L’homme de lettres raffiné qu’était Léon Michaud, imprégné des grands auteurs italiens et français, féru de culture des Lumières, rédigeait en 1947 un «Trésor de mon pays» consacré à Yverdon. Passant en revue les belles réalisations architecturales et artistiques du XVIIIe siècle, notamment le spectaculaire ensemble classique de la Place Pestalozzi, il écrivait au sujet des maisons yverdonnoises: «La plus belle de toutes, celle qui reste vraiment représentative de l’art élégant du XVIIIe siècle, est sans contredit la villa d’Entremonts (1778), ancien hôtel de campagne de la famille des Treytorrens. Située un peu en dehors de la ville, dans le parc de la Cité des Bains, elle mérite le détour qu’on fera pour aller la voir!» L’édifice était alors la propriété de Léon Masraff, qui exploitait encore vaille que vaille les installations des bains voisins et qui a connu un succès certain avec l’eau minérale captée de l’autre côté de l’avenue des Bains, sur le site de La Prairie, dont le nom d’Arkina évoquait l’Arménie de son père Puzant, devenu fin 1920 propriétaire des deux hôtels réputés de La Prairie et des Bains.
in december 2014 my friend M died of her disease
my friend did not die because of her disease
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my friend did not die because she was of african origin
not because she carried a kenyan passport
not because she was Black
not because she was a woman*
my friend M did not die because she was a female* Black Pan-African activist
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in 2012 my friend M after living in germany for 17 years was evicted from her flat
during the eviction, the police confiscated her collection of records as well as her turntables
and never gave them back
my friend M did not die because she lost her home
my friend M did not die because she lost her income as a DJ
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in 2012 my friend M joint the refugee strike
and later together with soon up to 400 others
she started to live in a squatted building
a former school in her home district berlin kreuzberg
even though she spoke the german language and had spent her whole adult life in this city
she felt at this moment that her prospects were little different
from the prospects of those
arriving freshly from the mediterranean abyss
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in 2014 in the refugee squat, a person was killed in a fight
it started as a quarrel over who was to use the shower first
the one only shower for 400 people at the time
the fight got out of hand for different reasons
my friend M did not die in a fight
my friend M did not die because the municipality refused until the very end to install those showers she had demanded loudly
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In 2014 the heroines* on the roof of the school were under siege by 1700 police for 10 days
my friend M was on the roof under siege
people threatened to kill
in case of eviction
themselves
my friend M did not die by killing her self
my friend M did not die of bananas
the policeman that waved bananas at the Black heroines* on the roof of the school
did not die of my friends disease
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nor of racism
and my friend M did not die because of her disease
- my friend M is not a formula
my friend M is gone and
what remains is the thin thread that connects a dead revolutionary to a possible future
a revolutionary is defined by the system that declares her aims to be fundamental
and is determined to deny them
my friend M did not die in a revolution
my friend just lost all she had
including hope
and died
of a cold
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when the siege ended
my friend M was sick
my friend M did not want to abandon
the building fought for so hard
she kept living there with 18 other people
while the state planted guards in their garden
turning into a prison the squat
and into prisoners the heroines*
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In the following weeks,
my friend M did not die because of the extremely friendly White young man at *KK health insurance
that would refuse to process her bills
because of some formal problems
that he failed to explain to her repeatedly
my friend M did not die because this same problem could be solved within five minutes
at the presence of another white man
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that finally went there with her
asking the same question
she had asked times before
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for M
by then
even climbing the two steps
of the bus
that brought us back
was an effort.
my friend M did not die because her lungs failed her
my friend M did not die because of the despair and mistrust
that overcame her in her final weeks
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to what degree can you own your sickness?
how much is it yours and
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what did dignity mean for you Sista M?
do i hope that you would have liked this text?
instead I prefer to imagine you
placing your tea cups on this sheet of paper until it is unreadable
which of course does not matter
because you still drink your tea
and prove this text to be nonsense
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1. Political Obituaries
An obituary for Sista Mimi can only be a political text, and I agree, that the police repression that was disturbing her memorial with violence, is at the heart of the political situation at stake.
However, when I read the obituaries for her that I can find, I can't help but feeling deeply disturbed about the texts that dwell on the situation of her memorial disturbed by the police, and let their attention be derailed by repression, shifting away from the deceased and towards police.
Mimis personhood and the way it was contested and harmed, is essentially part of that political life of hers, of her being an activist and fighter, and it has deserved some space on its own. That is one reason why I had to write this text.
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2. Heroines?
Who is attributing heroism here:
https://cargocollective.com/Movementmagazine
to what ends?
are there hero*ines?
is the african body who survives the waters the body of a hero*ine?
to what ends does who think so?
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Why declare non-europeans hero*ines in a time when the german new-right and their liberal friends sing the song of poor vulnerable post-heroic europe threaten by heroic barbarians? Is hero(*ine) really a title to be desired, a term that should be reclaimed? Does it hold an inert power? A revolutionary potential?
Those who profit from setting in scene europe as a victim, say “hero” and they mean “barbarian”, “animal”, “not-included-in-humanness”. Hero is the worn out old cloak, the myth of origin, the thing, europe thinks to have left behind. It is a weak vehicle for reclaiming humanity (or anything else) for those who Europe leaves to die in the mediterranean Sea.
Or am I wrong? Am I enabling the wrong narrative here? Is hero a vehicle that empowers those who are otherwise denied subject status, denied to be the protagonists of their stories? Is “hero” a wedge driven into the system, that allows refugees only as “victims” and “villains”?