Killing In The Name Of…
Another reason I am glad to be alone as I am writing those words is mainly due to the devastating news I received from a friend yesterday; he informed me that a common loved one was amongst the 3 people who had been brutally killed while attending a music festival in the German city of Solingen, horrible news that hit my heart and soul with an incomparable stroke, reminding me of all the friends I lost through the horrendous display of barbaric ignominy at the Bataclan on the night of November 13th, 2015, in Paris. There are no words for me to express how devastated I am, how powerless I feel, how angry I am. I shared many times in the past that I refrained from commenting on news publicly, but I’m just too emotionally driven and personally involved. I too often can’t foresee any glimmer of hope in what’s currently going on around the world. If I can’t bring any form of shimmering solace, I’d rather stay away from the digital agora. That being said, I’m probably more socially involved than I have ever been during my years holding every possible slogan up high on a cardboard, one coffee at a time. This is how I’m impacting my environment and how I’m allowing its nature to transform me as well. But it’s not getting any easier to do so nowadays. It’s not for a lack of compassion or due to some empathy fatigue; it has more to do with the fact that it doesn’t seem to make any difference how publicly involved you may or not be sometimes. We are living in our own echo chambers, dialogues are ruptured, differences are mistrusted, the police of the new religious political correctness roams around like Stasis, cancel culture is reminding everyone to keep their mind cleanly aligned, prompting people to remain isolated, keeping a great number from sharing and evolving in their own way… I don’t fear being pushed around by something that is diametrically opposed to my values but I greatly fear the product of any fake smiles I may encounter, particularly mine, as I know what I’m hiding underneath.
You see, I never tried to rewrite my life narrative in order to be perceived one way or another. I grew up in what was considered the most violent and poorest area of Montreal at the time. A close family member was a high-ranked leader of a predominant criminal group. I joined an openly extremist gang of my own at 13 to torture my father who had recently become a born-again Christian. I was considered a lost case by many, a broken product of my environment like the “specialist” reminded my parents at every school meeting. But the truth wasn’t in the “uniform” I was wearing nor in the message it was representing. No. I was a kid who hated himself and his life more than he hated the world he felt was unfair by design for a group of people like the one he was part of. I know what rage, fury, rancor, bitterness, and powerlessness feel like. It’s a poison you wish to inflict on others when in reality, you are the only one suffering from its injection. I spent almost 5 years in those groups and saw enough misery to cry about it for the rest of my life. I witnessed desperation in so many forms… some real, some self-inflicted… It doesn’t matter in the end, as it all produces some degree of mass destruction around you. Was I incurable as so many experts pretended I was? I like to naively believe that no one is. It’s the one-size-fits-all type of cures that are suggested that are questionable (at best). Even though, yes, I know it’s more complex than it seems. Evil is evil. But is there a fraction of humanity we can still appeal to? Sometimes there is. And it’s capital for me to say that if someone like me entirely loses faith in “redemption”, who will keep believing? It is then that it would be totally hopeless…
All to say, I know there are still roots of that former distress within me. But contrary to the shame I bore for decades following the moment I finally had the courage to depart the gangs shortly before my 18th birthday, I don’t deny the emotional anguish that found me in such a hateful midst anymore. In retrospect, if leaving those groups was easy considering that I had never bought into any of their rhetorics, it’s knowing that I was abandoning many to actually “save” myself that has been the most difficult. I don’t say that in any poetic manner; it’s your own humanity you tend to lose first in those assemblies and when you do lose it, everything adds up to frustration and anger. Again, don’t get me wrong, I’m not diminishing nor am I endorsing any excuses justifying violence. On the contrary. I simply shared what I experienced myself and what I witnessed in others. By doing so, I can identify and address the sources of my own frustration and anger. That’s why I’m so over-sensitive and reactive regarding injustice, no matter what side of the spectrum it takes place on. It’s my nature. While I know a fury is within me, it doesn’t mean that it defines who I am — because it doesn’t. It no longer does, no. That’s why I’m often labeled as a “moderate” now, at the obvious stupefaction of my oldest friends. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to scream about (place any of the daily news here), Alex? Come on! Have you become that insensitive and careless?” I got that a lot from close ones teasing me, as they know that my instinctive reaction would be more aligned with “No, I don’t want to scream, I want to punch and kick, and then scream!!!” But I wondered how it could benefit anyone if I was adding my voice to the collective clamor of what I defined as “rightful justice”… I don’t think it would create anything beneficial for anyone or anything, if not to serve my own disheartening predisposition.
You see, I never tried to rewrite my life narrative in order to be perceived one way or another. I grew up in what was considered the most violent and poorest area of Montreal at the time. A close family member was a high-ranked leader of a predominant criminal group. I joined an openly extremist gang of my own at 13 to torture my father who had recently become a born-again Christian. I was considered a lost case by many, a broken product of my environment like the “specialist” reminded my parents at every school meeting. But the truth wasn’t in the “uniform” I was wearing nor in the message it was representing. No. I was a kid who hated himself and his life more than he hated the world he felt was unfair by design for a group of people like the one he was part of. I know what rage, fury, rancor, bitterness, and powerlessness feel like. It’s a poison you wish to inflict on others when in reality, you are the only one suffering from its injection. I spent almost 5 years in those groups and saw enough misery to cry about it for the rest of my life. I witnessed desperation in so many forms… some real, some self-inflicted… It doesn’t matter in the end, as it all produces some degree of mass destruction around you. Was I incurable as so many experts pretended I was? I like to naively believe that no one is. It’s the one-size-fits-all type of cures that are suggested that are questionable (at best). Even though, yes, I know it’s more complex than it seems. Evil is evil. But is there a fraction of humanity we can still appeal to? Sometimes there is. And it’s capital for me to say that if someone like me entirely loses faith in “redemption”, who will keep believing? It is then that it would be totally hopeless…
All to say, I know there are still roots of that former distress within me. But contrary to the shame I bore for decades following the moment I finally had the courage to depart the gangs shortly before my 18th birthday, I don’t deny the emotional anguish that found me in such a hateful midst anymore. In retrospect, if leaving those groups was easy considering that I had never bought into any of their rhetorics, it’s knowing that I was abandoning many to actually “save” myself that has been the most difficult. I don’t say that in any poetic manner; it’s your own humanity you tend to lose first in those assemblies and when you do lose it, everything adds up to frustration and anger. Again, don’t get me wrong, I’m not diminishing nor am I endorsing any excuses justifying violence. On the contrary. I simply shared what I experienced myself and what I witnessed in others. By doing so, I can identify and address the sources of my own frustration and anger. That’s why I’m so over-sensitive and reactive regarding injustice, no matter what side of the spectrum it takes place on. It’s my nature. While I know a fury is within me, it doesn’t mean that it defines who I am — because it doesn’t. It no longer does, no. That’s why I’m often labeled as a “moderate” now, at the obvious stupefaction of my oldest friends. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to scream about (place any of the daily news here), Alex? Come on! Have you become that insensitive and careless?” I got that a lot from close ones teasing me, as they know that my instinctive reaction would be more aligned with “No, I don’t want to scream, I want to punch and kick, and then scream!!!” But I wondered how it could benefit anyone if I was adding my voice to the collective clamor of what I defined as “rightful justice”… I don’t think it would create anything beneficial for anyone or anything, if not to serve my own disheartening predisposition.
Loving Is Healing
I remember the very first time I opened up about my violent experience was when a church in Montreal invited me (through my implication with Amnesty International) to join a discussion involving several other former gang leaders. The idea was to share with kids living in vulnerable neighborhoods. I was terrified, ashamed, and hesitant, but decided to go following the persistence of every organizer involved in the project. It was unprecedented; most panelists knew each other from previous encounters or from their not-so-glorious reputations. I don’t think I would have gone if not for my father driving me there. It was held in a protestant church and the place was packed. I almost threw up before crossing the main doors. Being warmly welcomed helped me, a little at least. I was backstage when the other “guys” started arriving. “Foster… Are you Alex Foster? Man, I thought you were much bigger than that! Damn it, your shadow cast is larger than your whole body! Come here, brother, glory to Jesus! You’re bigger than life now!” said a giant mountain coming my way. I knew exactly who he was. I barely had the time to say “hi” before disappearing in the immensity of his arms wrapped around me. He was so flamboyant. Trust me, I wasn’t at all. I would also meet the other 3 people who had answered the call to tell their stories, all radiating in their own way. I wasn’t. I just hoped I wouldn’t be the one starting the whole thing. “Alex, why don’t you go first?” I was on the verge of refusing when “Love Mountain” said very loud, laughing “Of course, the white boy is always the privileged one!” He hugged me again, saying I would kick it before saying he could take my place with pleasure. He almost pushed me on stage with his genuine accolade. If I was terrified in the car heading to the church, I was about to faint the second I heard my name called. I managed to walk the few steps required to reach the pulpit. “Hi, my name is Alex, and I have never been that scared before.” Oops, I wanted to say that it was a privilege for me to be there. Wrong start. And so were the rest of my 30 minutes, filled with faux-pas, with obvious awkward moments; a real catastrophe. I didn’t look at anyone in the eyes heading back to my chair. The rest is a bit blurry, to be honest.
Love Mountain was the last one to go. I was so moved by his humility and humanity, I was trying to hide my tears. His childhood story was horrible, and so were his teenage and young adult actions. As he was concluding, talking about hope and forgiveness, I heard “Brother Alex, come here” I thought he was talking about another brother Alex. “Brother, Alex, join me for a moment.” As I was slowly making my way to the front, still hoping he was calling someone else, he started telling a story about the profound hate he had for me years ago, how badly he wanted to hurt me, how the sole mention of my name was creating fury and anger but added that when he saw me earlier, he saw the hope he had so often lost in his community members. He asked for my forgiveness and hugged me again. I was stupefied and petrified. I didn’t say a single word. I mean, what could I say? He concluded that if two people like us could hug today, it was proof that anyone could be transformed, that if we were indeed the products of our environments, a loving one had the ability to heal. It took me quite a while for that moment to sink in. If I had not been in a church, I think I would have whispered “Holy shit, what’s going on here?” The pastor concluded by inviting people who wanted to talk with any of us to proceed to the front. Brother Love Mountain had an endless line of people in front of him, same thing for the others. I was happy that no one beyond genuinely smiling people who were saying “God Bless You” seemed to be interested in talking with me. Until one woman showed up, as I was pretending to be busy doing nothing. “Alex, my son is deeply involved in a group like you were in and your story restored my hope for him to come around and offered me a different perspective regarding how to love him. I don’t have the words to thank you,” she said before leaving. That was it. I looked around and freaking Brother Love Mountain winked at me silently saying “That’s why we are here today: HOPE.” I kinda smiled back at him, wondering if he had heard me whispering “What the fuck is happening?”
That was my first step towards guilt and shame recovery. It doesn’t change anything I did in the past, the people I influenced to do much worse than I have, nor how miserable I made the lives of some around me. It doesn’t have anything to do with this. There’s no contrition in trying to pay back. It’s the heart with which you make a gesture that defines it in the end. That’s what I need to remember when I’m broken, when I’m frustrated, and when I feel the anger raging inside. I’m not condemned to be perfect nor to be a slave of my teenage angst for the rest of my existence, but I know I can make a slight dent in the empire of desperation we all have to deal with somehow. From raging football fans to traffic jams, there are enough daily examples to avoid having to even mention international conflicts and their horrifying consequences. Don’t get me wrong, I swear in traffic jams or when my favorite team loses as much as anyone else. You don’t need to have a significant kind of imagination to figure out my reactions when I hear about another shooting, about war’s insufferable destruction, or when I find out that friends have been ripped away from their loved ones through the unquenchable bloody hands of any type of hatred covered by retrograde teaching and their extreme interpretations. How can anyone find some rest in all of that? I can’t. That’s the toughest part, always. And knowing about the savage brutalism that occurred at the Solingen music festival hurts me profoundly. Like every human-made tragedy, there are so many “why” and so few answers beyond the shallowness we are presented with…
Love Mountain was the last one to go. I was so moved by his humility and humanity, I was trying to hide my tears. His childhood story was horrible, and so were his teenage and young adult actions. As he was concluding, talking about hope and forgiveness, I heard “Brother Alex, come here” I thought he was talking about another brother Alex. “Brother, Alex, join me for a moment.” As I was slowly making my way to the front, still hoping he was calling someone else, he started telling a story about the profound hate he had for me years ago, how badly he wanted to hurt me, how the sole mention of my name was creating fury and anger but added that when he saw me earlier, he saw the hope he had so often lost in his community members. He asked for my forgiveness and hugged me again. I was stupefied and petrified. I didn’t say a single word. I mean, what could I say? He concluded that if two people like us could hug today, it was proof that anyone could be transformed, that if we were indeed the products of our environments, a loving one had the ability to heal. It took me quite a while for that moment to sink in. If I had not been in a church, I think I would have whispered “Holy shit, what’s going on here?” The pastor concluded by inviting people who wanted to talk with any of us to proceed to the front. Brother Love Mountain had an endless line of people in front of him, same thing for the others. I was happy that no one beyond genuinely smiling people who were saying “God Bless You” seemed to be interested in talking with me. Until one woman showed up, as I was pretending to be busy doing nothing. “Alex, my son is deeply involved in a group like you were in and your story restored my hope for him to come around and offered me a different perspective regarding how to love him. I don’t have the words to thank you,” she said before leaving. That was it. I looked around and freaking Brother Love Mountain winked at me silently saying “That’s why we are here today: HOPE.” I kinda smiled back at him, wondering if he had heard me whispering “What the fuck is happening?”
That was my first step towards guilt and shame recovery. It doesn’t change anything I did in the past, the people I influenced to do much worse than I have, nor how miserable I made the lives of some around me. It doesn’t have anything to do with this. There’s no contrition in trying to pay back. It’s the heart with which you make a gesture that defines it in the end. That’s what I need to remember when I’m broken, when I’m frustrated, and when I feel the anger raging inside. I’m not condemned to be perfect nor to be a slave of my teenage angst for the rest of my existence, but I know I can make a slight dent in the empire of desperation we all have to deal with somehow. From raging football fans to traffic jams, there are enough daily examples to avoid having to even mention international conflicts and their horrifying consequences. Don’t get me wrong, I swear in traffic jams or when my favorite team loses as much as anyone else. You don’t need to have a significant kind of imagination to figure out my reactions when I hear about another shooting, about war’s insufferable destruction, or when I find out that friends have been ripped away from their loved ones through the unquenchable bloody hands of any type of hatred covered by retrograde teaching and their extreme interpretations. How can anyone find some rest in all of that? I can’t. That’s the toughest part, always. And knowing about the savage brutalism that occurred at the Solingen music festival hurts me profoundly. Like every human-made tragedy, there are so many “why” and so few answers beyond the shallowness we are presented with…
The Empowering Nature Of Human Connection
For some, knowing that I’m living in Tangier is confrontational for a whole lot of reasons, which aren’t islamophobia or anything. No, pain is about looking for shortcuts to heal. Morocco is an Arabic country and we tend to make several amalgams between cultural specificities and religious fanatism. It’s a normal reaction when we are hurt. Like it or not, we all have some kind of bias. To some degree, of course, but we all have, it’s human nature. It’s what we do with those prejudices that truly matters. And when I heard the terrible news of my friend’s death, someone I saw during my last tour in Germany, I had to get out of my house immediately. I needed to see the people, to feel them, to be smiled at, to get grounded in humanity. And being part of the neighborhood fabric now, I knew that the second I would cross my door, I would hear my name be enthusiastically called out, that I would end up hugging many people along the way, that some would ask about my family, others would share about theirs, that I would be teased about the fact that I don’t know anything about real football or still can’t talk Arabic besides “hello”, “thank you”, “taxi”, “tajine” and “coffee please”. Again, it’s about being human, regardless of our differences. And living in a popular district where only a handful of foreigners reside is such a blessing for me — for everyone. I buy my vegetables and fruits from the same souk as anyone else and take my tea at the same little places nobody will come for Instagram pictures. It’s precious for me to be here, as much as I know that it’s precious for others too. It’s the place where I’ve been generously received when I needed it the most when I instinctively drifted here back in 2016. I didn’t even feel that degree of compassion from the very people I welcomed in my home during their time of desperation, those I used to call my family. I didn’t have anything to give or contribute to when I arrived here, I was an emotional wreck, and their humanity healed my broken heart. They offered fresh water over the severe wounds on my soul. Humanity… That’s where I go back when I’m emotionally disoriented and feel inconsolable. Ain’t this the foundation of it all?
Images from daily life in Tangier.
Yes, I can unfortunately write a lot about anger and its violent by-product, about how easy it is for anyone looking to disguise their self-righteous zeal to kill in whatever name it is when the reality is the fact that the only name they are killing in is their own and the reason doesn’t have anything to do with geo-political avenging or any faith system. It’s only for their own selfish satisfaction alone, and it goes for both sides of the spectrum. It doesn’t have anything to do with what has been supposedly done based on what was believed in or what is seen as justified to stand for. Nothing excuses or justifies any of it, nothing, not even your own resentment emerging from painful grief. That’s why cultivating life and hope is such a cultural counter-current right now. It has always been. And it’s way more difficult to do so with each and every single butchery and injustice we face, or with all the suffering we have to carry on after… That’s what motivates me to express myself artistically. Beyond the necessity I have to muse and reflect on my emotions, it’s about inviting, welcoming and receiving, sharing and communing, learning and growing, evolving. In other words, it’s the connection that I have with you that contributes to my personal transformation. I like to believe that it provides something positive and comforting in your lives as well, that every concert is like our own common neighborhood filled with the joy of seeing each other, with hugs, smiles, laughter, noise, pure collective and personal sensations communed or awaiting to be. That’s where I go back to when I’m physically and spiritually exhausted, frustrated, and angry. It’s not the exhilarating vibe associated with walking on a stage, especially as I still pretty much feel the same as when I had to speak in front of all those people at that church rally. It could be galvanizing for some because it’s wonderfully uplifting to know that you are loved and appreciated, but for me, what truly matters is to know that I’m part of something more precious and significant than the measure of our individual parts, that we have built something greater than ourselves, together, regardless of our obvious disparities and imperfections.
Love, whatever its form, is about taking a chance at hurting and disappointing as much as about being hurt and disappointed. That’s the point. A real relationship is defined by that; asking forgiveness and forgiving. It’s the ultimate gift you can offer others and the utmost present to be granted as well. That explains how hard it is to do so for real. I say that because there are some people I shared my life with in the past that I haven’t forgiven for the wrongs I feel they did to me or to others… It’s tough to love. There’s no magic that could appease my agitated heart, or enough vivid vibrancy to conquer my doubts, my discouragement, and my darkest moments — and they are plentiful. But again, it’s the humanity blooming around me that I go back to when I can’t trust my heart any more.
My present journal entry is probably a little all over the place and a bit confusing, I suppose. It wouldn’t be the first or last time! I guess I just wanted to connect with you, to be a little closer to you all in my time of unsettling emotions, as much as I wanted to make sure that you were alright, that you weren’t succumbing to hopelessness, fear, or resentment. It’s not easy and it won’t get any easier. We sadly can’t change the world we live in nor can we understand the shadows of human nature. But we can make our part towards its transformation by changing ourselves, if only a tiny bit, with every opportunity coming by. That’s why, when hate comes calling in, love is the only way to shape it back…
Much love,
Alex
“Love is more frightening than any rival gang members you stumble into at 4 am in a dark alley, my friends. Because you know deep down inside that this encounter will not only change your life forever, it has the potential to impact your family, your neighborhood, your community, and everybody else’s perceptions or beliefs. That’s scary for anyone looking for an excuse to live and behave as a victim. Love gives you the ultimate power to defy your most unbeatable enemy: your selfish self.” Brother Love Mountain (1)
(1) I used the term “Brother Love Mountain” as a nickname since I lost contact with him long ago. The overall message I wanted to share with you didn’t require identifying him without knowing his actual personal situation or having to require his consent. His quote is me paraphrasing what I grasped from his story that day.
Love, whatever its form, is about taking a chance at hurting and disappointing as much as about being hurt and disappointed. That’s the point. A real relationship is defined by that; asking forgiveness and forgiving. It’s the ultimate gift you can offer others and the utmost present to be granted as well. That explains how hard it is to do so for real. I say that because there are some people I shared my life with in the past that I haven’t forgiven for the wrongs I feel they did to me or to others… It’s tough to love. There’s no magic that could appease my agitated heart, or enough vivid vibrancy to conquer my doubts, my discouragement, and my darkest moments — and they are plentiful. But again, it’s the humanity blooming around me that I go back to when I can’t trust my heart any more.
My present journal entry is probably a little all over the place and a bit confusing, I suppose. It wouldn’t be the first or last time! I guess I just wanted to connect with you, to be a little closer to you all in my time of unsettling emotions, as much as I wanted to make sure that you were alright, that you weren’t succumbing to hopelessness, fear, or resentment. It’s not easy and it won’t get any easier. We sadly can’t change the world we live in nor can we understand the shadows of human nature. But we can make our part towards its transformation by changing ourselves, if only a tiny bit, with every opportunity coming by. That’s why, when hate comes calling in, love is the only way to shape it back…
Much love,
Alex
“Love is more frightening than any rival gang members you stumble into at 4 am in a dark alley, my friends. Because you know deep down inside that this encounter will not only change your life forever, it has the potential to impact your family, your neighborhood, your community, and everybody else’s perceptions or beliefs. That’s scary for anyone looking for an excuse to live and behave as a victim. Love gives you the ultimate power to defy your most unbeatable enemy: your selfish self.” Brother Love Mountain (1)
(1) I used the term “Brother Love Mountain” as a nickname since I lost contact with him long ago. The overall message I wanted to share with you didn’t require identifying him without knowing his actual personal situation or having to require his consent. His quote is me paraphrasing what I grasped from his story that day.
