Antropologiske betraktninger om pelshvaldrift

Month: September 2017

Benekting

Valget gikk som ventet, ikke sant? Man har det tross alt komfortabelt med den blå-brune regjeringen, ledet av den evinnelig avslappede, rolig smilende fruen.

Velgerne var engstelige: Hva er det som skjer med verden? Det er så mye som er skummelt, som Trump, IS, Russland… for ikke å snakke om den fremtidige flodbølgen av desperate klimaflyktninger…

Alle partier over sperregrensen forsikret at det går så bra så, men ingen var så overbevisende rolig og beroligende som den blå-brune fruen.

I dette valget stemte velgerne som Østens tre vise aper: Jeg ikke høre, jeg ikke forstå, og jeg ikke snakke. Dette er skolebokens oppskrift på benekting.

Jeg har en hund, og den er klok. Noen ganger lurer jeg på om hunder er klokere enn vi mennesker. Så vidt jeg kan se mangler de nemlig denne “evnen” til benekting som vi har.

Benekting er altså en av de såkalte forsvarsmekanismene, noe som ikke bare nevrotikere tyr til. Alle bruker vi forsvarsmekanismer (f.eks. rasjonalisering, fortrengning, sublimering…). Det er rett og slett ikke lett for et menneske å klare seg uten, om det overhode er mulig.

Man kan si at benekting er en overlevelsesstrategi for menneskeheten. Takket være den har befolkninger nektet å flykte, overgi eller underkaste seg, men har stått på mot alle odds, og mens flertallet kanskje ble drept, overlevde noen få, som fikk bære genene videre.

Benekting har flere forkledninger som f.eks.:

  • “Det går til helvete uansett! Jeg kjører dieselbil som før.”
  • “Hele klimakampanjen er drevet av folk som ønsker å kuppe markeder.”
  • “Jeg kildesorterer og bruker Zalo, da synes jeg at jeg har gjort mitt.”
  • “Jeg, derimot, kjører elbil og synes at jeg har gjort mitt.”
  • “Det er bra at vi produserer olje og gass slik at det globale kullforbruket går ned.”
  • “Jeg spiser nesten ikke sjokolade.” (Se forklaring nedenfor.)

Saken er jo at vi styrter av gårde i noenlunde samme tempo, og ikke vil se, ikke vil høre, ikke vil gjøre det vi må gjøre. For øyeblikket er det Spania som har overtatt trykket fra et stadig mer ulevelig Afrika – over 11 000 mennesker plukket opp av sjøen av spanske myndigheter i år – og så lenge Listhaug vokter våre grenser, er vi like trygge som Nord-Korea, og nesten like lite i overensstemmelse med våre internasjonale forpliktelser. Samtidig roter vi stadig i glørne i Afghanistan hvor situasjonen for vanlige folk bare blir mer og mer håpløs (nå mest på grunn av IS, som trekker inn i landet etterhvert som de fordrives fra Syria og Irak). Men afghanske flyktninger vil vi helst ikke ha, takk.

(Det er like før jeg søker om svensk statsborgerskap. Svenskene klarer seg utmerket uten olje og uten å være medlemmer i NATO.)

Men vi kan trøste oss med at vi ikke er verst i klassen (følgende opplysninger er hentet fra El País 14.09.2017, “El cacao que se come a África”):

Elfenbens urskoger har krympet med 80% siden 70-tallet. Grunnen til det er at landet står for 40 % av verdens kakaoproduksjon, og etterspørselen etter kakao øker med 2–5 % hvert år. Kun 4% av landet dekkes nå av skog som for det meste er beskyttet ved lov. Landet har 23 nasjonalparker, men det drives likevel ulovlig kakaodyrking i dem. I 13 av de 23 nasjonalparkene er primatene helt utryddet og elefanten, landets nasjonalsymbol, er utrydningstruet. Elfenbenkysten har altså virkelig svin på skogen, og svinene heter Olam, Cargill og Barry Callebaut, som i sin tur selger til blant annet MARS og HERSHEY, som i sin tur selger til oss.

Men vi, nordmenn, ligger forhåpentlig ikke i verdenstoppen blant sjokoladespisere, så vi behøver slett ikke bekymre oss.

Football from the sidelines

Almost blinded by the sun and my own perspiration as I drag myself up the steep hill, I find that the cobbled roads are near empty while the normally empty bars are packed. Packed with men, shouting men. Football, I assume, and snarl.

Mind you, I don’t at all mind football. What bothers me is all that seems to be so evident if we objectively look at a football stadium or study the comportment of men around TV screens when certain games are being played. “We’re in this together,” they seem to be saying, “our team!” “fight till death”, “kill the infidel”, or as General Halil of Janjaweed says, “eliminate anything in my way!”

General Halil is fighting for no cause other than himself. And he has earnest supporters, including loyal and good men who think they are fighting for a worthy cause, men who believe in Halil by virtue of his “strength”. A strong general is a good general, they think. Alas, ruthlessness and callousness is often mistaken for strength, as the US is kind enough to remind us at regular intervals.

The US is a deeply religious country, as are Israel and Saudi Arabia, its close allies. The crimes against humanity committed by those three countries are such that more and more people in my country are saying that religion is the root of all evil.

No, I say, religion is not the root cause of war. The root cause is what we see when we watch those who watch professional football. After a match, people sometimes get bashed to death. The spectators’ arousal, almost sexual in nature – indeed, fired by male hormones surging as the battle is played out before their eyes – makes them dangerous. They are one with the players, identifying with them (“our” team, “us”) , admiring them, enjoying a moment in the sun of borrowed fame and glory, and ready to defend them with their lives, if need be.

Now, some people will retort that war is not necessarily bad. Some wars, they will say, are just, wars for freedom, for instance, wars for liberation from oppression. Of course this argument is neither here nor there, since we will never all agree as to what wars are just, will we? Forget WWII, there have been infinitely many wars since, and in all of them there will have been at least one big bad bully against whom resistance is at least justifiable. Sadly, even the oppressed are usually also lead by big bad bullies, since – again – what is mistaken for strength tends to inspire confidence.

Football makes it all so clear: What spectators by the billions see and admire is: brute force, naked muscle, precision and cunning. They will rise to their feet as one, almost levitating, and they will all feel, for a few magic moments, omnipotent. In short, they will loose, not only their voices from screaming, but also their heads. Who needs drugs or religion to go to war prepared to die? Give me a general who can generate the electric current of a football match, and he will be in business, regardless of the cause.

I, too, long to – more than that – I need to admire. I particularly enjoy feeling kinship with those that I admire. I, too, feel elevated when any of my heroes “wins” a battle.  But my heroes are neither callous nor ruthless, and their strength is not muscular.Today, I finished a novel in which one of my favourite protagonists, George Smiley, definitely sealed his long-time opponent’s casket. Characteristically, Smiley did not enjoy his moment of glory, due to ruminations that I shared with him.

I wonder what Smiley would have made of the global mess we’re in now. For one thing, this little Spanish town on the top of its cliff is becoming near uninhabitable due to summer heat and winter cold. What would Smiley have suggested? I imagine him turning off the light to go to sleep. Outside his wide open window, the neighbours have finally come out of their houses, seeking relief in the evening breeze. Fathers, children, grandmothers, gossiping women… the street is full of their laughter, their pleasant chatting. Yet for all their easy pleasure, he cannot help hearing, still, the continued low wailing of a woman he knows is 97. She wails day and night, but as he knows, she has been out of this world for years. She cannot talk, cannot tell her surroundings why she is so unhappy. Her children take turns looking after her, and they all visit her almost daily. Every day she is dressed and cherished.

Smiley plays with ideas of what may be occupying her mind. After all, she is nearly a century old; think of what she has seen and endured!

Finally, Smiley falls asleep, covered only by a sheet. When he wakes up, he knows he was woken by a sound, and he soon hears it again, a thrill sound that ends in a tremulous sigh. He sits up in bed, because there is no mistaking an owl. An owl? This is definitely not owl country! But hark, there is another one. And another. Standing by now, stark naked in the middle of the room, he hears them all – four owls on different roof tops, one of them just above him on his own roof.

After a few moments, he sadly goes back to bed. Even the owls have lost their marbles, he muses.

And that was the best my hero could do, alas. Can you do better?

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