Mon pays, c’est pas un pays, c’est un hiver. That’s what.

That’s the title of a recent post at Recomposition. I like it a lot. I don’t want to forget, so I type this thought up – the phrase takes on multiple meanings. My country isn’t a country, it’s a winter. It’s a nationalist slogan, it’s a slogan about national oppression and oppressive nationality. It speaks of course to the actual, awful winter, and speaks about how immigrants give up real homes and things they miss. It also speaks to the old marxist slogan about how the proletariat has no country – because the working class ultimately shares a grievance and one which is global and which can only truly be solved by a universal emancipatory project, ie communism; that is the class share no country, but a social condition, and one which will pass. A winter. And at the end, the personal circumstances are wintery as is how they fit (or don’t) into the dominant systems and outlooks. And the loss of the nationalist right wing political party is, for them, wintery. There’s an element here of taking words and phrases and doing things with them, them having the ability to express things beyond or against what their initial speakers meant or wanted to mean. And of course this is far from the best thing about the piece, just wanted to jot down these thoughts.

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