales my German nurse used to tell me. Almost every day brought new surprises, happening in a strange but unostentatious manner.

—from Emma Goldman, Living My Life*


*The events described in this passage took place in 1898.


Important weather update

These last few days the weather in my undisclosed location has been disconcertingly sunny. I wake up in the morning and there it is out the window, the sun, shining down at a slant through the eucalypti, making everything all golden and whatnot. And it stays there in the sky, hour after hour—such a beautiful day!—casting the same clear light on everything, not distinguishing between rock and clod and poison oak, without even the pretext of subtlety. In the evening it sets of course, but without any clouds to catch it: some mild pinkening, a moment’s redness, then poof, gone, ready for the next one. I went for a run yesterday, post-pinkening—and just so you know, I am running forever towards, never away, or perhaps, it is possible, I will admit, in circles, which is to say in both directions at once—and as I passed through a dismal sort of swampy hollow I felt a certain delicious chill on my legs, an emanation from the earth, a little whisper, and I knew, not that I know anything, but I knew and felt that the fog would be returning. And so, after a brief jaunt into civilization last night to view the national spectacle as it should be viewed, on several giant widescreen tvs at once (“B E L I E V E  I N  A M E R I C A,” CNN commanded—I can’t make this stuff up), I was pleased to see that the fog had returned. Old friend. I drove home through a cotton ball and was not scared but comforted. It’s still here, the fog is, playing peek-a-boo with hilltops, making trees and whole valleys disappear, winking, kissing, wandering, so much more playful than the sun.


Not that anyone's asking


Election Day Eve verse from Khlebnikov, just because:




I would rather

watch stars

than sign a death warrant.

I would rather hear flowers murmur

("It's him!")

when I'm out in the garden

than see a gun

shoot down a man

who wants to shoot me down.

Which is why I would never

be a governor.