HEROïNE
STUDENT MAGAZINE OF LITERARY AND CULTURAL ANALYSIS
Year 5 nr. 3 Homecoming
colophon Year 5, Volume 3 2018 Text editors: Serina Tatham, Matija Stojanovic, Lara-Lane Plambeck, Eveline Mineur, Boriana Hadjieva. Image editors and design: Nikole Wells, Kat Lybanieva, Carlota Font Castelló General board members: Nella Zielinska, Eivor Slågedal, Nikki Kerruish, Shelly Chuang, Iris Vanderheyden, Leanne Staugaard. Illustrations: list on p. 39 With special thanks to Fabula Rasa. Contact and submissions: redactie.heroine@gmail.com facebook: Tijdschrift Heroine twitter: @tijdschrifthero Do you want to subscribe to our magazine? Mail us. You can choose between an annual subscription (€8,-) or a subscription for two years (€15,-). Would you like to be part of the creating process of this magazine? Please contact the editorial board. We are also looking for new content for next issue: Sound/Noise.
Table of Contents
Editorial the editors....................................................................................................... 4 Inhabitants of the Academic Home the editors....................................................................................................... 5 Dekenloos Andrea de Jonge............................................................................................. 10 Make it work Serina Tatham............................................................................................... 11 Oven-baked chanterelles with rosemary potatoes Eivor SlĂĽgedal............................................................................................... 12 Edgar Tesse Baardman............................................................................................ 18 A Faded Image Boriana Hadijeva........................................................................................... 23 Homergasten the guest: Martijn Dekker.............................................................................. 24 too far close Minh Sandberg.............................................................................................. 28 CRUSH interview with Rat October............................................................................ 29 Homesick Serina Tatham................................................................................................. 32 Essayer contributor: anonymous................................................................................ 33 To Amsterdam anonymous.................................................................................................... 37
Editorial
Homecoming: it’s a tricky word. With it, comes the implications of welcoming, joy and even love. This issue of Heroïne might be our most personal yet because, for there to be a homecoming, there must be a home to come back to. And home, this idea that is somehow tangible and intangible at the same time, can never be the same for two people; sometimes it doesn’t even remain the same for one person. Literature has always been eager to discuss home and the returning to it, from the epic “Odyssey” to “Spider-man: Homecoming”, and it would seem that the change and diverse nature of home make it a popular theme and interest of writers. Needless to say, home is a complicated concept and with the summer break right on our doorstep (Amen to that), we will all get to go home and be near to what is dearest to us - something which is not restricted to a physical place. Home might be the pie your mom makes on special occasions, the sound of your siblings arguing over the remote, the smell of a cappuccino, or the adorable little jumps of your dog welcoming you home. Or, maybe you are like this editor and you don’t know yet. Maybe you don’t have dog and maybe your mom sucks at baking. Maybe, like this editor, you left home to find a new one. Maybe, like this editor, in order to have a homecoming you can’t go anywhere else. Maybe, like this editor, you are incredibly close to discovering the home you need and deserve. And maybe, just, maybe, this issue of Heroïne can aid you in your search of home, or at the very least be the starting point of your search. ~ the editors
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Inhabitants of the Academic Home Sometime in the recent past, we all left our home town or our home country and washed ashore on new homeland: the Literary and Cultural Analysis program of the University of Amsterdam. Within this program we speak a common tongue, consisting of names of theorists, concepts and analytical methods. Daily we enter ‘our’ university buildings and spend hours within their walls in the company of co-students and lecturers. Does this make Literary and Cultural Analysis something we could call an academic home? And if so, who are its inhabitants? As a reply to these questions, we would like to introduce to you eight LCA affiliated scholars and their research areas. These profiles might help you to decide on a thesis mentor, or at the very least they might finally give you the ammunition to break that silence in the elevator. ~ the editors
Esther Peeren is Professor of Cultural Analysis, vice-director of the Amsterdam School of Cultural Analysis (ASCA) and vice-director of the Amsterdam Centre for Globalisation Studies (ACGS). Her research focuses on questions of marginalization and agency, the invisibility of the impact of globalisation on rural areas, and the evolving relation between centres and peripheries. Recent publications include an article on the affective economies an political force of rural wildness in Landscape Research (2018), a co-edited volume entitled Global Cultures of Contestation (Palgrave, 2018), and a co-edited volume entitled Peripheral Visions in a Globalizing World (Brill, 2016). Other areas of interest include popular culture, literary and cultural theory, and contemporary British and American literature, television and film.
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Irina Souch’ research interests include Russian and European film and popular television, literary and cinematic adaptation, cultural translation, feminist film analysis, affect theory, contemporary Russian philosophy and critical theory. She authored the book Popular Tropes of Identity in Contemporary Russian Television and Film (Bloomsbury, 2017). Her most recent work focuses on the narrative and aesthetic aspects of transnational television drama and the role of landscapes in film and serial television. If you share a home with Irina you will always have somebody to listen to your stories and to share your secrets. Besides, she assures you that living with her you will never run out of food, drink, and clean towels.
Jeff Diamanti brought a breeze of cultural environmentalism with him to the LCA department. His work revolves around the articulation of fossil fuels and media. Recurring topics in his publications are petroculture, the social and cultural implications of oil and energy on the individual and society and climate realism, the transformation of realism by our new experience of climate in the Anthropocene. Jeff has a history of co-writing with co-inhabitant Marija Cetinic. The vast majority of his thoughts at home consist either of calculations for scaring his partner and their two children or of reliving successfully executed scare-events. He is a deeply unpleasant person to live with. But he is never satisfied, and it is only a matter of time before he will expand his target audience to PCH.
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Noa Roei is Assistant Professor Literary and Cultural Analysis and a research fellow at ASCA. Her current research is moving away from her original focus on nationalism and militarism, into the broader direction of critical visual studies, examining performances and art installations that respond to the production, circulation, and reception of contemporary images of war. She authored the book Civic Aesthetics: Militarism, Israeli Art, and Visual Culture (Bloomsbury Publishing, 2016) Outside of the academic home she is involved with gate48, a platform for critical Israelis in the Netherlands. Noa feels always out of place – except at LCA – and can be too empathetic for her own good. Perhaps that’s how as a teenager she ended up playing a clown at children’s birthday parties.
Daan Wesselman’s main focus is urban space and its literary and visual representation. As a literary scholar he is also interested in 20th century American and British literature, the postmodern and the post human. Apart from his work as a lecturer Daan recently contributed to the collection Deconstructing the High line: Essays on Postindustrial Urbanism (Rutgers UP, 2017) and The Urban uncanny: a Collection of Interdisciplinary Studies (Routledge, 2016). If you intend to pick Daan as your thesis mentor, be aware that he has no patience for people who avoid taking responsibility for their own choices and behaviour.
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Hanneke Stuit is, in addition to her position as Assistant Professor, affiliated with ASCA. She focuses on the representation and strategies of community formation in South African literature, film, photography and popular culture. This focus solidified in her book Ubuntu Strategies: Constructing Spaces of Belonging in Contemporary South African Culture (Palgrave Macmillan, 2016). Recently, she has taken up an interest in peripheral spaces in the globalized present, specifically prison spaces, and the narratives and metaphors generated in, about and around those spaces. Sharing a home with Hanneke is a pleasure, if you’re not easily distracted: she’s tidy, very driven, but types too loudly.
Boris Noordenbos is a lecturer in Literary and Cultural Analysis and also a member of ASCA. His research interests are contemporary Russian literature and its relations to current politics in the country, about which he has published the book Post-Soviet Literature and the Search for Russian Identity (Palgrave Macmillan, 2016). At the moment he has taken an interest in post-Soviet nostalgia and is co-editing a new book where he explores the issue. If you are interested in sharing a home with Boris, you should be aware he is a compulsive gardener. You will have to fight plants (both inside and outside the house) for his care and attention.
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Niall Martin is an Assistant Professor in the department of Literary and Cultural Analysis and is also co-director of the ASCA Cities Project. He received a postdoctoral fellowship by the Amsterdam Centre for Globalisation Studies to work on a project titled: ‘London’s Demons: Noise in the Global City’. This research is incorporated in his book Iain Sinclair: Noise, Neoliberalism and the Matter of London (Bloomsbury, 2015). Niall is currently working on a project titled Noise Worlds: Reading Globalisation Through Noise which examines the different ways in which concepts of noise interact with and produce our ideas of globalisation. He recently co-edited a special edition of Culture Theory and Critique on ‘Disorientation’ together with Professor Mireille Rosello, which was published in March 2016. Living together with Niall you should be prepared to fight for the remote control; he is likely to grab it and demand to watch something on Netflix “for work”.
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Dekenloos
by Andrea de Jonge De zolder rook laatst weer naar die warme zomer. Toen we de deur naar het balkon open hadden staan en we de ventilator op volle toeren lieten draaien. Toen we samen half onder en half op de dekenloze dekbedovertrekken lagen en wachtten, snakkend naar de verkoelende wind die af en toe onze verhitte huid kwam strelen. We realiseerden ons dat de muggen zo wel binnen konden komen, maar we vonden datminder erg dan die zwetende hitte. Op het moment zelf ervoeren we het niet als een prettige nacht. Maar nu ik er aan terug denk, zou ik daar veel liever voor kiezen, in plaats van nu, nog een nacht alleen, met niets anders dan een herinnering om mevast te houden.
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Make It Work by Serina Tatham
The tarmac, ruthless and unyielding, presses against me. It doesn’t cradle me like memory-foam. Instead, it hurts me, leaves zigzags on my skin from where I’ve slept funny. It’s telling me to find a proper home.
I’ve been here so long Now. I see my figure, an indent in the tarmac. Like memory-foam. I finally have a home.
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Eivor Slågedal
Eivor Slågedal
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14 • Eivor Slågedal
Eivor Slågedal • 15
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Oven-baked chanterelles with rosemary potatoes by Eivor SlĂĽgedal
Preheat oven to 220 degrees Celsius. Fry the fresh chanterelles on low heat in a non-stick pan. When they start to heat up, add salted butter. When the chanterelles have absorbed the butter, turn the heat off and remove the pan. Cut potatoes in medium size wedges. In a bowl, mix the potato wedges with olive oil, fresh rosemary and salt and pepper to taste. Spread the potatoes in a deep oven pan together with the chanterelles. Place the pan in the middle of the oven and bake for 30 minutes. Serve with garlic butter, sea salt and fresh herbs.
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Edgar
by Tesse Baardman I feel my belly slowly getting wet, the ragged fabric of my sweater getting soaked through. At first, it becomes incorporated in my dream. I don’t know what my dream was before, but now it is me getting my belly wet. I slowly start realising that this reality exists outside my dream and I open my eyes. The lights of the bank I am lying in front of are already turned on, but the sun is still down. When I manage to orient myself, I notice I am staring into the eyes of a small shepherd-like dog. The smell of urine is tingling my nose and I try to rise to a sitting position to feel somewhat on the same level as the dog. It is not wearing a collar and it is filthy. It is staring at me and does not look like it will go away, it has made me its territory and will stay to
protect it. I decide to call it Lucy. Lucy sits down next to me and raises her ears. Although to me, the city is still quiet, still turning in its bed, Lucy probably hears the first alarms ringing or kettles boiling. After us staying put for a while, getting used to each other’s presence, I start searching my pockets for any coins that may be left over from yesterday. A few small coins come out. The sum total is enough for a banana, or a visit to a public toilet. I decide on the latter. I painfully stand up and start walking from the bank entrance to Westerpark. The toilet is in the section with a pond and some perfectly aligned oak trees. Lucy has followed me, although the dog is in no hurry, sniffing every inch of the pavement and peeing on every lamppost. When I reach the restroom, I tell Lucy to sit and stay for no reason other than that it feels like the right thing to do, but the dog is not affected by
the interpellation. Never mind then. After I’ve freshened up a bit and drank some water, me and Lucy look for a nice bench in this small park. The benches here are mediocre, not deep enough and with big gaps between the slats. It’ll have to do, though, so I sit down and listen to the birds chirping their lungs out. The sound of today’s first runner disrupts the calm of the park. It is a middleaged, white woman, in shiny new sneakers that carry the logo of an expensive brand. Her hair is tied in a ponytail that moves from side to side with every step. She looks towards me, then at me, and quickly looks away again, after giving me a lovely face of disgust. It is too early in the day to be bothered by it, but it does become a bit annoying after she has repeated the same lap through the park and the same stare at me about ten times. The eleventh time she passes by, Lucy suddenly has a
Tesse Baardman • 19
determined look in her eyes and jumps up, running after the woman. She just wants some entertainment, a little race maybe, but the lady is not up for it, shouting and swearing. Good thing Lucy doesn’t speak human. The lady has stopped running and is now walking towards me, with a red head and a clenched jaw. ‘Excuse me, is this your dog?’ The lady asks in a high-pitched voice. ‘Not exactly’. ‘But it is here with you, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes’. ‘Then you better keep it on a leash, before it starts attacking even more people, or kids even!’ I decide not to answer, as I have nor a leash, nor a wish to enrage her further. Instead, I pull Lucy towards me and pet her, giving a courtesy nod to the lady. She exhales violently and paces to the
gate, not continuing her laps in this park, apparently. Lucy pants happily. I lie down and close my eyes. When I open them again, it is because a police officer is shaking me awake. The sun is shining now, and the park has filled up. Lucy is still under the bench, looking comfortable as ever. The cop is telling me the usual, throwing around words such as ‘complaint’, ‘order’, ‘residence’, blah blahblah. I offer her an apology, put on my jacket and get off the bench. The cop looks almost surprised, as if she was expecting to arrest someone today, but she will have to wait some longer. The park was getting boring anyway. Lucy and I walk towards one of my regular spots, on the steps of this beautiful protestant church in a more central part of the city. It is really big, but not too in-your-face, with subtle colours and a lot of windows. I am getting hungry, so I check a few trashcans on my
way. They have just been emptied, leaving me with nothing but a few plastic bags, a newspaper, a hotdog and a Starbucks coffeecup with the name Kendrick on it. I give the hotdog to Lucy and take the newspaper and the cup for myself. It is the perfect time of the day, the sun hitting the entrance of the church as if God himself is walking in. There is a line of people along the side of the church, waiting to get in to the Anne Frank Huis. Those that are smart enough to exploit the tourists, rather than complain about them, are selling trinkets and gadgets that supposedly embody Dutch culture. I sit down on the steps, put the cup in front of me and start reading the newspaper. Not a lot happened today, politicians are screwing up as always and the war with the Middle East is nowhere near over. A few church-goers throw small coins in my cup and an old woman gives me a bottle
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of water, which comes in very helpful for Lucy and me. Still, I’ll have to be here for at least another hour if I want something more than a bread roll. When the church bells sound three times, I am about to get up, but I hear a familiar voice calling my name. I look around and see a bearded guy without trousers, one of the regulars at the shelter I sometimes go to. He is happy to see me, but I can’t remember his name. Was it Jonas? No, that is the one with red hair. Nor is it Balthasar, as I remember someone saying he died last week. I think it’s something with an r or maybe a t. ‘Hey man!’, I say as a last-minute solution ‘Eddy, my friend, how is it going?’ I want to reply, as he asked me a question, but as always, he cuts me off before I can.
‘I see you got a dog, good for you! I always wanted a dog myself, but it’s so hard to find any these days, with everyone adopting strays and stuff.’ He is clearly drunk or stoned, and I’m having a hard time understanding him, but as far as I know, he’s a good guy, so I nod and smile politely. ‘The other day, my friend, I sailed all the way to China, and that country is wild, man, I wish you would have been there to see it!’ This probably means that he took a walk to China town. Some theories on Orientalism spring to mind. I really am hungry, so I apologise to him and tell him goodbye. Not that he seems to care, as he keeps rambling on. Lucy and I leave the church and the square and go on a quest for food. I don’t know about Lucy, but I for one are craving McDonalds. As this is outside my
budget, I go to the next best thing, a fastfood stand in a mall in the Kalverstraat. People don’t usually like it when I go to this mall, but today they will have to deal with it. On my way there, I pass the inconveniently designed building that was once a university. Where, not long ago, I used to complain to my fellow students about the unreachable second floor and the poor quality of the canteen-food, a hotel has now taken over. The city is ever moving, so I, too, am not lingering here. I recognise the person working the food stand. She is one of the kind ones, never cringing at me and sometimes giving me free coffee. Annabella is her name, quite a posh name, but despite her parents’ poor creativity, she is a very relaxed and humble woman. Today, as well, she makes me feel like an actual person, and she loves Lucy. After I’ve eaten my fries and some chicken, I feel good for today. I lean
Tesse Baardman • 21
against a windowsill outside the mall and take out the only book I own and have read around twenty times: Heart of Darkness. Such a boring book. Not at all enjoyable or fascinating or even traumatising, just boring. There was one time I read it and actually thought I had finally discovered a more interesting layer, that I was finally going to understand why everyone is crazy about this novel, but then it slipped away. It is slightly less boring than doing nothing, though, plus I like to think that it keeps my brain in shape, there might be a market for it again one day. So I start to read, but I am easily distracted. The mall is busy and crowded with teenagers who, judging by their bags, just came out of class. Big groups of girls go in and come out with stolen beers or food, while smaller groups of boys stand against a wall outside the entrance, talking rough to each other and eyeing the girls that hastily pass them.
I stay here for a while, me staring at them, them staring at each other, Lucy staring at anything that moves. Some people throw money in my cup, or give me a nod or a smile, others look at me with disgust. But the majority doesn’t notice me, occupied with their own lives, their yelling kids or their buzzing phones. When it starts getting darker and colder, I continue to my next spot of the day. On the edge of the city, back towards where I started this morning, an old classmate of mine owns a bar. There are never any customers, but he has the money and he likes owning a bar. To keep up the appearances (not for anyone else, just himself), I sometimes make him pour me beer, for which he always forgets to charge me. I enjoy the walk there, it is a long one, but the city has a nice flow around this hour. People are on their way home or having dates in restaurants, and even the
first drunk students are represented. The bright lights shine colours on everyone’s faces and the rushing cars and the excited people turn up the volume of the streets. Lucy, too, seems to be enjoying it. They say bartenders take on the role of the therapist to the lonely drunkards across from them, but not Sammy. I have been listening to his marital problems and physical insecurities for two hours now. He mindlessly refills my glass as soon as it is empty, though, so I will gladly accept it. He seems genuinely down today, his hair is greyer and his wrinkles deeper. If he looks like this after his wife said he needs to help out more, I wonder what I look like. I have avoided mirrors to the best of my abilities for a long time. He stops talking, as if the problem has been resolved, but I didn’t say anything. Perhaps he is a therapist after all, just to himself. We chat for a few more minutes about insignificant stuff, and
22 • Edgar
then it is time for me to leave. Sammy pats Lucy and then me on the back, and wishes us goodnight. I feel I have had enough interaction today, so I decide not to go to the shelter. There is a metro station nearby which will be my hotel for the night. The people with ‘security’ written on their jackets are busy with each other, not looking at anything out here. Lucy and I crawl under the turning gates and choose line fifty. Lucy freaks out on the escalators, running up as we go down. She does this for a while and we are getting nowhere, so I lift her up and carry her to nonmoving grounds. Rather than benches, they have hollowed out pieces of the wall here, which actually makes for pretty decent sleeping spots. Not very soft, but almost cozy as you are embraced by the concrete. The bed is not very spacious, so Lucy lies down half on top of me. As the metro comes less
frequently and the travellers become less numerous, I close my eyes and doze away.
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A Faded Image by Boriana Hadijeva
I walk through porridges of leaves, Grey raindrops, trying to believe This low, dull sky is now my home, This dark, soaked road I call my own. And who I was, what I have seen – an image on a blackened screen. Some faces, people I once knew, A sky of silk like Turkish blue: Now I remember walking down And buying sweets from shops in town With crunchy nuts and sticky honey. I’d pay for it with worthless money. My grandma’s soft, smooth hand I held. The market ladies gossiped, yelled. I taste the language I once spoke That now has disappeared like smoke.
This catalogue of rustic scenes, All faded, like some fleeting dream. The faces – smudged, the roads are faint, But glossed with coats of see-through paint. And though expressions are not clear I wish to join them and be near The faces as they grow and change. I do not want to grow estranged.
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Homergasten
the guest: Martijn Dekker In Homergasten we ask a guest contributor about a personal favourite in the realm of literature, theatre, film, TV or otherwise, or to bring up an issue within the context of the magazine’s theme. In this issue Martijn Dekker from the Faculty of Social and Behavioural Sciences ponders on the meaning of the notion of home for Palestinian refugees, and the relation between the house they own and the home they long for.
“Hello, my name is Marwan. I am from Haifa.” A fifteen-year-old Palestinian boy is sitting across the table, speaking with the careful articulation of someone who is trying to learn a new language. Surprised by the answer, and somewhat forgetting the purpose of this basic English class, I ask him whether he was born in a hospital there. “No. But I am from Haifa. Just like my parents and grandparents.” “Right, but, I mean, have you ever been there?” “No. But I will return to my home.” A couple of years ago, I was living in the Palestinian refugee camp ‘Askar, on the outskirts of the sizeable city of Nablus, in the northern part of the West Bank. I was doing research for my PhD and was looking into the ways Palestinians try to
organise their own security. While there, I befriended many people, amongst whom another student, who was volunteering and helping youngsters improve their English. One afternoon I happened to walk in on her class, not knowing they were still busy. But since I was there anyway, I decided to help one of the students. They were practicing in pairs and he didn’t have a partner, or so it seemed, so I took a quick glance at his book, which was opened at a page about greetings and introductions, and after some improvisation the short exchange above ensued. People who have talked to Palestinian refugees, or who’ve read about their predicaments, are probably familiar with the weight of the laden issue that hides behind Marwan’s seemingly straightforward statement: al-Nakba, or The Catastrophe, as the Palestinians refer to
Martijn Dekker • 25
the period between 1946 and 1948, in which approximately 800,000 Palestinians were forced out of their homes or fled the violence of Jewish militias. Not only is the desire to return to their original homes a major obstacle in so-called peace talks but to the refugees and their descendants themselves it is a trauma they have to live with every day, and, as such, a central part of their identity. That the struggle for the “Right of Return” is such a vital issue for several generations of Palestinians is also reflected in the work of the UN agency specifically established to provide relief to Palestinian refugees, the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA). Not only those who fled between 1946 and 1948 but also their descendants can be – and almost always are – registered as refugees and are
therefore eligible for services like education, healthcare, emergency assistance, and social services. But, in addition to being entitled to receiving relief and assistance, the refugee status means much more to Palestinians. They stress the political importance of their very existence, as a living reminder of an injustice that occurred seventy years ago and has not been resolved up to today. On the contrary, with over five million refugees registered at UNRWA, today, the “refugee issue” has increased substantively over the past decades when you consider the original number of about 800,000. One day I discussed this issue with Amjad, the director of a local NGO that provides services to people in refugee camp ‘Askar. “Do you think you will be able to
return to Haifa in your lifetime?” “No, I don’t think so,” he answered solemnly. “But why, then, is everything in ‘Askar geared towards a temporary solution? If you don’t think you will return in your lifetime, why not make it more comfortable now and aim for a future here? Why don’t you and your colleagues try to build up something permanent?” Amjad stared at me, first in surprise, then with a determined, incensed look in his eyes. “You must never ask that question to anyone here,” he shouted. “You cannot. We will not give up and we will not lose hope. We have the right to return and one day this injustice will be corrected. And it is not up to you to decide what we must do. Everyone in the world can see us, so they have to do something.”
26 • Homergasten
It was only afterwards that I began to understand Amjad’s outburst. Of course it’s not up to me to ask these questions. And of course I also understand the politics behind it. But it also made me wonder. What does this prolonged exile do to communities, to people’s sense of home? Why do young people who have never been to Haifa or Jaffa in their lives refer to those places as home? That there’s a difference between a house and a home needs no further explanation. A house doesn’t necessarily feel like a home and obviously it’s also possible to feel at home in someone else’s house, or, for that matter, without having a house at all. But what is it exactly that makes one feel home? Is it the physical surroundings? Your personal belongings? The people that also happen to be present? And, in
the latter case, do they have to be friends and relatives, or would a group of people you feel comfortable with, because they are more or less like-minded, also suffice? According to sociologist Jan Willem Duyvendak there are roughly two situations that contribute to feeling at home. One refers to a predictable and comfortable place, a place that feels safe – “a haven in a heartless world” – while the other, heaven, denotes a situation in which you can be yourself, in which you can pursue those activities you value (2018:21). According to Duyvendak, haven concerns more physical, environmental aspects, while in the case of heaven people seem more important. However, as Duyvendak points out, what they have in common, is that they both invoke a sense of familiarity, and permit for the congruence of a person with their environment (2018).
The latter is most likely what Palestinians are missing and what makes their predicament so tragic; they do not feel one with their environment. What does make them feel at home are scenes they have witnessed many decades ago, or what has been described to them by family members. This form of homesickness, even though it is often not even based on actual experiences, can be invoked by a picture, a song, or the actual key to the old house of their grandparents, that their grandmother kept safe for seventy years. They long for the sights, sounds and smells of their childhood, or they develop this longing after listening for hours and hours to parents and grandparents talking about their walks along the beach at Jaffa, with the sand between their toes, and the sea breeze ruffling up their hair.
Martijn Dekker • 27
Living in the Palestinian refugee camp ‘Askar taught me that there’s actually more to feeling at home than the people and the physical environment around you; it is inexplicable. That is also why Duyvendak notes that many people have much more difficulties explaining what makes them feel at home than describing the opposite, what makes them not feel at home (2018). Ultimately, despite all of their good work, UNRWA and organisations such as Amjad’s can provide them with a temporary haven, a roof above their heads and basic services, but the enduring promise of an ethereal heaven, the place where their ancestors lived, that is what most Palestinian refugees are longing for, even when many have never even had the actual experience of waking up to the sounds and smells of the sea. After having spent so much time with my Palestinian friends,
I think I understand what they mean when they say they want to go home. And I can only hope they will one day experience a true homecoming, wherever it may be. Literature: Duvendak, J. W. (2018) Thuis. Het drama van een sentimentele samenleving. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press.
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too far close by Minh Sandberg
You There is a place for that you have heard or you have known and where solitude has peaceful grown and it carries the place beyond to you, longing far away unknown. A single hand won’t reach you two don’t do it either but you grow wide and wider and from things you seperate more attachments seem not sane for a retreat further inside to keep too much would be for vain.
You find it once, You find it twice all are different, at different times yet once there’s distance, the remoteness’ divide makes you wonder about all that you have cherished and why you answered their call. The unfolding you are seeking of a final belonging cannot be seen, cannot be thought can only be grasped through feeling but what you feel is naught.
Everything has its place, including you have but your belief: There is one, even two
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CRUSH
an interview with Rat October
Every once in a while we experience sweaty palms, a racing heart and oscillating pupils: the thrill of discovering what artistic practises occupy one of our fellow students. After all, a small crush can have a big impact. Our crush of this issue is the band Rat October, in this interview represented by band member Nils Rehlinger, first year student at Literary and Cultural Analysis. Q1: What is Rat October? Rat October, formed in 2015, is a Luxembourg-based 5-piece alternative rock band. The band consists of singer/ keyboarder Fanfan Delaporte, guitarists Nick Dalscheid and Nils Rehlinger (me), bassist Alija Suljic and drummer Tom Zuang. We take influences from a number of genres, such as grunge, psych, stoner rock, indie, punk and post-punk.
Q2: How do you manage to keep it going with all of you living in different places? Me and Fanfan live in Amsterdam, Alija studies in Bonn (Germany) and Nick & Tom are currently still living in Luxembourg, but they might also move abroad next year. We meet every second weekend or so in Luxembourg for rehearsals. When I’m lucky, I can find someone to carpool with so that it will only take me about 4,5 hours one way to Luxembourg. The train is too expensive and the bus usually takes about 6 hours. This means that me and Fanfan travel around 1600km and 16 hours every month. For Alija it is much easier. Bonn is only a two hour drive away and he has more possibilities for carpooling. I must admit, we are not the most environment-friendly band.
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Q3: Do you guys prefer recording or playing live? That is difficult to answer. We have not recorded that much yet and the process of recording was always different. Some members prefer recording, others (like me) prefer playing live. Although a shitty gig can be much worse than recording. Q4: What do you hope for from a crowd/venue? The best scenario is, of course, when people start moshing, because that is when you feel the crowd’s energy and it gets you out of your mind. That’s what playing live is all about. Now, Luxembourgish crowds are very shy and we don’t play much abroad, therefore it does not happen too often. Nevertheless, some head-bobbing is also much appreciated. What’s also nice is when people know our songs and enthusi-
astically sing along. It shows that there is appreciation for all the work that we have put in our music. But most importantly, one should never expect anything, because anticipation has the habit to set you up (Alex Turner, 2005). far?
Q5: What have you recorded so
We have recorded five and released three songs so far. The first song we released, called ‘Seven Heavens’ is entirely self-recorded (and it also sounds like it, not in the best way) and the other two, ‘Hole Shaped Hole’ and ‘4AM’ were recorded & mixed by our dear friend Christophe Becker. So, all the songs that we have put out so far are DIY projects recorded in the laundry room. We have recorded two more songs in April, but this time in a professional studio. The recordings went extremely well and we can tell that
these songs are going to be something that we’ll be proud of. Even though ‘4AM’ was more or less released recently, it was amongst one of the first songs that we have written. Thus, the two songs that are yet to come are going to be more progressive in song-writing. Q6: Where can people find your music? You can stream all of our songs on Soundcloud, the two most recent songs are on YouTube and Bandcamp and ‘4AM’ is also on Spotify. Q7: What are your plans for the rest of the year? We are planning to create music videos for our two upcoming songs and after the release we might bring out an unofficial EP with all our songs. We are also thinking about recording a proper EP
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at the end of the year. Other than that, we will play a few shows in Luxembourg during the summer and hopefully our first festival show. Q8: How does your interest in music interact with Literary & Cultural Analysis? During my studies, I have mostly chosen to write my essay on music related topics. Especially subcultures catch my eye, mainly because there is a lack of established subcultures in Luxembourg and it is something I had been longing for during my entire teenhood. People in Lux are very uniform and no one dares to express themselves. Subcultures are the colour palette of society, they bring intensity and variation. They let you express yourself as loud as you want to and also enable the possibility of becoming whatever person you wish to be. This is also where music comes in.
Music can represent all kinds of identities and every subculture has their own music genre. It is a cosmos of its own: a world where all genres influence each other and new sounds emerge. It’s a landscape I wish to explore and I believe that our
course lends me the tools to do so. I have also recently grown the ambition to start writing music articles and get into music journalism, so if anyone has a few tips or can put me in contact with a music magazine, let me know!
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Homesick Serina Tatham
I hate going home because it reminds me that soon enough I’ll have to leave. Have to come back to a place I don’t Belong. But I don’t belong there Either. Drifting between here and there, from one island to the next. Trying to find somewhere I can call Home. I hate going home because it reminds me that soon enough I’ll have to return. Caught between two worlds. Torn apart.
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In Essayer a student written essay, article or analytical paper is featured. In this issue we present a narrative essay tackling the patriarchal structures of ‘the/rapy’, with the title: ‘The/Rapist1 of the Mind’ submitted by an anonymous contributor. There he is, sitting comfortably on his chair, with a smug smile on his face, while he lets her rambling. Being the little middle class prick he is, he enjoys it. He enjoys the invasion of privacy that his profession allows him. He is a peeping tom. A licensed peeping tom. Not a criminalized or pathologized one, like the ones
he sometimes “treats” in his practice. He gets off on it. Boy, he is so aroused when he invades her privacy, when she shares her most intimate details about her dysfunctional marriage in good faith, struck by the illusion that the law is on her side. He would occasionally gossip about her private revelations with his fellow the/ rapists, something his professional code of ethics explicitly allows. For, this is formally not gossip. As feminist author Andrea Dworkin once observed: “While gossip among women is universally ridiculed as low and trivial, gossip among men, especially if it’s about women, is called theory, or idea, or fact2.” He makes sure to write down the anecdotes that arouse him most since he knows these are the ones that make the best scientific theories. He will discuss them soon during a conference with the/rapists in the local area, one big homosocial circle jerk. After a while, he swaps task. Mind-
fuckery follows peeping. Self-assured and authoritarian as if he were Dr. Freud or God himself, he distorts and reframes her silly womanly ideas. He tears them down one by one. He tells her that her feelings and thoughts are all lies. That she should never trust them. That her memory is unreliable. It is all a mind game any way, all about frames and images and ideas and words. It’s all in her head, he tells her. She is the problem. What he does is the/rapy. It is not healing. It is obscuring of facts and lived experiences under patriarchy. When she tells him that her husband forces himself upon her all the time, he has to immediately frame it, so that she does not consider it as rape. It is her husband exerting his God-given right to consume his marriage after all. What is rape anyway? According to philosopher Foucault, penile invasion of a woman’s body without her consent alone is not
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rape anyway. In his male supremacist logic, Foucault argues that a vagina is made to fuck, so how can sexuality ever be criminal or malicious anyway3? The mind-fucker has to communicate these patriarchal ideas and frames to her. To make her internalize them. According to Dworkin, “every woman who has had experience with sexual violence of any kind has not just pain, and not just hurt, but has knowledge. Knowledge of male supremacy. Knowledge of what it is. Knowledge of what it feels like. And can begin to think strategically about how to stop it4”. The mind-fucker knows this. Every woman with first-hand knowledge of male supremacy is potentially subversive and thus a potential security threat to the patriarchal order. That is why he has to make her suppress and forget them, these last pieces of forensic evidence. Thus, the/rapy offers “a paradigm of the/
rapist’s erasure of male responsibility for rape on all levels”, as feminist philosopher Mary Daly has argued5. Meanwhile, he is about to get off even more. He’s sitting next to her and coming even closer. He’s groping her. This ritual is all part of the/rapy, he tells her. Then he stops. Time’s up. He will continue next time. He schedules her next appointment on coming Friday afternoon. Normally he is not in office during this time, but for her he makes an exception. He knows he will have plenty of time then. He has to take advantage of the situation. It is an unusual time indeed, but his office will be open, and the nurse will be sitting downstairs behind her desk as usual, he assures her. Daly has argued that in gyn/ecology and the/rapy, nurses and “token women doctors” serve as “token torturers”, who are “obedient to the [male] Olympic doctor” and pose as “visible agent[s] of painful and destructive
treatment6”. Their role is, she argues, to legitimize the/rapy by not questioning any procedure the doctor performs. Also, she argues, nurses perform the most painful procedures while the patient is awake, while the doctor, who is responsible for “the deepest wounding”, does so while the patient is under anesthesia or otherwise sedated7. He knows the assertion of the nurse’s presence comforts her, that it gives her a false sense of safety. He knows how to use the nurse as a token for his malpractice. His patient leaves for now, but he knows she will come back. She is about to come home. Her abusive husband is waiting for her. She will be home soon, it’s just a few bus stops away. The bus station gives her an uncanny feeling. It gives her a bad vibe. She looks up every time some guy comes nearby. In her unconscious, she is aware that the public space isn’t hers. The public
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space remains the white, heterosexual man’s domain. The commercial billboards rub it in even more. Alluding to pornography – which is the propaganda device of male supremacy – these billboards propagate her total subordination and keep her in a constant fear of rape. It is part of the intimidation campaign of patriarchy. She comes home. Her husband is angry. “So, you’ve been at the shrink’s office gossiping about me all day, haven’t you? You better start cooking now. I’ve been waiting for over an hour”, he yells at her while he’s sitting on the couch watching TV, drinking beer. It is true what Dworkin said, “the prisons for women are our homes8”. Dworkin knows how women try to survive in this prison: “We survive through amnesia, by being unable to remember what happened to us9”. But does she know? Does she realize? She disappears into the pantry. She is about
to get the potatoes, when a little booklet catches her eye. It is hidden behind a few cans of corn. She recognizes it. It was a present from an old girlfriend. She hid it a long time ago. “SCUM MANIFESTO” the title page reads. Written by Valerie Solanas. Only 45 pages long, she starts reading immediately. An hour later, a gunshot is heard from the house. Subsequently, she runs outside. Determined to return to the shrink’s office. In her mind, she reassures herself that she is just exercising her constitutional right under the second amendment and her duty as a woman, for the sake of herself and the sisterhood.
1 The pun “the/rapist” is a creation of philosopher Mary Daly. Cf. Daly, Gyn/ Ecology: The Metaethics of Radical Feminism, p.24. 2 Dworkin, Right-wing Women, p. 13 3 Foucault, Politics, Philosophy, Culture: Interviews and Other Writings, 1977-1984, p. 200-202 4 Dworkin, Life and Death: Unapologetic Writings on the Continuing War Against Women, p. 119 5 Daly, Gyn/Ecology: The Metaethics of Radical Feminism, p. 267 6 Ibid, pp. 267-277 7 Ibid, p. 277 8 Dworkin, Life and Death: Unapologetic Writings on the Continuing War Against Women, p. 116 9 Ibid, p. 116
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Works cited: Daly, M. Gyn/Ecology: The Metaethics of Radical Feminism. London: The Women’s Press, 1978. Print. Dworkin, A. Right-wing Women. New York, NY: Perigee Books, 1978. Print. Dworkin, A. Life and Death: Unapologetic Writings on the Continuing War Against Women. New York, NY: The Free Press, 1997. Print. Foucault, M. Politics, Philosophy, Culture: Interviews and Other Writings, 1977-1984. Ed. by L. Kritzman. London: Routledge, 1990. Print.
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To Amsterdam Anonymous
This place is in motion all the time It is designed to be, an architecture constructing the free flow of water. You see it moving all day, except for when it’s resting. Always in the early morning rarely ever a complete stop maybe if there’s frost but the flow continues underneath even more seldom without frost it’s raining anyway instead of rain clouds hovering above them Amsterdammers cycle beneath them you don’t carry an umbrella only things you attach to the bicycle (even kids - with belts of course) Hands remain free to maneuver in a sometimes controlled mass of all those bikes that would slow down to almost non-motion because shoving your bike even a meter means a meter not biking sometimes I think they have inner clocks counting how far they have biked in their lives I don’t I’d rather shove a meter
of of of of
every car that is usually a taxi, but not always that grants you halfa second to cross because a quarter is enough if there’s no hesitation every delivery truck that blocks a one-way street, blocks a third of a bridge someone usually moves as well homes I mean they have streets of water broader than common streets yet those are clogged with traffic I guess this is what they mean with history every moped driver that drives past you as if they are fleeing that grants you half a second to move when you needed one and show you the middle one, but I don’t mind I’m not fleeing every pedestrian involved in nearly every almost-accident
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and you know which party is to blame – don’t you? sometimes it feels threatening it almost always ends up fine but there is a rhythm to it and I have adapted, but not internalized it I like to bike without hands though gives me a pleasant feeling the endless row of shining lanterns beside the canal and the scattered house-lamps next to me shine too I stretch my arms out on this flight path I’m coming back I remember overwhelming notions in this other place, so different to what I was used to everything was in motion – times ten that I believe past images to be moving until today to cross a street was insanity to breathe the air was burdening they weren’t the same as me I know now I am not the same as them at times I pretend to understand what is too far in memory now there are reminders here in this place to remind me of how I need a plane to arrive
at what is supposedly within –does rain follow me from here to there? I grab the steering hurdle again, just to be safe cycling on wet ground is serious business The wheels stop, remember lock the bike to something remember to take the key of your back lock with you, and the lights if they’re separate 27 steps upstairs, time to rest finally something is still moving, perhaps the mice where I was born there are at least more chestnut trees I wish to see them more, but I don’t miss them they remind me of mother
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Illustrations Anastasia Petrenko: cover, p. 2, p.39. Nikole Wells: p. 4, p. 5, p. 6, p. 7, p. 8, p. 9, p. 23, p. 28, p. 32, p. 33, p. 38. Andrea de Jonge: p. 10. Carlota Font Castelló: p. 11, p. 36, back Tiny Ellen Minzinga Zijlstra: p. 22. Zep de Bruin: p. 24 Rat October: p. 29, p. 31. Homecoming is Heroïne’s final destination for academic year 2017/2018. Along the way we touched on the themes religion, in Walking Past Valhalla, and censorship, in Ministry of Truth. Our next issue will be the trumpet blown opening number of another year of Literary and Cultural Analysis. Therefore, the theme of next issue will be Sound/Noise. We invite you to pay close attention to the soundscapes you might traverse this summer, and to return with a song on your lips and a head buzzing with new ideas. Feel free to send your reviews, opinion pieces, columns, photography, analyses, artworks, poems, doodles relating to the theme Sound/Noise to redactie.heroine@ gmail.comDon’t expect to hear back from us until September though. So long!