During a regular check-up with my psychiatrist a few weeks ago, she asked how I was. I told her, “Well, I’m the director of a cultural NGO—what can I say?” She nodded: “Only three more years to go.” As these days in the Czech Republic NGOs and culture are targets of media shaming and politically motivated cuts, she understood. I did not have to tell her that our NGO status has become quite precarious as it publishes queer and feminist literature or organizes exhibitions with Palestinian artists and pro-Palestinian activists. I did not have to tell her that a book we published, the Czech translation of Abolish the Family by Sophie Lewis, is on the black list of the current government and has become one of the weapons in the political battle led by pro-life conservatives. How could such a blasphemous book get public funding? This is what they repeat in multiple articles and TV shows. Last year, my children, me, and my partner were verbally assaulted when shopping in Lidl. It came as a shock to my children. They did not understand why someone kept shouting at their father that he was a scourge on humanity. Why were we assaulted? Because my partner works as a journalist for a left-wing online platform and he was criticizing the fascist rhetoric of some political parties. There is a lot of anger and frustration in our societies. Rightfully so. But the target of the frustration is more often than not queer people, Roma, NGOs, and artists. Yes, artists, because their art is so easy to take out of context and use as a weapon in cultural wars to bring support to fascists and conservatives. I am writing this because it amazes me how times have changed. No one used to care about artists or NGOs. I am not writing this to complain. I am aware of the horrible plight many people are exposed to because of the ongoing wars and acts of violence about which one feels helpless. All I want to share with you is the ways in which I myself stay grounded in my values despite the craziness around. And also, about how similar attacks, shitstorms, and acts of censorship have become the new normal for cultural workers (and journalists) in most parts of Europe nowadays.
Since February, three days a week I have been visiting my ninety-seven-year-old grandmother at a social care home. She had to move there since she could no longer take care of herself and had to leave her apartment. This year, the spring is beautiful. I sit with her in the garden of the facility, we talk, we sit in silence, we observe other women (as there are almost no men there), we converse with them. It is a strange conversation. The old ladies, including my grandmother, have various cognitive impairments. The conversation goes in circles, names are lost, simple stories and jokes are repeated ad infinitum, questions remain unanswered. The women bask in the spring sun, comment on the clouds, the blooming flowers, they make fun of themselves. They are in their nineties or late eighties, their youth was touched by the Second World War in one way or another. I watch their bodies, some walk fast in the garden and look very healthy but do not remember what was said five minutes ago. Others can only lie down, sit, or move very slowly with a walker but have memories. They tell each other how beautiful they are. The outside world reaches here in a particular way. It is the Ukrainian caregivers who would not be here ten years ago, not in such numbers. It is the TV that is on in most rooms but not everyone listens to what it actually says. The home is run by the Jewish community in Prague, a rabbi comes here once a week, the food is kosher. But the local residents I know complain about both the food and the rabbi. I have never heard anyone discuss politics but of course it is politics all around here in everything that is quietly assumed.
Once, when my grandmother was asked what used to be her profession, she said that she was a nurse. It is true, she had been a nurse her whole life, first in oncology, then in the burn unit. In retirement, she worked in a funeral home, where she literally washed corpses. When the other clients heard about it some of them came nearer and held my grandmother’s hand. You took care of other people, we really appreciate you, I could read in their eyes. I thought to myself, what am I going to say when I am asked this one day? That I was a curator? A manager of culture? Not particularly impressive. But then I remembered how important cultural events are in the social care home.
For example, concerts. All the ladies and the few men gather in one room, some in wheelchairs, some on wheeled beds. And they all love it. At one such concert, the piano player played Bach, Beethoven, and folk songs. There was so much emotion. Despite all they struggled with—the pain, the digestive issues, the fatigued senses—they moved with the rhythm. They smiled. They closed their eyes. I could sense their pleasure. When my grandmother was still at her apartment alone, she deteriorated very quickly—both in a mental and physical sense. She stopped being interested in TV or radio. This all stopped being accessible for her because of how complicated the current devices are. She did not care about books anymore, it was too difficult to read. She used to love crocheting, knitting, sewing, and embroidery, but her fingers could not do any of it anymore. There was nothing for her to do, as she could not leave her flat—to walk outside became too much. I would come to visit and she would ask: What am I supposed to do? She became a prisoner in her own flat. It was when I attended the concert with her in the home that I could feel and understand most clearly: Without culture, without books, poems, films, music, and art, life is literally a prison.
When her roommate, who suffered from Parkinson’s disease, suddenly died a few days ago, my grandmother was fine. To anyone else it might seem like she did not care or was indifferent. But death is something normal for her, she’s not afraid of it, nor is she particularly shy about it. She is at peace with her life. She did what she thought was good and right, whatever the circumstances, and the circumstances were, quite often, very cruel. And this is what I feel in the garden with the other ladies. I listen to their stories but there is no bitterness. There is a lot of violence, pain, and sorrow but there is always dignity. And this is what I tell myself. Do what you think is good and right, whatever the circumstances. One day, when you are at the end, you will be at peace. The world outside demands a constant, extremely exhausting defense of the very idea that art and care are valuable. But here, in the world of the social care home, the battle feels absurd. Here I feel the power of art to those who are already on their way towards exiting this world, be it music, art, or books for futures they insist we cannot have.
My grandmother navigated the cruelty of history. She has never been an activist, she was a nurse, she took care of others. She tended to the terminal, and finally, the lifeless. She understands that life, in its rawest form, is a body and soul that needs tending. Her peace is not an escape from the world’s violence. And so, when I walk out of the home, back into the world where my work is deemed a moral outrage, I carry that with me. The goal is not to win the screaming match. The goal is to become, like her, a person who brings more music than noise, more care than cruelty, into a world desperate for both.
This essay is republished from Non-Aligned Feminist Friendships: Bulletin 1, edited by Katia Krupennikova and Jelena Petrović.
