It wasn't the death of Tom that did me in. The author did a decent job of foreshadowing that event and it would have been more surprising if it didn't happen. It had to happen. It was envisioning Chloe, standing by the table, anticipating his return, thinking about all he had missed in the children's growth and how hard she had worked to secure his freedom. The futility of her hope is what finally moved me to tears.
It was 3 o'clock in the morning and I had just finished reading Uncle Tom's Cabin. (Apparently appropriate March reading.) I've been trying to catch up on the so called classics- and this one definitely fits the bill, a statement I now feel qualified to make. Previously I had only 'heard' about it and even then the details never clearly surfaced. (And as with so many of the messages received in my youth, I have done little to examine them closely and to properly question them.) All I knew of the novel was the expression "Uncle Tom," meaning someone who accepts an oppressive system without fighting back. A sell-out.
Having now finished the story I can't really figure out how that meaning ever came to be attributed to Tom. He is the furthest example of a sell out that I can imagine. What I can grasp an inkling of is the image of his weakness. Not weakness as I define it but as others might.
The book is heavy on Christianity but even as a Muslim reader I did not find it a deterrent. For the most part, the beliefs emphasized fit with everything a believer in God can support. No real conflicts there. Obviously this is a debate past its time, and yet, timeless. I don't agree with the definitions given of what a 'Tom' is, or is not, especially Sharpton's definition:An Uncle Tom is one that in a deliberate way, seeks personal favor or acceptance at the expense of his race and at the expense of what he or she knows to be right.
I didn't see Tom accepting personal favors or doing anything at the expense of his race. In fact, in his steady way, he spread belief and hope and changed some hardened hearts. He seemed to benefit very little personally from his chosen path. In fact, he stuck to his personal morals to such a degree that he was murdered for them. Of course, I'm probably missing something. I suppose it has to do with which lens the reader is using and a host of other background schema that the individual reader brings.
Perhaps surprisingly, as a white woman, I am not completely removed the ability to empathize with Tom's situation. It is more about power and control and the frustration that comes from having it lorded over you. It's living everyday with the frustration of not being able to change one's circumstances and being regarded as not valid- invalid- in the face of the law. It's facing illogical reason and having no recourse. Every day. Until you are nearly driven mad with the thought of how your life is not really your own, and the simplistic ease that someone else can come along and wipe out everything- more importantly, everyone- you held dear.
I know something about all of those things. The headlines of the current days show that plenty of people out there do. Even this white male living in Indonesia. Which is not to detract from the (still) very real issue of race in America but just to point out the underlying global relevance of deeper themes. Hence, the classic label.
While reading, I kept in mind the year of publication which made the whole experience even more astounding. The stuff with which wars are made, I suppose. Wars can change laws but they don't necessarily reach in and change ideals, as evidenced by the number of recent incidents.
This has been a book that's stayed with me - one that, despite my initial reluctance to read, has found me wanting to return and continue the story, long after I've finished turning the pages. Tom's individual story may be over but the collective realities continue to live on. My journey back in time has only brought me forward to the main idea found in this video- one a friend sent to me which sends a message that seems to keep popping up for me lately. I'm not crazy about many of the elements of the clip, the original text is here and other versions abound- but I can get behind the big idea. All this pain and suffering we keep inflicting on each other isn't going to stop until we learn that whatever we do unto others we are actually doing unto ourselves. Simple and yet so hard to achieve.
As I do my own walking and wondering and trying to survive, I'm led to think of other stereotypes that maybe don't deserve to be or that have somehow gotten the wrong rap but following that line of thinking is likely to bring me too far from where I've begun. So I'll close this one out just by saying I'm still thinking of Tom- not the sell out Tom, not the martyr Tom but the patient, strong, firm believing Tom who always knew he was never alone and never forgotten.
Showing posts with label women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label women. Show all posts
12.3.15
9.5.14
Perils of pregnancy
I hate being a woman. My last, big, terrible secret. I have always hated it. Even way back in elementary school, I knew the female gender was getting the raw end of the deal. Every time. I did not grow up with any strong female role models- or any role models at all for that matter- and so had nothing to contradict my instincts.
When puberty arrived, it only seemed to confirm what I already knew. Inconvenient, embarrassing and expensive. Those 3 words pretty much summed up my experience of "becoming a woman." In my late teens, I remember finding myself in a convenience store in the wee morning hours with a friend. She was picking up some supplies for her friend and we both remarked about the unfairness of it all. Guys didn't have this monthly expense to worry about. We thought maybe the government should even be responsible for picking up the tab. After all, it wasn't our fault we were women.
While that argument seems a little, well, juvenile now, turns out that accessing and affording sanitary pads is a very real crisis for many women in the world. This amazing man made it his own personal quest to find a sanitary solution for his wife and women all over his country, allowing them to continue to provide for their families, gather the daily water from rivers and community wells and miss less days of school. (The Indian government has announced it would hand out pads for the poorest women and girls- guess our idea wasn't so far from reality after all, 25 years later and an ocean away.)
Being a woman- and hating it- has, of course, led to many conflicting emotions throughout my life. I've often admired groups of women friends- how supportive, nurturing and understanding they seem. So strong together. But I have never been a part of a strong circle of women and so I can only watch from a distance and imagine how it is they are together. I have often wondered if I am the only one to hate being trapped in this form. They seem so confident and comfortable, downright smug at times.
Over the years, I've tried to get behind women causes and believe in the power of women. I've tried to tell myself that while being a man appears easier, it doesn't necessarily mean it would be more satisfying. Sometimes the hard thing is the worthwhile thing. Maybe this struggle through womanhood would turn out not to be so bad after all?
It actually appeared there might be some truth to that logic when I became pregnant with my first child. Oh the wonders. The glow. The joy of harboring life within and feeling it grow. I was completely transformed with the birth of my first son. I understood the power of womanhood and the grace of motherhood. Every indignity I had suffered definitely seemed worthwhile for the experience of this prize at the end.
Except it's not really the end. Motherhood is only the beginning. And while there are a billion blogs out there toting the newness and niceness of pregnancy and birth, there are just as many who get down to the real truth about toddlerhood and adolescence. Far too often, the initial glow of new mommies turns into the haggard despair of the infamous juggler- maid, chef, CEO, teacher, nurse, psychologist, chauffeur- and that's just in the "off" hours. So, back to feeling like being a woman isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Well, that might be part of the problem. It is all it's cracked up to be- it just isn't "cracked up" very much. Facts are, women have a bad wrap all over the world. It might be slowly changing in some parts, certain domains, but overall, we women still have to fight to be considered in the realm of men. We have to fight to have our stories told. (I'm trying hard not go off on a tangent here and explode with furious rebellion about all the ways women are put down, let down and kept down. Sticking to this one story....)
With age, I have learned to embrace my gender more and more. I still have occasional (ok, perhaps frequent is a more accurate description) days of bitterness over feeling that men have an unfairly and infinitely easier path to travel, but I spend more time learning to accept myself and my gender with all of its strengths and weaknesses. At 40 and pregnant with a much desired child, I thought perhaps I had conquered that nasty little secret once and for all. I can handle being a woman. And I might even admit to liking it at times.
There are not many other conditions in which people feel so free to invite themselves into your life as pregnancy. Strangers and acquaintances suddenly feel inclined to make comments, offer advice, good wishes or evil eyes, make judgements, reach out to rub baby bumps, and ask any sort of personal questions. It becomes something of a battle field trying to navigate your way through each day (and of course, with raging hormones completely unbalanced and out of control, the battle is usually lost long before it's even begun.)
With 4 months to go, I'm now in the middle of my 3rd major battle. Our upcoming move will hopefully deter any future conflicts. I have every intention of heading into labor and delivery conflict free. My first major battle involved the job hunting.Trying to impress a future employer while simultaneously letting them know you'll need a bit of time off right at the beginning of the contract is a risky move. Virtually impossible. The whole story about timing - well, that's the story of my entire life- but in this case it's long and personal and depressing. Let's just say, sometimes timing isn't the most important aspect to consider. (And I am beginning to realize the universe has it's own ideas about timing, which are often in direct contradiction to human ideals.)
Quite honestly, I began my job search thinking it wouldn't be such a major deal. I have had 4 healthy pregnancies in the past and adapted to suit need. I was able to bring my first child to work with me on occasion and often attended university with my second child. I was able to stay home for about 5 months with my third child and my fourth- well, I was back at work within a few weeks, startling my substitute who hadn't been told to expect me. In each case, I tried to meet the needs of myself, my newborn and whatever work obligations I had. I expect to do no less this time as well.
Turns out employers aren't nearly as flexible or forgiving and they don't want anything to do with a pregnant lady. I spent a lot time trying to figure out if this was prejudiced or not. Unjust or not. I could understand the prospective employers' thought that if the job started on day Y and the applicant wasn't available on day Y then perhaps that wasn't a good fit. Except in one case I was told by the employer that I was a good fit, had several desirable qualities and would bring skills much needed by the school. Until I revealed that I was pregnant. Suddenly, the big picture wasn't so big anymore. Those precious 2 weeks at the beginning of the year eclipsed all other value I might have had over the next two years. And if I were a man expecting a child? I wouldn't even have to bring it up.
My current battle has to do with my fitness routine. I've been kicked out. It's a horribly dejecting feeling. I'm trying not to take it personally or feel too bad about it- but I just end up feeling bitter. And it is personal. Why does someone else get to decide what is good for my body? And since when are adults no longer competent to judge what is or is not in their own best interests? Apparently, it's when they're pregnant. You are no longer your master. From a professional perspective, I suppose my fitness instructor has a right to do what makes her feel comfortable- it is her class. But I am stuck back at that question again. Prejudiced or not? Unjust or not? In this, my 5th pregnancy, I feel I have had some practice listening to my body and heeding it's signals. There have been times when I felt the workout wasn't working....and I've either made adjustments or left class early. But staying in shape is so incredibly important to my mental and physical health I would never consider giving it up altogether. With each of my other children, I danced with abandon. And no one ever asked me to stop.
So, on the eve of the end of one of the hardest years here in Kinshasa, one of the longest, loneliest, battle-fightingest years, I have been kicked out of my exercise group. Another blow to my already fragile ego. Surely I will emerge from this year as Superwoman, stronger and mightier than ever before (unless death grabs me first. Isn't that how the saying goes?) I tell myself I am ready to create my own plan (and stick to it!) but I know I hate exercise for exercise's sake. I hate solitary work outs. I have no inner strength and discipline (this is why I pay good money to listen to bad music and follow someone else's steps that I could do in the privacy of my own home. I need to be cajoled, forced, encouraged, and hand held.) While my exercise group wasn't necessarily a source of support or strength, it was a place filled with people. And movement.
I still have dance. There are at least 3 of those classes a week and I have been working more on the instructing side of dance- which I completely enjoy. But just about now I am feeling in need of that other kind of exercise, the kind I really love to hate. Toning. Lifting. Losing. All the things I never really focused on before because I was too busy feeling the thrill of the dance, the speed of the bike, the sensuality of the step. And I still do that. But I've also begun to worry a bit about the extras that weren't there before. (And can you ever really get thin ankles again anyway?)
Aside from realizing I now need to toughen up my inner discipline and find some way to stick to a routine, mostly I just feel left out. Unwanted. Shut down. Decided over. Once again a woman powerless. Because I am a woman. And someone else has decided it's ok for them to decide what's best for me. Does that ever happen to a man? Because if it does, I really need to hear that story. Maybe 3 of those stories. Right now. Before I go work on my thighs.
When puberty arrived, it only seemed to confirm what I already knew. Inconvenient, embarrassing and expensive. Those 3 words pretty much summed up my experience of "becoming a woman." In my late teens, I remember finding myself in a convenience store in the wee morning hours with a friend. She was picking up some supplies for her friend and we both remarked about the unfairness of it all. Guys didn't have this monthly expense to worry about. We thought maybe the government should even be responsible for picking up the tab. After all, it wasn't our fault we were women.
While that argument seems a little, well, juvenile now, turns out that accessing and affording sanitary pads is a very real crisis for many women in the world. This amazing man made it his own personal quest to find a sanitary solution for his wife and women all over his country, allowing them to continue to provide for their families, gather the daily water from rivers and community wells and miss less days of school. (The Indian government has announced it would hand out pads for the poorest women and girls- guess our idea wasn't so far from reality after all, 25 years later and an ocean away.)
Being a woman- and hating it- has, of course, led to many conflicting emotions throughout my life. I've often admired groups of women friends- how supportive, nurturing and understanding they seem. So strong together. But I have never been a part of a strong circle of women and so I can only watch from a distance and imagine how it is they are together. I have often wondered if I am the only one to hate being trapped in this form. They seem so confident and comfortable, downright smug at times.
Over the years, I've tried to get behind women causes and believe in the power of women. I've tried to tell myself that while being a man appears easier, it doesn't necessarily mean it would be more satisfying. Sometimes the hard thing is the worthwhile thing. Maybe this struggle through womanhood would turn out not to be so bad after all?
It actually appeared there might be some truth to that logic when I became pregnant with my first child. Oh the wonders. The glow. The joy of harboring life within and feeling it grow. I was completely transformed with the birth of my first son. I understood the power of womanhood and the grace of motherhood. Every indignity I had suffered definitely seemed worthwhile for the experience of this prize at the end.
Except it's not really the end. Motherhood is only the beginning. And while there are a billion blogs out there toting the newness and niceness of pregnancy and birth, there are just as many who get down to the real truth about toddlerhood and adolescence. Far too often, the initial glow of new mommies turns into the haggard despair of the infamous juggler- maid, chef, CEO, teacher, nurse, psychologist, chauffeur- and that's just in the "off" hours. So, back to feeling like being a woman isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Well, that might be part of the problem. It is all it's cracked up to be- it just isn't "cracked up" very much. Facts are, women have a bad wrap all over the world. It might be slowly changing in some parts, certain domains, but overall, we women still have to fight to be considered in the realm of men. We have to fight to have our stories told. (I'm trying hard not go off on a tangent here and explode with furious rebellion about all the ways women are put down, let down and kept down. Sticking to this one story....)
With age, I have learned to embrace my gender more and more. I still have occasional (ok, perhaps frequent is a more accurate description) days of bitterness over feeling that men have an unfairly and infinitely easier path to travel, but I spend more time learning to accept myself and my gender with all of its strengths and weaknesses. At 40 and pregnant with a much desired child, I thought perhaps I had conquered that nasty little secret once and for all. I can handle being a woman. And I might even admit to liking it at times.
There are not many other conditions in which people feel so free to invite themselves into your life as pregnancy. Strangers and acquaintances suddenly feel inclined to make comments, offer advice, good wishes or evil eyes, make judgements, reach out to rub baby bumps, and ask any sort of personal questions. It becomes something of a battle field trying to navigate your way through each day (and of course, with raging hormones completely unbalanced and out of control, the battle is usually lost long before it's even begun.)
With 4 months to go, I'm now in the middle of my 3rd major battle. Our upcoming move will hopefully deter any future conflicts. I have every intention of heading into labor and delivery conflict free. My first major battle involved the job hunting.Trying to impress a future employer while simultaneously letting them know you'll need a bit of time off right at the beginning of the contract is a risky move. Virtually impossible. The whole story about timing - well, that's the story of my entire life- but in this case it's long and personal and depressing. Let's just say, sometimes timing isn't the most important aspect to consider. (And I am beginning to realize the universe has it's own ideas about timing, which are often in direct contradiction to human ideals.)
Quite honestly, I began my job search thinking it wouldn't be such a major deal. I have had 4 healthy pregnancies in the past and adapted to suit need. I was able to bring my first child to work with me on occasion and often attended university with my second child. I was able to stay home for about 5 months with my third child and my fourth- well, I was back at work within a few weeks, startling my substitute who hadn't been told to expect me. In each case, I tried to meet the needs of myself, my newborn and whatever work obligations I had. I expect to do no less this time as well.
Turns out employers aren't nearly as flexible or forgiving and they don't want anything to do with a pregnant lady. I spent a lot time trying to figure out if this was prejudiced or not. Unjust or not. I could understand the prospective employers' thought that if the job started on day Y and the applicant wasn't available on day Y then perhaps that wasn't a good fit. Except in one case I was told by the employer that I was a good fit, had several desirable qualities and would bring skills much needed by the school. Until I revealed that I was pregnant. Suddenly, the big picture wasn't so big anymore. Those precious 2 weeks at the beginning of the year eclipsed all other value I might have had over the next two years. And if I were a man expecting a child? I wouldn't even have to bring it up.
My current battle has to do with my fitness routine. I've been kicked out. It's a horribly dejecting feeling. I'm trying not to take it personally or feel too bad about it- but I just end up feeling bitter. And it is personal. Why does someone else get to decide what is good for my body? And since when are adults no longer competent to judge what is or is not in their own best interests? Apparently, it's when they're pregnant. You are no longer your master. From a professional perspective, I suppose my fitness instructor has a right to do what makes her feel comfortable- it is her class. But I am stuck back at that question again. Prejudiced or not? Unjust or not? In this, my 5th pregnancy, I feel I have had some practice listening to my body and heeding it's signals. There have been times when I felt the workout wasn't working....and I've either made adjustments or left class early. But staying in shape is so incredibly important to my mental and physical health I would never consider giving it up altogether. With each of my other children, I danced with abandon. And no one ever asked me to stop.
So, on the eve of the end of one of the hardest years here in Kinshasa, one of the longest, loneliest, battle-fightingest years, I have been kicked out of my exercise group. Another blow to my already fragile ego. Surely I will emerge from this year as Superwoman, stronger and mightier than ever before (unless death grabs me first. Isn't that how the saying goes?) I tell myself I am ready to create my own plan (and stick to it!) but I know I hate exercise for exercise's sake. I hate solitary work outs. I have no inner strength and discipline (this is why I pay good money to listen to bad music and follow someone else's steps that I could do in the privacy of my own home. I need to be cajoled, forced, encouraged, and hand held.) While my exercise group wasn't necessarily a source of support or strength, it was a place filled with people. And movement.
I still have dance. There are at least 3 of those classes a week and I have been working more on the instructing side of dance- which I completely enjoy. But just about now I am feeling in need of that other kind of exercise, the kind I really love to hate. Toning. Lifting. Losing. All the things I never really focused on before because I was too busy feeling the thrill of the dance, the speed of the bike, the sensuality of the step. And I still do that. But I've also begun to worry a bit about the extras that weren't there before. (And can you ever really get thin ankles again anyway?)
Aside from realizing I now need to toughen up my inner discipline and find some way to stick to a routine, mostly I just feel left out. Unwanted. Shut down. Decided over. Once again a woman powerless. Because I am a woman. And someone else has decided it's ok for them to decide what's best for me. Does that ever happen to a man? Because if it does, I really need to hear that story. Maybe 3 of those stories. Right now. Before I go work on my thighs.
31.3.13
Rebelle..times 10
I began watching Hotel Rwanda again...just to remind me. Sometimes a good film can transport you from the everyday into reality. Sometimes I need to remember what reality is for others. And as the film began, I thought of the need for films like that about Congo. Films, novels, children's stories. Anything and everything to make the people remember. And not even remember, but to know. The reality that continues today. Right now. Because I've been here for five years already and it remains the same. I see myself become complacent. I know that story- about the women in the east, about the children too young to see the things they do. I know that story but what am I doing about it?
People have heard about Rwanda. They've heard about Darfur. But I'm not really sure they've heard about Congo. As I am watching the film, I remember Rebelle....War Witch, in the English title I believe. An amazing film. A Congolese actress from the streets of Kin who won an award even. But I'm still not sure people know about Congo.
The group I have been dancing with would like to celebrate their first anniversary by holding a fundraiser for the women and children in the east. A noble jest, as it is explained in French. It makes good sense- our group of women who come together to find strength, courage and community in dance. We want to show our support for women who need strength, who need courage and who have been let down and abandoned by their communities.
Big names can dot it. Eve Ensler held a dance in the streets for women. One Billion Rising. Even Kinshasa had a chapter. Angelina Jolie has been traveling. And the word is- people need to take her seriously, although I find the picture of the woman sleeping next her really explains it all. Can any American female imagine taking a nap while sitting next to Angelina? Really? But were we to walk a day or two in the steps of that woman, filled with her memories, her struggles, her impossible view of the future, we might find Angelina a bit irrelevant as well.
But big names do draw publicity. They bring news and public interest and hopefully a bit of awareness. Perhaps I was a bit naive to think a small group of women here in Kinshasa could do the same. We've been trying to organize a dance event with our instructor since January. Myself, I was inspired by the youth in Kisangani who rallied together to present a concert for peace as well as the Eves and Angelinas of the world. We are women, and we want to support our sisters.
Organizing a concert in Kinshasa is not as easy as one might think. There is the problem of space, of parking, of inviting the people who are wealthy enough to donate but not so wealthy that they've already closed their eyes to situations they know too well. It's about attracting the people who need to know more and the people who care. Its about inviting the artists who can send a message and presenting an image of strength, solidarity and compassion. And its also about finding a way to do this on a shoe string. Because, franchement, we're not Angelina Jolie. We are a group of women led by a Congolese artist- from Brazzaville, a refugee of war with bullet scars to prove it- who wants to use his talent to support the women of his sister country.
To be sure, the women who attend weekly classes belong to the middle class. They have contacts. And we've been trying to exploit this- true Kinshasa style. True to business anywhere. It's all about the networking. Our efforts have led us down many many roads - many expensive roads- before arriving at a real possibility in negotiating with the Grand Hotel. This appeared to be a lucky break. A soirée at the Grand Hotel could bring the kind of people who can really donate, who would think nothing of parting with a hundred dollars or so for the sake of an elegant evening and a good cause.
The hotel asked for a paper of confirmation from the Hospital Panzi, where we planned to donate the money. The hospital has made recent news concerning Doctor Denis Mukwege and his assassination attempt. Perhaps we aimed too high, because, although the doctor has returned home, the hospital has yet to get back us. About whether or not they'd like to accept our donation. Which complicates things when searching for donors.
It's not the first time I've had this experience in Kinshasa. The experience of trying to give money to people who may not actually be ready to accept it. In this case, however, I was doubly surprised. I guess you can never really get used to the way things work in Congo. Often without logic or reason, but with some kind of synchronicity that can't be counted on or determined. A charity that may or may not accept your gift.
The paper of acceptance is important because, as one hotel worker responded, "So many people talk of the women being raped in the east. But how can it really be possible? All those soldiers....acting like that all of the time. How can it be? It's probably just another scam to get money...."
This was one perspective I'd never really considered. That the Kinois themselves would consider it all a ploy for others to hold fundraisers and pocket the money. But of course, suspicion and connery abound in Kin's "every man for himself" atmosphere. Making it ever easier to believe the cry for the women and children of eastern Congo is but one more scam in the effort to line personal pockets with gold.
While our plans have not yet been realized and the evening of dance and art remains, as yet, uncertain, perhaps any money we raise would be more productively spent on films, children's books, pamphlets, and photos to be distributed on the streets. Because awareness starts at home. And the Kinois need to be the first to rise up for their compatriots, their sisters and children who are living the unimaginable. We need Rebelle times 10. So people remember.
People have heard about Rwanda. They've heard about Darfur. But I'm not really sure they've heard about Congo. As I am watching the film, I remember Rebelle....War Witch, in the English title I believe. An amazing film. A Congolese actress from the streets of Kin who won an award even. But I'm still not sure people know about Congo.
The group I have been dancing with would like to celebrate their first anniversary by holding a fundraiser for the women and children in the east. A noble jest, as it is explained in French. It makes good sense- our group of women who come together to find strength, courage and community in dance. We want to show our support for women who need strength, who need courage and who have been let down and abandoned by their communities.
Big names can dot it. Eve Ensler held a dance in the streets for women. One Billion Rising. Even Kinshasa had a chapter. Angelina Jolie has been traveling. And the word is- people need to take her seriously, although I find the picture of the woman sleeping next her really explains it all. Can any American female imagine taking a nap while sitting next to Angelina? Really? But were we to walk a day or two in the steps of that woman, filled with her memories, her struggles, her impossible view of the future, we might find Angelina a bit irrelevant as well.
But big names do draw publicity. They bring news and public interest and hopefully a bit of awareness. Perhaps I was a bit naive to think a small group of women here in Kinshasa could do the same. We've been trying to organize a dance event with our instructor since January. Myself, I was inspired by the youth in Kisangani who rallied together to present a concert for peace as well as the Eves and Angelinas of the world. We are women, and we want to support our sisters.
Organizing a concert in Kinshasa is not as easy as one might think. There is the problem of space, of parking, of inviting the people who are wealthy enough to donate but not so wealthy that they've already closed their eyes to situations they know too well. It's about attracting the people who need to know more and the people who care. Its about inviting the artists who can send a message and presenting an image of strength, solidarity and compassion. And its also about finding a way to do this on a shoe string. Because, franchement, we're not Angelina Jolie. We are a group of women led by a Congolese artist- from Brazzaville, a refugee of war with bullet scars to prove it- who wants to use his talent to support the women of his sister country.
To be sure, the women who attend weekly classes belong to the middle class. They have contacts. And we've been trying to exploit this- true Kinshasa style. True to business anywhere. It's all about the networking. Our efforts have led us down many many roads - many expensive roads- before arriving at a real possibility in negotiating with the Grand Hotel. This appeared to be a lucky break. A soirée at the Grand Hotel could bring the kind of people who can really donate, who would think nothing of parting with a hundred dollars or so for the sake of an elegant evening and a good cause.
The hotel asked for a paper of confirmation from the Hospital Panzi, where we planned to donate the money. The hospital has made recent news concerning Doctor Denis Mukwege and his assassination attempt. Perhaps we aimed too high, because, although the doctor has returned home, the hospital has yet to get back us. About whether or not they'd like to accept our donation. Which complicates things when searching for donors.
It's not the first time I've had this experience in Kinshasa. The experience of trying to give money to people who may not actually be ready to accept it. In this case, however, I was doubly surprised. I guess you can never really get used to the way things work in Congo. Often without logic or reason, but with some kind of synchronicity that can't be counted on or determined. A charity that may or may not accept your gift.
The paper of acceptance is important because, as one hotel worker responded, "So many people talk of the women being raped in the east. But how can it really be possible? All those soldiers....acting like that all of the time. How can it be? It's probably just another scam to get money...."
This was one perspective I'd never really considered. That the Kinois themselves would consider it all a ploy for others to hold fundraisers and pocket the money. But of course, suspicion and connery abound in Kin's "every man for himself" atmosphere. Making it ever easier to believe the cry for the women and children of eastern Congo is but one more scam in the effort to line personal pockets with gold.
While our plans have not yet been realized and the evening of dance and art remains, as yet, uncertain, perhaps any money we raise would be more productively spent on films, children's books, pamphlets, and photos to be distributed on the streets. Because awareness starts at home. And the Kinois need to be the first to rise up for their compatriots, their sisters and children who are living the unimaginable. We need Rebelle times 10. So people remember.
1.2.13
african dreams
What's the scariest thing you've ever seen? As a mother some of my most terrifying images are not of things that have actually happened, but of those moments of potential. That breathtaking, heart stopping moment before something happens. As of yet, luck has held us in the potential, and events have turned in such a way that we have managed to avoid calamity. But even now, more than ten years removed from some of those incidents, the imagined vision of what might have been still holds the power to quicken my pulse and cause a sharp intake of breath.
I write "as a mother" but I could easily write "as a woman." Because women are in the unfortunate position of being witness to some of the scariest things. I write that with the idea of war in my mind. I know. Men are most often the ones who go to war, who witness killings and death up close and personal. But if you have lived in the scariest things part of the world, you know what's most often horrifying doesn't come with the chaos of battle. It comes in bright sunlight, when you are least expecting it. It creeps in stealthily with a slow motion that gives you enough time to imagine the most frightening outcome and all the ways you are powerless to stop it. The scariest things freeze you in that dream state where screams are never voiced and moving with any sense of speed or control becomes a futile effort. The scariest things leave you lingering in that haze long after the day has dawned and dreams have been put to bed.
Sometimes the scariest thing you've seen hasn't really happened. You just wait in anticipation of it. Every moment rigid, every second tense, caught in a perpetual 'flight' mode. Because everyone knows you never escape the monsters in a dream. The only thing you can do is just wake up. And if you're already awake?
I write "as a mother" but I could easily write "as a woman." Because women are in the unfortunate position of being witness to some of the scariest things. I write that with the idea of war in my mind. I know. Men are most often the ones who go to war, who witness killings and death up close and personal. But if you have lived in the scariest things part of the world, you know what's most often horrifying doesn't come with the chaos of battle. It comes in bright sunlight, when you are least expecting it. It creeps in stealthily with a slow motion that gives you enough time to imagine the most frightening outcome and all the ways you are powerless to stop it. The scariest things freeze you in that dream state where screams are never voiced and moving with any sense of speed or control becomes a futile effort. The scariest things leave you lingering in that haze long after the day has dawned and dreams have been put to bed.
Sometimes the scariest thing you've seen hasn't really happened. You just wait in anticipation of it. Every moment rigid, every second tense, caught in a perpetual 'flight' mode. Because everyone knows you never escape the monsters in a dream. The only thing you can do is just wake up. And if you're already awake?
20.6.12
A Good Read
Preparing for the annual trek across the ocean means stocking up on reading material. Experience tells me the planes will be long, the layovers fraught with early morning awake hours and children too hyped up and overstimulated for much sleep to occur.
I've spent the early part of my vacation painting furiously, writing frequently and reading frivolously. I have a weakness for crime novels. After gorging on these potato chip reads, I am ready for something real. On the heels of lost loves, deception and dissolved friendships, I am looking for novels of substance by women with insight. I am searching for empowerment and strength of the kind inspired by early college days when exposure to new ideas was breath taking and profound. Ah, but where to find such depth of work?
Internet searches have done little to offer illumination. I realize I don't want to read any more accounts of ethnic heritage, having none myself. I am not interested in strong families and supportive friends, living in the isolation of Africa. So what is left to make a woman strong?
I found some solace in Falling Under by Danielle Young-Ullman which seemed to reach inside me and grip my soul. Books about painters often seem to do that. The only other one I can remember having such a hold was White Oleander (my ability to remember the title after some ten years of my first reading speaks volumes. I am never good at titles and authors....) Unsurprisingly, both of these feature lonely, tormented spirits on the edge of self-destruction. Luckily, art serves as their savior.
What I found in Falling Under were recounts of emotions I never imagined anyone else could feel. And that's why we listen to stories. We are searching for a connection to others and reassurance that what we're going through is something countless others have experienced before. The undying strength of the African oral traditions have at their base a human desire to assure ourselves that people before us have walked these roads and persevered. They strive to comfort, inspire and educate. Yes, we can learn from the errors of others- or of ourselves. Yes, we can make better choices. Yes, the path we are on is the journey we are meant to undertake.
Good literature serves to impart the messages of our ancestors with poetry and prose that creates images we cannot deny. It captures the essence of who we are and unravels the mystery of the individual. Nothing we feel or endure is unique.
But it is also about recognizing the stages of life we pass through. I see the young kids, spending their days on the street and remember when it was me searching for shelter, bouncing and tumbling about trying to pull loose ends together. I talk to college students and remember those days, when my eyes were opened and the world held out its hand to me. I see young couples and remember building family foundations- only to watch them crumble away I look at new mothers and remember being enraptured with the fragile wonders occurring daily- only to see them grow and declare their independence. So I've arrived at this new stage- occasionally feeling the patience that comes with age, the acceptance that comes from fighting long and hard and well to attain some semblance of life, and the desire not to rest- to keep searching, keep envisioning, keep moving forward. If only I could find the direction.
And so begins the search for myself in a good read. Stocking up on novels for the trip across the ocean to that other part of me.
I've spent the early part of my vacation painting furiously, writing frequently and reading frivolously. I have a weakness for crime novels. After gorging on these potato chip reads, I am ready for something real. On the heels of lost loves, deception and dissolved friendships, I am looking for novels of substance by women with insight. I am searching for empowerment and strength of the kind inspired by early college days when exposure to new ideas was breath taking and profound. Ah, but where to find such depth of work?
Internet searches have done little to offer illumination. I realize I don't want to read any more accounts of ethnic heritage, having none myself. I am not interested in strong families and supportive friends, living in the isolation of Africa. So what is left to make a woman strong?
I found some solace in Falling Under by Danielle Young-Ullman which seemed to reach inside me and grip my soul. Books about painters often seem to do that. The only other one I can remember having such a hold was White Oleander (my ability to remember the title after some ten years of my first reading speaks volumes. I am never good at titles and authors....) Unsurprisingly, both of these feature lonely, tormented spirits on the edge of self-destruction. Luckily, art serves as their savior.
What I found in Falling Under were recounts of emotions I never imagined anyone else could feel. And that's why we listen to stories. We are searching for a connection to others and reassurance that what we're going through is something countless others have experienced before. The undying strength of the African oral traditions have at their base a human desire to assure ourselves that people before us have walked these roads and persevered. They strive to comfort, inspire and educate. Yes, we can learn from the errors of others- or of ourselves. Yes, we can make better choices. Yes, the path we are on is the journey we are meant to undertake.
Good literature serves to impart the messages of our ancestors with poetry and prose that creates images we cannot deny. It captures the essence of who we are and unravels the mystery of the individual. Nothing we feel or endure is unique.
But it is also about recognizing the stages of life we pass through. I see the young kids, spending their days on the street and remember when it was me searching for shelter, bouncing and tumbling about trying to pull loose ends together. I talk to college students and remember those days, when my eyes were opened and the world held out its hand to me. I see young couples and remember building family foundations- only to watch them crumble away I look at new mothers and remember being enraptured with the fragile wonders occurring daily- only to see them grow and declare their independence. So I've arrived at this new stage- occasionally feeling the patience that comes with age, the acceptance that comes from fighting long and hard and well to attain some semblance of life, and the desire not to rest- to keep searching, keep envisioning, keep moving forward. If only I could find the direction.
And so begins the search for myself in a good read. Stocking up on novels for the trip across the ocean to that other part of me.
16.12.08
What it's really like....
shedding some light on the state of women in eastern congo:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UX8X6b7q7s8
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UX8X6b7q7s8
it was the part when she said, 'I have three children from the rapes, including the one in my arms...'
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