The euphoria from my most recent teacher training is beginning to wear off.....but there is an image that has stayed with me. It sneaks up in unexpected places---drives in the car, over the stove while I am cooking dinner, or flickering across the screen as I browse late night TV. It seems to occupy a place in the very back of my thoughts churning and tumbling in an effort to take form.
A sign of any good training is that participants are asked to create something tangible, work together to discuss ideas and use MARKERS! All of these were present at the IB training I attended in NJ. I was able to further establish my educational philosophies and develop techniques that will allow me to acheive a classroom that is consistent with what I believe education should be. And, of course, there is the invaluable experience of meeting with a variety of teachers and trading stories, methods, secrets and other fun stuff.
It was in this context that I found myself on a carpeted floor, marker in hand, writing down what I believed to be most important in developing "international mindedness" in students. Most of us came up with 3 or 4 phrases that involved similar ideas. It always seems to come down to a matter of semantics in these exercises. When I looked up to see what others had written, I saw part of a song lyric that stopped me cold. Actually stunned me into silence for a moment.
The words came from a John Lennon song...Imagine. The participant had chosen the phrase "imagine there's no religion....." I think there was probably more but I couldn't get past the last two words. No religion? Keeping in mind, I am moderate, at best, in my religious practices, I could only think, if this small phrase had the power to block me so utterly and completely, imagine what it could do to someone more devout. Close the doors of communication with a final and resounding bang!
I understand the sentiment behind it all and certainly, clashes in religion have caused more wars and deaths than any other 'reason,' but sitting there, in the cool comfort of an air conditioned conference room, it seemed the wrong direction to be wishing in. International mindedness did not strike me as a concpet that should include erasing lines of distinction, or even worse, wishing we were all the same. I believe there was a simpler intention behind the sentiment (Can't we all just get along? type of thing) but we are so far beyond this kind of niavete---or we should be.
There is a line in the Qu'ran that points out how we were made and separated into nations. We weren't all lumped together with one language, one color, one solution to living a meaningful life. It seems unlikely that the solution to our problems, as a world, as a human kind, lies in trying to merge our varied beliefs and cultures into one or pretending them out of existence. We've had more than enough proof that fighting over these differences does not lead to stable lives, stable solutions or successful problem-solving. And so it seems all the more relevant that the IB mission includes one important statement--an acceptance that others, with their differences, might be right.
It's a powerful statement. One that, according to the presenters, is occasionally a turnoff to prospective schools who might otherwise be interested in the curriculum and methodology. It was the ultimate selling point to me. Yes, I want my children learning that there are many solutions to the same problem. I want them learning that multiple perspectives can lead to enlightment not just arguement. Yes, I want them to be interested, curious and able to understand and accept the beliefs of others without feeling a need to 'fix' or change them. I want them living in a world where there is peace not because we've erased boundaries but because we are no longer afraid to cross them.
So much of what we attempt to do in this world is motivated by an internal sense that there is one right and one wrong. It is a sense that two opposing sides cannot live peaceably or simultaneously. It is this last and most complicated sentiment that I have grappled with most, here in my latest sojourn to the US. I have felt it. Two opposing states of being existing within me at the very same moment. Learning to accept their existence, without question, dissection, or disolution has been one of the more challenging aspects of this emotion. But I've seen it can be done---and probably should be done a lot more often.
I did not take the time to engage in a conversation about the alarming message written on one corner of our group paper. From my perspective, we tread lightly around it. We had not developed the safety or group cohesion needed to engage at that level. It didn't make our final definition. But I worry about the path that educator will take---the students who will be affected by him. I have some confidence that with experience will come revision. A year in another country, another world, facing cultural surprises at every turn is certain to force a re-evaluation of the most well intentioned beliefs. Or so I really hope.Whenever I see that message, those 4 words scrawled so quickly and innocently in blue marker, I feel the same chill, the catch of my breath and the incredulous shake of my head. A world with no religion? Who would want to imagine the tragedy of such a thing?
17.7.10
16.7.10
Victim of environment
I've come to recognize these trips to the US as one long assault on my emotional memory. I spend the time in a series of adjustments. First I am reacquainting myself with the life I lived here, the material comforts and ease of navigating about the daily business of life. I remember how to make consumer choices in stores and ignore the extraneous fluff- something my children are not as good at -becoming quickly and easily overwhelmed. I marvel at the ease of crossing streets as a pedestrian (I actually have the right of way- no need to dive into the roadside brush to escape an oncoming taxi!!) I note the developments for the disabled and elderly (buses that lower a ramp to accommodate motor driven wheelchairs and passengers that stand to make room so they can be locked safely into place) and long for that level of dignity to be brought to the African men, women and children that make their way down crowded city streets on their hands or rolling across dirt pathways because they are turned down by overflowing public transportation--no room for their clunky wheelchairs cobbed together from various bike and automobile parts.
I try to fit the pieces of my American self together as I watch commercials urging me to buy, upgrade, furnish, and acquire goods I no longer need or want. I remember wanting these things for my house, my family, myself, but I notice these parts have been shed, replaced slowly by a desire to have things for humans.
As the days turn into weeks, I begin to wonder if I can manage the two parts of myself...the two lives I am living. Naturally, the reflection moves from global to personal. Memories from my life confront me at every crossroad, tugging at emotions I'd thought had long been dealt with. I start to wonder which life is 'real,' akin to Jake embracing his Avatar self as more genuine than the body he left behind. What began as a journey of delight and wonder turns quickly into self-questioning and reminiscence as I greet old friends and reconnect with family.
But the roller coaster is far from finished. The weeks turn into a month and I begin to long for my own space, my familiar pace of life. I must prepare for the journey back and yet another metamorphosis. I must become a bit practical and think of the items we will need to make it through another year in Congo cut off from the quality supplies we can find so easily and cheaply here. It becomes more difficult to remember the things I "need" surrounded as I am by such bounty.
I begin to fear I am nothing more than a victim of my environment. Each space welcomes me with its unique version of who I am and who I could be. Each place seduces me with dreams of an existence that could satisfy my every need---needs that change and morph depending upon the exterior, needs that are defined by the environment surrounding me, needs that melt away as the scenery changes. Adaptation: a human condition that leads to as much confusion as potential solutions.
I try to fit the pieces of my American self together as I watch commercials urging me to buy, upgrade, furnish, and acquire goods I no longer need or want. I remember wanting these things for my house, my family, myself, but I notice these parts have been shed, replaced slowly by a desire to have things for humans.
As the days turn into weeks, I begin to wonder if I can manage the two parts of myself...the two lives I am living. Naturally, the reflection moves from global to personal. Memories from my life confront me at every crossroad, tugging at emotions I'd thought had long been dealt with. I start to wonder which life is 'real,' akin to Jake embracing his Avatar self as more genuine than the body he left behind. What began as a journey of delight and wonder turns quickly into self-questioning and reminiscence as I greet old friends and reconnect with family.
But the roller coaster is far from finished. The weeks turn into a month and I begin to long for my own space, my familiar pace of life. I must prepare for the journey back and yet another metamorphosis. I must become a bit practical and think of the items we will need to make it through another year in Congo cut off from the quality supplies we can find so easily and cheaply here. It becomes more difficult to remember the things I "need" surrounded as I am by such bounty.
I begin to fear I am nothing more than a victim of my environment. Each space welcomes me with its unique version of who I am and who I could be. Each place seduces me with dreams of an existence that could satisfy my every need---needs that change and morph depending upon the exterior, needs that are defined by the environment surrounding me, needs that melt away as the scenery changes. Adaptation: a human condition that leads to as much confusion as potential solutions.
26.6.10
Immigrant eyes
Doritos. Almond Hershey Bars. Cookie Dough Ice Cream. These are the things I think I miss when I am cruising down the small, tightly packed but choice limited grocery aisles in Kinshasa. I fantasize about going back to the US and buying a whole entire bag of chips to eat by myself, in one sitting. It gets me through the craving.
Upon arrival however, I find the last thing I want is junk food. I wander the supermarkets in search of whole grains and plump vegetables. It might be the heat here in Miami, but the last thing I want is to eat. I feel in need of health and cleansing. Carrot sticks and sunflower seeds. These things are just as hard to find in Kinshasa as cookie dough ice cream.
As I make my way to the grocery store, I am blinded by the sun glaring off the concrete. Miami is hot, sunny and full of beautiful people. South Florida is a place that has always struck me as being well thought out. It is so managed in its beauty. It is a place meant to cater to humans seeking comfort. There seems an abundance of art and cultural activities, a myriad of ways to become involved with the local community, and manicured lawns, roadways and store fronts facing you from every direction.
The streets are filled with new looking cars, shiny and glossy, dripping with color. The grass remains the only give away. South Florida grass is sharp and unyeilding. It does not invite one to run barefoot or tumble down a (nonexistent) hill. But the image remains of a place full of potential, possibility and future acheivement. It is an image of America that seems taken straight from an immigrant's dream.
I am well acquainted with the images and dreams of the newly arrived or of those aspiring to come to America. I am well acquainted with the slightly skewed physcology that seems to insist America is truly a place of freedom--and more importantly, capitalism, where all can acheive. I've held strong opinions about the potential of America for new immigrants. I've begun many conversations with the purpose of shining true light on the real situation in the U.S. Not too long ago, I would have been among those saying that life is not easy in America- there are hungry and homeless there too. Yes, I've frequently tried to persuade others that one cannot simply show up on the shores of the United States and be guaranteed a cushy life style complete with apartment, job and three meals a day. I've fought frustration as I tried to counter balance unrealistic ideas with the fast, harsh pace of American life. We don't take time to eat sitting down or to finish a cup of tea before heading out the door. We don't have time for conversations with our family members who are scattered across the country and we tend to do a lot of things alone. We don't have time for mistakes. We don't have patience. We expect buses to be on time and sales people to cater to our every whine. We want smiles....but not too many questions. We want friendliness but respect for our privacy. It always seemed a trade off to me, coming to America. Gain material comforts but lose all of the family ties and emotional support of home.
This visit back to the US has opened my eyes to what must have been a subtle shifting of my perspective. It's like I am viewing America with immigrant eyes. All I can see is color and abundance everywhere. Even the waitress who showed up at the diner next door to our hotel arrived in a sleek new vehicle, shining in the Flroida sun. She was small, dark-haired, older and of foreign decent. Immediately I felt if she could do it, why not I? And I've been overwhelmed with these new eyes ever since.
I see the cramped, soiled walkway running bewteen houses in Guinee where we visited the boys' uncle and grandmother. I see the children bathing outside, grinning and joyous. I see how the joy changes to restelssness in their 16 year old cousin....hoping for a chance at life, a future. And I finally see how nothing I could ever say would convince him that suffering America's hardships, difficulties and lonliness could ever be worse than waiting around Africa, waiting for change. I can't even convince myself.
As I walk down the street to the store, I notice, really notice, the sign for the upcoming boulveard. Sans Souci---without worry. That is the biggest image of America....a place without worry. Children won't die from malnutrion or malaria here. Mothers won't die in childbirth. Doctors are obligated to treat the sick. Little boys don't go home with broken bones unmended. I see how it appears the government really will take care of you. I see handicapped people riding buses and naviagting the streets, not on their hands, but in automatic wheelchairs. And even if I know it isn't all as glamourous as it appears or as simple and without problems, these immigrant eyes don't register any of that. All they can see is a place, inviting, welcoming, full of possibilty-sans souci.
Upon arrival however, I find the last thing I want is junk food. I wander the supermarkets in search of whole grains and plump vegetables. It might be the heat here in Miami, but the last thing I want is to eat. I feel in need of health and cleansing. Carrot sticks and sunflower seeds. These things are just as hard to find in Kinshasa as cookie dough ice cream.
As I make my way to the grocery store, I am blinded by the sun glaring off the concrete. Miami is hot, sunny and full of beautiful people. South Florida is a place that has always struck me as being well thought out. It is so managed in its beauty. It is a place meant to cater to humans seeking comfort. There seems an abundance of art and cultural activities, a myriad of ways to become involved with the local community, and manicured lawns, roadways and store fronts facing you from every direction.
The streets are filled with new looking cars, shiny and glossy, dripping with color. The grass remains the only give away. South Florida grass is sharp and unyeilding. It does not invite one to run barefoot or tumble down a (nonexistent) hill. But the image remains of a place full of potential, possibility and future acheivement. It is an image of America that seems taken straight from an immigrant's dream.
I am well acquainted with the images and dreams of the newly arrived or of those aspiring to come to America. I am well acquainted with the slightly skewed physcology that seems to insist America is truly a place of freedom--and more importantly, capitalism, where all can acheive. I've held strong opinions about the potential of America for new immigrants. I've begun many conversations with the purpose of shining true light on the real situation in the U.S. Not too long ago, I would have been among those saying that life is not easy in America- there are hungry and homeless there too. Yes, I've frequently tried to persuade others that one cannot simply show up on the shores of the United States and be guaranteed a cushy life style complete with apartment, job and three meals a day. I've fought frustration as I tried to counter balance unrealistic ideas with the fast, harsh pace of American life. We don't take time to eat sitting down or to finish a cup of tea before heading out the door. We don't have time for conversations with our family members who are scattered across the country and we tend to do a lot of things alone. We don't have time for mistakes. We don't have patience. We expect buses to be on time and sales people to cater to our every whine. We want smiles....but not too many questions. We want friendliness but respect for our privacy. It always seemed a trade off to me, coming to America. Gain material comforts but lose all of the family ties and emotional support of home.
This visit back to the US has opened my eyes to what must have been a subtle shifting of my perspective. It's like I am viewing America with immigrant eyes. All I can see is color and abundance everywhere. Even the waitress who showed up at the diner next door to our hotel arrived in a sleek new vehicle, shining in the Flroida sun. She was small, dark-haired, older and of foreign decent. Immediately I felt if she could do it, why not I? And I've been overwhelmed with these new eyes ever since.
I see the cramped, soiled walkway running bewteen houses in Guinee where we visited the boys' uncle and grandmother. I see the children bathing outside, grinning and joyous. I see how the joy changes to restelssness in their 16 year old cousin....hoping for a chance at life, a future. And I finally see how nothing I could ever say would convince him that suffering America's hardships, difficulties and lonliness could ever be worse than waiting around Africa, waiting for change. I can't even convince myself.
12.6.10
Proof Positive
I tend to be a bit behind the times. It’s a purposeful lateness that I can’t quite explain. I just know that I am immediately skeptical about all things on the bestseller list or that receive major media attention. Usually, I let the furor die down before I cautiously approach to see what all the hype was about. And so it was no surprise that I came to be seated in the TASOK Cultural Arts Center (CAC) watching Avatar late one evening in March long after most of my friends in the US had already seen it. The movie was being shown as a fundraiser for the boys soccer team (entrance to the movie was free of course; they sold popcorn to raise the actual money.)
As with most viewers, I was taken in immediately by the special effects. The blues were richer and the greens were deeper than anything I had seen recently. The movie had really only just begun when I began to wonder why no one had told me it was about the Congo. It seemed so clear to me I actually looked around to see if there was anyone close by who could confer. It began to feel more and more eerie. I was living in the Congo after all; why hadn’t anyone mentioned to me that this movie receiving all the hype was about the very country I had come to call home for the past two years?
I was accompanied by my boys, who really haven’t reached the intellectual maturity I was looking for to confirm my ideas. In fact, by the time Jake was being chased by the creatures Mohamed had decided maybe he wasn’t old enough for the movie after all and we should go home. We stuck it out a bit longer, but I did miss the ending. And I missed the ending for another few months before I finally had the chance to see the movie in its entirety. I asked around…. “How did it end?” And I got the same reply, “It was ok.” This from the same people who never told me the movie was practically a living replica of the present day DRC. I should have known “ok” meant something else completely.
There were so many moments of ‘coincidence’ that I actually took notes while Mohamed watched a second time (I guess he grew up a bit in those few months.)
Here is the proof positive that Pandora is easily an equal to modern day Congo:
There is, of course, the jungle vast in its mysteries and stunning in its beauty. It is the home to many animals and referred to as the source of life. I found it especially poignant when Grace was trying to explain the ‘global network’ that the trees represented to a disbelieving Parker. This is exactly what is happening to our rainforest areas today. Their role in replenishing our atmosphere with oxygen and cleaning the carbon dioxide pollutants is completely undervalued. As humans, we seem to completely be ignoring our need and dependence on the rainforest in sustaining the balance of our environment as we know it and currently survive in. We seem to be like Parker, who is in a state of refusal that the trees could hold any biologic value worth more than the precious rock he is seeking to convert into dollars.
Parker is willing to destroy an entire race of people and possibly alter the ecological balance of the planet in search of this rock. There is a clear correlation here to the current marauding of Congo. The rock in the movie seems to stand for every resource that has ever been plundered from Congolese soil- rubber, tin, diamonds, and coltan. With every Western invention that makes life quicker, smoother and richer, Congo is the source of the material. From automobiles to airplanes, from computers to cell phones and from our throw away lifestyles (think aluminum soda cans) to pure entertainment (video games, race cars, cameras) the materials needed to create these pleasures comes from the earth of Congo. Life for most Congolese does not include owning a computer, flying across the country, investing in gold or receiving top quality medical care. These things Westerners take for granted as part of normal life come at the cost of Congolese lives. The majority of people don’t even know it. Men, women and children are dying- have been dying and are continuing to be killed-in order to ensure that the supply of resources continues.
In turn, this is similar to when Neytiri tells Jake he is like a child. Western society desires to have its demands for easy lives, instant pleasure and constant entertainment met, regardless of cost or effect. Jake, at least, is open to learning and wants to be taught how to see. “You can’t be taught to see,” comes the response. It is a moment to wonder if some societies will ever grow up, wake up, accept responsibility for the consequences of their lives and take action to make a real and solid change.
I’m still hoping for more than a Hollywood ending as the movie continues to shock me with message after message. Trying to incite war into the hearts and minds of his compatriots, the Colonel says “We’ll blast a crater so deep in their racial memory they won’t come within 1,000 meters of this place ever again.” I am stunned. Because ‘blasting a crater in their racial memories’ is a perfect metaphor to describe the era of King Leopold in Congo. After becoming somewhat educated about this particularly brutal period in history, I can see a similarity in the idea of crushing a people so completely they live in a fear so intense that future generations for decades suffer a development of culture, confidence and ego at the most basic level. It gave me chills to hear that line spoken with such voice and emotional hatred. Not just a movie, but a representation of the revulsion and disregard one people has held for another in our not so distant past.
There are many other, smaller references that continued to shout out “Africa” and more specifically, “Congo” to me as I viewed the film. The constant references to the ancestors and the power, magic and guidance that can be found there is clearly an African belief (if only we could all accept looking to our past to find wisdom for our future.) The idea of referring to the natives as ‘hostiles’ when the violent acts were initiated (and in some cases choreographed right down to training and placement of weapons) by the foreigners seems to mirror exactly Western notions of ‘tribal wars’ and ‘angry Africans fighting amongst themselves.’
I found a few things personally relevant and haunting such as Jake’s video blog when he states that ‘everything seems backwards now….like in here is the true world and out there is the dream.’ After living in Africa for 2 years, I can say I feel the same way. This is the true reality- where there are problems to be solved, people to feed and wars to be stopped- as opposed the harsh bright lights of America that will have you believe there are things to be bought, entertainment to be pursued, and people and problems to be ignored.
Finally, I found the idea of the Avatar itself to be pretty convincing. It can be exhausting being white in Africa and I often find myself wishing for an Avatar to disguise me. Most often I forget to notice what color I am----I spend so much time staring out from behind my eyes at deep browns, smooth chocolates and rich tans that I forget my white skin stands out, marking me as different. But on those moments when it is brought to my attention (usually in the face of some injustice) I am outraged, exasperated and wishing to blend in—hide behind the eyes of an Avatar, imagine something different in the way Jake was able to experience a different perspective. The ultimate in walking a mile in someone else’s shoes. But that was not entirely the intention. The Avatar was meant to provide inside information that could be used to destroy the people of Pandora. Similarly, many African leaders today are living breathing shells filled with ideaology, greed, and military training of the West. These leaders are then returned to their countries, posing as people who stand for and support independence and justice, when in truth, behind their facade is an American business, government or family pulling strings and reaping millions in rewards while the civilians continue to be, not just cast aside, but trampled upon and torn apart, crushed and incinerated like long forgotten refuge.
While the Avatar solution may have provided a creative way for some earthlings to experience life on Pandora, the ending to this movie seemed to employ no creativity at all. “It’s ok.” That’s what people told me. It ends with a war. That's what they didn't say. Typical. Historical. Disappointing. There are no winners with war, only destruction and devastation. It's not "o.k." at all. If we can’t imagine an alternate ending in art, how will we ever arrive at one in real life? It’s time we begin to imagine a new solution, rehearse it in our movies and stories, suggest it in our paintings and photographs. Use art not just to mirror reality, but to change it.
As with most viewers, I was taken in immediately by the special effects. The blues were richer and the greens were deeper than anything I had seen recently. The movie had really only just begun when I began to wonder why no one had told me it was about the Congo. It seemed so clear to me I actually looked around to see if there was anyone close by who could confer. It began to feel more and more eerie. I was living in the Congo after all; why hadn’t anyone mentioned to me that this movie receiving all the hype was about the very country I had come to call home for the past two years?
I was accompanied by my boys, who really haven’t reached the intellectual maturity I was looking for to confirm my ideas. In fact, by the time Jake was being chased by the creatures Mohamed had decided maybe he wasn’t old enough for the movie after all and we should go home. We stuck it out a bit longer, but I did miss the ending. And I missed the ending for another few months before I finally had the chance to see the movie in its entirety. I asked around…. “How did it end?” And I got the same reply, “It was ok.” This from the same people who never told me the movie was practically a living replica of the present day DRC. I should have known “ok” meant something else completely.
There were so many moments of ‘coincidence’ that I actually took notes while Mohamed watched a second time (I guess he grew up a bit in those few months.)
Here is the proof positive that Pandora is easily an equal to modern day Congo:
There is, of course, the jungle vast in its mysteries and stunning in its beauty. It is the home to many animals and referred to as the source of life. I found it especially poignant when Grace was trying to explain the ‘global network’ that the trees represented to a disbelieving Parker. This is exactly what is happening to our rainforest areas today. Their role in replenishing our atmosphere with oxygen and cleaning the carbon dioxide pollutants is completely undervalued. As humans, we seem to completely be ignoring our need and dependence on the rainforest in sustaining the balance of our environment as we know it and currently survive in. We seem to be like Parker, who is in a state of refusal that the trees could hold any biologic value worth more than the precious rock he is seeking to convert into dollars.
Parker is willing to destroy an entire race of people and possibly alter the ecological balance of the planet in search of this rock. There is a clear correlation here to the current marauding of Congo. The rock in the movie seems to stand for every resource that has ever been plundered from Congolese soil- rubber, tin, diamonds, and coltan. With every Western invention that makes life quicker, smoother and richer, Congo is the source of the material. From automobiles to airplanes, from computers to cell phones and from our throw away lifestyles (think aluminum soda cans) to pure entertainment (video games, race cars, cameras) the materials needed to create these pleasures comes from the earth of Congo. Life for most Congolese does not include owning a computer, flying across the country, investing in gold or receiving top quality medical care. These things Westerners take for granted as part of normal life come at the cost of Congolese lives. The majority of people don’t even know it. Men, women and children are dying- have been dying and are continuing to be killed-in order to ensure that the supply of resources continues.
In turn, this is similar to when Neytiri tells Jake he is like a child. Western society desires to have its demands for easy lives, instant pleasure and constant entertainment met, regardless of cost or effect. Jake, at least, is open to learning and wants to be taught how to see. “You can’t be taught to see,” comes the response. It is a moment to wonder if some societies will ever grow up, wake up, accept responsibility for the consequences of their lives and take action to make a real and solid change.
I’m still hoping for more than a Hollywood ending as the movie continues to shock me with message after message. Trying to incite war into the hearts and minds of his compatriots, the Colonel says “We’ll blast a crater so deep in their racial memory they won’t come within 1,000 meters of this place ever again.” I am stunned. Because ‘blasting a crater in their racial memories’ is a perfect metaphor to describe the era of King Leopold in Congo. After becoming somewhat educated about this particularly brutal period in history, I can see a similarity in the idea of crushing a people so completely they live in a fear so intense that future generations for decades suffer a development of culture, confidence and ego at the most basic level. It gave me chills to hear that line spoken with such voice and emotional hatred. Not just a movie, but a representation of the revulsion and disregard one people has held for another in our not so distant past.
There are many other, smaller references that continued to shout out “Africa” and more specifically, “Congo” to me as I viewed the film. The constant references to the ancestors and the power, magic and guidance that can be found there is clearly an African belief (if only we could all accept looking to our past to find wisdom for our future.) The idea of referring to the natives as ‘hostiles’ when the violent acts were initiated (and in some cases choreographed right down to training and placement of weapons) by the foreigners seems to mirror exactly Western notions of ‘tribal wars’ and ‘angry Africans fighting amongst themselves.’
I found a few things personally relevant and haunting such as Jake’s video blog when he states that ‘everything seems backwards now….like in here is the true world and out there is the dream.’ After living in Africa for 2 years, I can say I feel the same way. This is the true reality- where there are problems to be solved, people to feed and wars to be stopped- as opposed the harsh bright lights of America that will have you believe there are things to be bought, entertainment to be pursued, and people and problems to be ignored.
Finally, I found the idea of the Avatar itself to be pretty convincing. It can be exhausting being white in Africa and I often find myself wishing for an Avatar to disguise me. Most often I forget to notice what color I am----I spend so much time staring out from behind my eyes at deep browns, smooth chocolates and rich tans that I forget my white skin stands out, marking me as different. But on those moments when it is brought to my attention (usually in the face of some injustice) I am outraged, exasperated and wishing to blend in—hide behind the eyes of an Avatar, imagine something different in the way Jake was able to experience a different perspective. The ultimate in walking a mile in someone else’s shoes. But that was not entirely the intention. The Avatar was meant to provide inside information that could be used to destroy the people of Pandora. Similarly, many African leaders today are living breathing shells filled with ideaology, greed, and military training of the West. These leaders are then returned to their countries, posing as people who stand for and support independence and justice, when in truth, behind their facade is an American business, government or family pulling strings and reaping millions in rewards while the civilians continue to be, not just cast aside, but trampled upon and torn apart, crushed and incinerated like long forgotten refuge.
While the Avatar solution may have provided a creative way for some earthlings to experience life on Pandora, the ending to this movie seemed to employ no creativity at all. “It’s ok.” That’s what people told me. It ends with a war. That's what they didn't say. Typical. Historical. Disappointing. There are no winners with war, only destruction and devastation. It's not "o.k." at all. If we can’t imagine an alternate ending in art, how will we ever arrive at one in real life? It’s time we begin to imagine a new solution, rehearse it in our movies and stories, suggest it in our paintings and photographs. Use art not just to mirror reality, but to change it.
3.6.10
State of the Union
The nights have become cool and crisp, blowing gentle breezes that make me reach for a sweater or some kind of light wrap. I could never really understand how Africa could be cold, though I'd heard many people suggest it. I guess you must live here to experience it. Of course, it is not the bone chilling, raw winter wind whipping across your cheeks kind of cold, but it is shiver inducing nonetheless.
As we came to the campus street, we paused to let a pizza delivery motorcycle go by. I thought for a minute how the world needs to know that you can get a pizza delivered in Congo. It is not the first image to come to mind when picturing DRC. We were on our way to pick up a school car, which we can use for a nominal fee. Generally, I have nowhere to go with my Kinshasa nights, but every Wednesday I do head up the road for a dance class. Its a short drive and causes me no concern. I have been known to walk occasionally, if I am sure I will have someone to walk back with.
It is travel out into the other areas of Kin that sometimes gives me pause. The city is gearing up for its Independence Day celebration on the 30th of June. I suppose the word independence could be debated in this case, as in many developing countries. There is talk of demonstrations to protest the perceived lack of independence and control and to express general displeasure of those in charge. The normal frustrations of traffic congestion will only be compounded by the expected disruption of a major celebration. I could say I am happy not to be in attendance, but the reality is I would probably spend the day locked behind the walls of TASOK, nothing ventured, nothing lost, nothing experienced.
It is something I miss a bit here- not taking part in local happenings that are a point of pride in other countries. My inbox is flooded with cautionary reminders about what to do if approached by armed robbers, areas of heavy police presence to avoid and other advice about how to navigate daily life. It reads like the evening news and must be considered a s such, I truly believe. It could be too easy to fall into a tainted view of things and begin believing that life here really is all and only bad and everyone is out to get you. Stay out of local taxis. I haven't yet had a bad experience in a taxi....though I suppose I have as much chance of that here as I do in NYC. But I am cautious about large gatherings, have promised not to go into an African stadium and think twice when approaching intersections laden with police. Since the boot, I have only once been summoned to the side of the road....an order which I pretended to heed before quickly driving off.
I hate the fear- however fleeting- I feel and the caution with which I consider every outing. No action is taken quickly or without care. If I want to go somewhere, I inevitably spend a moment considering the possibilities. While I understand every day holds the potential for an innumerable amount of things to become life changing (in a positive or negative way) it was never something I thought consciously about before. This naturally leads me to thoughts of women in the villages who went out only to find food or gather firewood or work in their gardens. These women who ended up losing houses, husbands and sons. These women who, one bright sunny day, were whistling or singing even, thinking of the evening meal they would prepare when suddenly their lives are ripped out from them as they are raped or beaten for an unknown cause. I think about these women almost daily because they are living their lives right here, where I am living my life, under the same sun and stars. The breeze that cools me has blown across their backs as well. I feel at once both so far and helpless and too close and connected.
It is thoughts like these that occupy my mind as I drive about Kinshasa. And upon my return to school, there comes a fork in the road. I prefer to take the right- it leads to a less congested, more scenic route. The isolation, darkness and tranquility have all been given to me as reasons to avoid this road- anything could easily happen here with little help available. What's the state of the country today? I've been known to ask my passengers, or even myself if travelling alone. It's become a daily question as I approach this fork- one now presented with a bit of humor, but perhaps with more seriousness as MONUC turns into MONUSCO and Congo approaches her own elections next year. Happily, I can say I frequently take the right road....the state of the union is holding her own right now..kind of a Congolese status quo.
As we came to the campus street, we paused to let a pizza delivery motorcycle go by. I thought for a minute how the world needs to know that you can get a pizza delivered in Congo. It is not the first image to come to mind when picturing DRC. We were on our way to pick up a school car, which we can use for a nominal fee. Generally, I have nowhere to go with my Kinshasa nights, but every Wednesday I do head up the road for a dance class. Its a short drive and causes me no concern. I have been known to walk occasionally, if I am sure I will have someone to walk back with.
It is travel out into the other areas of Kin that sometimes gives me pause. The city is gearing up for its Independence Day celebration on the 30th of June. I suppose the word independence could be debated in this case, as in many developing countries. There is talk of demonstrations to protest the perceived lack of independence and control and to express general displeasure of those in charge. The normal frustrations of traffic congestion will only be compounded by the expected disruption of a major celebration. I could say I am happy not to be in attendance, but the reality is I would probably spend the day locked behind the walls of TASOK, nothing ventured, nothing lost, nothing experienced.
It is something I miss a bit here- not taking part in local happenings that are a point of pride in other countries. My inbox is flooded with cautionary reminders about what to do if approached by armed robbers, areas of heavy police presence to avoid and other advice about how to navigate daily life. It reads like the evening news and must be considered a s such, I truly believe. It could be too easy to fall into a tainted view of things and begin believing that life here really is all and only bad and everyone is out to get you. Stay out of local taxis. I haven't yet had a bad experience in a taxi....though I suppose I have as much chance of that here as I do in NYC. But I am cautious about large gatherings, have promised not to go into an African stadium and think twice when approaching intersections laden with police. Since the boot, I have only once been summoned to the side of the road....an order which I pretended to heed before quickly driving off.
I hate the fear- however fleeting- I feel and the caution with which I consider every outing. No action is taken quickly or without care. If I want to go somewhere, I inevitably spend a moment considering the possibilities. While I understand every day holds the potential for an innumerable amount of things to become life changing (in a positive or negative way) it was never something I thought consciously about before. This naturally leads me to thoughts of women in the villages who went out only to find food or gather firewood or work in their gardens. These women who ended up losing houses, husbands and sons. These women who, one bright sunny day, were whistling or singing even, thinking of the evening meal they would prepare when suddenly their lives are ripped out from them as they are raped or beaten for an unknown cause. I think about these women almost daily because they are living their lives right here, where I am living my life, under the same sun and stars. The breeze that cools me has blown across their backs as well. I feel at once both so far and helpless and too close and connected.
It is thoughts like these that occupy my mind as I drive about Kinshasa. And upon my return to school, there comes a fork in the road. I prefer to take the right- it leads to a less congested, more scenic route. The isolation, darkness and tranquility have all been given to me as reasons to avoid this road- anything could easily happen here with little help available. What's the state of the country today? I've been known to ask my passengers, or even myself if travelling alone. It's become a daily question as I approach this fork- one now presented with a bit of humor, but perhaps with more seriousness as MONUC turns into MONUSCO and Congo approaches her own elections next year. Happily, I can say I frequently take the right road....the state of the union is holding her own right now..kind of a Congolese status quo.
20.5.10
walking into the sun
I stumble out into the warmth of the African sun. I’ve been surrounded by a fog, thick and deep and all consuming. I am still not sure if I can trust the day, with its bright, potentially misleading, sunshine (a line from my daughter that I love.)
It is a civil war raging within and I am shell shocked from its ravages, suddenly faced with images of a future and possibilities I couldn’t imagine days before. And image is everything. To create and realize something, you must be able to envision it. Within the cloud, all I can see is my past reflecting back to me- the mistakes and regrets, the pangs of growth and time that leave me yearning for a chance to walk a different path. As in any war, I am caught up in the tasks of survival. There is no energy to dream with, to plan and prepare with. There is no energy to hope with. It is only the disaster of my life surrounding me.
From this new perspective in the bright and beautiful day, I can see the direction of things. I appreciate the time I’ve had to watch my children grow and see their minds open in ways that would never have been possible. There is the sense of loss that follows me everywhere, inescapable but no longer all consuming.
As school draws to yet another close, people start the countdown to modern life- a day when they can rejoin the world in solid knowledge of having running water and stable electricity. They look forward to traveling the streets with safety and ease. Everyone is talking about how they cannot wait for the comforts of home. I get caught up in this, ready for a break from the things that stress me here- shoes that fall apart after only one day, the high cost of food and extra burden of being white in Africa. But I know I am not flying off to home- though I have found myself wishing at times to be there. Home has become an abstract notion, something I miss even while realizing it doesn’t really exist. It is a phantom limb, still causing pain even in its absence. I am as much home here as anywhere. And I know after just a week or so in the states, I will be ready to find comfort in my own house, among my things, resting when I want, cooking when I want and cleaning only if I want. In a few short days, I am certain to find myself missing the cadence and rhythm of life here, sweet songs as people go about their daily chores, the whisking of stick brooms back and forth over cement porches and the music of the market place. There is still nothing as soothing to me as walking down an African street with vendors calling out their wares – “l’eau pure” which sounds like “lo’pi” - wood clacking or the clinking of tin announcing sandwiches for sale. Each sound has a meaning, serves as a signal or way to get attention and draw customers. It awakens every sense and brings me completely to the moment. This most important moment. The one I am in right now.
I dream of days when I will not need to make the sojourn across the ocean and wonder then how I will manage without stocking up on supplies. It’s the cycle we seem to undertake. Fly off to Europe or the US and buy as much as you need to make it through another year. When I contemplate this, I think only of the people living here that can never make the trip to another land to fill up on reasonably priced, quality goods. Of course, the children have the most needs. America has taken on mythical proportions for them. They begin sentences with, “In America can we buy…?” It is the exact reason why I felt the need to leave. But I know they will wear out 4 shoes each and probably grow a size or two before we find ourselves heading back to modern life again. It will be nice to eat fresh vegetables and buy bagels from a store. I look forward to sitting in a park outside with no one looking twice at me or even noticing the color of my skin.
At this time last year, I felt I was heading into the lion’s den. It turned out amazingly ok but I took little risk. This year will find us traveling a bit more and experiencing things we may not be completely prepared for. This year we are walking into the sun, dazzling with a brilliant warmth likely to be hiding a bit of deception. I will try once again to hold my breath and react with patience when the glitz and glamour of America threatens to overtake the common sense of my children. I know they will not be ready for explanation. I am only hoping we return to Africa, travel weary but intact.
It is a civil war raging within and I am shell shocked from its ravages, suddenly faced with images of a future and possibilities I couldn’t imagine days before. And image is everything. To create and realize something, you must be able to envision it. Within the cloud, all I can see is my past reflecting back to me- the mistakes and regrets, the pangs of growth and time that leave me yearning for a chance to walk a different path. As in any war, I am caught up in the tasks of survival. There is no energy to dream with, to plan and prepare with. There is no energy to hope with. It is only the disaster of my life surrounding me.
From this new perspective in the bright and beautiful day, I can see the direction of things. I appreciate the time I’ve had to watch my children grow and see their minds open in ways that would never have been possible. There is the sense of loss that follows me everywhere, inescapable but no longer all consuming.
As school draws to yet another close, people start the countdown to modern life- a day when they can rejoin the world in solid knowledge of having running water and stable electricity. They look forward to traveling the streets with safety and ease. Everyone is talking about how they cannot wait for the comforts of home. I get caught up in this, ready for a break from the things that stress me here- shoes that fall apart after only one day, the high cost of food and extra burden of being white in Africa. But I know I am not flying off to home- though I have found myself wishing at times to be there. Home has become an abstract notion, something I miss even while realizing it doesn’t really exist. It is a phantom limb, still causing pain even in its absence. I am as much home here as anywhere. And I know after just a week or so in the states, I will be ready to find comfort in my own house, among my things, resting when I want, cooking when I want and cleaning only if I want. In a few short days, I am certain to find myself missing the cadence and rhythm of life here, sweet songs as people go about their daily chores, the whisking of stick brooms back and forth over cement porches and the music of the market place. There is still nothing as soothing to me as walking down an African street with vendors calling out their wares – “l’eau pure” which sounds like “lo’pi” - wood clacking or the clinking of tin announcing sandwiches for sale. Each sound has a meaning, serves as a signal or way to get attention and draw customers. It awakens every sense and brings me completely to the moment. This most important moment. The one I am in right now.
I dream of days when I will not need to make the sojourn across the ocean and wonder then how I will manage without stocking up on supplies. It’s the cycle we seem to undertake. Fly off to Europe or the US and buy as much as you need to make it through another year. When I contemplate this, I think only of the people living here that can never make the trip to another land to fill up on reasonably priced, quality goods. Of course, the children have the most needs. America has taken on mythical proportions for them. They begin sentences with, “In America can we buy…?” It is the exact reason why I felt the need to leave. But I know they will wear out 4 shoes each and probably grow a size or two before we find ourselves heading back to modern life again. It will be nice to eat fresh vegetables and buy bagels from a store. I look forward to sitting in a park outside with no one looking twice at me or even noticing the color of my skin.
At this time last year, I felt I was heading into the lion’s den. It turned out amazingly ok but I took little risk. This year will find us traveling a bit more and experiencing things we may not be completely prepared for. This year we are walking into the sun, dazzling with a brilliant warmth likely to be hiding a bit of deception. I will try once again to hold my breath and react with patience when the glitz and glamour of America threatens to overtake the common sense of my children. I know they will not be ready for explanation. I am only hoping we return to Africa, travel weary but intact.
19.4.10
the poet from Mwene Ditu
I met him in Lubumbashi
A boy from the village
of Mwene Ditu
Where they live 60 kilometers
From the diamond mines
But don't have running water
Inside, No electricity
Where bicycles run
Like cars
I met him in Lubumbashi
Selling cases of Coke
Primus, Skol and Fanta
from a run down depot
with a broken window and
a metal door
his cot rolled up
behind
He arrived in the capital
Kinshasa
with just one suitcase
a few clothes, some photos
and papers from his past
Yesterday, as we walked
home from the pool
where he's taught himself to swim
I saw him carrying
One of his old school notebooks
What are you reading
I wondered.
Philosophy,
he said.
Descartes, Marcel, Plato
Do you know Socrates
he asked
A boy from the village
of Mwene Ditu
Where they live 60 kilometers
From the diamond mines
But don't have running water
Inside, No electricity
Where bicycles run
Like cars
I met him in Lubumbashi
Selling cases of Coke
Primus, Skol and Fanta
from a run down depot
with a broken window and
a metal door
his cot rolled up
behind
He arrived in the capital
Kinshasa
with just one suitcase
a few clothes, some photos
and papers from his past
Yesterday, as we walked
home from the pool
where he's taught himself to swim
I saw him carrying
One of his old school notebooks
What are you reading
I wondered.
Philosophy,
he said.
Descartes, Marcel, Plato
Do you know Socrates
he asked
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