Now it makes sense why The Giller Prize has been using Zionist ex supreme court judge Rosalie Abella as advertising for their genocide-enabling prize.
Scotiabank is the major sponsor in The Giller Prize’s part in genocide against innocent Palestinians with a $500Million investment in Israeli war tech used to mass kill kids. Just evil. That makes the advert of Abella with the prize galling and unforgivable.
From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.
Zionism must be criminalized for the terrorism (and racism) that it is.
Covers, inner and outer, of the 1979 International terrorism challenge and response, Proceedings of the Jerusalem Conference on International Terorism. Essays and speeches by 50 leading public figures on one of the most crucial problems of our time.
Editor Benjamin Netanyahu.
Long live those risking everything – notably Francesca Albanese and the students and professors – calling out and or protesting Israel’s genocide and crimes against Palestinians.
Long live Refaat Alareer and his haunting life-loving poem, “If I Must Die.”
by Refaat Alareer (1979 – 2023)
If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze–
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself–
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale
Dr. Refaat Alareer was a father, a husband, a Palestinian writer, poet, translator, and university prof from Gaza. On December 6, 2023, he was murdered by agents of Zionism along with his brother, sister and their children in Israel’s decades long genocide. Shortly before his murder, he shared his poem titled “If I must die.”
Noor Javed@njaved:
Poems: outrage. Words: outrage. Keffiyeh: outrage.
Babies and children being bombed to death: silence.
Nora Loreto@NoLore:
B’nai Brith sucks so much.
So does liar extraordinaire genocidaire Rosalie Abella
2024 Giller Prize advert with Rosalie Abella image and quote:
“Literature puts life into words and teaches us the human universals. We’re so lucky to have the Giller to showcase Canadian Books, life and humanity.”
Politics, Gaza and money collide at The Giller Prize 28 Min by Front Burner with Jayme Poisson CBC, Nov 22, 2024
“Without us, without our books, The Giller Prize would not exist.”
For the last year, Canada’s premier literary award The Giller Prize has been embroiled in a controversy that has split the Canadian literary community. Last years gala was interrupted by protestors who rushed the stage carrying placards emblazoned with ‘Scotiabank Funds Genocide.’
What they were referring to was the fact The Giller’s lead sponsor, Scotiabank, was a principal shareholder of one of Israel’s largest weapons manufacturers. They also objected to a pair of Giller sponsors invested in the Israeli military and settlements in the occupied West Bank.
Since then, a number of former Giller winners, along with hundreds of bookworkers across the country have committed to a boycott.
Winner of the 2005 Giller Prize David Bergen joins the show to discuss his decision not to attend this year’s Giller Prize – and a broader conversation about the duty of a writer, and whether it is possible for artists to reconcile their personal convictions with the interests of corporate sponsors.
For transcripts of Front Burner, please visit: https://www.cbc.ca/radio/frontburner/transcripts
***
@MalcolmSheppard:
Don’t buy the works of @annemichaels_. Her acceptance of the @GillerPrize is tacit approval of genocide denial.
@LalehKhalili:
This statement is even more shameful than accepting the prize. You write about fictional doctors while real doctors are bring murdered by weapons manufacturers whose whitewash money you have taken. Shame on you.
Chapters Indigo Supports Genocide@Teek0628Teek:
Anything from anyone writing from the death camps in Palestine is infinitely more worthy of reading than Anne Michaels’ word salad.
Decadence is the killer of art.
@rashaabdulhadi:
I was asked about @adalimon’s space poem & genocide silence on a podcast today.
It seemed right to bring this back, especially in the context of the #GillerPrize, another national settler literary ‘honor’ that functions primarily to limit & discipline what can be said & by whom.
Thinking about poets & writers who offer “solidarity” & “love” to “everyone” when they are called on to openly oppose genocide funded by the murderous empire that funds their scribblings & wipes its bloody hands clean on literature’s white, white pages. …
Lucia Lorenzi (she/they)@luminousmethods:
Imagine writing something as ridiculous as “I write because the dead can read” as a statement to accept the #GillerPrize when Palestinian poets like Refaat Alareer are dead. This is a real “fuck your lecture on craft, my people are dying” (Noor Hindi) moment, Anne Michaels.
… CanLit, institutionally, and in the ways it manifests in THE DISCOURSE, is always so full of its own bullshit.
You know what, we really have seen far too many fucking mangled corpses in the past 400+ days to be both-sidesing from acceptance speeches and talking about metaphor and craft as if somehow the horror of genocide does not materially EXIST.
And like, you know, not all books are great and are forms of resistance. Not “each book.” Okay. Like let’s be clear. Literature also deeply serves nationalist, including genocidal aims. This is the whole problem with a national literature! This is what we are ~entangled~ with!
This is why yes, literary prizes matter, and why authors who have and are taking stands against the #GillerPrize are so important to the ongoing fight against normalizing all forms of complicity in genocide.
@CanGal_39:
What a spectacularly insensitive thing for her to say.
bob black@bobblack1:
exactly….a peformative piece…
she is a coward…
and that she invoked Berger, a writer i also knew personally, is appalling…this is a better read:
A Place Weeping by John Berger, 2009, Three Penny Review
A few days after our return from what was thought of, until recently, as the future state of Palestine, and which is now the world’s largest prison (Gaza) and the world’s largest waiting room (Cis-Jordan), I had a dream.
I was alone, standing, stripped to the waist, in a sandstone desert. Eventually somebody else’s hand scooped up some dusty soil from the ground and threw it at my chest. It was a considerate rather than an aggressive act. The soil or gravel changed, before it touched me, into torn pieces of cloth, probably cotton, which wrapped themselves around my torso. Then these tattered rags changed again and became words, phrases. Written not by me but by the place.
Remembering this dream, the invented word landswept came to my mind. Repeatedly. Landswept describes a place or places where everything, both material and immaterial, has been brushed aside, purloined, swept away, blown down, irrigated off, everything except the touchable earth.
There’s a small hill called Al Rabweh on the western outskirts of Ramallah; it’s at the end of Tokyo Street. Near the top of the hill the poet Mahmoud Darwish is buried. It’s not a cemetery.
The street is named Tokyo because it leads to the city’s Cultural Center, which is at the foot of the hill, and was built thanks to Japanese funding.
It was in this Center that Darwish read some of his poems for the last time, though no one then supposed it would be the last. What does the word last mean in moments of desolation?
We went to visit the grave. There’s a headstone. The dug earth is still bare, and mourners have left on it little sheaves of green wheat—as he suggested in one of his poems. There are also red anemones, scraps of paper, photos.
He wanted to be buried in Galilee, where he was born and where his mother still lives, but the Israelis forbade it.
At the funeral tens of thousands of people assembled here, at Al Rabweh. His mother, ninety-six years old, addressed them. “He is the son of you all,” she said.
In exactly what arena do we speak when we speak of loved ones who have just died or been killed? Our words seem to us to resonate in a present moment more present than those we normally live. Comparable with moments of making love, of facing imminent danger, of taking an irrevocable decision, of dancing a tango. It’s not in the arena of the eternal that our words of mourning resonate, but it could be that they are in some small gallery of that arena.
In the now deserted hill I tried to recall Darwish’s voice. He had the calm voice of a beekeeper:
A box of stone
where the living and dead move in the dry clay
like bees captive in a honeycomb in a hive
and each time the siege tightens
they go on a flower hunger strike
and ask the sea to indicate the emergency exit.
Recalling his voice, I felt the need to sit down on the touchable earth, on the green grass. I did so.
Al Rabweh means in Arabic “the hill with green grass on it.” His words have returned to where they came from. And there is nothing else. A nothing shared by four million people.
The next hill, five hundred meters away, is a refuse dump. Crows are circling it. Some kids are scavenging.
When I sat down in the grass by the edge of his newly dug grave, something unexpected happened. To define it, I have to describe another event.
This was a few days ago. My son, Yves, was driving and we were on our way to the local town of Cluses in the French Alps. It had been snowing. Hillsides, fields, and trees were white, and the whiteness of the first snow often disorients birds, disturbing their sense of distance and direction.
Suddenly a bird struck the windscreen. Yves, watching it in the rear-view mirror, saw it fall to the roadside. He braked and reversed. It was a small bird, a robin, stunned but still alive, eyes blinking. I picked him up out of the snow; he was warm in my hand, very warm—birds have a higher blood temperature than we do—and we drove on.
From time to time I examined him. Within half an hour he had died. I lifted him up to put him on the back seat of the car. What surprised me was his weight. He weighed less than when I had picked him up from the snow. I moved him from hand to hand to check this. It was as if his energy when alive, his struggle to survive, had added to his weight. He was now almost weightless.
After I sat on the grass on the hill of Al Rabweh, something comparable happened. Mahmoud’s death had lost its weight. What had remained were his words.
Months have passed, each one filled with foreboding and silence. Now disasters are flowing together into a delta that has no name, and will only be given one by geographers, who will come later, much later. Nothing to do today but to try to walk on the bitter waters of this nameless delta.
Gaza, the largest prison in the world, is being transformed into an abattoir. The word Strip (from Gaza Strip) is being drenched with blood, as happened sixty-five years ago to the word ghetto.
Day and night bombs, shells, GBU39 radioactive arms, and machine gun rounds are being fired by the Israeli Defense Forces from air, sea, and land against a civilian population of one-and-a-half million. The estimated number of mutilated and dead increases with each news report from international journalists, all of whom are forbidden by Israel to enter the Strip. Yet the crucial figure is that for a single Israeli casualty, there are one hundred Palestinian casualties. One Israeli life is worth a hundred Palestinian lives. The implications of this assumption are constantly reiterated by Israeli spokesmen in order to make them acceptable and normal. The massacre will soon be followed by pestilence; most lodgings have neither water nor electricity, the hospitals lack doctors, medicines, and generators. The massacre follows a blockage and siege.
More and more voices across the world are raised in protest. But the governments of the rich, with their world media and their proud possession of nuclear weapons, reassure Israel that a blind eye will be cast on what its defense forces are perpetrating.
“A place weeping enters our sleep,” wrote the Kurdish poet Bejan Matur, “a place weeping enters our sleep and never leaves.”
Nothing but landswept earth.
I am back, a few months ago, in Ramallah, in an abandoned underground parking lot, which has been taken over as a work-space by a small group of Palestinian visual artists, among whom there’s a sculptress named Randa Mdah. I’m looking at an installation conceived and made by her entitled Puppet Theater.
Puppet Theatre by Randa Mdah, 2008
It consists of a large bas-relief measuring three meters by two, which stands upright like a wall. In front of it on the floor there are three fully sculpted figures.
The bas-relief of shoulders, faces, hands is made on an armature of wire, of polyester, fiberglass, and clay. Its surfaces are colored: darkish greens, browns, reds. The depth of its relief is about the same as in one of Ghiberti’s bronze doors for the Baptistry in Firenze, and the foreshortening and distorted perspectives have been dealt with with almost the same mastery. (I would never have guessed that the artist is so young. She’s twenty-nine.) The wall of the bas-relief is like “the hedge” that an audience in a theater resembles, when it’s seen from the stage.
On the floor of the stage in front are the life-size figures, two women and one man. They are made of the same materials, but with more faded colors.
One is within touching distance of the audience, another is two meters away and the third twice as far away again. They are wearing their everyday clothes, the ones they chose to put on this morning.
Their bodies are attached to cords hanging from three horizontal sticks which in turn hang from the ceiling. They are the puppets; their sticks are the control bars for the absent or invisible puppeteers.
The multitude of figures on the bas-relief are all looking at what they see in front of their eyes and wringing their hands. Their hands are like flocks of poultry. They are powerless. They are wringing them because they cannot intervene. They are bas-relief, they are not three-dimensional, and so they cannot enter or intervene in the solid real world. They represent silence.
The three solid, palpitating figures attached to the invisible puppeteers cords are being hurled to the ground, head first, feet in the air. Again and again until their heads split. Their hands, torsos, faces are convulsed in agony. One that doesn’t reach its end. You see it in their feet. Again and again.
I could walk between the impotent spectators of the bas-relief and the sprawling victims on the ground. But I don’t. There is a power in this work such as I have seen in no other. It has claimed the ground on which it is standing. It has made the killing field between the aghast spectators and the agonizing victims sacred. It has changed the floor of a parking lot into something landswept.
This work prophesied the Gaza Strip.
Mahmoud Darwish’s grave on the hill of Al Rabweh has now, following decisions made by the Palestinian Authority, been fenced off, and a glass pyramid has been constructed over it. It’s no longer possible to squat beside him. His words, however, are audible to our ears and we can repeat them and go on doing so.
I have work to do on the geography of volcanoes
From desolation to ruin
from the time of Lott to Hiroshima
As if I’d never yet lived
with a lust I’ve still to know
Perhaps Now has gone further away
and yesterday come closer
So I take Now’s hand to walk along the hem of history
and avoid cyclic time
with its chaos of mountain goats
How can my tomorrow be saved?
By the velocity of electronic time
or by my desert caravan slowness?
I have work till my end
as if I won’t see tomorrow
and I have work for today who isn’t here
So I listen
softly softly
To the ant beat of my heart….
John Berger, who lived in France for most of his adult life, was the author of numerous works of fiction and nonfiction, including Ways of Seeing and Pig Earth. He died in January of 2017.
@SMohyeddin:
Canada’s ambassador to @UN, @BobRae48, walks into @GillerPrize ceremony as dozens of writers and activists protest outside.
200➕writers boycotted & pulled their work from the prize because of @scotiabank
@chaptersindigo & Azrieli foundation funding.
***
“How can I celebrate literary excellence at a gala that’s financially tied to the destruction of a small strip of land where most books have been burned and destroyed?”
Why I won’t be attending the Giller Prize gala this year by David Bergen,, Winnipeg Free Press
My family is Mennonite, and one of the tenets of the Mennonite faith is pacifism.
Signing up for the army, joining the police force, owning a gun — these were all forbidden.
As a boy, it was required that I memorize certain passages from the Bible. The Sermon on the Mount was one: “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I tell you… whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also.”
My grandfather chose to be a conscientious objector in the First World War, and my father made the same choice in the Second World War.
This is the world I come from, and non-violent resistance is one of the remaining vestiges of my education.
Like most people, when the protests took place at last year’s Scotiabank Giller gala, I had not known that Scotiabank was heavily invested in Elbit Systems, Israel’s largest arms manufacturer.
Nor, as I learned later, that their sponsor Indigo Books is owned by the principal funders of the HESEG Foundation, who give grants to foreigners who enlist in the Israeli military.
Doing what I do, I wrote a letter to Scott Thompson, the president of Scotiabank. I received a response, written by a minion, the tone of which was like Pablum.
As the slaughter of Gazans continued, and the number of dead grew, I pulled out of participating in the Giller Book Club.
I subsequently joined a collective of writers, called CanLit Responds, that is boycotting the Giller Foundation until it cuts all ties to sponsors invested in Israel’s occupation of Palestine and siege on its people.
Among the writers in this collective are many young, first-time novelists, who refused to submit their books to the Giller Prize. I admire the young — they so often put the old to shame.
My connections to the Giller Prize run very deep.
In 2005 I won the prize. In many ways, this changed my life as an author. I sold more books, I was fêted, I thought I was hot stuff. In subsequent years, I had more novels both longlisted and shortlisted. Curiously, three of those novels dealt with war and its aftermath.
The Giller’s influence on the Canadian literary scene has been huge, which is why its ethical collapse around its decisions is vast.
How can I celebrate literary excellence at a gala that’s financially tied to the destruction of a small strip of land where most books have been burned and destroyed?
My sister-in-law lived in the West Bank for seven years doing humanitarian work with Palestinians in Gaza. One of the friends she made back then, “A.,” speaks to her every day.
He runs — to avoid the bombs, to elude the snipers, to hunt for food, to find an internet connection. He reports that a sack of flour costs US$100 and will feed his extended family of 16 for four days. There is no canned fruit or vegetables. Men buy a single cigarette for US$32 and share it. Why not have a $32 cigarette when you could be dead tomorrow? It’s cold these days. Rainy. My sister-in-law waits for the day when A. will not call.
After last year’s Giller prize disruption, over 2,500 Canadian authors signed a letter asking the Giller Foundation to call for charges against the protesters at the event to be dropped. But it was only when 40 authors refused to participate in the prize and its programming that the Giller was forced to respond.
Novelists are split. We do not write op-eds. We do not proclaim.
And yet, given the destruction of humanity in Gaza, and the deaths of thousands of children, and the connections that the Giller has to the army that is committing those atrocities, we must not only speak, but act.
David Bergen is an award-winning Canadian writer based in Winnipeg.
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