Miners in the margins

Miners in Donbass, 1990

I recently finished reading Workers of the Donbass Speak: Survival and Identity in the New Ukraine, 1989-1992. This is a work of modern ethnography by Lewis Siegelbaum and Daniel Walkowitz. Although I take some issue with its postmodernist and constructivist methods and analytical biases, it is an incredibly valuable work, and its value has been amplified by recent events in the region.

The volume is structured around the events of the Donbass miners’ strikes of 1989, which were considered to be one of the factors setting in motion the collapse of the Soviet Union. There is no doubt that a considerable force of impetus for this study was precisely this anti-Soviet angle. The idea was to showcase a significant social force which opposed Moscow’s dominance in the name of an alternative vision of social justice. The Donbass miners’ unions are thus explicitly placed in the same light as the Solidarność trade-unionist protests in Poland.

But Workers of the Donbass Speak also stands as an open refutation and rebuke to the narrow nationalist ideologues of the western part of Ukraine. By extension, it serves as an open refutation and rebuke to the Western corporate media who uncritically parrot Ukrainian nationalist ideology in service to the Ukrainian cause against Russia. The book shows definitively, from the primary source, that the political situation in the Donbass was not, contrary to Western media narratives, fabricated whole-cloth by Russian propagandists in 2014 in reaction to the Euromaidan.

The people of Donbass, and in particular the miners, struggled against the dominance of the centralising metropole of Soviet Moscow—and at that time were hailed in the West, at least among those who knew of them, as noble truth-tellers and selfless heroes. This volume demonstrates, in their own words, how the very same people broadly continued to struggle against the dominance of the centralising metropole of nationalist Kiev. Even in the early 1990s, they had no desire to serve as the ‘useful idiots’ in building a Ukrainian identity that would split them away definitively from their families and friends in Rostov, Krasnodar or elsewhere. In the end, for their pains, they ended up reviled by the same West in 2014 as terrorists, victims of Russian brainwashing or ‘little green men’.

The volume has some decided weaknesses. The postmodernist blathering of the principal ethnologists in particular is a rather sad feature of the general academic trend of the early 1990s. It showcases, rather than any independent merit of the field, the pitiable overall servility of the anthropological discipline in the West to the ilk of Foucault and Derrida. Ironically, despite the authors’ stated interest in ‘foregrounding dialogue rather than monologue’, we must endure two incredibly tedious and tiresome authorial explanatory essays in the middle of these interviews.

The interviews themselves, however, are very much worth these occasional scholarly irruptions. And Siegelbaum and Walkowitz are deeply to be lauded and thanked for having conducted them in the first place. The miners and their families in the Kuibyshev raion are allowed to speak for themselves without filters. The diversity of their views shows quite readily how they are not monolithic, but still certain common themes appear.

Women colliery workers in Donbass, 1943

For example: there is, at least among the older generations interviewed here, a considerable (but by no means unanimous) soft spot for Stalin, on account of the fact that he won World War II and also managed to keep food prices low after the war was over. At least two of the miners interviewed here, Ivan Kushch and Viktor Ignatov, couched their praise of Stalin in such terms. Several of the older generation also worried, as the Soviet Union disappeared, about the morals and habits of the youth: drugs and loud music in particular.

The people who were young-adults in 1989 had a much more troubled relationship with communism. While still professing many of the ideals and tenets of the Soviet state, they felt a keen sense of betrayal and disillusionment in the entire system. The same ideological and political apparatus that had held up the Donbass miners (beginning with Stakhanov) as essentially worker-saints and paragons of Soviet manhood (and also heavily subsidised their salaries), also unfortunately neglected to maintain the working conditions, expand the living conditions (including housing for families), or upgrade and replace the mining machines that would have made continuing in their profession more tolerable. Face-workers in mines were very much a privileged class within the Soviet system. But that privilege came at a decided cost: one which shortened the average lifespan and decreased the quality of life of a person which engaged in it.

Thus, many of the striking workers began with discrete and achievable material demands—demands for things like soap. Only later did they begin to add in political demands for change and to see themselves as assisting ‘perestroika from below’. Even reading the first-hand accounts of the strikes in this collection, it is deeply unclear the degree to which the miners even desired the collapse of the system they were protesting. Many seem to have felt they were simply ridding the Communist Party and the Soviet Union more generally of its bad actors and corrupt, parasitical political figures. Others clearly began to feel that Soviet bureaucracy created and sustained such parasites by design.

What is striking is how much of a non-event the dissolution of the Soviet Union is, in the lives of the miners. Many of the same problems that they had faced in the final years of the Soviet Union, persisted or deepened into Ukrainian independence. It is immediately clear that a number of miners felt they had merely traded one despotic and domineering metropole (Moscow) for another ‘petty prince or tsar in Kiev’, only that the Kiev metropole did not feel any of the same need that the Soviet state did to fill its obligations to its workers. In the words of Yuri Makarov:

In the past we fought for the existence of Ukraine as an autonomous state, but… we wanted power to be given to the localities, enterprises, cities; we wanted the living standard of the population to improve, but not so that Kiev could concentrate the reins of government in its fist.

What is interesting is that Valery Samofalov—one of the leaders of the mine strikes who ended up championing some very strong liberal beliefs—characterised Donbass’s desires for autonomy in the language of Western federalism and republicanism. The Donbass representatives held up ‘such countries as Switzerland, the USA, Germany, and Austria’ as their models for what they wanted within the Ukrainian state. (I note with some irony that here in fact is the Russia that Sebastian Milbank and the Europhile post-liberals were looking for all along, and they did not recognise it.) Others—including high schoolers in 1992, like Marina Kushch—complain about the problems of forced usage of the Ukrainian language in schools, where the textbooks in math, science and geography are all in Russian.

After the Soviet Union dissolved, a small handful of the striking miners, such as the abovementioned Samofalov, went whole-hog into a fervent belief in by-your-bootstraps individualism, privatisation and entrepreneurialism—but clearly not everybody did. Samofalov is notable in that he is something of a vocal anomaly in the collection: a clear voice of conscientious and idealistic, howbeit rather selective and (in retrospect) naïve, market liberalism. Others were far less sanguine about the transition to a market economy… or at the very least had serious reservations.

Economic, bread-and-butter problems hover over the early interviews. The biggest problems for the miners are housing and working conditions. Political problems are present too—in particular, a kind of straitjacketed language that narrows the possibilities of political discourse. But the miners come to support a ‘perestroika from below’. The collapse of the Soviet Union isn’t sought for.

When the miners find themselves a part of Ukraine, the economic problems persist, but the responsibility for addressing them falls to the mines themselves. With the collapse of the state, the sites of production become also welfare offices and social centres—tasks that they’re not prepared to handle. And then come the threats of downsizing and layoffs, combined with rampant inflation, that come with price liberalisation. The Donbass people who are interviewed here are well aware of these problems, but do not know where the problems are coming from. Soviet bureaucrats and their culture? Corruption in the new government? The ‘mafia’ and its presence in ‘biznes’? In the prophetic words of trade union director Yuri Pivovarov, ‘We feel uneasy, as if we are in a train and do not know where it is headed.’

The problem of nationalism and national identity gets thrown very roughly into the mix, with Kravchuk and organisations like Rukh being singled out as sources of a monistic understanding of Ukrainian identity that (even at this early date) lashes out at Donbass people as ‘Russian separatists’ and ‘communists’, and clashes deeply with Donbass realities. Tatiana Samofalova (Valery’s wife) proudly calls herself Ukrainian, and takes pride in her ability to speak Ukrainian. But then she also says: ‘My relatives, my aunt, my cousin, live in Russia and it has become a problem now to go and see them. We cannot meet with each other very often, and letters don’t get delivered. Why would I want such independence?’

Workers at Gorky Mine, Donbass, 1932

There is an interesting connexion between Donbass and Pittsburgh—that isn’t just a shared history of coal mining and Russian immigration. Donetsk and Pittsburgh were, once upon a time, sister cities. In the wake of the Soviet collapse, many people in Donetsk looked to Pittsburgh and its post-Rust Belt transition as a hopeful potential model for how Donetsk could develop in a humane direction under conditions of capitalism. The principal ethnographers here express doubts about that, pointing to the shortcomings and unevenness of Pittsburgh’s post-Rust Belt development, especially in comparison to the mythology of the same.

And then, toward the end of the volume, we see an actual instance of socialist nostalgia. Valery Zadorozhnyi, an accountant at a local TV station, expresses a desire to restore the ‘basic level of social protection’ that it gave ‘to old people and cripples’, noting that ‘at least they got their piece of bread’. His prognosis for the future of his country (speaking of Ukraine) under capitalism is unsparingly bleak. He doesn’t see any positive values in capitalism that could take the place of this basic principle of fairness.

It is also interesting to see where the rebirth of a belief in God, and a rediscovery of Orthodox Christianity’s symbols and ethos, creeps in around the edges in the wake of the Soviet Union’s passing. Intriguingly, it’s the Kushches—the family headed by a still unapologetically-Stalinist patriarch, Ivan—that seem to most deeply and authentically embrace belief in God and in Christianity. ‘We weren’t taught to believe in God,’ says Nadezhda Kushch. ‘At present, we’re beginning to do it in our own way… we’re like blind kittens now. In old Russia there used to be the law of God and it was taught in school, but people of our generation didn’t have it.’

Throughout Workers in the Donbass Speak, despite the dizzying multiplicity of perspectives put on display, there is a common thread running throughout them. It is the desire to live like people, to have a normal life. Yuri Makarov describes the aim of the miners’ strikes as ‘to provide normal living and working conditions for workers’. Olga Samofalova (no relation to Valery) puts it, even after independence, they had ‘to fight to achieve a normal human life’. This view is echoed by practically every other person interviewed in the book—and though obviously they have different views on the means necessary to accomplish it, certain basic contours of what is understood by a ‘normal human life’ show themselves: a roof over a family’s heads; dignified and decent-paying jobs; social conditions such that kids aren’t regularly hurt or killed or addicted to drugs.

The tragedy is that Donbass never got that. The Ukrainian government deliberately, and cruelly, denied that basic normality of human life to them after 2014. In 2024, the people of Donbass still have to suffer—not merely neglect or mismanagement as under the Soviets, but shelling and air strikes from the ‘government’ that claims ‘sovereignty’ over their land.

Modern-day Moscow shouldn’t try to find reason to crow too loudly over this interview collection, though. Donbass people clearly did not react kindly to being made socialist icons, hero-workers, mascots of Soviet labour—while being denied basic necessities like housing and bar soap. There should be a cautionary dimension here toward a government like Putin’s, that would turn them into patriotic mascots now, or heroes of all-Russian unity, while not listening to their demands for a normal life. People in Donbass have had to suffer such deprivations at the hands of the Ukrainian military for eight entire years, while the Russian government sat aside and dithered.

Ultimately, the purpose of this volume holds up well even after over three decades. It is to simply let Donbass people speak in their own words. Sadly they are filtered here by translation, but the meaning of their aspirations comes through loud and clear anyway.

Saint Cyril of Jerusalem and the poverty of philosophy

St Cyril of Jerusalem

Today, the seventh of May, is one of Saint Cyril of Jerusalem’s two feast days in the Orthodox Church—the other one, the commemoration of his repose, being on the eighteenth of March. This is the day on which the miraculous appearance of the Cross in the skies over Golgotha and the Mount of Olives occurred in the year 351, and Saint Cyril’s is commemorated for his role in witnessing this event.

Not much is known of Saint Cyril’s early life. He was born in 315 and became a priest at the age of 31, in 346, and was elevated to the archbishopric four years later. His archbishopric was marked by a decades-long string of exiles, imprisonments and persecutions: under Emperor Constantius, under Emperor Julian the Apostate, and under Emperor Valens. Yet Saint Cyril somehow managed, in the midst of it all, to retain his humanity and trust in God—over against the princes and sons of men who seemingly always and everywhere opposed him. Saint Cyril spent all of his own wealth providing for the citizens of Jerusalem during a famine, and even pawned off Church utensils in order to buy grain for those who were starving. At another time, Saint Cyril was said to have prophesied that Julian the Apostate’s attempts to rebuild the Jewish Temple would come to naught—and later a series of disasters struck the Temple such that construction couldn’t continue.

If his hagiography is to be believed, then, like the Scriptural God he glorifies, Saint Cyril was emphatically not a fan of sedentary architecture.

Yet Saint Cyril is important, not for his miracles or for his prophecies or even for his works of charity, but instead for the writings and the teachings that he left. I have recently returned to reading his Catechetical Lectures. It is stunning how much I garnered, going back for a reread.

In my own anti-philosophical mood, reinforced by the occurrences in Gaza and a certain well-known continental philosopher’s morally-indefensible stands on this and other current events, I find myself in particular drawn to Saint Cyril’s prophetic invective against the Hellenic philosophers of his own time:

There is need of a wakeful soul, since there are many that make spoil through philosophy and vain deceit. The Greeks on the one hand draw men away by their smooth tongue, for honey droppeth from a harlot’s lips: whereas they of the Circumcision deceive those who come to them by means of the Divine Scriptures, which they miserably misinterpret though studying them from childhood to old age, and growing old in ignorance. (Lecture IV)

In his lecture against heresy, Saint Cyril correctly upbraids the philosophers in the point of his jeremiad against Manichaeism for ‘not… reproving the king in the cause of truth’ and ‘not… destroying the idols’. The promise of Plato’s Socrates, and the promise of Aristotle, that men might be made their own masters through the search for truth along the path of reason—is a deception. Philosophy is a path, not to self-mastery, but to self-idolatry.

If the entire Strauss-Kojève debate shows us anything useful, it is that Saint Cyril is right on the money at that point. The entire Western philosophical project in fact enslaves the human being to a mode of language and its use, that will always and everywhere serve the purposes of would-be Pharaohs, Alexanders, Caesars, Napoleons and Hitlers. Philosophy cannot speak truth to power, but will ultimately always be the slave of power¹. The only way to win the philosophers’ semantic shell game is not to play. Why is this? It’s because Socrates’s entire aim, to start with, is flawed. In his fallen state, man is not his own master, and cannot be.

So then, where can we turn?

The Palestinian Patriarch’s point of reference, as for Saint John Chrysostom and Saint Ephraim the Syrian, is always Scripture. Though we are not made aware in his hagiography of his parentage, Saint Cyril reads Scripture the way a Syriac or a Palestinian—that is to say, as a Semite—does. Saint Cyril speaks as a pedagogue, not as a debater or a polemicist, of Scripture.

The catechumens to whom Saint Cyril delivered these addresses during Great Lent, would have heard Scripture, read aloud to them, in the context of the Divine Liturgy before they would have been called upon to depart. These writings that Saint Cyril has left to us, likewise, were first delivered as lectures to the catechumens. Saint Cyril’s method is as important as the message: he appeals to what is written, and attempts thereupon to interpret all of the catechumens’ questions about the Symbol of Faith.

For Saint Cyril, the rational intellect is something that must be yoked, and brought under the discipline of the text. This is in order to bring the catechumens’ behaviour into accord with Scriptural statutes, and the will of the Scriptural God:

Seek not the things that are too deep for thee, neither search out the things that are above thy strength: what is commanded thee, think thereupon. (Lecture VI)

To give one example, when discussing the Mystery of Baptism, does he go into abstruse theologising over the symbolism of the waters? Not in the least. He says instead:

What then must you do? And what are the fruits of repentance? Let him that hath two coats give to him that hath none… and he that hath meat, let him do likewise. Wouldst thou enjoy the grace of the Holy Spirit, yet judgest the poor not worthy of bodily food? (Lecture III)

Baptism entails upon itself a change, not only in mind, not only in ideas, but in comportment. And the measuring-stick is not any creed, not any mental formula: it is concrete love of neighbour… and that, as understood in the context of the Law of Moses, the Books and the Prophets.

Once more, in discoursing upon God the Father, and the relationship between the Father and the Son, Saint Cyril pointedly does not come to any philosophical conclusion regarding the oneness or the many-ness of the substance or the nature or the will of God the Father:

I have ever wondered at the curiosity of the bold men, who by their imagined reverence fall into impiety. For though they know nothing of Thrones, and Dominions, and Principalities, and Powers, the workmanship of Christ, they attempt to scrutinise their Creator Himself. Tell me first, O most daring man, wherein does Throne differ from Dominion, and then scrutinise what pertains to Christ… Not even the Holy Ghost Himself has spoken in the Scriptures concerning the generation of the Son from the Father. Why then dost thou busy thyself about things which not even the Holy Ghost has written in the Scriptures? Thou that knowest not the things which are written, busiest thou thyself about the things which are not written? (Lecture XI)

Instead, he comes to the conclusion that

the first virtue of godliness in Christians is to honour their parents, to requite the troubles of those who begat them, and with all their might to confer on them what tends to their comfort… (Lecture VII)

What is important to St Cyril is not to dispute over the underlying attributes or inner relations of the Persons (let alone about even whether or not they are ‘persons’, in the language of Greek philosophy!), but instead what is implied from the Scriptural Godhead in how we should behave, from the love of the Father for His Son. In other words, St Cyril places himself and his catechumenate under the didactic hand of Scripture. He does not try to philosophise it; nor does he try to read it as history or as science. His concern is chiefly the manner in which we behave, and finds that Scripture will judge us on not on how we think, but on what we do:

We do nothing without the body. We blaspheme with the mouth, and with the mouth we pray. With the body we commit fornication, and with the body we keep chastity. With the hand we rob, and by the hand we bestow alms; and the rest in like manner. Since then the body has been our minister in all things, it shall also share with us in the future the fruits of the past. (Lecture XVIII)

This saintly Patriarch, the direct apostolic predecessor to the current Patriarch Theophilos III, speaks as much to Christians now, not to sit aside idly and watch as the Holy Land burns once again. Instead, we are to follow the statutes and commandments of the One Scriptural God, and to love our neighbours, today: not just in the idle chatter of the philosophers, but in truth.

What is commanded thee: think thereupon. Amen.

^{1. That’s how someone like Žižek can pretend, and perhaps even delude himself, that he’s doing something liberating… when in fact he’s actively and consciously demonising the Arabs at the same time as they’re being slaughtered en masse by the Israelis, and cravenly serving his NATO paymasters’ interests at the same time.↩}

Of Guatemala and Gaza

This past Tuesday, after two and a half years of construction and labour of those monastics and faithful under the guidance of Archimandrite Evangelos Patá, a seminary and mission centre opened in the Huehuetenango District of Guatemala, reports Pravoslavie.Ru. The Orthodox community in Guatemala is one of the explosive success stories of twenty-first century Orthodox mission work, particularly after 2010 when 500,000 Guatemalans—mostly indigenous Maya people—converted en masse. A steady stream of converts into the Orthodox Church has continued since then.

This new seminary and mission centre will ‘serve the spiritual, educational and administrative needs of the faithful’, who are As Fr John Chakos puts it on his blog: ‘The palpable joy that filled this day reflected the vibrant Christian faith of the long suffering Mayan people who endured much throughout their tragic history, but never lost hope.’

How true this is. The ‘tragic history’ of the Guatemalan Mayan people is one which can be attributed directly to American imperialism and the legacy of colonialism. During this time, the Guatemalan military and government forces, trained by the School of the Americas and funded by the American government, used ‘scorched earth’ tactics against the Indigenous people of the country: including death squads, ‘disappearances’, strafing from helicopters, internment camps, forced starvation, torture and sexual violence. Leftists, labour leaders and union organisers were also subjected to this targetted violence from the state. Canadian folk-rock musician Bruce Cockburn, after visiting Guatemala during this time, wrote the song ‘If I Had a Rocket Launcher’ specifically about this situation.

The flocking of Indigenous Maya Guatemalans to the Orthodox Church in the present day, may be considered one of the fruits, primarily, of the career of Archimandrite Andrés Girón, a cleric who took up the cause of the Indigenous peoples of Guatemala, specifically during this time of the US-backed military dictatorship in the 1980s. For his efforts, Archimandrite Giron was excommunicated from the Roman Catholic Church on account of his pro-Indigenous stand, and he fled to Mexico after several assassination attempts on him by the right-wing government, after which he joined the Orthodox Church and continued his advocacy work. Although he was an agrarian-minded Christian and not a Marxist, he gained the moniker ‘Father Revolutionary’ from both his supporters and his opponents, particularly when he began supporting progressive land reforms which would benefit the Indigenous peoples. He even began political action against the US-backed military government, at the head of the left-wing, anti-capitalist Asociación Nacional Campesina Pro-Tierra, and direct action by occupying and farming land collectively for the benefit of the people living there.

Archimandrite Andrés Girón

Even though his electoral campaigns did not win him much support in terms of government reform, the Indigenous Mayans quickly gravitated to his social ideals, not to mention his religious convictions. At a time when the Catholic Church was divided between a reactionary hierarchy and a liberation-theological parish priesthood (and the hierarchy winning out more often than not); and when Evangelical Protestantism was marching in lockstep with state violence and American-style capitalism and white supremacy; Orthodox Christianity began to look all the more attractive. When Fr Andrés Girón joined the Orthodox Church in 2010, hundreds of thousands of Indigenous Mayans came with him. Stop me if any of this starts to sound familiar.

I beat this drum a lot. I have remarked before, and repeatedly, that the Indigenous peoples of Asia and America are a valuable witness within Orthodoxy. Orthodoxy at its best does not see Indigenous traditions and languages as things to be assimilated from the outside or suppressed from above. It values these traditions and languages in themselves, and transfigures them from the inside.

Orthodox womens’ monastery in Kyltovo, Komi Republic, Russia

For example: Orthodox Bibles, prayer books, patericons and religious texts have been published in Indigenous languages such as Sakha, Nenets, Evenki, Chukchi, Khanty, Skolt Sámi, Komi, Veps, Aleut and Tlingit and Yup’ik. Saint Innocent of Irkutsk, Saint Herman the Wonderworker of Alaska and, later, Saint Tikhon of Moscow defended Indigenous rights against oppression and exploitation first by Russian and later by American pecuniary interests and colonisation. (One can see from these examples that the witness of Fr Andrés Girón was not without precedent!) But Indigenous people themselves have contributed to Orthodoxy in profound and ineluctable ways. Saint Peter the Aleut, Saint Jacob Netsvetov, Saint Olga of Alaska... these Indigenous saints have deeply and without question enriched the experience of American Orthodoxy. And the former two of these saints did so, while Indigenous people in the Americas were undergoing one of the worst genocides of human history.

Now, let us turn our attention, for the sake of comparison, to another Indigenous people. The people of the country of Palestine are descended, indisputably from a scientific and genetic point of view, from the ancient Levantines. Modern Palestinians are genetically closest to the Bronze Age inhabitants of Canaan, with unbroken ancestral roots in the Levant going back nearly 4000 years. (We ethnic Ashkenazim simply cannot claim the same thing: over forty percent of our autosomal ancestral DNA originates in Western Europe--France and Germany.) What appears clear now, is that this Indigenous population of the ancient Holy Land has undergone numerous cultural and religious and linguistic shifts through the millennia. So although Palestinians are culturally Arabic, and the majority are Muslims, their presence in the place where they are long predates the Arab conquests and the rise of Islâm!

Church of St Porphyrios, Gaza, Palestine

Indeed, Palestinians were among the first Christians. Gaza was a Christian city. The Church of Saint Porphyrios, which was bombarded by the Israel Occupation Forces two weeks into their current war, dates back over sixteen hundred years. Gaza was home to Christian saints such as Bishop Saint Porphyrios himself, Abba Dorotheos, Saint Vitalios and Saint Silvanos, to name but a few. Before Palestine was Muslim, Palestinians followed Jesus Christ. And before Palestinians followed Christ, Palestinians were without question among the people who worshipped the God of the Hebrews, the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, at the Second Temple.

Despite the prevarication and mealy-mouthed excuses that issue from on high in Washington and New York, there can be very little doubt now that what is going on right now as we speak, in the home territory of this very oldest of Christian Churches, is a genocide of the Palestinian people, at the hands of another US-backed far-right parafascist government: complete with scorched-earth tactics, death squads, weaponised starvation, torture, sexual violence. In short, the Palestinians now are suffering everything that the Indigenous Guatemalans faced from the military dictatorship of that country in the 80s and 90s. And the American government backs the Israeli fascists to the hilt.

Archbishop Alexios of Gaza

But if there is another Indigenous genocide occurring right now in Gaza, there is also another Fr Andrés Girón, in the saintly Archbishop Alexios of Gaza. Archbishop Alexios has courageously declared that he will not abandon his flock there even if he is the last Christian standing in Gaza. And he has dedicated his work to giving food and clean water and shelter to any who have come to need it, even as they are being denied these by the military. And he has rededicated himself to praying for the dead, the dead without number: and many of these dead are Christians.

The Indigenous Christians of the Holy Land need our solidarity, and they need it now more than ever. But, just as Efraín Ríos Montt has gone down to Sheol, while the relatives of people he ordered to be slaughtered by the tens of thousands are flocking to the Church to be joined to Christ, so too will Netanyahu and his hateful right-wing butcher-regime and his death squads go down to the pit, while the names of the innocents who died at Saint Porphyrios shall be sung by the heavenly choirs without end. Of this I am sure. And if God wills it, may He let Gaza again breathe, be free and be green, as Guatemala may now (to a certain extent) do.

Six Walks in a disappearing wilderness

Cross-posted from Silk and Chai:

I just finished reading Palestinian Walks—a poignant and tragic memoir by human rights lawyer, author and Palestinian activist Raja Shehadeh about his work in the Holy Land over the course of nearly four decades. Shehadeh, who is an ethnic Palestinian Christian, makes numerous Scriptural references owing to the simple fact that he lives where Scripture was written, and where the events of Scripture took place. But his spirituality is not of an overt, apologist or confessional nature; indeed, his attitude toward organised religion in general is self-avowedly ‘cynical’. Living in a land which is riven by communal factionalism and self-serving zealotry on the part of the settlers, does understandably tend to leave a bad taste in the mouth when it comes to theological questions. But rather, we can see that spirituality most clearly in his meditations on the shifting ecological balance and the fragile disappearing landscapes he loves so dearly. He is very much so a lover of the land and its people, a fact which comes through painfully in every chapter. Glimmers and moments of his faith in Christianity do emerge, however—particularly in his visit to the Monastery of St George Choziba in Wadi Qelt.

To get a good grasp of the tenor of the book, it’s necessary to quote Shehadeh at length about the nature of these walks he would take. Here is his description of the sarḥa (سرحة), which is the term he uses for the sort of walk he would do:

It was mainly young men who went on these expeditions. They would take a few provisions and go to the open hills, disappear for the whole day, sometimes for weeks and months. They often didn't have a particular destination. To go on a sarha was to roam freely, at will, without restraint. The verb form of the word means to let the cattle out to pasture early in the morning, leaving them to wander and graze at liberty. The commonly used noun sarha is a colloquial corruption of the classical word. A man going on a sarha wonders aimlessly, not restricted by time and place, going where his spirit takes him to nourish his soul and rejuvenate himself. But not any excursion would qualify as a sarha. Going on a sarha implies letting go.

Shehadeh’s evocation of the sarḥa rather mirrors the false etymology that Henry David Thoreau posits for ‘saunter’ (from ‘sainte-terre’) as a sort of pilgrimage, though one without a fixed aim. I have little doubt that this choice was intentional on Shehadeh’s part, even if it’s left unsaid. Shehadeh demonstrates a firm command of English-language literature regarding his home country, and an enviable degree of appreciation for its artistry—even as he chides figures like WM Thackeray, Herman Melville and Mark Twain for their unappreciative, imperialist’s-eye view of his country and his people.

Shehadeh describes a landscape in which every ridge, crest, rock, dry riverbed and hill-slope has a name—in Arabic, most commonly, but with the occasional Canaanite and Aramaic epithet arising. He describes an austerely exquisite panorama, not to everyone’s tastes, but with life and vibrancy enough to one trained in the ability to look for it. His careful—yet lively—descriptions of the geological features, of the local plant and animal life, and the ways in which his fellow Palestinians (and their goats, their grapevines and their earthen houses) came to a modus vivendi with their near-desert surroundings, all bear witness to the personal stake he has in the well-being of this place.

Yet despite this naturalist, travelogue feel, Palestinian Walks is very much so a memoir, a personal text. He describes the effort his maternal uncle, Abu Ameen, put into constructing a qasr, essentially a cottage, in the wilderness of Harrasha—and the quirky romance he enjoyed with his hardworking bride, Zariefeh, as they spent their honeymoon hauling rocks and setting them into place. We get to see some of the family dynamics, too. Raja Shehadeh belongs to that educated class of Palestinians, who were drawn into the British administration at Jaffa… although they all hailed from Ramallah. He describes the differences in attitude between his two uncles: one who went off to Jaffa to become a ‘successful’ administrator; and the other who stayed behind and lived stubbornly in the desert hills outside of Ramallah, neither knowing or needing any other kind of life.

A personal streak runs throughout each of these sarḥât. Raja describes one of the first land cases that he took up on receiving his law degree, defending the title of a certain Palestinian named François Albina (who was referred to as ‘the Christian’ landowner by his Muslim neighbours in Beit ‘Ur, in contradistinction to another large landowner nearby whom his neighbours called ‘the Jew’). He details much of the history behind this case, including how the Israeli settlers—with the entire machinery of the Israeli legal system and seemingly bottomless foreign pockets behind them—resorted to practically every trick of legal chicanery and sleight-of-hand in order to undercut Albina’s claim to the land… and even essentially blackmail him into abandoning that same claim by demanding compensation for its use. Raja also describes how this served as an almost perfect test case: the defendant was an independent landowner who was not a Muslim. Yet the Israeli judiciary, despite being forced at every turn by Raja’s argument to acknowledge that Albina had an incontestable and continuous presence on and claim to his own land, ultimately decided on an expansive interpretation of an Israeli military order that gave the go-ahead for settlers to take it and build on it anyway.

Raja’s description of the wall that went up, straight through Albina’s property, is heart-wrenching. Instead of a gentle hillside shaded by pine trees, there was a garish, sixteen-foot concrete wall separating a nestle of villas in a gated community for Israeli high-tech IT employees, with a highway running to the coast, all lit by electric floodlights, overshadowing what remained of the Palestinian community in Beit ‘Ur. He describes both the intrusion of the built space, and all of the architectural choices which accompanied it, as perfectly keyed to stir up animosity and hatred between the two sides, assuring that violence would become an issue later. This point is driven home as, later, in the same vicinity, Raja and his wife Penny end up being shot at by Palestinian militants (Raja doesn’t say Ḥamâs specifically) even after calling to them in Arabic to stop.

Raja Shehadeh makes no bones about the fact that he refuses to consider violence as a legitimate tool. His weapon of choice is the law. His reasons for this are not religious at all, but primarily secular and practical: he knows full well that the Palestinians will not be able to outgun or outkill the Israelis; and he also understands that no peace arrived at through bloodshed is capable of being permanent. He also takes a long-term, generational view of the conflict… though to what extent this view is the product of hindsight in view of the Oslo Accords (which undermined practically all of his legal work defending Palestinian land claims) is unclear.

The Oslo Accords loom large in Shehadeh’s narrative as a kind of classical nemesis. In his view, the Palestinians who came to Oslo were essentially lulled into a false sense of security by the theatrics of hospitality put on by their Norwegian hosts, while the Israelis essentially walked away with the legal rights to the proverbial lock, stock and barrel. Although Shehadeh clearly, and for very good personal reasons, shuns and deplores the violence of the militants, still he views the political opportunism and low cunning of Fataḥ and the PLO more generally in still-bleaker terms: having sold out the patrimony of their people in exchange for aid money and pats on the head from Western governments. (In this, he echoes a sentiment I’ve heard repeatedly in Antiochian and Palestinian Christian circles, particularly with regard to Mahmoud Abbas.) One sees a lot of this frustration in his third sarḥa down to the Dead Sea, which he takes in the company of a young PLO member who talks about the Oslo Accords with a nigh-intolerable rose-tinted naïveté. Here he also describes with alarm the disappearing biome and impending ecological catastrophe which can be observed in the lowering line of the Dead Sea, as Israeli interests divert the fresh water of the Jordan.

In another rare flash of religiosity, Raja Shehadeh describes his pilgrimage to the Monastery of Saint George Choziba in the chapter which follows. He is more comfortable, it seems, referring to figures of the Old Testament (like King David and the Prophet Isaiah) than to the figures of the New—but given where he lives and what his context is, perhaps this is not so strange. Again: his attitude toward religion in general is a negative one. Given what he has described of the overt religiosity of the Israeli settlers, which somehow coexists with callous disregard for neighbour, with casual violence and with absolute comfort in the one-sided and prejudicial use of the machinery of law… this is understandable. And yet he approaches the monastery, sixteen centuries old, with its fortified walls, its dark incensed cloistered interior, its candle-lit icons, with an attitude of deep respect and admiration, if only in the sense of inspiration for the ordering of one’s own life, or the attitude which a people under siege need to adopt.

Raja Shehadeh’s cloister of choice was a modest home with a courtyard in Ramallah… though even this was not inviolate of Israeli brutality, as he learned the hard way when his town came under siege and later occupation. More to the point, perhaps, is that writing became the discipline through which he could manage the defeats, the insults, the violence and the hopelessness which had become the common lot of his people. He discusses, in the context of a sarḥa which the two of them took together, the long friendship he has with Dr Mustafa Barghouti of the PNI Party, and the differences which their lives took. Raja Shehadeh began as a lawyer and ended up as a writer; Mustafa Barghouti began as a medical doctor and ended up as a politician. Yet the two men share a conviction that the Palestinian struggle must be waged in civil society and in terms of generations rather than intifadas.

The final chapter is a harrowing one, but it’s one which I think Shehadeh relates masterfully, simply from a literary standpoint. He describes getting lost right around Dolev, where he grew up—not because of his failing memory, but because the landscape itself had changed so much as to be unrecognisable to him. He ends up finding his way back to Ramallah by process of elimination: all the places which are blocked off to him by Israeli settlements, border walls or checkpoints. He describes a tense encounter with a young, armed Israeli settler who has snuck out of Dolev in order to smoke hashish. The conversation between the two is narrated excellently: a confrontation between two views of the same place that have been shaped by different values and different realms of knowledge. Placing this conversation at the end of the book, after we have been given this personal history of legal struggle and attempts to conserve some semblance of legal consideration for both the landscape and its original inhabitants, was a shrewd choice on Shehadeh’s part: we can see the clear delineation between his view and the ‘settler’ view. Shehadeh is a conservationist and a believer in the rule of law; the settler he encounters is a believer in material progress and victors’ justice. Yet in the end the two of them come, if not to an understanding, then at least to an uneasy truce over the nargileh (punctuated poignantly by the sounds of distant gunfire—whose ‘side’ it is, neither can tell).

Palestinian Walks is a book that I would strongly recommend as a means of understanding the (both literal, figurative and historical) lay of the land in the Israel-Palestine conflict, as well as the common experience that shapes the convictions of the Palestinian side of that conflict. The author—a nominal Christian and a functional pacifist—is nonetheless an authoritative voice for a people who are predominantly Muslim and who are committed to a resistance which can turn, as we have seen, violent. It’s also valuable as an English-language travelogue. However he might chide and wag his finger at the likes of Melville and Thackeray and Twain, what Shehadeh has given us could easily be placed alongside them as a companion-piece, painting in intimate colours the intricate but endangered desert ecology and human communities of the West Bank.

One last note. My own view is that it’s a grim necessity, in these days, to engage in such intentional book-reading as a counterpoint to the prevailing media narratives over the recent conflict. You are not going to get the truth about this or any conflict abroad from CNN, from Fox News, from the New York Times or from the Wall Street Journal, which are all mouthpieces for the State Department and committed to a singular liberal ideology and historical myopia which colours their entire editorial perspective. The benefit of reading books like Shehadeh’s, is that such reading can help someone who is distant and removed from the conflict gain a sense of context, a sense of historical grounding, which is not otherwise available in our information landscape. Although Shehadeh is somewhat self-deprecating about his chosen means of coping with political defeat and the disaster befalling his people, his writing does serve this very needful and, dare I say, God-pleasing purpose.

Raja Shehadeh

Giving thanks today

There is good reason to be thankful, first of all, that a holiday exists in American public life upon which gratitude—not merely a sentiment, but a virtue indeed—can still be, and is expected to be, expressed. Gratitude, which presupposes contentment with the good things one has, and which excludes by its nature expressions of covetousness and of entitlement, is a virtue completely alien to the ideology and the ethos of hyper-capitalism and hyper-individualism which suffuses the vestiges of the American public sphere. If this isn’t good reason to be thankful that Thanksgiving still exists, I quite frankly don’t know what is.

I am grateful, firstly, to God for His manifold blessings, for His creation, for His tireless labour through which creation exists, for His Sabbath rest (undertaken not out of His need but out of ours). I am grateful that God precedes us all and yet still loves us; I am grateful that God chose that we should exist, rather than that we should not. I am grateful to our Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, for whatever hope I have left in me. I am grateful to my parents, without whose love and support I would not be here, sustained me when I was hospitalised and still sustain me now. I am grateful to my ancestors of whatever country they come—English, Welsh, German, Jewish, Illyrian and Scythian.

One reason why this Thanksgiving is special, is because my parents-in-law have arrived here from China for an extended visit. Their arrival is timely and deeply appreciated. Because I am their son-in-law and they are my parents-in-law, it’s to be expected that we don’t see eye-to-eye 100% of the time. However, I can already tell that my wife is happier because they’re here. I can already tell that my children are happier because they’re here. And they are already making our home a more complete one while they are present. My parents-in-law have been an inestimable help to my wife and me, in getting us physically and financially established in our living situation here in the Twin Cities metro area, and in assisting us with various aspects of our life here together. I am and will continue to be grateful to them for as long as they live and as long as I live.

This reflection on the Chinese side of my extended family, prompts me to undertake an examination of my own weak spot for the Arab cause. The root of the matter is this: my family would not be here with me in the United States, if it were not for the sustained Herculean efforts of the Arab-American community in Pawtucket, Rhode Island prevailing against the legal inertia of the DHS and immigration services. In particular, I want to give thanks for Fr Elie (Estephan) of St Mary Antiochian Church, whose own efforts in helping Syrian and Lebanese refugees find support and shelter here from war and deprivation at home, equipped him to address my own (much less dire) family situation.

In 2015 and 2016, Fr Elie assisted me with a list of contacts and advisers as well as his own introductions and good words, including with Ms Susan Saliba (an immigration attorney in Massachusetts) and Mr Albert Mokhiber (an immigration lawyer in DC), who afterward assisted me pro bono with completing the paperwork and navigating the ‘grey areas’ necessary for my wife and kids to join me here legally and in a timely way. For this reason, ever since that time I have always felt a need to pay it forward. Those same war refugees, who are the main beneficiaries of this legal and financial and physical assistance, and in much greater need than I am, I have come to see in a very real sense as my own family by virtue of our common situation. This is what underlies, to a significant degree, my sympathy and support for the cause of Syrian peace, and for the cause of Palestinian peace.

I am grateful to St Alexander Nevsky Church in Saimasai, Kazakhstan, for introducing me to the Orthodox Christian faith. I am grateful to Fr Sergey (Voronin), one-time rector of Holy Dormition Church in Beijing, China, for educating me and guiding me gently into that faith, and chrismating me. I am grateful to St Herman’s Orthodox Church, and to all of my friends and fellow-parishioners there, for continuing to assist in my salvation. I am grateful to them for putting up with my eccentricities, and for encouraging me to continue learning the Russian language.

I am grateful to the school I teach at, and to the Saint Paul Federation of Educators for being a source of community belonging and a source of strength for me. (Pray that we get a just contract!) I am also grateful to the students I teach—even the ones who misbehave occasionally!—Hmong, Karen and Vietnamese; White and African-American; Ojibwe and Hispanic. I learn as much from them as they learn from me, and I hope that in my classroom at least, they get as many chances as they can to explore how much they have to offer, and to exercise the reserves of strength and wisdom they possess.

And I am grateful indeed to the Ojibwe and Dakota nations whose guest on this earth I am. I am grateful that the Ojibwe and the Dakota are still here and still speaking and still active, and that they continue to bear witness to the sacredness of things like clean drinking water and healthy land. (And if this sentiment is somewhat subversive of the civic mythology of Thanksgiving: so much the better! I was always a bit of a Mary Dyer at heart; that’s something I come by honestly, and am also grateful for.)

To all I wish a Thanksgiving filled with love and gratitude: for the good things that we have been given, and for the one Good One that is given us to expect at the end of the season, through the prayers and labours and faith of our Lady, the Most Holy and Most Pure Birthgiver of God and Ever-Virgin Mary.

Neither Fordham nor Montanika, pt. 2

The émigrés and samizdat thinkers of Soviet Union, including the ones of the ‘liberal’-left who have most deeply inspired me (Nikolai Berdyaev, Fr Sergei Bulgakov, St Maria Skobtsova, St Ilya Fondaminsky, etc.) saw their task as being the overthrow of a monolithic, impersonal, totally-mobilised system which completely constrained thought and freedom of the spirit.

But in the wake of that system’s collapse, what took its place was even worse—an anarchic free-for-all hellscape in which those who could not help themselves were brutally trampled underfoot, or left to rot through starvation, or homelessness, or drink, or drugs, or hopelessness. Among the internal critics of the Soviet Union, all but the most ideologically-blinkered neoliberals were left aghast by the human waste and wreckage that took its place.

And now, in the absence of the Soviet system, we are faced with a very different monolithic, impersonal, totally-mobilised system which completely constrains thought and freedom of the spirit... though it masquerades itself underneath the banners of ‘freedom’. This is a system of monopoly, of endlessly-volatile finance-capital, of techno-dystopian nightmares which dissolve the barriers between person and machine, of destruction (not even truly ‘creative’ anymore, if indeed it ever was) with the military-industrial complex as the vanguard of concentrated wealth.

The task which is before us, now, as before the Soviet émigrés of a prior age, is the utter demolition of the spiritual roots of this hateful, faceless, godless system.

If I am critical of Fordham, it is because not only have they abandoned this task—they have taken up a position as the handmaidens of this anti-personalist, hyper-capitalist system... in the very name of personality! Witness how they attack the outward enemies of finance-capitalism when they are, or appear, strong (Russia, China), and wholesale ignore the victims of finance-capitalism when they are weak (Palestine, wherein the only three Fordhamite articles on offer are afterthoughts over two years old and provide nothing but weak-tea platitudes based on outdated Clinton-era political thought).

And if I am critical of ‘Montanika’ / Patristic Faith / Ludwell Fellowship, etc., it is because they have misconstrued this task of our age entirely. Clinging to the tattered rags of white émigré politics and homebrew backlash-political ressentiment, they are still fighting rearguard battles of a war which has already been won (or lost, depending on your perspective). They are still looking for enemies on the outside, when in fact the enemy has already taken the castle, and is issuing their orders for them.

The haute-bourgeois academic Fordhamites may occasionally make pious noises about standing up for the victims, but Catherine Liu straight-up has their number. They are currying and hoarding ‘virtue’ (or rather, what passes for it in our age), while at the same time seeking the cosy embrace of tech-bros and Wall Street finance, particularly Teradata and CitiBank.

And the petit-bourgeois YouTube personality-cultists, profiteering pedlars of an older brand of Whiggery, street preachers and psychological charlatans which make up the ‘native opposition’ within Orthodox Christianity are... well, perhaps they are not as close to being antichrists as the Fordham types are. At least they are sincere. But they are still cultural and political sectarians. They are raskolniki and Old Believers in their spiritual ‘type’, and as such they are pitiable and deluded. And they draw people in--idealistic, lost, ‘angry young men’ in particular—with the exact same lures and promises that the German, Dutch and northern French Reformers did in the 1500s and 1600s.

I don’t know how else to describe my position here. I find Anglo liberalism, particularly in its ‘woke’/rainbow-flag/ersatz-radical form, utterly repugnant. But Anglo conservatism has no draw left for me. Neither political ‘pill’ can cure the disease that afflicts us all—including myself. All I am left to say here is: эй, приди, Господь Иисус!

A plea for peace in Palestine

Another ‘tolle, lege’ moment here, in the wake of recent events in Gaza. This is excerpted from the Epilogue to Fr Paul Nadim Tarazi’s book Land and Covenant:

In the 19th century, with the rise of nationalism in Europe, anti-Jewish sentiments were on the rise, especially in Russia and France. Some leading European Jews realised that the mood presented an opportunity for them to establish a ‘Jewish homeland’. The culmination of their efforts, and especially those of Theodore Herzl, a Viennese Jew, was the First Zionist Congress convened in Basel, Switzerland in 1897. Until 1905, Argentina and Uganda were considered as possible sites for the establishment of a ‘homeland’. So, the idea of a ‘return’ to Palestine and Jerusalem was not as essential then as it is presented nowadays. Even when the choice eventually tilted toward Palestine, this cannot be taken, per se, as a proof that it was a de facto realisation of a perennial dream or even triggered by the ‘obvious’ understanding of ‘Next Year in Jerusalem’ and the ‘aliyah. If Jews were genuinely interested in the ‘return’ to Jerusalem for religious reasons, they could have done so over past centuries. They did not do so because they fared well or preferred to stay, for other reasons, wherever they were dwelling. [...]

From the beginning of the 20th century, governments that supported the establishment and later the policies of the state of Israel did so and still do for political reasons. Their interest then and now lies in the control of that region for its geopolitical and oil-related economical importance. But, here again, while Jews and superpowers look to their interests, which can be explained on a human level, it is the religious factor that complicates the matter in an unprecedented manner. The introduction of an unwarranted divine element makes the situation of the Middle East even more complex. The most pernicious aspect of this factor is that it is affecting policy making for and in the region. Such an attitude becomes dangerous when people believe they have figured out God’s ongoing activity on the historical realm from the perspective of their specific group or nation, their collective. In doing so, they create a monster, if not an idol, to which they chain God. But the biblical premise, as I have repeatedly shown, is that history is still trailing along not because of man’s realisations, but out of God’s mercy and longsuffering.

The earth--every earth--is the Lord’s as are those who dwell therein. The Middle East, as any other part of the earth, is the patrimony of those who have lived there for centuries. It is their duty, regardless of their religious affiliation, to make it a better place for the upcoming generations. More specifically, the earth of Palestine is the patrimony of the Palestinians, and they alone have the last word in its future. Others are welcome to help, but not to dictate. This scriptural teaching does not apply solely to the Middle East. Our entire planet would be a better place if that rule was applied in every earth on our planet.

Whether Palestine will prove to be a ‘holy land’, is up to God, and him alone, to decide when he comes to judge the living and the dead. The nations of the world and, more importantly, the Christians of the West, are to extend a helping hand for the purpose of committing the Palestinians to the Lord’s peace. They are not, through their self-serving policies and attitudes, to force Palestine into a bloodbath and then use the situation they create as a renewed opportunity to intervene. To live in peace, the Palestinians need to be left in peace!

A prayer for peace, from a Christian of Gaza

Today, the fourteenth of October, is the feast-day of Saint Kosmas the Poet of Gaza. It is worth remembering Saint Kosmas today, when his fellow Arabs, including Christian Arabs, are under siege in the very place where he reposed, by a hostile army of nationalists following a deluded messianic vision. As I write this, the Gazans—over one million people—are in their literal eleventh hour, having been given a twenty-four hour ultimatum to evacuate Gaza in an order that the UN has deemed ‘impossible’. This is in response to a brutal attack by Hamas on several Israeli settlements bordering Gaza. There can be no real, cogent moral defence of such a surprise attack targeting civilians. But instead of producing a rational and thoughtful response as to how we got to this juncture, the war machine is gearing up once again to grind down, not only Hamas, but Palestinians outside of Hamas who are already helpless and already without defence. This includes the Christians of Saint Porphyrios Church in Gaza, who have requested our prayers. They face a true martyrdom: sacrificial suffering on account of a crime in which they had no part.

There are few who seek understanding of this conflict. But for those who are interested, I would recommend two books in particular: the work of George Antonius, The Arab Awakening, and William Dalrymple’s travelogue From the Holy Mountain. The latter is not about the history of the Holy Land per se, but intimates many things which are relevant to the present state of affairs. The autobiography of Iraqi statesman Adnan al-Pachachi, Living to Some Purpose, may also be of some interest to readers on this question.

The land which is called ‘holy’, is crying for peace, yet peace is very far from its grasp. I find myself in deep grief for those who have lost their lives on both sides already. And I find myself deep in anger, not only at Hamas, but also (and more so) at the Israeli state and leadership who failed to prevent this attack, and who will now wreak a vengeance that will target the innocent along with the guilty. There can be no true peace without justice; and justice can only be arrived at, when the rightful claims of the Palestinian cause are acknowledged, and when the security of the Jewish people everywhere, not just in the Holy Land, is assured. I can only add Rev’d Dr John Mason Neale’s English translation of the hymn for peace from the Christmas Canon, which was authored by the holy Palestinian of Gaza whom we commemorate today:

Father of Peace, and God of Consolation!
　The Angel of the Counsel dost Thou send
To herald peace, to manifest Salvation,
　Thy Light to pour, Thy knowledge to extend;
Whence, with the morning’s earliest rays,
Lover of men! Thy Name we praise.

’Midst Caesar’s subjects Thou, at his decreeing,
　Obey’dst and was enrolled: our mortal race,
To sin and Satan slave, from bondage freeing,
　Our poverty in all points didst embrace:
And by that Union didst combine
The earthly with the All-Divine.

Behold! The virgin, prophecy sustaining,
　Incarnate Deity conceived and bore;
Virgin in birth, and virgin still remaining,
　And man to God is reconciled once more:
Wherefore in faith her name we bless,
And Mother of our God confess.

The Asianness of Jesus (and why it matters)

Recently I wrote this post on Facebook.

Jesus was not American.
Jesus was not European.
Jesus was an Asian who was raised in Africa.

This struck me as being simply a bald statement of historical and geographical fact, unassailable from the standpoint of simple empiricism. Bethlehem, where our Lord Christ was born (Luke 2:1-20), is a town in the West Bank of Palestine, which is on the continent of Asia. And the town where our Lord Christ was raised by the Theotokos in exile, al-Maṭariyya, is just outside of Cairo in the mainland of Egypt (Matthew 2:13-23), which is on the continent of Africa. And the importance of this fact to me seemed to be obvious, simply by reference to the logic of the Incarnation. God had a flesh-and-blood body. God therefore had a mother, a birthplace, a homeland, a biological family, a career—and all of those things should be revered as such.

For example: we know that Jesus was a practising Palestinian Jew of the Second Temple. He was descended from the tribe of Judah through His maternal grandfather Joachim, and from the tribe of Levi through His maternal grandmother Anna (according to the Protoevangelium of James). We know that Jesus spoke a Northwest Semitic language as His mother tongue (Matthew 5:22; Matthew 27:46; Mark 5:41; Mark 7:34; Mark 15:34). In terms of language, the closest modern-day kin to Jesus are the neo-Aramaic-speaking Syrians who live in Ma’lûlâ, Syria. We know that He learned Hebrew as a second language: otherwise He would not be able to read and discuss Scripture (Luke 4:16). And He also very likely learned Greek, the common tongue in His region of the Roman Empire, as a third—which is how He would have conversed with Pilate (John 18). We know that Jesus is identified as a Galilean (Matthew 4:12). We know all of this from Holy Scripture.

However, this was apparently a bit too much for some of my commenters, some of whom baldly asked, ‘So what?’; while another replied a bit more waggishly by pointing out that in those days, Asia referred only to Asia Minor (modern-day Turkey) and Africa only to the Roman province of Africa (which is now in Libya and Tunisia). To the last point—fair enough. But the former question is one which I think deserves a bit of unpacking.

As inheritors of Western Christendom, there is a prevailing attitude that Jesus is ‘ours’ by default. Not only is this attitude untrue, but it was also never true. Jesus is not our inheritance by way of civilisational legacy or cultural osmosis. Rather, Jesus becomes our inheritance when we become His, when we join Him in the Eucharist, and through the prayers and disciplines of His Church. Thus, when I say that ‘Jesus is not European’ and ‘not American’, my purpose is not to belittle Europeans. We know that Jesus had among His followers those whom we would now consider European and white, such as the Roman centurion in Matthew 8 and Luke 7. Likewise Jesus had among His followers those whom we would now consider to be black Africans, such as St Simon of Cyrene in Mark 15 and the Ethiopian eunuch in Acts 8.

Another reason I point this out has to do with modern geopolitics. Jesus Christ lived His life on the ragged periphery of the Roman Empire. The Jordan River marked in a very real sense the liminal division between West and East in the Hebrew imagination: it was the Schengen Line of His time, and His Baptism was very much so an act of religiously-imbued (think: Exodus) civil disobedience to Rome. The Roman Empire and its logic were pagan. Judaism was very much so a minority religion and as often as not a persecuted one within the Empire. The fact that Christ appeared as an Aramaic-speaking Mizrahi Jew, that is to say as a West Asian, at that moment in history, is significant. He became Incarnate in a contested region between two huge world empires: one need only look at maps of Rome and Persia all throughout this period to see what I mean. And He was wrongly condemned and crucified as an enemy of one of those empires.

Just as it was the job of Christians in the first century to peaceably resist the evils of the Roman Empire, so too it is the job of Christians in our day to resist the current Atlanticist, Euro-American Empire, which is ideologically post-Christian and in many senses sub-pagan in terms of our retrograde rejection of metaphysics and higher culture, not to mention our false pretences to being the arbiter of universality and universal values.

Note that Jesus never appeals to what the Parthians do at any point in His ministry. In no case, therefore, should our resistance to our empire be conditioned by or referred to what is done by the Russians or by the Chinese. The Russians worship God and God will care for them. And the Chinese are yet in the process of rediscovering God after a long period of state-enforced atheism. Rather, it is for the evils of our own culture and our own civilisation, which we shall be called to account at the Last Judgement. And make no mistake that, collectively, we in the West will have some ‘splaining to do.

But, as one particularly astute commenter observed,

I suspect if you’re getting pushback, it’s from folks who see the “Jesus wasn’t white” line used by people who then try to shove Christ into their own particular postmodern identity politics or to peddle particular partisan liberal political positions. When Christ asks either the “Western chauvinists” or the liberal identity politics advocates “Who do you say I am?”, he’s bound to get the wrong answer either way.

This is quite true, and a necessary corrective to what I originally wrote. And, as I responded to him, as often as not nowadays those two groups (Western chauvinists and id-pol liberals) tend to overlap significantly. The significance of the Asianness of Christ is lost, every bit as much on those who would uphold a highly-specific, deracinated, bourgeois boba liberal understanding of ‘Asian’, as on those who refuse to acknowledge Jesus as anything but a white Anglo-American, whether of a liberal or a conservative cultural posture. Making Jesus a champion of ‘woke’ racial shame in the name of equity, is every bit as spurious and idolatrous as making Him a champion of gun rights.

When I speak of Christ as Asian, I speak in the mode of St Ilya Fondaminsky, when he spoke of Christianity as the ‘response of the awakened East’ to the ersatz universalism of the Hellenic West: a response which ‘tore apart’, even ‘to shreds’, the world order of that time. Even if it’s not entirely right to cast our Saviour as the bringer of a spiritually multipolar world (Christ Himself became the pole), still it’s not entirely wrong either. Rather than swearing fealty to the singular self-sufficient ‘universal’, to the man-god in Rome, the early Christians swore fealty rather to the God-man Who was crucified and Who rose from the dead: to a particular (and only because particular, truly universal) Who was both One and Plural as the Holy Trinity.