Suède – Raid policier contre Front Révolutionnaire

Hier, le mercredi 20 novembre, des escouades lourdement armées de la police suédoise ont mené un raid coordonné contre le groupe socialiste Front Révolutionnaire [Revolutionära Fronten]. 10 personnes ont été arrêtées et ont été incarcérées. Elles sont soupçonnées d’actes de violence, de vandalisme, de menaces, d’incendies, etc. RF est un groupe socialiste qui a été formé en 2001 au lendemain des émeutes de Gothenburg. Contre les grandes protestations contre un meeting de l’Union Européenne, la police avait tiré sur plusieurs manifestants et plus de 100 personnes avaient reçu de lourdes peines de prison. RF a soutenu les travailleurs dans tout le pays pendant les conflits avec les capitalistes et a toujours été sans compromis avec les fascistes dans les localités où ceux-ci sont organisés.
En outre, les militants de Front Révolutionnaire sont de fermes partisans du républicanisme irlandais et ont soutenu nombre de fois les prisonniers de guerre en Irlande. Ils ont organisé des conférences en Suède avec Gary Donnelly, Ruairi O’Bradaigh, Marian Price, parmi d’autres.

Si « l’innocent » mérite notre solidarité, le « coupable » encore plus!

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5 commentaires pour Suède – Raid policier contre Front Révolutionnaire

  1. Liam dit :

    Ce texte de Zizek, « Irlandais, faites encore un effort si vous voulez devenir republicains! » est tres celebre. Apres le texte, une critique qui le demolit

    Slavoj Žižek
    ‘Irishmen, yet another effort, if you want to become republicans!’

    The key to the extraordinary and unexpected success of Neil Jordan’s The Crying Game lies perhaps in the fact that it offers the ultimate variation on the motif of courtly love. To recall the outlines of the story: A member of the ira guarding a captured black British soldier develops friendly links with him; the soldier asks him, in case of his liquidation by the ira, to pay a visit to his girlfriend, a hairdresser in a London suburb, and to give her his last regards. After the death of the soldier, the hero retires from the ira, moves to London, finds a job as a bricklayer and pays a visit to the soldier’s love, a beautiful black woman. He falls in love with her, but the girl maintains an ambiguously ironic, sovereign distance towards him. Finally she gives way to his advances and they go to bed together. She leaves for a brief moment to go to the bathroom and returns in a transparent night-gown; while casting a covetous glance at her body, the hero all of a sudden perceives her penis — ‘she’ is a transvestite. Disgusted, he crudely pushes her away. Shaken and wet with tears, she tells him that she thought he knew all the time how things were (in his obsession with her, the hero didn’t notice that the bar where they usually met was a meeting place for drag queens). This scene of the failed sexual encounter is structurally the exact inversion of the scene referred to by Freud as the primordial trauma of fetishism: there, the gaze sliding down the naked female body towards the sexual organ is shocked by the fact that there is nothing where one expects to see something (penis); in the case of the The Crying Game, the shock is caused by the fact that the eye sees something where it expected nothing.

    After this painful revelation, the relationship between the two is reversed: now it turns out that it is she who is passionately in love with him, although she knows her love is impossible. From a capricious and ironical sovereign Lady she turns into the pathetic figure of a delicate, sensitive boy desperately in love. It is only at this point that true love emerges, love as a metaphor in the precise Lacanian sense: [16] we witness the sublime moment when eromenos (the loved one) changes into erastes (the loving one) by stretching his hand back and ‘returning love’. This moment designates the ‘miracle’ of love, the moment when ‘the real answers’; as such, it perhaps enables us to grasp what Lacan has in mind when he affirms that the subject itself has the status of an ‘answer of the real’. That is to say, up to this reversal, the loved one has the status of an object: he is loved on account of something that is ‘in himself more than himself’ and that he is unaware of— I can never answer the question ‘What kind of object am I for the other? What does the other see in me that causes his love?’ We are thus dealing initially here with an asymmetry, not only the asymmetry between subject and object, but an asymmetry in the far more radical sense of a discord between what the lover sees in the loved one and what the loved one knows himself to be. Therein consists the deadlock that defines the position of the loved one: the other sees something in me and wants something from me, but I cannot give him what I do not possess—or, as Lacan puts it, there is no relationship between what the loved one possesses and what the loving one lacks. The only way for the loved one to escape this deadlock is to stretch his hand back towards the loving one and to ‘return love’, i.e. to substitute, in a metaphorical gesture, his status of the loved one with the status of the loving one. This reversal designates the point of subjectivization: the object of love changes into subject the moment it answers the call of love. And it is only by way of this reversal that true love emerges: I am truly in love not when I am simply fascinated by the agalma in the other, but when I experience the other, the object of love, as frail and lost, as lacking ‘it’, and my love nonetheless survives this loss.

    We must be especially attentive here not to miss the point of this reversal: although we have now two loving subjects instead of the initial duality of the loving one and the loved one, the asymmetry persists, since it was the object itself which as it were confessed to its lack by way of its subjectivization. There is something deeply embarrassing and truly scandalous in this reversal by means of which the mysterious, fascinating, elusive object of love discloses its deadlock and thus acquires the status of another subject. We encounter the same reversal also in horror-stories: is not the most sublime moment of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein the moment of the monster’s subjectivization, i.e. the moment when the monster–object (who is up to that time described as a ruthless killing machine) starts talking in the first person and presents his miserable, pitiful existence? It is deeply symptomatic that all films on Frankenstein have avoided this gesture of subjectivization. And perhaps, in courtly love itself, the long-awaited moment of the highest fulfilment, called Gnade, mercy (rendered by the Lady to her servant), is neither the Lady’s surrender, her consent to the sexual act, nor some mysterious rite of initiation, but simply a sign of love from the side of the Lady, the ‘miracle’ of the fact that the Object answered, stretched its hand back to the supplicant.

    So, back to The Crying Game, she is now ready to do anything for him, and the hero is more and more moved and fascinated by the absolute, unconditional character of her love for him, so that he overcomes his aversion and continues to console her. At the end, when the ira again tries to involve him in a terrorist act, he even sacrifices himself for her and assumes the responsibility for a murder that she committed. The last scene of the film takes place in the prison where she visits him, again dressed up as a provocatively seductive woman, so that everybody in the visiting-room is aroused by her looks. They count the days: he has to endure more than four thousand days of prison, but she cheerfully promises him that she will wait for him and regularly visit him . . . The external impediment—the glass partition in the prison preventing any physical contact—is here the exact equivalent to the obstacle which in courtly love renders the object inaccessible; it thereby accounts for the absolute, unconditional, character of this love in spite of its inherent impossibility, i.e. in spite of the fact that their love will never be consummated, since he is a ‘straight’ heterosexual and she a homosexual transvestite. In his Introduction to the published screenplay Jordan points out that ‘the story ended with a kind of happiness. I say a kind of happiness, because it involved the separation of a prison cell and other more profound separations, of racial, national and sexual identity. But for the lovers, it was the irony of what divided them that allowed them to smile. So perhaps there is hope for our divisions yet.’[17] The divisions—the unsurmountable barrier—that allows for a smile: is this not the most concise dispositive of courtly love? What we have here is an ‘impossible’ love which will never be consummated, which can only be realized as a feigned spectacle intended to fascinate the gaze of the present witnesses or as an endlessly postponed expectation; this love is absolute precisely insofar as it transgresses not only the barriers of class, religion, and race (in today’s ‘permissive’ epoch, all these barriers are obsolete), but also the ultimate barrier of sexual orientation, of sexual identification. Therein consists the paradox and at the same time the irresistible charm of the film: far from denouncing heterosexual love as a product of male repression, it renders the precise circumstances in which this love can today retain its absolute, unconditional character.

    For that reason, it is totally misleading to read The Crying Game as an anti-political tale of escape into privacy, i.e. as a variation on the theme of a revolutionary who, disappointed at the cruelty of the political power play, discovers sexual love as the sole field of personal realization, of authentic existential fulfilment. Politically, the film remains thoroughly faithful to the Irish cause which functions as its inherent background—the paradox is that in the very sphere of privacy where the hero hoped to find a safe haven, he is compelled to accomplish an even more vertiginous revolution in his most intimate personal attitudes. The Crying Game thus eludes the usual ideological dilemma of ‘private life as an island of authenticity, excepted from the political power-play’ versus ‘sexuality as one of the domains of political activity’: it renders visible the antagonistic complicity between public political activity and personal sexual subversion, the antagonism at work already in Sade who demanded sexual revolution as the consistent accomplishment of political revolution. In short, the subtitle of The Crying Game could have been ‘Irishmen, yet another effort, if you want to become republicans!’.

    (From Courtly Love to The Crying Game
    New Left Review I/202, November-December 1993 )

    The Pervert’s Guide to the Slovenian Clown’s Misreading of The Crying Game – Enjoy Your Errors!

    For all its ironies and playful subversions, there are compelling reasons to resist interpretations of The Crying Game as a radical political narrative. Although it mobilises the figures of androgyny and transvestism, the ways in which the film both constructs and resolves the issues it raises prove remarkably conventional. The Crying Game uses the figure of the transvestite to interrogate the concept of gender as a natural category bound to a normative sexual identity, but it ultimately operates in terms of strategies that, like the domestic fictions analysed by Armstrong, structure events according to a moral economy in which politics becomes a dehumanising ‘masculine’ force and sexuality its civilising ‘feminine’ antithesis. In The Crying Game, no less than in the narratives by Lingard and Mac Laverty, the discovery by the naive Irish working-class male of his sexuality is synchronous with his disengagement from politics. Once Fergus becomes involved with Dil, his desire to untether himself from the IRA intensifies, and when the narrative dilemma becomes the threat that his past political life poses for his new sexualised one, these two commitments become irreconcilable. The audience’s desire to see the romance between Fergus and Dil flourish necessarily entails a collateral desire for the elimination of all obstacles to that romance – in this case, Fergus’s nationalist commitments, and his former IRA comrades who would hold him to those commitments. If his baffled sexual romance is to prosper, Fergus’s unproductive political romance must be abandoned.

    Slavoj Zizek has argued that it is ‘totally misleading’ to read The Crying Game in this way since ‘in the very sphere of privacy where the hero had hoped to find a safe haven, he is compelled to complete an even more vertiginous revolution in his most intimate personal attitudes’. While this is true to a point, it ignores the ways in which the conventionally gendered structure of the relationship between Fergus and Dil remains largely intact despite the fact that it is not heterosexual. Zizek’s interpretation takes little account of the treatment of Irish politics in the film and none whatever of the figure of Jude, the film’s only woman character and its most prominent IRA representative. Zizek, it seems, has to leave Jude out to make his

    argument work.

    To the extent that Fergus’s amorous and political allegiances are orchestrated as conflicting loyalties, The Crying Game remains within the terms of a conventionally gendered narrative that posits politics and sexuality as antithetical domains. The whole thrust of the plot is to disentangle the one domain from the other by representing sexuality, in remarkably conventional terms, as a ‘feminine’ sphere of authentic value. Despite the fact that ‘she’ is a male transvestite of West Indian origin, Dil is made to serve all of the conventional functions of the domestic female. She is even more clueless politically than Fergus is sexually; she lacks, for example, even a rudimentary knowledge of or interest in the Northern Irish conflict that has cost her lover his life. Her subjectivity is defined in exclusively sexual terms, and she explicitly identifies herself with the nurturing role of the domestic female, at one point telling Fergus, ‘I was always best looking after someone.’ When Fergus becomes her gallant protector, first from the predatory gay male, Dave, and then from the ‘butch’ female, Jude, Dil plays the attentively nurturing ‘little woman’ bringing him vitamin pills in prison. With no political beliefs or agency of her own, Dil’s primary narrative function is to bring Fergus in from the political cold and to initiate him in the life-enhancing values of the ‘feminine’ domain she represents. The fact that Dil is male and homosexual complicates and ironises the kind of domestic retreat available to Fergus as an alternative to the cruel public/political sphere. Nevertheless, Dil’s sex does not preclude the elaboration of this romance in the conventionally gendered terms that set off politics and sexuality as antithetical domains. The gendered distinction between politics and sexuality that structures this film is not subverted, and may indeed be consolidated in new pluralist idiom, by a male transvestite playing the part conventionally ascribed to women. The scene from The Crying Game that has excited most comment is the one where Dil disrobes before Fergus and shocks him with the revelation of ‘her’ penis. The camera descends the apparently female body in exactly in the kind of scopophilic gaze that constructs woman, in Laura Mulvey’s terms, as the passive erotic object of an active male vision. The sudden exposure of Dil’s penis abruptly and humorously disrupts this most conventional of cinematic constructions and the pleasure it usually invites. However, if The Crying Game seems inclined to celebrate the notion of a ‘female’ penis when it is Dil’s, it exhibits a very conventional paranoia indeed when the ‘woman-witha-penis’ takes the more threatening form of Jude-with-a-gun. When displaced by Dil as the object of Fergus’s erotic interest, Jude suddenly reappears as the stereotypical female terrorist of cinematic convention: physically angular and unattractive, seething with sexual resentment, more deadly than her male colleagues. The viewer watches Jude first try to persuade Fergus to carry out an IRA assassination and then stick a gun in his face, clutch his crotch, and say, ‘So I suppose a fuck is out of the question.’ Her political and sexual motives are so laminated to each other in these scenes that the audience cannot help but view her politics as a psychotic displacement of a frustrated sexual drive. These two different representations of the woman-with-a-penis seem connected by a shared logic: the ‘female’ phallus can be celebrated here only on condition that a demarcation between female political and sexual power is maintained. The political nationalist Jude is thus a nightmarish inversion of the sexual but apolitical Dil. There is something both profoundly logical and highly disturbing about the feminine Dil executing the macho Jude, savagely pumping bullets into that female body while ranting misogynistically against its ‘misuse’ for political rather than properly sexual purposes. So negative is the film’s representation of Jude throughout, in fact, that when Dil finally rises up to riddle her with bullets the audience automatically exults in the spectacle of her death. The terminus towards which the film moves, then, is the vanquishing of Jude, a butch female and Irish political subversive engaged in a suicidal mission to assassinate a British judge. One of the more intriguing and potentially radical things about The Crying Game is that it manages to weave several UK minority subject positions into a single narrative. This is innovative because the established construction of Northern Ireland as an anomalous ‘place apart,’ belonging to the UK but still the site of a foreign ‘Irish problem’, effectively partitions Northern Irish minority issues from British minority discourse on the ‘mainland’. If The Crying Game flirts with the possibility of connecting minority discourses that have historically been held apart, however, it does so in largely cynical ways. When Judie Wheelwright noted approvingly that the film ‘works hard to confound audience expectations’ since ‘the British squaddie is black, the ruthless IRA volunteer is soft-hearted, and the female lead is played by a man’, she was celebrating what most critics lauded The Crying Game for: its anti-essentialist subversion of stereotyped identities. What this overlooks, however, is that the different minority subject positions in the film are orchestrated so that each effectively neutralises the other. The growing sympathy between Fergus and Jody during the latter’s captivity is helped along by their common workingclass and colonial backgrounds. Yet since Jody is the only personalised British soldier in the film this effectively identifies British Blacks with the British state (or, more precisely, portrays the British Army in blackface). It suggests, therefore, not that the Black British and Northern Ireland’s working-class nationalists have anything in common in terms of their subaltern relationships to the British state, but that they can meet only in a relationship of murderous antagonism. As if to underline this, Jody at one point refers to Northern Ireland as ‘the only place in the world they call you nigger to your face’. It as though Tottenham, where Jody comes from, or indeed the British Army in which he works, have somehow evolved beyond racist vulgarities of this sort. Neither Jody, as the humane male agent of British military power, nor Dil, the sexy feminine agent of its domestic values, function as signifiers of dissident minorities within the British state; instead, they serve a co-ordinated function as the twin arms of its repressive and ideological authority. Northern Irish republicans, on the other hand, are depicted as agents of both racial and homophobic persecution, first as Jody’s would-be executioners and later as threats to Dil. The different minority groups – Northern nationalists, Blacks, homosexuals and transvestites – encounter each other in Jordan’s film only as each other’s deadly enemy. The Crying Game, then, can be considered a progressive narrative only if the interrogation of essentialist identities is considered a sufficient political end in itself. But since the film is indifferent to the structures of power that constitute the various minorities it features, it must be considered superficial by any conception of the political measured in terms of commitment to social change. The morphology of The Crying Game, then, is hostile to Northern Irish nationalism, identifying it as a force to be purged. The original act of violence that impels the narrative is the killing of a representative of British state law by Northern Irish nationalists, and the protagonist of that narrative must acknowledge and expiate this act by disowning his nationalism and surrendering to the state in a spirit of resigned penitence. This acknowledgement of state authority by the nationalist rebel is crucial because it transforms the state from an interested party in the conflict into a neutral arbiter of it. It would be a fundamental error, then, to (mis)take sympathetic figures such as Fergus as evidence of ideological sympathy for Northern Irish republicanism. On the contrary, this protagonist is sympathetic only to the degree that he must be if he is to function as efficient conductors in the transfer of emotional identification from Northern Irish nationalism, where it is initially positioned, to the British/Northern Irish state, where it is finally affixed. It could be objected, of course, that such a reading mistakes an understandable hostility to murderous IRA violence for an antagonism to Northern Irish nationalism more generally. Yet when Catholic Fergus renounces militant nationalism it is always to repudiate politics completely. Once he has embraced the values of domestic sexuality, he is ready to put aside the delusions of political commitment altogether. He never abandons militant nationalism for other alternatives such as working-class politics or constitutional nationalism or non-violent socialist republicanism or whatever. The conservative thrust of this narrative is confirmed by the fact that everything is reduced to a manichean choice between militant republicanism or a repudiation of politics altogether in a spirit of fatalism or strong resignation. The plot trace a linear trajectory that runs from murderous political activism to self-sacrificial resignation and no contrapuntal plot lines disrupt this trajectory. Constitutional nationalism, to cite only the most obvious alternative, is never suggested as even a remote possibility for Fergus when he abandons violence. Its curious absence from this narrative is not difficult to explain: in Northern Ireland, constitutional nationalism is also, in its aspirations, an anti-state nationalism. Its inclusion, therefore, would only re-open in a different modality the morally and politically vexed question of the legitimacy of the Northern Irish state and the circumstances of the nationalist minority there. Accordingly, a narrative that posits a manichean conflict between state law and paramilitary chaos makes it much easier to legitimate the state and to reduce the Northern Irish situation to apparently simple moral choices. Focusing on militant nationalism to the exclusion of all alternative modes of nationalist resistance would appear to be a ‘bait-andswitch’ stratagem for eliding what the narrative construe as the real problem: not simply nationalist excesses but ‘excess’ Northern nationalists whose awkward loyalties cannot be accommodated by the current state order. This is why the figure of the ‘reluctant accomplice’ is pivotal to The Crying Game and many other narratives of this kind. Such a character is always guiltily complicit in, rather than fully responsible for, an original act of transgression against the state. Never a zealously militant nationalist, he is rather the militant-with-a-troubled-conscience. If he temporarily comes under the spell of militant nationalism, it is not because of any coherent critique of the Northern state or reasoned advocacy of a united Ireland, but rather because of an inchoate resentment against the existing order. Figures such Fergus are invariably politically inarticulate in these narratives: the device serves, in a manner analogous to media censorship, to silence and occult the militants. The reluctant accomplice, therefore, is the perfect vehicle through which to express and to purge the ambivalent sentiments of Irish and British audiences who may not themselves be at all disposed to support militant nationalism, but who may harbour serious doubts about the legitimacy of the Northern state or the received wisdom on the conflict there or the UK’s role in it. The reluctant accomplice serves as an uncomprehending scapegoat who initially registers such doubts only to repudiate them all the more convincingly and to offer himself up as a propitiating sacrifice to the sacred order of the state he has questioned. Identifying with this character thus allows the audience to work through its own doubts and misgivings. That the protagonists of The Crying Game end up with nowhere else to go but the state prison, however, is surely symptomatic of a nagging dissatisfaction in these narratives about the limited resolutions they proffer. Good fences may make good neighbours, but something there is that doesn’t like a wall, and the state-as-penalinstitution is a less than reassuring image on which to end, especially given Northern Ireland’s terrible history where prisons are concerned. The combination of noble fortitude and doleful passivity with which the former militant condemns himself to the penitentiary seems to signify not so much a firm conviction that the nationalist cause is inherently unjust as a reluctant acceptance that the cost of achieving Irish reunification is unthinkable. In other words, these narratives repudiate Northern Irish nationalism in sorrow as well as in anger because the cost of dismantling the state border seems too high to contemplate. At the end of The Crying Game, as he and Dil gaze at each other wistfully through the bullet-proof glass partition, Fergus exudes a sense of rueful regret and virtuous self-sacrifice. The structure of feeling his demeanour epitomises is a defeatist one, which holds that because they would be too difficult to change, some things must simply be accepted. The critics cited earlier are not wrong, then, when they sense that The Crying Game is preoccupied with borders; it is just that they conceive the issue in metaphorical terms only. Camera shots that telegraph the issue of borders to the audience frame The Crying Game.The film opens with a tracking shot from which a carnival fairground on the far side of a river is viewed through the arches of a bridge. The bridge here is a conventional image of separation and connection, while the carnival suggests a utopian image of community yet to be attained. The narrative closes with a sequence in which the two protagonists converse through a glass partition in a British prison. Far from suggesting the ‘opening’ of ‘borders’ implied by the title of Judie Wheelwright’s review, therefore, the narrative trajectory of The Crying Game would seem to suggest the idea of community impeded and the final irrevocability of some sexual and political barriers.

    From: Cleary, Joe. Literature, Partition and the Nation-State : Culture and Conflict in Ireland, Israel and Palestine.
    Port Chester, NY, USA: Cambridge University Press, 2002

  2. Monier Alain dit :

    Dans un tribunal 2 avocats s’affrontent au nom de la defense de leur client :
    L’un dit : »C’est un cas flagrant de « Different », mon client n’a pas pu se defendre il ne parle pas le meme langage »
    l’autre lui retorque ironiquement: » mais maitre vous savez bien comme moi que nul n’est sensé ignorer l’Anglais.
    Dans la salle des propos fusent a plusieurs voix « Quand on est un etranger, pour avoir droit a s’exprimer, il faut au moins parler la langue de l’hote. » Cordialement Alain Monier

  3. Liam dit :

    Communique du RCP (ML) sur Aravindan Balakrishnan dit camarade « Bala »

    Le RCPB (ML) est le descendant du CPE-ML (depuis passe chez les pro-Albanais et Hardinal Baines. Cornelius Cardew etait membre)

    Comment of RCPB(ML) on
    the Brixton “Slavery” Matter
    Various media
    have asked us to comment on the Brixton « slavery » affair. As the
    media might have established by now, Aravindan Balakrishnan was expelled from
    an organisation which preceded our own in 1974, at a time when it carried a
    large amount of work against state-organised racist and fascist violence and in
    defence of minority rights and the right of the Irish people to
    You can see with
    the current revelations in the police investigation that the organisation which
    expelled him must have had good reason – first and foremost, opposition
    to his penchant for cultism.
    For the rest, any
    media attempts to connect his rotten activities with Marxism-Leninism for
    purposes of presenting Marxism-Leninism as cultism and extremism are pure
    disinformation and sensationalism. Such attempts in no way assist to show what
    Marxism-Leninism is and we do not think they deserve an answer.
    Working people
    are facing serious problems today as a result of the neo-liberal anti-social
    offensive and all its attendant injustices and ills. Turning a wretched episode
    in the lives of some miserable people into a salacious investigation is surely
    a new low even for the British media.
    We have no
    further comment on this matter.
    November 26,

  4. Liam dit :

    L’ « esclave » irlandaise vient de Belfast
    D’apres la radio elle est tombee dans la secte dans le cadre d’activites solidarite irlande

  5. Ekintza dit :

    « Enfin » le prétexte pour un amalgame bien dégueulasse… « Maoïste » + indien, dommage qu’il soit pas en plus musulman…

    Tiens un échantillon dans les commentaires:

    Comme par hasard au moment où un saut qualitatif important est franchi :

    Le plus drôle c’est les fascistes indiens qui accusent la guérilla de « destruction des ressources forestières et naturelles » !!! Celle-là faut oser.


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