The Black Lady Protest - Kathy Randels

Saturday, 5 June 1999

I was awakened at 7am on March 24 in Wellington, New Zealand by Miranda, Alister's wife. Miranda and Alister are British. Alister is my fellow company member in Dah Teatar, a Belgrade-based theater company. Miranda had been told to leave Belgrade a week before by the police, because we hadn't recorded her presence in the country at her local police station within the first 24 hours of her stay there, as Yugoslav law requires. So she left for England on March 17, the day we left for New Zealand. We worried Alister might not make the plane, the long good-bye of lovers long separated, together a short while, and separted for who knows how long again. At 7am on March 24th, Miranda said, "Is Alister there?" and I said, "No, Miranda, is that you?" "Yes. Kathy?" "Yes." "They've started bombing Belgrade."

It was difficult to write that first paragraph, because there are so many important details that lead to The Black Lady Protest. Editing has always been my greatest weakness as an artist. I could take you around the world. We could go to China with Maja, England with Vladan and Alister, Belgrade with Dijana and Sanja or Denmark with Jadranka and Antonella. All of these stories are important details relating to my story. But we must go straight to Washington D.C. as I determined from the moment I hung up the phone with Miranda.

I am a U.S. citizen. I have never been more ashamed of this fact than the last two months. The illegal weapons testing that is being disguised and sold as a defense of human rights in Kosovo is not the greatest crime of the U.S. Government in this century, it is merely the latest.

While in New Zealand, the first two weeks of NATO's bombing campaign (we still have not declared war, something U.S.Congress must do after 60 days of fighting.) I decided that I must go to Washington D.C. as soon as possible. I became obsessed with this idea. I was certain that it would make some difference. I was one of few Americans in New Zealand, one of a smaller minority of Americans who had just spent the last six months in the country that is currently being bombed. I could make a difference. I could stop the U.S. government. I could change the course of history.

I spoke to the women at the Magdalena Aotearoa Festival a few days after the bombing began. I spoke of wanting to shake the world's leaders with an action or a cry from the Southern Hemisphere that could not be ignored. Everybody agreed, but we could not devise such a cry. Sanja and I discussed a hunger strike. After 72 days we would surely be dead by now, even Jesus didn't last that long. But I liked the idea of doing something that would be a test or a trial for the body. Something extreme. Something that my leaders could not miss. I thought and planned on the plane ride across the Pacific Ocean. I decided I would perform my part The Black Lady in The Helen Keller Case, for 24 hours in front of the White House. In Dah we are all responsible for carrying parts of the set with us. I had my portion with me and brought it to D.C. I had a friend, an angel from New Orleans, Elana Stanger, a jewish woman who just completed her masters in conflict resolution. She introduced me to David Wortham, an African American veteran of the Gulf War who now conducts workshops on conflict resolution that deal specifically with race in the U.S. He was another angel.

Elana lead us in our first Shabat dinner Friday night, and David agreed to pick me up at 7am Saturday morning and take me with my props to the White House. At 8 we started setting up the space. I met some other protesters, one, a woman named Connie who has sat in front of the White House since 1981, calling for nuclear disarmament. She has not succeeded yet, but she has not stopped trying. I borrowed a broom from one of her helpers and began sweeping my performance space: between the two yellow lines on the street directly in front of the White House. The street was between the White House and Lafayette Square Park. The next people I met after the fellow protesters were the park police. They informed me of the three police groups I might encounter in this little spot on earth: the secret service rule the street curb to the White House itself (saw several up on the roof, checking me out); the Washington D.C. police rule the actual street (though blocked off from automobile traffic, it is a city street); and the park police rule all that takes place in the park itself. They said I shouldn't set up on the sidewalk in front of the White House because I had to constantly keep moving and I could not have a structure-one of my props is a 3 foot by 3 foot house. They said I shouldn't have any problem doing it in the street, the D.C. police never come down here, they've got too much other crime to handle in the city, and they are rarely called out to this area unless a protest gets out of hand. Since I was just one person they figured I wouldn't have any trouble. Besides, guys play roller blade hockey here all the time. But they did make sure to say that if the D.C. police did come, I would have to do as they say or face arrest.

So I cleaned and prepared my space then began my warm-up. My physical and vocal warm-up drew a lot of attention from the constant stream of White House visitors. The plethora of junior and senior high school groups did not hide the fact that they thought I was crazy. At about 10:30am, I began putting on my make up when two police officers approached me. They were not the first two I had spoken with. This was the city police. They kindly asked me to leave. They said I could not perform there, though I was not blocking traffic. I did not go to Washington to get arrested, I went there to perform, so I complied and began moving my set and signs over to the park. The park police, the original two, apologized. They said somebody must have called and complained, because the city police rarely show up.

They figured the secret service had made the call. My position was a little too prominent. But the park police were intrigued by what I was doing. They wanted me to continue.

So I moved to the park, a less prominent position, but still in the path of the majority of the White House visitors. I spent 11am to 3am in that little square. I went to use the bathroom at the McDonald's once--another tip from the other protesters. I didn't speak to many of my audience members. I was photographed and videotaped by several, but never saw my image in any press. My director, currently and then in Belgrade, emailed a picture of The Black Lady in front of the White House that someone had emailed her. In between performances, I did speak to some people. The first one I spoke with was a man in his late 30's with his 5-year-old son. He was a sweet, beautiful boy. His father, who had a tape recorder, asked if I would answer his son's questions on tape. I said yes. The little boy asked me what I was doing. I explained that I was very upset at what our government was doing by bombing Yugoslavia and that I was performing to show my opposition publicly. His father asked what we should be doing instead of bombing. I said I didn't know. I said we needed to use words instead of bombs though. We need to find a way to solve our problems without using violence. Some people in the country, like Elana and David, are studying conflict resolution. I said we needed young boys like him to grow up and help us find answers to these difficult questions because the adults in the world today are failing us miserably. I looked down at something in the little boy's hand. It was a stick. I had outlined the performance space with shells and driftwood from Paekakiriki Aotearoa--the country I had been in when I last saw Dah Teatar. I asked the little boy if he had stolen it from me. He looked very shy and ashamed. I told him I wanted him to keep it, to remember me and this day, and his first visit to the White House.

But he needed to know where it was from and why it was laying on the street in front of the President's house on April 17, 1999. The boy thanked me as did his father, and they walked away.

I did not perform for 24 hours as planned. At 3am the weather was freezing and my body stopped. I felt I failed on many levels and succeeded on just a few. The nature of the performance changes depending on the size of the audience. It is more difficult to muster the energy to perform when no human eyes are watching. A fellow actor from the U.S. once shared with me that when seats in a theater are empty he fills them with the dead or people from his past who he would like to be witnessing him now-some kind of ghost dance. I did that some. My angel, Elana asked me if I thought of my performance as a prayer. I had to confess that I didn't. I was still too filled with rage to have such positive intentions. But there were moments that I discovered, such as a moment when I sing towards the ground usually in a circle with Vladan and Sanja. In my mind, I was singing into the ground of Kosovo, that has received so much blood over the centuries. As I performed several times, it became different spots around the earth, especially the U.S.A. which has made itself rich by human blood spilt on this land and places all over earth. The playing space was set up so that I faced the White House. At the end of each performance, I looked at the American flag, waving, well lit, atop the White House. I felt many indescribable things while looking at that flag-but mostly I felt small, ineffective and defeated.

I was glad to have been a part of hundreds of young people's first impression of the White House. I was also glad that the numerous international visitors saw a U.S. citizen protesting the actions of its government. Since returning to New Orleans, I have performed The Black Lady Protest every Wednesday from 12pm-3pm in front of the federal court house. I chose Wednesdays because that is when women in black stood in Belgrade while I was there. I always begin by reading a new email from one of my friends involved in the conflict. The audience is much smaller than the D.C. audience. It is a weekday and people are rushing to lunch or trying to make some deadline. They don't stop to watch as they did in D.C. New Orleans is a town where people party and take it easy. Protests are rare and not well attended. I usually have 2-5 friends, women dressed in black helping me, passing out flyers and engaging passers by in dialogue about the war. My performance caused a minor traffic accident. Some people walk by and yell angrily, "We should be bombing" or "What about the Albanians?" Some people pause and say "Thank you" or "Yeah you right, I'll sign that petition." At the end of each Wednesday, I say to my friends and the strangers, "I hope that you don't see me here next week."

From: Kathy Randels

Return to PMA's Alert: Stop NATO bombing, Condemn NZ government support for the airstrikes!

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