it's been ten years
A Tribute To Brian Rohatyn
from Lisa Valanti
This week the headlines commemorate the life and death of the great
Canadian statesman, Pierre Trudeau. President Fidel Castro of Cuba,
joined former US president, Jimmy Carter, as a pallbearer at his
funeral.
This weekend many of us will travel to Vancouver, Canada, to pay
our respects and celebrate the life, and mourn the loss of another,
perhaps greater, if lesser known, Canadian hero, Brian Rohatyn.
Those of us who had the honor of knowing Brian, 'up front and
personal' are rendered speechless by his death. It is one of those
things, so tragic, so sad, that it is impossible to comprehend, and
equally impossible to console ourselves to his loss.
Brian was just 33, but he possessed that great strength of character;
the natural ease and innocence, a sort of humbleness, that accompanies
those who have acquired wisdom through a profound empathy and
visceral connection to humanity. He was unforgettable. His sincerity,
simplicity and spirit attracted everyone who met him.
Brian was an example, that it is not simply the passage of years that
ripen and mature you; rather your choices, and willingness to cast
your lot with all of humanity that opens you to a dimension of
experience that those who settle to satisfy above all else their own
limited individual happiness, or security can't even begin to
imagine.
Brian paid close attention to world events. It was an organic part of
him. He didn't shut himself off from the reality of an international
crisis situation because it threatened to affect his feelings. Unlike
so many people his age, he rejected cynicism and hopelessness.
And he refused to be politically disenfranchised.
Brian was genuinely sensitive to the suffering of others. He had his
own share of suffering. Yet he listened, and respected the experience
of others. Brian knew that when the heart breaks in solidarity and
compassion for others, it breaks open. And he did everything he
could to change the world in his brief tenure here.
Many days and nights during the Fast for Life, Brian and I would
exchange thoughts on the meaning of life. He was accessible. Like kids
sharing secrets, we exchanged some good laughs, a few tears, and were
forever bonded in that wonderfully sweet trust that occurs when you
suspect in a moment of vulnerability you've perhaps made a fool of
yourself, said more than you meant too, and your friend doesn't call
your attention to it and loves you anyway. We couldn't figure it out.
The meaning of life, that is. But we came to an agreement, that it
didn't matter. If anything, we liked each other more, for not having
all the answers. (He let me hold onto my idea that I had a few...)
But he believed in service, being of use to something greater than
himself. He had figured that much out. A clarity of conviction.
Brian was open to life, with all its wild thorns and roses.
People who never had the chance to know Brian may think it sentimental
at best and presumptuous at least, to compare him to Che or Jose
Marti. They will think grief has overshadowed judgment. But I have
always said, even while he was among us, that the depth of Brian's
commitment and dedication to his ideals, gave him a distinctive
presence of being, of the stature that history always cries out for.
Anyone who knew him, knows I make no exaggeration in his favor.
Brian was, like Jose Marti was, like Che was, a living incarnation of
international solidarity. He lived, and personally put himself at risk
for what he believed. He gave his life every day, towards the
betterment of life for his brothers and sisters. His was not merely
verbal or symbolic gestures of solidarity, rather, roll up his
sleeves and get at it; jump in it, solidarity. Walking the walk. He
was not afraid of a good fight, IF it was a righteous cause.
And yet, he was ordinary; he retained that boyish playfulness that
made some people underestimate him. What made him
extraordinary was his choice to take the road less traveled.
Truthfully, many thought him "crazy' for coming into a foreign country
and entering into a struggle that could have claimed his life, then
and there ... all for a bunch of old computers. He was Canadian, it
wasn't his fight -- his government had a civilized relationship with
Cuba. But Brian told the story, of how he'd gone into his
grandfather's basement and retrieved that old computer to donate to
Cuba, and how he wanted that particular computer to be donated to
Cuba. That one, that he had carried up from the basement.
It wasn't trivial to him, or acceptable, that the government of the
greatest empire on earth would expend its endless resources in causing
misery, creating suffering for the Cuban people. He saw the future
implications of allowing the US government to violate international
treaties, and act as a rogue state. He understood he had an
obligation not to allow the Canadian government to dismiss or
personalize the "incident" or sweep it under the rug. He rallied
Canada and inspired other countries to become more engaged.
He was a 'team" player because he understood the rigorous demands
that being in solidarity can exact on its individual participants. And
yet,
he was, as we all are, alone when we take a moral stand; each our
own David confronting Goliath. But Brian knew that even the smallest
injustice left unchallenged, festered until it broke your spirit. An
injustice to one, was an injustice to all. It made perfect sense to
him.
He never wavered.
Not when the planes were shot down and the Helms-Burton bill passed,
and everyone said continuing the fast was useless in the current
political climate. Not freezing in the wheelchairs while visiting
members of Congress to whom he was no constituent. Not even when
visited by worried family, and finally even concerned authorities and
told he had, in fact, won "his" victory. The Canadian computers were
free to go. But Brian knew, what we permit, we teach, and he
understood that solidarity knows no borders; until every computer
was free to go, no victory could be claimed. All for one, and his
one, wholeheartedly, for all.
He stayed.
By then, he was so thin, every bone in his body showing ... gaunt
and unrelenting. His blue eyes intent; eye on the prize. He didn't
complain, although, like all of us, I'm sure he had his moments. If he
had them, he kept his doubts and concerns to himself, instead using
his energy to keep up group morale. His staying was never a matter of
pride, it was always a matter of principle.
I am convinced that his act, his personal unwillingness to surrender
given that golden escape hatch offered to him alone, that finally made
clear to the S government the level of determination of the Fast, and
shortly thereafter, under profound international pressure, much
generated by Brian's friends, family and countrymen and women; the
computers were released. Public pressure; international public
pressure had prevailed and won the day.
How great that night, just after midnight, under the florescent
lights, when, exhausted and bleary eyed, we passed around plastic
cups of warm water that rice had been boiled in; and toasted our
true victory. 94 days, the longest fast in American history. We all
hugged, we all had enough "juice" left in us to cry a bit in relief,
in awe, in gratitude. We came through. Together. Alive. That
moment too, had an aura of unbelievability.
When we finally parted, after those three months of fasting, it was
difficult to readjust to 'normal' life. It felt abnormal to be away
from the people who had participated; both fasters and supporters,
because it was impossible to describe to anyone what it had been like.
I missed his impish smile. I missed his daily hug. Brian and I spoke a
few times on the telephone, neither one of us could afford the long
distance. But words had become unnecessary between us by then.
Caravans have been our family reunions. Brian was part of their
landscape. I expected him, took his presence for granted. He was truly
my brother. This year's caravan will be dedicated to Brian. We in the
United States, should think long and hard on the contribution that the
international community brings to our struggle. We hope our Canadian
friends will continue the connection that Brian has built. I believe
I can say Brian would echo Mother Jones, in telling us not to let our
mourning interfere with our organizing. And to take on a bit more, go
that extra mile, because he no longer can. I for one, will keep Brian
Rohatyn, in death, as he has always been to me in life; one of the
greatest inspirations in my life.
Brian always accepted his fight was everywhere there was an injustice,
and he knew that the fight to end the blockade against Cuba can only
be won on one front-in the belly of the beast, called the United
States of America. The caravans continue to be the only direct
challenge to the US blockade against Cuba on US soil. He came, as
selflessly as Europeans came to ride the buses at the beginning of the
civil rights movement. He came, like those Americans who went to Spain
to fight against fascism with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, he came
like Che to Cuba, like Marti ... knowing what they knew, carrying on
an internationalist tradition.
from Lisa Valanti
This week the headlines commemorate the life and death of the great
Canadian statesman, Pierre Trudeau. President Fidel Castro of Cuba,
joined former US president, Jimmy Carter, as a pallbearer at his
funeral.
This weekend many of us will travel to Vancouver, Canada, to pay
our respects and celebrate the life, and mourn the loss of another,
perhaps greater, if lesser known, Canadian hero, Brian Rohatyn.
Those of us who had the honor of knowing Brian, 'up front and
personal' are rendered speechless by his death. It is one of those
things, so tragic, so sad, that it is impossible to comprehend, and
equally impossible to console ourselves to his loss.
Brian was just 33, but he possessed that great strength of character;
the natural ease and innocence, a sort of humbleness, that accompanies
those who have acquired wisdom through a profound empathy and
visceral connection to humanity. He was unforgettable. His sincerity,
simplicity and spirit attracted everyone who met him.
Brian was an example, that it is not simply the passage of years that
ripen and mature you; rather your choices, and willingness to cast
your lot with all of humanity that opens you to a dimension of
experience that those who settle to satisfy above all else their own
limited individual happiness, or security can't even begin to
imagine.
Brian paid close attention to world events. It was an organic part of
him. He didn't shut himself off from the reality of an international
crisis situation because it threatened to affect his feelings. Unlike
so many people his age, he rejected cynicism and hopelessness.
And he refused to be politically disenfranchised.
Brian was genuinely sensitive to the suffering of others. He had his
own share of suffering. Yet he listened, and respected the experience
of others. Brian knew that when the heart breaks in solidarity and
compassion for others, it breaks open. And he did everything he
could to change the world in his brief tenure here.
Many days and nights during the Fast for Life, Brian and I would
exchange thoughts on the meaning of life. He was accessible. Like kids
sharing secrets, we exchanged some good laughs, a few tears, and were
forever bonded in that wonderfully sweet trust that occurs when you
suspect in a moment of vulnerability you've perhaps made a fool of
yourself, said more than you meant too, and your friend doesn't call
your attention to it and loves you anyway. We couldn't figure it out.
The meaning of life, that is. But we came to an agreement, that it
didn't matter. If anything, we liked each other more, for not having
all the answers. (He let me hold onto my idea that I had a few...)
But he believed in service, being of use to something greater than
himself. He had figured that much out. A clarity of conviction.
Brian was open to life, with all its wild thorns and roses.
People who never had the chance to know Brian may think it sentimental
at best and presumptuous at least, to compare him to Che or Jose
Marti. They will think grief has overshadowed judgment. But I have
always said, even while he was among us, that the depth of Brian's
commitment and dedication to his ideals, gave him a distinctive
presence of being, of the stature that history always cries out for.
Anyone who knew him, knows I make no exaggeration in his favor.
Brian was, like Jose Marti was, like Che was, a living incarnation of
international solidarity. He lived, and personally put himself at risk
for what he believed. He gave his life every day, towards the
betterment of life for his brothers and sisters. His was not merely
verbal or symbolic gestures of solidarity, rather, roll up his
sleeves and get at it; jump in it, solidarity. Walking the walk. He
was not afraid of a good fight, IF it was a righteous cause.
And yet, he was ordinary; he retained that boyish playfulness that
made some people underestimate him. What made him
extraordinary was his choice to take the road less traveled.
Truthfully, many thought him "crazy' for coming into a foreign country
and entering into a struggle that could have claimed his life, then
and there ... all for a bunch of old computers. He was Canadian, it
wasn't his fight -- his government had a civilized relationship with
Cuba. But Brian told the story, of how he'd gone into his
grandfather's basement and retrieved that old computer to donate to
Cuba, and how he wanted that particular computer to be donated to
Cuba. That one, that he had carried up from the basement.
It wasn't trivial to him, or acceptable, that the government of the
greatest empire on earth would expend its endless resources in causing
misery, creating suffering for the Cuban people. He saw the future
implications of allowing the US government to violate international
treaties, and act as a rogue state. He understood he had an
obligation not to allow the Canadian government to dismiss or
personalize the "incident" or sweep it under the rug. He rallied
Canada and inspired other countries to become more engaged.
He was a 'team" player because he understood the rigorous demands
that being in solidarity can exact on its individual participants. And
yet,
he was, as we all are, alone when we take a moral stand; each our
own David confronting Goliath. But Brian knew that even the smallest
injustice left unchallenged, festered until it broke your spirit. An
injustice to one, was an injustice to all. It made perfect sense to
him.
He never wavered.
Not when the planes were shot down and the Helms-Burton bill passed,
and everyone said continuing the fast was useless in the current
political climate. Not freezing in the wheelchairs while visiting
members of Congress to whom he was no constituent. Not even when
visited by worried family, and finally even concerned authorities and
told he had, in fact, won "his" victory. The Canadian computers were
free to go. But Brian knew, what we permit, we teach, and he
understood that solidarity knows no borders; until every computer
was free to go, no victory could be claimed. All for one, and his
one, wholeheartedly, for all.
He stayed.
By then, he was so thin, every bone in his body showing ... gaunt
and unrelenting. His blue eyes intent; eye on the prize. He didn't
complain, although, like all of us, I'm sure he had his moments. If he
had them, he kept his doubts and concerns to himself, instead using
his energy to keep up group morale. His staying was never a matter of
pride, it was always a matter of principle.
I am convinced that his act, his personal unwillingness to surrender
given that golden escape hatch offered to him alone, that finally made
clear to the S government the level of determination of the Fast, and
shortly thereafter, under profound international pressure, much
generated by Brian's friends, family and countrymen and women; the
computers were released. Public pressure; international public
pressure had prevailed and won the day.
How great that night, just after midnight, under the florescent
lights, when, exhausted and bleary eyed, we passed around plastic
cups of warm water that rice had been boiled in; and toasted our
true victory. 94 days, the longest fast in American history. We all
hugged, we all had enough "juice" left in us to cry a bit in relief,
in awe, in gratitude. We came through. Together. Alive. That
moment too, had an aura of unbelievability.
When we finally parted, after those three months of fasting, it was
difficult to readjust to 'normal' life. It felt abnormal to be away
from the people who had participated; both fasters and supporters,
because it was impossible to describe to anyone what it had been like.
I missed his impish smile. I missed his daily hug. Brian and I spoke a
few times on the telephone, neither one of us could afford the long
distance. But words had become unnecessary between us by then.
Caravans have been our family reunions. Brian was part of their
landscape. I expected him, took his presence for granted. He was truly
my brother. This year's caravan will be dedicated to Brian. We in the
United States, should think long and hard on the contribution that the
international community brings to our struggle. We hope our Canadian
friends will continue the connection that Brian has built. I believe
I can say Brian would echo Mother Jones, in telling us not to let our
mourning interfere with our organizing. And to take on a bit more, go
that extra mile, because he no longer can. I for one, will keep Brian
Rohatyn, in death, as he has always been to me in life; one of the
greatest inspirations in my life.
Brian always accepted his fight was everywhere there was an injustice,
and he knew that the fight to end the blockade against Cuba can only
be won on one front-in the belly of the beast, called the United
States of America. The caravans continue to be the only direct
challenge to the US blockade against Cuba on US soil. He came, as
selflessly as Europeans came to ride the buses at the beginning of the
civil rights movement. He came, like those Americans who went to Spain
to fight against fascism with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, he came
like Che to Cuba, like Marti ... knowing what they knew, carrying on
an internationalist tradition.