My story actually involves a religious community. It's a story of one of the custodians and facilitators of a religious cult that has been many times (in the past) sabotaged by the Church institution and the institution of the Church. But it's a cult that happens in Naples, and Naples is a city that is constantly at risk of disappearing because of the vicinity of an active volcano next to it. And it's a city, which for that reason, there's not a real attachment to material goods. So, it's more a survival territory, let's say, because the institution is always trying to maintain the structure that is constantly at risk. So, the story talks about Lela (who) has been repeatedly challenged by the Church in shutting down this cult that is very much still practiced and is the cult of the purgatorial souls, and happens through the adoption of an anonymous skull, of an anonymous dead person. And in the catacombs of Naples, (it) is full of remains because of the plague that happened in the 1600’s. And so for that reason, and before the Edict of St. Cloud made by Napoleon, in which all the cemeteries would've been moved outside of the city walls, the burial sites of the city where the catacombs, so the underground, all these remains are still there. And in the neapolitan cosmology, basically the head is the seat of the soul. So even if you die, it still holds your soul within the head. And so this cult is based on a process of adoption of dead souls, and through adopting them, taking the skull, cuddling it, and then placing it into a specific box, you give them a home, and so the souls are able to intercede with God to give you grace––kind of in the same manner in which minor saints do, and that's obviously forbidden for the Church and considered heretical. And so, the cult has been forbidden in 1969 officially, and then there was a whole process of trying to close or museify or institutionalize these places in order to remove their liminal state, and transform them into something that is historified officially––and negativized, as well. And so what Lela does with her community is not only to––she kind of worked with the blacksmiths to create these welded glass and metal boxes in which to put the skulls and still be able to practice the cult, even though you cannot cuddle and touch the skulls directly anymore because the cult has been considered necrophilic by the Church; but still, like this glass allows all the people practicing the cult to still go and clean the boxes and kiss the boxes––and basically through the survival of this cult and the resistance of this cult, Lela managed to build a whole family that is not based on biological elements, but rather on belief systems. And in this way, they collaborate every day and they really created a huge community that is fighting against the current cancellation attempt of the Church, of what they are doing, which is simply praying but not praying in the canonical convention and hegemonic way that is imposed by the Church. Yeah, so that's my story! And maybe if I have to think of a scene related to this story is surely when I met Lela in the church and I saw her in action, in taking care of all these people coming down, lighting up candles, but also listening to all their stories and the reason why they were there asking for grace––so all their difficulties. And also she runs a pizzeria! And then she fills them with, she feeds them with great pizza as well.(…) I see this story as a form, big form of resistance, no? Against one of the biggest institution of the world!

Lena and I (Mayis), we are artists and together and we are also Radical Roots––which is the the collaboration that we do together. We go to AZCs, the refugee centers in the Netherlands, and we bring food and storytelling as means of community building. And the AZC refugee centers, they are of course, by their nature, spots where people are put in a position of 'a population to be managed'. And what we hope to do is to already be present and say “you're already welcome; you're already here, and you have a right to be here”. And this is the project that we do and we wanted to have a new installment of it, so we were in contact with the coordinator of the NGO that we work with to discuss what we can do together. But at the same time, what is happening is that they're going to celebrate their 25th year (of operation) and they want to create a publication for it. So the budget is now to be allocated to another project where they can make portraits of the residents of the AZCs so they can use it in the publication. So now, that left us with some questions of: are we going to then form Radical Roots into a version of offering them also portraits to it (the publication), and thinking about what is a portrait? How can we approach this with our collaborators? Or, do we find other collaborators that are more fitting to what we do together with food and storytelling? And then, of course, there were also the questions of portrait making––of people who lived there, of the immigrants, the children. So we were questioning about the ethics and the consent aspects of all of that as well. So, that is a moment of decision making that we are in––to see how we approach this moment that emerged. And then, the dilemma is: how much are we going to shape our project into something that also fulfils the desire or the needs of the NGO for their own agenda or visibility or whatever that publication has to do. And how much, or what kind of stance do we take here? So it's us, our collaborators, the NGO Coordinator, the NGO, and these different agendas and ideas about what we do together.

So, in my work so far, I found that it's pretty okay to talk basically about anything in the Dutch institutional settings… until the point where you come to the money, right? When you start touching the money. Like the toes are really long, and anger starts rising. And this is how I came actually to like talking about money. And I'm known (to be) that guy that talks about money all the time––also having to do with some work I've done, but that's not really important. Now, in any case, one thing I'm really angry about is the plutocratic takeover of Dutch institutions that's currently going on, and it's happening in (the) arts very clearly. We have a new museum being built at the Zuidas, of which the director is a former director of the Stedelijk Museum who was fired because she had conflict of interest––having her own company, making 400,000 euros in one year, based off of ‘art advice’ (services). And the money comes from a big philanthropist who, at that time, also used to be on the board of the Stedelijk Museum who made his money with flash trading. And so, together, they're the kind of like (a) power couple who's making this new institution that's already competing with the Stedelijk Museum, but also with the Appel and also with the Rijksmuseum. So, we have a very real undermining or plutocratic attack on public institutions. I think we need to defend public institutions, as well. And I've been trying to address this topic for some years (now), like with some articles––with a book publication, with a symposium. And I find it's very difficult to discuss the culture of ‘giving’ and the power that the rich have over what kind of culture we get to see, or make. Because people feel like, ‘okay, it's a gift, you have to be grateful, or what other money do we have? or, it's just very 'technical’. People don't wanna go into what is the source of this money, and like, how can I navigate that? So then, I arrive at the scene: which is happening in Venice, in a social center, at a Congress that I was at––I'm wearing a t-shirt today––it was the Art-Not-Genocide-Alliance Congress. It was a gathering of PIP international comrades who want to shut down the Israeli Pavilion for good. And there was a Congress, and there was one presentation from someone who was calling in from Palestine, representing the Owneh Initiative, which is an informal kind of organization network of about 25 Palestinian cultural organizations that are organizing against toxic philanthropy. And they have this really beautiful tactic, which they call the Common Pot, or I would say it's like a gift against philanthropy. So for instance, if the Goethe-Institut is funding a residency for artists in Gaza––this is by the way, not hypothetical, this is actually happening––you as an artist, like it's really hard to say ‘I'm gonna refuse the money and not pay my rent’. But what they do is, they say, ‘if you refuse the toxic philanthropy, come to us! We're gonna take, give you the money instead. Maybe not the same amount of money, but we have something to offer.’ So, we grab back the ‘culture’ of giving, and define what is our culture of giving. And I found this is so very powerful. And of course, Palestine is the prism through which all of the social justice struggles become way sharper these days. But, we can very easily relate this also to the plutocratic takeover in Netherlands, as well. And, I think we can learn and and build this purchase of solidarity.

So I was thinking of an event that happened with the first squat that we squatted (as part of) Mokum Kraakt. This was a squat during COVID on the Marnixstraat, in a big hotel. And the day––it was actually my birthday, we had a huge film screening––it was really nice. We were there for three months, or no, no sorry! Six weeks! It felt like three months––six weeks. And it was my birthday, so a lot of friends of mine were there, it was really great and we were watching a film, and then someone knocked on the door and then we opened up and it were cops. And then they told us, you have to leave in 72 hours because this place is not fire safe--it's a hazard. They (the police) basically told us that this was gonna be a speed eviction, so we're gonna evict within 72 hours because it's dangerous for people to be inside here. And then, yeah, obviously we were overwhelmed by this news. I was actually not at the door, but I was in the space, a bit confused with what was going on. And then they closed, or we closed the door, and there was not much discussion. The only thing we were thinking like, how do we, what do you mean? Like, how do you know, because you were not in here. And then we discovered that someone snitched (on) us because this was someone that said (he was) working for the municipality, but said he was in solidarity and then he checked the floors and then he said he could help us with fire safety, but he snitched on us and he said that the place is unsafe. So they had all this knowledge and that was their call, to evict us. I think this, of course, this was like the start of a huge story, but I think this is maybe for the reenactment, I'm thinking like, how could we can discuss this later. […] So maybe it's interesting for the story that is just, they give you this news, obviously they are an authority that can just say “this is gonna happen”, and they close the door, or we close the door. They're gone and that's it. And they leave you with 72 hours. So it's also not next day or two days, it's between now and 72 hours, which is also stressful. Yeah, and then we went inside to discuss how we should continue and do this. I think that's for now the story. I think that's a good (place to stop). I guess maybe during the discussion we could decide to extend timeline, but I wanted to keep it feasible. So I think these doors is a good one (a good place to stop). The doors closed. End of the story.

I want to reflect on an interview I did with Yazan Khalili, who is an artist, architect, and cultural activist living in and out of Palestine. He talked about the extremely neoliberalist economy of cultural funding there, and explained to me how neoliberalism uses the crisis as a tool for power. He said “In Palestine, we see that money has become a tool of domination and control through the structures of funding that are in place. In this sense, Palestine is an extreme case of how financial funding affects political agendas and ideologies.” Later he continues “during the Arab Spring, Palestine dropped from the global consciousness as an emergency. Its state of crisis was not sufficient anymore in comparison to other Arab countries. Of course, right now Palestine is the crisis. This shows how extreme the crisis needs to be to receive funding.” We were talking about funding for NGOs in the context of social unrest or even the current genocide as well as cultural funding throughout the interview, and even though these might seem very different, he pointed out that what connects them is this need to always be the most the most urgently in need of funding to receive money. You are always competing with others that also are trying to prove that they need the money most urgently. The neoliberal economy plays us out against each other to determine who can be the best advocate for their own misery. Importantly, he reflected on how “The crisis is treated as an event, rather than a persistent reality that we live among. This brings with it a particular kind of money and a particular kind of economic power dynamic that is always connected to the crisis as an event and dissolves as soon as another crisis takes centre stage. Funding that is made available in the crisis economy is never able to target the underlying reality of the persisting crisis, because to work on that level, requires radical rethinking.” So even though this funding seems to address the crisis, it never does so in a way that would prevent a similar crisis in the future. He continues, “Every time these extreme situations erupt, they break your backbone, they make you unable to think beyond the present because all your efforts are directed at the need to survive. But we also need to work at a slower pace to figure out what kind of future we want. What do we want society to look like in the future? This process of reimagining takes slow, organic, and social practices, connections, and engagements beyond the crisis as an event. We need to question fundamental assumptions about society, the economy, and social relations in order to build something truly different and more resilient.” Even when the crisis as an event has dissipated, we must remember that the crisis as an ongoing lived reality persists. We need tools and practices, ways of relating and organising, stories that make sense of where we want to go, that help us move beyond the event and work at a deeper level. The crisis as an event demands our attention, there is no way around that, but imagining and practicing different worlds together with others is essential as well.