The Importance Of Defiance (original) (raw)

Ultimately, gestures of defiance fuel our memory of the anti-colonial resistance

My War Gone By, I Miss It So Much

A Searing Memory American activist Rachel Corrie tries to stop an Israeli bulldozer from destroying Palestinian homes in the Gaza strip

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What do we remember when we remember a colonial war—an anti-colonial resistance, a fight against oppression, occupation and apartheid? Of course, we remember many things but we also forget many. But something that becomes defining for memory is defiance. Of course, we will remember deaths, ruins and rubble. But what remains is not the ruins, but the gestures of defiance! Not the rubble, but the rebellious signs.

Remember what you want to remember from the anti-colonial resistance. In our reminiscence remains the young Palestinian boy Faris Odeh standing in front of an Israeli tank. We remember American peace activist Rachel Corrie standing in front of an Israeli bulldozer to protest the demolition of Palestinian houses. From the last year, we remember Palestinian journalist Wael al-Dahdouch, the man who kept reporting while his family members were being killed by the Israeli forces. From the last century, we remember Che Guevara dying, looking into the eyes of an assassin, marking defiance. We remember Bhagat Singh and Birsa Munda from the gallows. It is ultimately defiance that fuels our memory of the colonial war and anti-colonial resistance.

In the book, Children of the Days, Eduardo Galliano tells the story of an Indian indigenous rebel, Manuela Leon. On 8 January 1872, the president of Ecuador executed her to provoke the Indian Indigenous population to rise against forced labour. On the day of the sentence, Manuela faced the firing squad without a blindfold. Asked if she had anything to say, she said, ‘_manapi_’ (nothing) and silently put up her defiance. It is the acts of dissent and defiance that foster our reminiscence.

Dead bodies do not count after a point; in case of genocide and a crime against humanity, they only become the number that piles up—skeletons and bones, bruised and broken, marked and unmarked, hidden and paraded, exhumed and exhibited...They too disappear after a point. Even if they remain, they merely become a reference point for the archivists and specialists of the future. What remains is the endurance.

Then remains the poetry. Mahmoud Darwish’s war echoes linger: “The war will end...but I saw who paid the price.” Of course, the price will be paid. Bodies will recover from the brutalities after the war. Wounds will be healed, and most of the marks will go away. One that will resist disappearing from bodies will carry our memory. Damaged buildings and broken houses will be rebuilt. The debris will be cleared up. The dust will go back to the earth and the sky. The memory of burning smoke will evaporate. The bundle of lies that Western media manufactures will go to the archives. What will remain is the dent, the burned bricks, the leftovers of the graffiti, the scratches of fingernails on the walls, the signs of life and struggle that refuse to go away even in the condition of death. They will stand as defiance.

Tanks, drones, warplanes, and bulldozers might have marvellous designs to play violent games. They are machines to mark geopolitics and dispossess people. They have bellies to carry explosives, but they do not have points of retrospection. They can backtrack from the war zones, but cannot recall their crimes. They have veins and muscles made of wires, but do not carry memories like humans. Audrey Watters writes, “Human memory is not a data storage... Human memory is partial, contingent, malleable, contextual, erasable, fragile. It is prone to embellishment and error. It is designed to filter. It is designed to forget.” They will evoke the memories of war and resistance but will not carry the feeling of devastation and collective loss. It is a collective memory of defiance that matters. They are blunt weapons; they do not hold tears. The irons will rust; they too will meet the dust. The tank will only be remembered when some Faris Odeh stands against it and when some Rachel Corrie will face a bulldozer. A camera only captures. It may capture too many things but we need eyes to let it go, to be selective so we can make our memory precious. The cry will disappear. The tears will dry, but eyes will still hold the sea of tears to cry for the lost ones. That power of eyes, the seas of tears, remain.

We might remember some of the faces of war criminals, but most likely we will forget them. It does not mean we have forgiven their crimes. But we will not identify them after a point. Will the Palestinian generations make a difference between Senior Bush, Junior Bush, Joe Biden and Donald Trump? They represent the faces of the colonial powers for them. In the history books, they will fuse Adolf Hitler with Benjamin Netanyahu and Joseph Goebbels with Yoav Galant. Like digital faces they would appear in vibrations, merging with each other’s faces, complimenting each other’s crimes, but most likely they will be forgotten like other tyrants of history. What will be remembered are their crimes and the gestures of defiance. The defiant figures will keep appearing like spectres. They would possess the bodies and appear in the tensed muscles and twisted fingers, beyond life and death.

And it is here that Hamas leader Yahya Sinwar’s defiant gestures will remain. Sinwar was killed in Gaza on October 16, 2024, by the Israeli forces. Even in the face of death, he maintained a defiant pose, sitting as if he was posing for Frantz Fanon. He lashed out at an IDF drone with a wooden plank using his one remaining working arm. Throwing debris also shows an unequal war imposed on the Palestinians. While one side is armed with the most sophisticated weapons, others essentially remain unarmed. Sinwar gives a spin to a wooden plank, turning it into a weapon of the weak. Fanon writes in Wretched of the Earth, “In artisanship, the congealed, petrified forms loosen up.” Their handlings became diverse, making them more creative under the condition of the anti-colonial movement. Think wooden plank driving away the drones. The objects (such as stone or debris) exist as immobile and expressionless and find mobility and expression. They acquire a face and value as it happens with the wooden plank in the hand of Sinwar. At this moment, Fanon notes, “The expressionless or tormented mask comes to life, and the arms are raised upwards in a gesture of action.” This is exactly what happens Sinwer raises his hand and throws the plank. Here was a powerful gestus of decolonisation. More than a figure, Sinwar comes as a sign—both as spirit and specter.

See the graffiti all around. The defiant figures are emerging from the walls throwing their faces and bodies, their love and their endurance against the colonial genocide.

But the question should also be asked: what does one throw when one throws a stone or debris? In the anti-colonial struggle, throwing a stone stands for throwing a piece of the homeland at a foreign, occupying soldier. As David A. MacDonald has argued, by throwing a stone, one throws “the pieces of the nation, pieces of their bodies and pieces of the body politic at their enemies.” In anger and frustration, one also wants to throw whatever one can throw, combining one’s vulnerability as well as resistance—from utensils to dust. At the moment, stones and wooden planks can be seen very much as part of the body, or extension of the body, drawing energy and movement from the body. Both are part of each other like in the muraba poem regularly sung in political demonstrations: “Oh stones, oh stones/Do not leave our cramped quarters/You and I were raised together/Like the sea and the sailor”.

But what similarity between Fanon and Darwish: if Fanon reads, “tormented mask comes to life”, Darwish reignites “the mask has fallen from the mask from the mask”. But what to do when the mask has fallen, the “arms are raised”, and Darwish will give it a new edge:

You have no water, no medicine,

no sky, no blood, no sail,

neither forward nor backward

so pick it up and strike your enemy

There is no escape and I fell near you,

so pick me up and strike your enemy with me.

You are now free, free and free.

Sinwar must not have had any doubt about what a piece of wood can do. It may not be able to down a drone. It seems this was more of a performative gesture on his part. Sinwar throwing a piece of wood in his last act of defiance signals a new deployment of wood. This adds to the tradition of stone-pelting that has become a symbol of resistance in many parts of the world. Also, the wooden plank gives authenticity and dignity to the Palestinian struggle as woodcraft has been central to Palestinian culture. One can say that it was merely an incident that he grabbed a piece of wood. But the incident cannot be dissociated from the symbolic value it creates for the future, in our memory.

Born in a refugee camp, Sinwar died in rubble, yet remains defiant. Instead of surrendering himself, he threw himself at the enemy. The act of “throwing” itself is a linguistic-political act. The act also shows the determination to overthrow colonialism despite having to face every imaginable constraint. By throwing a wooden plank, he ultimately became an extension of his body. He also released his muscles which, according to Fanon, always remain tensed. He must have been aware that he could not do anything to the drone, but by throwing his body, he marked his defiance. He turned his vulnerability and powerlessness into resistance. It is the defiance that creates history and memory for the subject oppressed. It is memory against the erasure that ultimately becomes radical remembrance.

Who will better understand his gestures of defiance than the Palestinians? It was not a surprise that his iconic pose and gesture instantly appeared on walls across the occupied territories. Mohamed-ghilan remarked in a social media post on X how Sinwar’s wooden plank has become a new Arab proverb. “Sinwar’s Stick” represents perseverance against all odds and never giving up or surrendering in the face of what appear to be insurmountable challenges. It means you’ve tried absolutely everything and had nothing else left except a stick. “I threw Sinwar’s stick at it” means that you gave it your all after you’ve exhausted all your efforts to achieve your goals. By creating this iconic defiant pose, Sinwar occupies the same place in the Palestinian struggle as Che Guevara in Latin America, Dedan Kemathi and Muthoni Kirima in Africa, Leila Khalid and countless others in the Arab world. By participating in the extreme act of defiance, he became the subject of history, memory and artwork.

See the graffiti all around. The defiant figures are emerging from the walls throwing their faces and bodies, their love and their endurance against the colonial genocide. They are throwing stones, throwing pans, they are walking with the dead bodies when there is a seize. They are still crying loudly when there is curfew. This walk will be remembered. And the cry is defiance.

(Views expressed are personal)

Brahma Prakash is assistant professor at the school of arts and aesthetics, JNU and the author of Body On The Barricades

(This appeared in the print as 'My war gone by, I miss it so much')