Niet voor een gat te vangen. Ooit een medisch rapport gezien dat deugde? Ook dat van dd promovenda niet.
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Vandaag een uitstekende nieuwe kracht. Zeer zelfredzaam, maar af en toen moet ik toch iets uitleggen en dat is ook te zwaar daar lig ik van bij te komen, maar ik mag mijn handen dichtknijpen.
Ik zag nu pas de aankondiging en reacties op the Worldpressphoto 2019 in de Nieuwe Kerk Amsterdam
Staat ook in Krantenkop of Doofpot en van Kameleon tot Activist.
Worldpressphoto, but I am not a professional photographer!
THE STORY BEHIND MY PHOTO’s
I am a visual artist, a writer and a poet. But the scope of my activities is wider:
I have made photographs and short films – mainly of my own work -, I am a political activist always active in the field of Human Rights.
But besides being an artist, I am a very ill woman, with a damaged nervous system, probably caused by MD’s errors in the past. Because of a hidden holocaust, I developed very heavy fears. Wrong diagnosis: Phobia. When I was Sixteen I was hospitalized. The treatment was torturous and I got wrong medication that poisoned me. I almost died from it when I was seventeen. Nowadays I can say, I regret it didn’t happened.
The pictures I am entering I’ve made shortly after having been questioned, by a MD who asked me to do things which were far beyond my capacities, as an answer to my request for euthanasia. Torture again, this time in my own house.
Because of my psychiatric past, I was obliged to have a series of conversations with psychiatrists. But I couldn’t. There were two reasons why the psychiatrists were not an option, 1. I physically have no power to speak and the subject was an overemotional issue, which would make me sicker than ever. 2. It felt like an interrogation or a forced hospitalization, which I resented.
Although I need help it never came from psychiatrists. Just from nice human beings. I have one very good friend who happens to be a retired psychiatrist, and a good one. But with him too, no professional approach worked out. He visits me regularly, we discuss daily issues. we both lived in Amsterdam and we walked togheter in our minds to The Zoo and other places.The more ill I was the attention was shifted.
So instead of seeing the psychiatrists I wrote letters explaining my situation. “Almost 6 years bedridden, complete deaf on one ear, the other deteriorating, the same with one eye and the other damaged, almost like Helen Keller. I can’t cut my meat. Holding a glass is very difficult. I should be really going out of my mind if I wasn’t scared. Yet my brains are still working excellently”.
These letters didn’t convince the authorities, in spite of the fact that several doctors had stated that convalescence from my disabilities was out of the question.
My GP suggested that I could go to Switserland where the rules about euthanasia are different, but I am not able to travel. Would I be in a condition that I could, I would not make the request.
This is the context of these photos. I regret there is no category healthcare In Worldpressphoto, where they could form a statement. I never have wanted to fight only my own battle. Help for me is coming too late, but if my contribution is working out for others than a lifetime of suffering makes some sense.
I have always been a hard – probably too hard – working person, at first forced to do so it has become a habit, a method of surviving.
A few years ago when I read in a magazin that an MD wanted to write a PhD on the subject of suffering I volunteered. I wanted to tell my story, and I wanted to participate in breaking the taboo about euthanasia and the shame related to it. But the rules were: the statements had to be anonymous. So in my opinion the taboo was maintained. We agreed to circumvent this problem, by adding a – non-anonymous – poem of mine refering to the page with the texts about my disease. The book is called ‘When Suffering becomes unbearable’.
In December 2018 I published the story of my struggle my self with the photo’s in a book called: ‘HEADLINE or COVER-UP I expect cover-up’.
Summing up: My whole life has been a nightmare asleep – I sleep hardly sleep at all -, but also awake. Even I, who live this life, could hardly imagine how heavy it whould be on my isle of fear, illnesses and loneliness. Severely neglected in a house of my own I feel like a hobo. A hermit with WiFi.
If hell had an emergency exit it wasn’t one! Ill singles are discriminated.
And again the so-called healthcare is my worst enemy.
© Manja Croiset
It’s better to die young than to suffer a long time.
Manja Croiset (born 5 July 1946, in Amsterdam) is a Dutch poet, writer and recitation artist. Croiset is a second generation Shoah victim, the daughter of Shoah survivors, and youngest of three daughters. The family members of her mother, Paula Kool (March 11, 1918 – May 11, 2012), were murdered in The Holocaust. Her father, Odo Croiset (April 24, 1915 – November 18, 2011), son of Hijman Croiset, survived several Nazi concentration camps because of illegal printing practices including printing of Het Parool. After elementary school Manja attended Barlaeus, but was admitted into a psychiatric hospital on an early age. She worked at the Leidsch Dagblad, a Dutch newspaper, for nine years. Croiset started her career later in life, but wrote numerous books in a short period. Her work has some philosophical aspect. She also creates ‘Manjaphorisms and other puns. The reoccurring subject lines in her books are about being a second generation Shoah victim and her life in the many different psychiatric institutions. In 2009 she received the Elikser award and certificate from her publisher. This was the first time the prize was awarded, and would be rewarded every year from then on. Manja Used to be an activist as well, against all kinds of discrimination. Designs clothing photographer mainly of her own work included ON TRANSPORT, her works is also in Yad Vashem. Several books and speeches.
Met dank aan Gwendolyn Rammeloo voor het idee en Frank Diamand, toen ik niet meer kon.
Manja Croiset activist
Tot ik er dood bij neerval en hopelijk neemt dan een ander het stokje over.
Mijn naam is PIJN.