Mosaïc

The silhouette sits facing me, or at least I think he – or she, or it – is facing me. Its face is a mirage, something hovering at the edge of recognition. Many features and voices have merged to form a very human voice, yet it is impossible to pinpoint who it belongs to specifically. It belongs to all the people I have shared fragments of the following conversation with, in different times and places.

“This village lives as a community,” it says. “Look at the children in the streets, everyone is educating them, playing with them, playing their part in their education. Look at this woman: she cannot walk, and the sand in the streets prevents her from using a wheelchair. Neighbors carry her around; the villagers are her legs.”

I focus on a small crowd of children running after a ball, their bare feet burning the scorching sand. Other children, slightly older, are pulling carts and carrying bottles of coca-cola dripping with condensation. Everyone addresses anyone by name; I hear screams across the sandy lane for a slow neighbor to get out of the way.

“It seems there are no strangers,” I say. “It looks idealistic: one big family making sure no one is left behind. But I think that there is a darker side to this coin.”The figure waits for me to continue, preparing its first surprising answer. It will be the first but not the last response taking root in deep cultural differences.

“Gossip,” I say, “almost no personal space or privacy.”

The silhouette nods, both in agreement and disagreement. It is a motion one can only achieve when lacking a face.

“Gossip is good, though,” it says. “It is the glue between these people. As for privacy, it is the price to pay for the advantages and security of a community.”

Music is playing in the background, volume cranked at its maximum. It is a perfect illustration of selfish selflessness: someone sharing music with neighbors that do not have speakers; someone not caring about anyone’s need for sleep.

“Community living is trendy in some social circles in Switzerland,” I say. “Some people see the typical western, family-oriented, isolated way of living as a misstep. They also use anti-capitalistic arguments that do not particularly touch me.”

“That is different,” the figure says, quite roughly. “We have those communities here as well: middle and upper class from Sao Paulo leaving the city for the alternative lifestyle. They have big ideas but forget about all the difficulties that it entails. This village is a community because it is the only way no one goes hungry. But it does not mean they must like each other or be nice to one another. It is a family, not an ideal family. Perhaps not even a happy one. The gringos have one or two of these communities as well – the idealistic Sao Paulo ones, I mean – you would not believe the drama that goes on below the surface. If things are going according to plan, they are all about sharing. If feeding the neighbor means eating less, they forget about any pretty ideals they had in the first place. It is only a true community if you share the suffering as well as the dreams.”

The gringos: a word I used to laugh at; a word I have slowly grown to dislike. It designates anyone from a western, first-world country: Australians, Spanish or Canadians are gringos.

“Does it bother you that I am a gringo?”

“No. You do not make me feel – unlike the French couple we ate with yesterday – like an exotic being.”

I recall the uneasy situation. I understand exactly what the silhouette is describing: a similar feeling that a woman must feel when her male companion is asked about the car that belongs to her.

I gather some courage. I might provoke the faceless silhouette that already seems susceptible as it is.

“I agree yesterday was absurd. I also think Brazil has an unhealthy relationship towards the gringos. I perceive two poles and no middle ground, and that is rarely a good thing. Europe is either idealized because of its economy and security; or spat upon for its role in history. It is either a paradise or a bully, it is rarely seen as a continent.”

“Well, it is a bully.”

“And Brazil has vicious crime and votes for populist politicians. Yet it is so much more. Europe is not immune to these simplifications: for many, Brazil fits into two or three adjectives. Dangerous, Carnaval, plastic surgery. I am pointing out that this problem goes both ways. Some comments could be considered racist against the gringo. And before you mention it, I know dangerous was the only adjective in my list.”

The figure shakes its head. I sense it is angry. I also sense it is not an anger that shuts doors but rather one that is open to be understood. Our trust, respect and admiration for the other’s way of thinking and judging enables uneasy exploring. We know our provocation comes from curiosity, not with the goal to harm.

“There is no racism against the white. Only unhealthy prejudice.”

“Isn’t that a sentence along the lines of I am not racist, but…?”

“No: racism is systemic, prejudice is personal.”

I take note of its point of view, make mine up, and choose not to share it. I decide that for me there is no systemic racism against the gringo, but there is personal racism against the gringo. I smile inertly at all the outrage this comment would provoke if spoken out loud, or worse: written down.

The silhouette continues:

“You know – like the rest of the world – how horrible the slave market was in the United States. It seems it is all they can talk about. I bet very few know that ten times more slaves were deported to Brazil, because the mortality rate was too high. Livestock wasn’t given the time to reproduce naturally, so they needed to import continuously.”

I shake my head; I did not know that. It is the most un-fun fun-fact that I have learnt in months.

“It is interesting that you make this comparison, though,” I finally choose to say. Down the rabbit hole we go… once again. Like a rebel character in an unpublished book, I am toying with a dangerous line. “You seem to criticize the US, as we also do in Europe. Ah, well, North Americans are dumb. It would hit differently if I had said Brazilians are dumb.”

“If you criticize the bully, you are a rebel. If you criticize the underdog, you are a bully.”

I must agree to this. It continues:

 “Thank you for using ‘North Americans’. The fact that they call themselves ‘Americans’ should be enough to justify my ‘bully’ comment. Only they can call themselves by the name of the continent they happen to be on and expect no one to be shocked.”

I interject:

“Well, Africa is a country and Oceania has been forced to adopt Australia’s name. Maybe it isn’t as unique as you would expect. You compared Brazil and the USA, and I want to do it as well. Some traits that you criticize about them are just as present in Brazil. You live in a huge country that is quite good at staring at its own belly button.” I lift my hand to signal the figure I would wish for it to listen. Respectful debate. “You are bad at learning foreign languages. You can already communicate with anyone for thousands of kilometers in any direction, why bother? If you stopped a random Brazilian and asked him questions about the outside world, I am not sure they could answer any better than the people you criticize. I have met many Brazilians convinced that their food is the finest, that their culture is the richest, that their music is the best. That is something many – you? – criticize about your faraway neighbor to the north.”

“Aren’t you criticizing now?”

I signal it that it has a point:

“You can belong to the people you criticize. In fact, it has almost become a national sport in Europe. We are good at self-flagellating and intellectualizing everything, for better or worse. I am doing it right now.”

“You are. I wrote my master thesis about this: how rationality has become the central value in most of the world. This throne used to be occupied by God. He was dislodged during the Enlightenment, but I defend that not much has changed. I was brought up in a religious family and God was my central value for twenty years. I undertook my own micro-Enlightenment but am not completely convinced by the rationalism I replaced it with. It is a great new system, but it values human thought. Anything you rationally think falls within its limits. It is very hard to judge something from within.”

“But if we are never able to step out of it, doesn’t it mean it is enough? That it is the most spacious way of living we could have found?”

“Some step out of it. Artists and madmen. That is why art and folly are so important in our society. They allow another take on reality. You can tell how healthy a society is by looking at its art:  a culture without art is failing.”

“A rational amen to that. That is your take on intellectualization, what is your opinion on the self-flagellation I was mentioning?”

“They don’t need to be two different things.” it says. “Let us take the example of feminism: it illustrates how both words are sometimes the same.” Its features, as it speaks, are dark and feminine. “Feminism in Europe is sick.”

“Our feminism is sick and we are the bully. But at least our food is the finest and our culture is the richest, right? Yodel is definitely the best; you cannot deny that.”

“You do have great food. It struck me when I was living there how people are eager to learn as well. Knowledge about history and science and geography: you are generally curious and active people. But your feminism is rotten. In Europe, I was surrounded by well-meaning, well-educated, progressive people that did not do anything to concretely solve anything. Theoretical feminism is very developed in Europe. Yet I feel freer – without the shadow of a doubt – when living in Brazil.”

 “Why?”

I catch a football mid-air. I – the gringo – throws it to the ten-year-old exotic being that it belongs to. None of the two actors in this scene think of this, it is just a man throwing a ball to a child, both oblivious of their differences. So many of these small interactions come and go, discreet, human, simple. Not to be overseen or undervalued. 

“On the old continent,” it continues, “feminism is something happening in the small space between your ears. At first, I was baffled by it and completely sucked in its meanders. For a long time, I thought it was impossible to be feminist and not always be angry. There was zero margin for error in comment or action. Then I noticed this anger was oppressing me more than society could in any way. I felt angry in domains that did not actually bother me, felt outraged because I was told that I should be. But isn’t feminism about not being told what to do?

I chose to fight for the things I can change in my life. I chose to notice all the domains where I did have the same freedom as men. Most of the time, I chose not to be angry. This is my way of fighting: I do not act for abstract concepts; I fight for what makes me feel free. European feminism is a new type of oppression for women.”

I feel like more is coming. I do not fill the silence, let it choose what it wants to decorate it with.

“I wish men were as respectful as many that I have met in Europe, and that women would feel as free as I know many feel in Brazil.”

Laïc Amen to that.