Let us start a new story of peace
Ido not know if I can join the choir of shocked people who describe the attacks in Christchurch as ‘‘unthinkable’’. I am shocked, perhaps, but not all that surprised. Sure, white supremacists do not make it to the news every day, yet the structures and narratives that caused these events are so deeply entrenched in society, in New Zealand as well as in many other countries. So how does this come as a surprise?
While researching violence and talking to people who killed and detonated bombs for political ideals, I have found over and over that if there is something that kills even more than weapons, it is stories. Stories of hatred tend to spur out of stories of fear and grievance. And we have long believed those stories, haven’t we? These are the stories that draw a line between ‘‘us’’ and ‘‘them’’.
You may not see yourself as a white supremacist, and I believe you. And yet, can you truly say you never felt diffident or afraid of a Muslim or a person with different skin colour? Well, if you did, you are not alone. Today, we hear of white terrorists killing Muslims, but until Friday you might have quickly associated the word ‘‘terrorist’’ with Islam. This narrative of the dangerous Muslim ‘‘other’’ is around us all the time.
Muslims are stereotypically portrayed as violent terrorists in media, political debates, popular movies, and TV shows. We are so bombarded with these symbols that even people who want to live in harmony in a diverse world may experience that sting of suspicion.
To make things worse, there is this fear of being ‘‘invaded’’. I am quite familiar with that, as I grew up in the northeast of Italy, where Right-wing politicians have been openly stirring that fear for decades. This kind of rhetoric is powerful because it links the fear of the ‘‘other’’ to people’s own grievances. It offers someone to blame for our problems, and creates the idea of a competition for resources, so that it is either us or them. By diverting people’s outrage against someone else, political leaders are able to shift the focus away from internal problems. When these discourses are normalised and dominating in a society, it does not get better easily.
Is it different in New Zealand? Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern says that this is not New Zealand. I like that. It is a way of showing that we are concerned, that it affects us all. The danger, however, is to dismiss the fact we do have a problem with race, and it is entrenched in our society.
We need to address the uncomfortable everyday reality of racism. Not just the open racism that ends up in violence, but also all those invisible everyday acts that silently hurt every single day.
The attacks in Christchurch had a clear political agenda: the perpetrator wanted immigrants out of the country. Immigration was a hot topic during the last elections, remember? And not in a very welcoming way. Immigrants are widely perceived as a cause behind social issues, such as housing and unemployment. And it is not just about reducing the numbers. The narratives that link immigration to structural grievances are highly emotional and they are influenced by all those perceptions of the ‘‘other’’.
We do not perceive all migrants in the same way, and some groups – for example Muslims – are blamed more than others.
Immigration policies in New Zealand are not colour blind and do not apply to everyone equally either.
I have a mixed international family, and I do not know how to explain to my Kiwi children that their grandparents from one side (Europe) are welcome, while it has become almost impossible for their Indian grandparents to even get a short-term visitor visa. Racism is very much part of everyday practices in our institutions and social interactions, whether in open or subtle ways.
As a migrant woman in New Zealand, and not a white one, I feel safer here than anywhere else I have lived. This is where my children are born, and Dunedin is the only place in the world they call home. I know people and organisations who wholeheartedly put much passion in connecting people and cultures. And yet, I am also aware of how much immigrants like me struggle in their everyday lives because of prejudice and diffidence.
Today, I read and hear white people talking about the attacks in Christchurch as something that moved them. It is as if a deep sense of grief is affecting us all. Are you experiencing that, too? We academics would call it a ‘‘collective emotion’’.
This could be the start of a new powerful story where we all stand together and commit to do something to resist and change those stories of fear and hatred between us. Grief is the perfect time for love and solidarity.
But it must not just be for today and tomorrow. The stories that justify acts of violence are real and affect the lives of hundreds of people around us every day. This problem will not be solved with police intervention or more security. It will not be solved until we do something to change those stories.
Get to know your neighbours. Rather than seeing them as victims, terrorists, find out who they really are. You may get to know them as students, athletes, parents, doctors . . . We are afraid of what we do not know, and we learn the most through direct experiences.
What else? Create space for dialogue and exchange in your workplace and among your friends. Ask the Government for better answers to poverty and structural violence.
Make sure you provide your professional services without racial bias. Always address all people with respect, no matter your assumptions in regards to their background.
To Muslim friends and people of colour I would say: tell your story. Nobody else can understand what is happening more than you do. Tell your story so that nobody can claim ignorance.
You may think small acts like this count for little. But everyday acts of peace in the community can stop violence. Community solidarity allows people to stand up to violence and achieve change from below. Let us start a new story of peace.