Po Paul And The Arctic 30

About a month ago I wrote about my long-time friend, Po Paul, who was arrested along with 29 other Greenpeace activists and ship crew members. They have now been dubbed The Arctic 30, and here's what Greenpeace had to say about them, followed by pictures of each member:

The courageous crew of the Greenpeace ship Arctic Sunrise protested at that Gazprom rig because they felt compelled to bear witness to the slow but unrelenting destruction of the Arctic. The ice is retreating, oil companies are moving north to drill for the fuels that are driving that melting, species are at risk, including our own. Thirty men and women, some young, others not-so-young, all with a moral compass, actually did something about it. Just as in years past, the resolve and courage required to win a better future for our children requires personal sacrifice, a sacrifice the Arctic 30 are now making. They made their stand in the interests of us all.

They also urge you to sign this online petition.

Vigils and protests took place all over the world, but one held in New Zealand got my attention, where the vigil took place around a mock prison cell, where members of Greenpeace and Amnesty International as well as a few celebrities took turns imprisoning themselves, notably Lucy Lawless (a.k.a. Xena, of whom Po Paul was a huge fan):

All in all, some 250 events were held in 50 countries, almost simultaneously.

All 30 members of the ship have now officially been charged with piracy by the Russian authorities. Most of them are isolated, and were denied contact with other humans for over a week when they first got there; they can now see their lawyers, and other visitors, which is how I was able to get this picture of Po Paul, where he looks like he's aged 20 years in 30 days:

Hang in there, my friend. I don't know for how long, and I'm not sure exactly why (except for the obvious ''disrupting the status quo''), but the fact that your cause is just will could should be of some solace. That, and the fact that everyone who knows you fully supports you.

And even some pretty prestigious people who don't:

We miss you.

It's too bad there were no Americans on that boat; Jimmy Carter would have gotten all of you out by now.

My Friends Are So Distressed

Our friendship started in late 1990, except it wasn't exactly friendship at first: we were sharing a dormitory with 100 other 7th-graders, and his bunk was next to mine. And that fucking Alexandre Paul, known to his friends as Po Paul, was a heck of a snorer. So eventually, I started throwing water at him when he snored - I fought fire with... water.

Maybe the water was an omen.

Anyhow, before the school year was over, we were inseparable buddies, part of a group of like-minded music aficionados, with a tendency bent towards hard rock. Sure, we had our differences - he preferred Nirvana and solo Ozzy Osbourne, I loved Pearl Jam and the first Black Sabbath line-up. Ultimately, though, we could agree on the important things: Guns N' Roses kicked ass.

We also got along outside of school, spending most of our weekends walking day-long treks from my house in the Western part of Montréal, through downtown with countless stops at HMV, Burger King, Sam The Record Man's and Labyrinthe, all the way to his folks' place, in the East end. If the night included a sleepover, we'd watch Saturday Night Live together.

The son of a fireman whose nickname he inherited, Po Paul always wanted to do whatever he could to help ensure he and we would be able to live in a better, fairer, safer, cleaner world, and so it was a match made in heaven when he joined Greenpeace some 15 years ago. From door-to-door canvasser to supervisor to rider of the sea, his ascension throughout their ranks is exceptional.

Then again, he's a pretty awesome guy to begin with.

I'm often asked why Montréal is home to so many activists and great artists, and my answer is usually two-fold and quite simple: it's an awesome place full of utopian potential, yet it was led to being a complete shithole by profiteers who took advantage of the people's good hearts. And so many are fighting to make it - or the rest of the world - a better place.

Po Paul's journey was put on pause recently when he and 11 other activists were arrested in Russia on charges of piracy, for attempting to board an oil rig; they were denied bail and the investigation will last 60 days, though they have yet to actually be charged with anything.

Greenpeace is protesting and appealing, but as we've seen with the Pussy Riot trials and the recent ''anti-gay-propaganda'' extravaganza, Russia - like Russians - couldn't care less about political or outside pressure; they beat to their own drum, and they drum loudly.

Which is the main reason why Po Paul's mom is freaking out, seeing as he's facing a possible 15 years of gulag jail time if he is indeed found guilty. For trying to make a difference, and almost standing in the way of Big Oil.

We'll know in a couple of months whether this farce will taste like Justice or Abuse Of Power, but there are lots of reasons to be scared.

Godspeed, my friend, and best of luck. You've been in our thoughts all week, and we're keeping you there front and center.

The Thing About Russians (Very Brief History)

At the bottom of their heart, one-on-one, people of earth all pretty much all the same. Their opinions may differ, but there's a way to hold a conversation with anyone, on almost any topic. The differences come not from DNA per se, and especially not skin colour or language, but mostly how they're raised, in their family and peoples' historical context.

That being said, Russians are a different breed. Made tough by 75 years of what we in the West have deemed a ''communist regime'' (though actually pretty far removed from Marxism and actually more of a cross between a monarchy, centralism, totalitarianism, and what I call absolutionism - the government also being the main employer and corporation) in which civilians mostly had to take shit all the time and just continue on with their lives in a more-than-military fashion or risk prison/expulsion to work camps mixed with almost-extreme poverty, they are fearless, and seemingly impervious to pain. And nothing rattles them.

Case in point:







Yeah, it's almost like those redneck videos and redneck inventions. Except they fucking make it work.

So when Russia made their anti-homosexuality law (actually an anti-homosexuality-propaganda law, they're not going to jail folks engaging in what they're doing at home, but they are restricting free public speech, marriages and even clothing - no rainbows), there was bound to be an in-home reaction. Particularly a year after the Pussy Riot trials.

And so, months prior to the Sotchi Games, at the Moscow World Athletics Championships, a public display of affection was bound to rock the international press...

Russians Fight Back With A Kiss

As I mentioned in the previous post, it would take the world of sports to pass the first very public message of dissent against the Russian anti-homosexuality-propaganda law...

... unless that was just a Russian kiss, like the hockey players would give themselves after each goal during the 1972 Summit Series. For seemingly immutable peoples, Russians display glee in stoic-yet-affectionate ways Westerners aren't used to - like cold Sicilians.

Still, the mostly-male-dominated Western media had a field day (and possibly a hard-on) at the sight of Kseniya Ryzhova and Yulia Gushchina kissing on the podium, though it wasn't the first kiss (as can be attested in the video, Tatyana Firova, far right, was the first recipient, kind of like how at the 2003 MTV VMAs, people remember Britney Spears making out with Madonna but forget that Christina Aguilera got Mrs. Ciccone's first tonguing).

If Toyota were an American brand, all four of these ladies would have had a brand new car waiting for them outside the locker room. Had the athletes been men and this would have happened in the U.S., an army of hard-line Christians would have been there picketing.

Whether it was a statement or not, this will probably end up being the Picture Of The Year, barring some unforeseen natural disasters of epic proportions, a Presidential murder, or a nuclear war.