Archive for the ‘Obituary’ Category
“”An activist I believe has to be one who moves away from narrow single issue focus and links up with other people in a larger struggle. Th challenge to poor people, working people, immigrant people, people of color, the challenge against youth, the challenge against gays and lesbians, is not a single issue any more but it’s part of a cosmic challenge.” -Don White
Thousands of people came to pay respect and celebrate the life of Los Angeles activist, Don White. Don was very supportive of Cafe Intifada along with all of the causes and organizations that he supported and worked with.
We will miss him very much.
Here are a few images from the gathering.
(All images are the exclusive property of Cafe Intifada and Emma Rosenthal. For information about printing, publishing or circulating images, please email firstname.lastname@example.org.© 2008 emma rosenthal all rights reserved.)
There are dead who light up the night
and the dead who come at dawn
to drink your tea
as peaceful as on the day your
guns mowed them down.
O you who are guests in this place,
leave a few chairs empty
for your hosts to read out
the conditions for peace
in a treaty with the dead.
-Mahmoud Darwish, from Speech of the Red Indian
* Palestine Aid Society Invites you to a Celebration of the Life and Works
of Palestinian Poet and Hero Mahmoud Darwish
1941 – 2008
*Saturday, August 30, 2:00 p.m.
*Glendale Public Library Auditorium
222 E. Harvard St., Glendale, CA — 2nd Floor*
*Violin Performance Dr. Nabil Azzam will premier his new composition*
* “Elegy for Mahmoud Darwish”
* Historian Dr. Mahmood Ibrahim, Cal Poly Pomona*
*Professor Gabriel Piterberg, UCLA*
*Professor Hamoud Salhi, CSUD*
*Professor Bice Harris, Occidental College*
*Rev. Darrel Meyers*
*Donald Bustany of KPFK’s “Middle East In Focus”*
*and many more*
*Poetry Readings by:*
*Egyptian-American actor/activist Nasser Faris*
* Hip-Hop stars Nizar (“Ragtop”) Wattad*
* and Omar (“Offendum”) Chakaki*
**Program in English
The Arab Community in Southern Californi invites you to a community-wide event;
commemorating Mahmoud Darwish as a poetic
treasure to Palestine and the Arab World.
His award winning poetry exemplifies perfectly
his unique ability to not only articulate the
people’s struggle for justice and liberation,
but also contribute to it through his
Mahmoud Darwish published his first book of
poetry at the age of 19. Although he was
widely recognized as Palestine’s national
poet, his work masterfully covers other topics such as love and romance. His work was internationally recognized and celebrated with translations in over 20 languages.
His life, work and legacy stand as a shining example to poets and scholars everywhere of how to contribute, while reflecting on a people, a nation, a culture, a society and it’s struggle for justice and liberation.
“Darwish is the Essential Breath of the Palestinian people, the eloquent witness of exile and belonging….”
Program includes: Comments from family and friends of Mahmoud Darwish from El Birweh, recitals of Darwish’ poetry; and a eulogy to be delivered by renowned Iraqi poet and friend of Mahmoud Darwish, Lamee’a Abbas Amara
When: Sunday, August 31, 2008 – 4 PM
Place: HOLIDAY INN SELECT
14299 Firestone Boulevard
La Mirada, CA 90638
Compañero Don White
Sunday, August 10th
6:00 PM to 9:00 PM
Immanuel Presbyterian Church
3300 Wilshire Blvd., Los Angeles 90010
(Corner of Berendo Street, 2 blocks west of Vermont Avenue)
SPEAKERS and MUSICIANS WILL INCLUDE:
Dennis White, Sonali Kolhatkar, Blase & Theresa Bonpane, Margaret Prescod, Jim Lafferty,
Mimi Kennedy, Maria Armoudian, Carlos Escorcia, Angela Sanbrano, Ross Altman,
Aris Anagnos, Carlos Jiménez, Francisco Martinez, Cole Miller, Jose-Luis Orozco,
Frank Dorrel, Sabina Virgo, Dennis Davis, Berny Moto, Mario Avila & others.
A Film about Don in His Own Words ~
By Peter Dudar & Sally Marr
PARKING: Available across the street at the United Teachers Los Angeles Union Hall
PUBLIC TRANSIT: Vermont & Wilshire Red Line Stop
ORGANIZED BY: El Comité de Companeros de Don ‘Blanco’
Beloved by Everyone in the Peace & Justice Community of Los Angeles ~
April 18th, 1937 ~ June 19th, 2008
More Information Call: 310-838-8131
Don White Film Tribute
Email: email@example.com – Phone: (323) 650-8166
Please make checks payable to:
Donations over $100 can be tax deductible. Write check to: IDA (Int. Documentary Assoc.)
An Evening to Celebrate the Life of Our
SUNDAY, AUGUST 10th ~ 6:00 PM
Immanuel Presbyterian Church
(@Berendo Street, 2 blocks west of Vermont Ave.)
MC’s Will Be
PUBLIC TRANSIT: Vermont & Wilshire Red Line Stop
ORGANIZIED BY: El Comité de Companeros de Don ‘Blanco’
Posted in Anatomy of a Blacklisting, Building Community, Disability Rights, Education, Human Rights, Indigenous Rights, Israeli Apartheid, Obituary, Palestine, The Americas, U.S. empire, UTLA, Zionist Campaign Against Free Speech on June 23, 2008| 1 Comment »
¡Don White Presenté!
We were shocked and saddened to hear of the death of Don White, revolutionary dreamer and activist. He seemed imortal. What a hole he has left in the Los Angeles Peace and Justice movement. Don was a tireless activist and advocate, an internationalist who understood the connections between racism, imperialism, sexism, and militarism. He was courageous, fearless, and willing to take on all just cause, regardless of the controversy.
So many people love Don, who was admired and adored for his integrity, passion and grace. So often those who are so popular gain favor through people pleasing and "chosing one's battles." Not Don. He was unwavering in his understanding of solidarity and alliance, speaking truth to power regardless of who might not approve. His was a rare grace.
Personally, we are forever in his debt for defending activists who support Palestinian human rights, and Cafe Intifada when we came under attack from the Zionist establishment in collusion with some of the more "progessive" members of United Teachers' Los Angeles, of which he was a charter member. Don's most recent work has been in the most controversial area of boycott, sanctions and divestiture of Israeli Apartheid, an issue many activists have shied away from, and others have been destroyed over. (But not Don!)
He also became an ally in the struggle for disability rights, setting a policy of only allowing meetings on the first floor of the Peace Center, so that all activists could be included in all events.
Don's tireless work on behalf of CISPES is his most powerful legacy; an organization (and whose activists) were subject to death threats from death squads, and surveilance by the FBI and the ADL (liberal dollars at work!)
Don was always available, in solidarity, in support. He was the pitch guy at almost every fundraiser or event. When Don White got to the podium, checkbooks came out.
Today is the last day of the KPFK fund drive. Sherna Berger Gluck of Radio Intifada (no relation to Cafe Intifada) suggests making a donation in Don's name.
We will. We hope you will too!
The WE Project
The Los Angeles Palestine Labor Solidarity Committee
Alfred M. Loeb, Presente
December, 10 1926 – October 25, 2006
In lieu of flowers, the family is asking that donations be made to Sojourner House in Rochester N.Y.
My father died this morning. He had been on a respirator for several days and decided to be taken off the machine. He and I had a complicated relationship and hadn’t spoken for several years. But grief knows it’s own timeline and even the profoundest of separations are widened by death.
Alfred Morton Loeb, my father; was a civil rights activist, a computer scientist, a skier who was involved in alpine sky rescue and back country ski camping into his seventies, an avid cyclist (until a year and a half ago when, at the age of 78, on a 30 mile bike ride, he hit a car that was going through a stop sign.) He was an amazing photographer, whose work has yet to be catalogued and given its proper due. He could fix anything and everything. He loved classical music but didn’t understand poetry and hated rock and roll.
He is survived by: his wife of 57 years, my mother and biochemist Marilyn Rosenthal Loeb, my sister, Judith Whitaker and her two children: Caleb and Maya, my brother, Andrew Loeb, my son, Leon and me.
Despite the chasm between my father and me: the bridges burned, the broken spirits, the heartbreaks on both sides of the divide; he gave me who I was. So much of what we receive in life is monetary and material. When I was five years old He bestowed upon me the most precious of endowments, the most valuable of inheritances: knowledge of my purpose in life. There are deciding moments in all purpose driven lives. Here is the telling of that moment in mine when my course was determined for me; when I knew what I would do with my time on this rock.
My Father’s Yellow Feet
By Emma Rosenthal
The year I was conceived, the FBI took out a freshly pressed manila file, put my last name on the file tab, and waited for my birth to fill in the rest of the information.
My father was just another Jewish activist so there was little doubt that this child; his first born, who would be raised in red swaddling cloths, on picket lines, boycotts and demonstrations; would need to be monitored. That year, my father, a staunch supporter of gun control, a man who despised gun ownership, placed a loaded shot gun beneath my parents’ bed because of threats on his life, on our lives, because of work he was doing in fair housing. In that bed, over that loaded gun, I gestated for nine months.
I was five when he went to Selma to march to Montgomery with Dr. King. By court order only 200 marchers would be allowed to travel the full distance to be met by a larger rally in Montgomery, if and when they finally arrived. I was unaware of the danger and was only filled in awe. Jewish freedom riders did not always arrive home safely. My daddy was going to march for freedom. Freedom; a word that would echo through my home for many years.
This was the second march. The first one ended in a bloody riot when the police attacked the marchers and they were forced to turn back. My father was gone for the longest time but all I really remember were the calloused deformities he had when he came home. His feet recovered from that journey but he still bears hard yellow reminders of that long march. I remember him resting on his bed after he had returned. I looked at those bruised, yellowed feet and said with all the determination my five year old spirit could muster; “The next freedom march you go on Daddy, I’m going with you.”
The next march I remember was a memorial service in Philadelphia, as with other cities all over the world. Someone had shot Dr. King. I remember standing in the line of humanity, I remember the air on my skin, I remember the green, green lawn of the arboretum, I remember the somber spirit of the crowd, I remember the voices echoing through microphones and speakers. I remember being nine years old, and somebody had shot Dr. King.
A year later my father made plans to take a bus to Washington D.C. to march against the war. These were safer times to march, but the sting of the fifties, the threats against his life, the assassination of the Rosenbergs, the McCarthy witch hunts, Cheney, Shverner and Goodman, four little girls, Malcolm, Evers, King and many others, still were fresh in his mind. He would not take me. It wasn’t safe.
I had to go.
This was freedom and I had promised his calloused yellow feet that I would go on the next march. “If a man does not have something he is willing to die for he is not fit to live” I said as I quoted Dr. King. It was 1969. I was almost eleven years old. I’m not sure how much I understood about rice paddies, napalm and imperialism, but my father was going and I had to go with him.
I had to go.
There was no way I could let him go without me. I argued and polemicized with him for days until he finally conceded that he would take me. My mother packed us reubens for lunch and he made me wear a dress so that we would look respectable, no torn blue jeans for us. It was a green sweater and a matching skirt that just reached my knee. I remember. I remember because it was a cold day in Washington in 1969, November 15. I remember the bus and the old woman who gave me brownies to eat and the edges had been burned in the pan. I remember the rows and rows of yellow busses, I remember the button, long since lost, a white hand forming a peace sign against a black silhouette of the capital building. I remember seeing the marble buildings of the Capital and L’Enfant Plaza, with its large light bulb street lights, the Washington memorial. I remember the pro war protesters telling me to go back to Russia, a place my ancestors had lived in and died in and could never return to. I remember the smell of marijuana, the chanting and the singing, the speakers, the crowds. I really remember the cold, my stockinged legs, the cold air and no protection from it, but most of all I remember not caring that I had to get up at four in the morning, not caring that the air burned my skin, not caring that I was hungry or thirsty. I just cared that I was there, that he brought me and that I would do this again many, many times.
I am sure that my initial FBI file has swollen and perhaps fills many boxes. For years my mail has sporadically arrived opened and the clicks on the phone are reminders that very little is truly private. My name appears on hit lists and blacklists. I receive the occasional death threat. I turn away from cameras at demonstrations unless I know the photographer. And I have photographed them too. (I have my own files.) There may yet be a day of reckoning.
I am tired of police officers in uniform holding video cameras. I am tired of the cops who come right up to me and shoot my picture while I stand under a red banner. Most of all I am tired of the ones out of uniforms; the G-men and women who sit in on meetings and pretend to fight for freedom, who feign that longing in their eyes, all the while taking notes and foaming discontent within the group. I know we have made mistakes, over the years of organizing I have seen movements come and go, groups break and splinter. I only wish I new which mistakes were ours, which discord was truly part of the movement and which was caused by infiltration, government espionage and counterintelligence programming.
I wish I knew.
I march with my small child and keep my eyes on the baton yielding men with helmets on horseback. I am ready to grab up my child with the power of motherhood and run if need arises. I am afraid for him in demonstrations, I am afraid for him as he grows into a man in a society afraid of its youth but I bring him. He never had to ask. “No blood for oil” was one of his first sentences and for years he would point to the Federal building and call it “Peace now.” I carried him on the picket line of the L.A. teachers’ strike and nursed him between picket duty and cluster meetings. I carry my father with me too. He doesn’t march with me any more, not in form, but he is there in spirit and I remember his feet, his calloused feet he brought back form Alabama and the promises I made to them. I will always remember those feet.
Alfred M. Loeb, Presente: December 10, 1926 – October 25, 2006