(C) OpenDemocracy This story was originally published by OpenDemocracy and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . Fossil Free Books urges authors to pull out of book festivals over Baillie Gifford's investments in oil and Israel [1] [] Date: 2024-06 What can books do, in the face of a genocide? Everything – if we allow ourselves to act on what they teach us. I’m a mixed-race British-Pakistani, with a working diagnosis of complex PTSD. My book, A Flat Place, turns on the impossibility of healing from trauma when the world around you tacitly accepts the deaths of racialised people like you as inevitable, or even necessary. We’re all human, and flawed. “Everyone makes compromises,” I wrote in my book, “about who and what they count as human. Everyone makes deals around the humanity of other people, and how consistently they allow that humanity to be present to them.” But if you’re on the sharp end of that dehumanisation, what can you do but scream? I’ve been increasingly distressed by the experience of promoting A Flat Place in situations where people couldn’t draw the link between its message and the Israeli violence in Gaza. Get our free Daily Email Get one whole story, direct to your inbox every weekday. Sign up now This genocide is incredibly well-documented. Palestinian mothers, fathers, uncles and aunts, in the worst pain of their lives, know that even in the wildness of their grief they have to film – they have to record what is being done to them, or no one will believe them. The babies with their heads sheared off. The tiny feet sticking out of the rubble. And still our news media is guarded. Still our leaders call Israel their friend and send it weapons. The disconnection destroys me. I speak about it at every book reading. And afterwards, people come up to me, and say: “I loved your book and I hear what you’re saying about Gaza – but Hamas is terrible, too, you know.” How can you love my book if you can’t hear, accept, or act on what it’s saying? And how can I speak about my book without speaking about Gaza? Racialised violence worms its way into everything – even the industries that support and promote my book. Baillie Gifford is an Edinburgh-based investment management company that invests more than £10bn in companies complicit in Israel’s occupation of Palestine, genocide of Palestinians and violations of international law. It also funds many of the key literary festivals in the UK and a major book prize. I didn’t know any of this until a few weeks ago. I knew that Baillie Gifford funded the Edinburgh International Book Festival, but that was it. I’m not a natural activist – in general, just staying alive takes up most of my energy. So I’d agreed to appear at Hay Festival as part of an event featuring authors shortlisted for the Women’s Prize. But then the gentlest and most respectful email from Fossil Free Books landed in my inbox. Fossil Free Books is a collective of book workers – authors, publishers, illustrators, and more – campaigning for Baillie Gifford to divest from companies complicit in occupation, genocide and fossil fuel extraction. Many of them are precarious and underpaid; many are people of colour or Disabled people. I was aware of the group already, having last year signed its statement asking BG to divest in light of its sponsorship of the Edinburgh International Book Festival. The email explained that Baillie Gifford also sponsored Hay Festival. “We recommend taking one of the following actions,” they wrote. “Attend your event [at Hay], but do so mindfully by taking creative action...[or] decline your invitation and withdraw your labour… If you’d prefer we didn’t contact you again then please tell us.” There was a personal note, too, from the sender, whom I knew from other events. “I totally and completely understand that every author has to do what’s right for them <3.” It was such a kind email, and so understanding of any choices I might make. I knew, then, that this was a rare chance to make one small important step alongside a collective. Trying to be morally perfect as an individual is impossible and actually narcissistic. This world is so badly made that we are always implicated in violence and destruction. So to make change, we have to focus on one area where we have power – as authors, we have labour we can withdraw – and work together. We can’t do everything, but we can get a wedge into the door, in one area. Things grow outward from that. I love literary festivals. My day at Hay Festival last year was one of the best of my life (I still dream about their tiramisu). I want festivals to be well-funded, and to flourish. But I couldn’t cope with the psychological split of promoting a book about the dehumanisation of brown and Black bodies, while ignoring a call for solidarity with a collective fighting for a better world. I would have hated my book after that. I refused my invitation to Hay. Two weeks later, Hay made history. It became the first festival to suspend sponsorship from Baillie Gifford, agreed to meet with Fossil Free Books, and committed to rethinking its sponsorship policy going forward. I am rejoining Hay Festival, therefore, with a full heart. Edinburgh Book Festival followed suit yesterday afternoon, announcing that it, too, would end its 20-year funding partnership with Baillie Gifford. The power we have is clear, and I hope that we can all stand together – festivals and authors – to push for the firm to divest from companies that directly harm racialised people. [END] --- [1] Url: https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/baillie-gifford-hay-festival-edinburgh-international-books-noreen-masud-israel-gaza-genocide/ Published and (C) by OpenDemocracy Content appears here under this condition or license: Creative Commons CC BY-ND 4.0. via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds: gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/opendemocracy/