Under oppressive conditions, love is resistance as joyousness is not permitted. Like Palestinian hostages being released, but their families told not to celebrate or be joyful; like blacks showing unity, working out in solidarity, or sharing things in prison–food, or hygiene, or shoes. Even emphasized in the visiting room, as one of my partners came to see me, their grin bright and gleamy. Dreamy blue grey eyes, as we wrapped in each other’s arms for the first time without glass between. “Brief embrace and kiss at the beginning and end of visiting!” The pigs scream. A not so gentle reminder that minus the glass, the state remains between. Never mind it, as we sit gazing into our eyes, hands locked in a tight grip. Lovely to be sitting here with you, we sing, “ceilings,” our Lizzy McAlpine track we duet. We sing the whole visit through, the pigs looked confused. “Is this love?” They wouldn’t assume. The state takes love, locks those ones love up, and throws away the key. With it, their humanity. So what’s with this purity of enjoyment? And what’s with the singing? They’re having too much fun. “Can you guys just talk to each other? Your singing is a distraction,” she says. Distracting who? And how? I’m confused. But I’m sorry, can you not interrupt my visit? You’re a distraction. Can you not pace across this visiting room? It’s distracting. Can you quit your job? ‘Cause it’s distracting. Can you tear down this prison? ‘Cause it’s distracting. Never mind that too, our love continues. So does our singing. “Can you guys quiet down?” “No,” I flatly refuse. The laughter, the joy, the love we exude. This time together we use. Singing, talking. Talking politics, Chicago shit, and rocket ships. And love. Tearing to shreds the pigs and the state within earshot of–which we know you hate. And we’ll sing our rebel songs and laugh loud the whole day long. It’s our love, it’s our joy. It’s a statement of resistance as much as fact, and pure too. So we’ll sing our rebel songs, for us to sing them loud and we’ll sing them proud, sing them long and we’ll sing them strong, ’til all the women and children are free, ’til every cage is empty, my love. ‘Cause sometimes the most radical act is to love. Recklessly and hopelessly, helplessly, irresponsibly. Throwing caution to the wind, ’cause love is scornful of cowardice. To love cautiously is a coward’s act.
‘Love knows but one master, and that is the passion that makes the heart beat faster and faster.’
Down in the Glen by Karan Casey, sung by Malik’s partner