Sirma, Finnmark, Norway 71 degrees North of the Arctic Circle

This is the kind of place where you can’t take the flowers for granted. Growing season is short here—and this year, “the coldest June in 12 years”, may be shorter than usual. So much of the year the ambient colors of nature vary between shades of blue, gray, black and white. When Spring comes, the green is electric in its boldness. Life announces itself with everyone blossom, berry, shoot that pushes up through the tundra.  My friend Anja and I were walking along the high tundra and found two fuzzy willow -like buds next to a series of green buds that were awaiting fertilization (the fuzzy ones were, apparently, “spent”). The call to life is so loud against the backdrop of tundra that it’s impossible to ignore. I love the lushness of the tropics, with color and scent and vibrant green everywhere.  And, one can get lost in the color. Here, that’s impossible; each color invites you to notice its unique beauty.

Two days ago, we gathered (DUG) angelica root from a river at the meeting point of  arctic “forest” (think tiny, thin, willowy trees) and tundra.  The roots are really fierce. They take a lot of digging and strategizing to remove. Both the roots and the greens are delicious, fresh out of the earth. This is what life tastes like. I once tasted fresh cloudberries up here—and think that’s the first time I ever tasted the actual color of orange. It was bursting with the “vitaminy” fresh fruit taste that is barely present in  the blander fruits sold in sterile supermarkets.

My friend Anja and I hiked yesterday and she showed me stumps of trees that were killed by a plague of beetles in 1960. That’s over 50 years ago! And, the trees have only begun to re-grow smaller trees. The stumps are now covered with gorgeous velvety moss and tiny flowers, and life is apparent---but there is not yet a “replacement” tree. “Everything is slower here. It takes time”, Anja said. “Imagine—over 50 years, and this is where the re-growth still is.”

Slow time is the pace of this quiet, still place. Dream-like slow. I often feel like I am in dream-time, or kyros,  when I look out at the long voluptuous mountains that slowly roll towards the sky---everything is slower, longer, bigger. More vast and spacious even if its craggy, rocky, cold. The inhale in this earth is deep and full. The exhale is a whisper.

Being in the arctic feels like being in an altered space, and, an altered state. I sleep deeply, and dream deeply. Memories surface with a virtual clarity that is astonishing, and sometimes causes me to re-orient to where I am, upon awakening.

There are some challenges here that are not talked about elsewhere—not even, hardly, elsewhere in Norway. What has happened to the Sami people is Norway’s shadow. Like many original, indigenous inhabitants, they were pushed off their homelands and now live a silent existence to those who don’t care enough to seek them out, which is much of the rest of Norway.  They were forced into boarding schools (as late as the sixties and, I think, the seventies) and given no choice but to convert, assimilate, sacrifice. Last time I was here, a debate was ongoing (again, in the North—elsewhere in Norway I didn’t hear about it, and, no-one seemed to know about it) regarding some new regulations the Norwegian Government was putting on ice fishing. This followed a series of regulations that seriously changed, and threatened, the way the Sami herd their reindeer—which is the way they have always done it. It is an issue of respect for culture and spirituality and way of life, and, it is more. It’s economic murder to limit their access to ice fishing, and land for their reindeer. The Sami, in my limited understanding of their lifestyle, really, REALLY know their reindeer. They know when to give them space and when to gather them; they know when to slaughter, when they are mating, birthing, dying. This intimate rhythm and reciprocal relationship is being threatened by challenges the government creates for a very ancient and traditional life practice.

Driving around today, I learned when the delicate white flower that precedes the coveted and very delicious cloudberry has been pollinated. This is an exciting sight—a field (swamp, actually) of bright, fresh white flowers that are suddenly bigger than they were just a little while ago (less than a day, it seems to me) announcing with a boldness nature doesn’t practice anywhere else that those berries will be “ripe for the picking” in Fall. My friend knows about cloudberry fields where the berries come earliest, and where they are lushest and most abundant, and where no-one else knows to go. As she just dropped me off at the airport, I took one look at her eyes and said “your not going right home, are you? You’re gonna look for cloudberries.”

I was right.  And I suspect she's doing just that as I write.

Haiti, New Mexico, Iraq

I have not blogged in awhile, despite visits to Australia and Haiti, and an amazing Haiti-focused teaching residency at my alma mater, Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.  I’ve been retreating from the computer so as to give myself a break from the inundation of technology that has overcome so many of our lives.

A friend recently told me that I should blog more; that the interactions and teachings and experiences that comprise these travels are interesting and useful to read. As much time as  I—and many of us, I suspect—must spend at a computer, I find it difficult to sit down and write or type anything I don’t have to.

In this time away from technology, I taught several Continuum workshops in Australia, and trained the mental health team at The Sant Siko Twama in Port au Prince in Part 2 of Restorative Movement Psychotherapy. There is much to share from these experiences, but something here—closer to home—has spurred me to resume my writing.

I am privileged to know many of members of our resettled refugee community. Recently, a lively, sensitive and kind 16 year old boy from  Iraq was diagnosed with a very aggressive form of leukemia. He went from contemplating his future, playing football and planning for summer break  to laying in a hospital bed for an unknown period of time to receive 3 daily and very intense treatments of chemotherapy. This form of leukemia is known to come from some sort of gas exposure. On a recent visit, I asked him if he had any idea what form of Leukemia he had.  In response, he shared the questions he was asked about gas exposure (none of which were true for him), and so I asked him if it was possible he was exposed to something equally toxic back home—in Baghdad. He looked at me, his eyes demonstrating that he had thought of this, too. "You mean the bombs”?

 “Yes”, I replied.

“Yeah, I think it’s the bombs.”

So do I.

Obviously, I don’t know. I do know that after the war in the former Yugoslavia, some of the UN soldiers developed leukemia and there was a question about exposure to depleted uranium. I do know there are reports of increased rates of leukemia in Basra, in the past 15 years.

The bombs that fell on Iraq were American bombs. Bombs all of our tax dollars pay for. Bombs I have opposed theoretically—and vocally in my April 15 payments  to the IRS; in letters accompanying my checks that say I DO NOT WANT MY TAXES TO PAY FOR ANY MORE BOMBS.

These bombs, which we all pay for, may kill this child. This may not seem a big deal to many people in the US---casualty of war; just one Iraqi child; people die of cancer every day.  I don’t know enough about cancer to know what’s preventable; I do know that what appears to be an increase in cancer  is, in my mind, an outcome of increased toxicity and scarcity of healthy air, food, water in our environment. Its also the toxicity of speed that impacts our wellbeing—hence my pulling away from computers, sometimes.

I have been reviewing old files in an effort to clean out a crowded office, and recently came across an old article that described how Italy asked the UN to investigate the effects of depleted uranium on humans—because several of their soldiers, deployed as peacekeepers to Bosnia-Herzegovina, had developed leukemia. I was once warned about my proximity to recently made bomb craters while in Kosovo in 2000, because of rumors that depleted uranium was used in those bombs.  This is not a new issue, but its one that has not yet drawn the attention it merits.

I spoke with the  young mans mother today, and she described herself as “crazy” with questions.  One of her questions:  “Why didn’t we buy bottled water everyday?" 

The grief and distress I  hear in her voice is palpable. Her son was asymptomatic; the news, delivered barely 2 weeks ago, is still a shock.  For me, its unimaginable. I have written many times about the ongoing tragedy and cruelty of war; a dear friend wrote a book  called “When the War Came Home”, and this title is perhaps the most apt verbiage to describe  why we cannot continue to pretend that wars in far away places don’t matter here at home. Wars do come home with everyone who fought or fled them; they also come home with those of us who work with the aftermath of war.

Robert Bales is a US solider who was deployed too many times, especially given that he was known to suffer from a traumatic brain injury. This is cruel. Its immoral. His actions are deplorable, and, he was trained not only to defend and protect, but also to kill when necessary. The line we call “necessary” from the comfort of our homes is not the same line one sees in the midst of combat. War changes perception, and multiple deployments changes everything about how we see the world.  We know this, yet we continue to ignore it.

About a month ago, I learned of a VA employee who worked in the area of staff support being murdered by her husband, a soldier returned from multiple deployments. She was working on contracts to create retreats for returned soldiers  and their caregivers. In my work with refugees, I refer at least one Iraqi refugee a month to testing for traumatic brain injury from exposure to IED explosions or suicide bombers. Many of the refugee communities coming to the US endure communal fragmentation, increases in violent behavior, severe isolation and loneliness. The point is, war does not stay in the countries it occurs in;  it follows civilians and soldiers home; it disrupts our moral and social bonds; and it undermines all of our safety and security.

And no one is to blame but us. Not the government, not the military, not the soldiers or refugees—all of us.  Because we continue to look away, and then blame and scapegoat, or worse yet, ignore it, when something happens.

Around the same time that Robert Bales story came out, so did Trayvon Martins. His death is horrible, inexcusable, and wrong. I am grateful at all the attention his tragic death has been given;  at the multiple acts of defiance and solidarity in his name; at the mobilization for justice and accountability that his cruel and blatantly wrong death catalyzed. It stands in stark contrast to the silence around what went wrong that caused Robert Bales to go berserk, as soldiers are known sometimes to do. Its tragic that the truths his situation exposes are ignored; that there is no mobilizations to demand a halt to multiple deployments of our troops and a complete stop to deployment of soldiers with TBI.

When the war comes home, we all suffer, and we are all responsible.

Back to Haiti—a place that has also known violence, and continues to fragment since the 2010 earthquake broke her capital city--the Poto Mitan (“Center Post”) of the land and people--- wide open. When I was just there, I was grateful to note some improvements in roads, electricity, and in people’s sense of hope for the future. I also noted a continued frustration with the lack of progress promised by the international community, and an increasing tension that the presence of so many foreigners is ongoing and without proportionally reciprocal improvement. Many Haitians still refer to the mass “insodus” as The Invasion of The Aliens, and I am still slightly amused and really annoyed when I hear of yet another group of “expert” expatriates—experts in mental health, experts in trauma, experts in community building---who are planning to bring their expertise to Haiti. This perpetuates colonialism. It may even, in some contexts,  be a form of occupation. We ignore or judge the societal dynamics that keep the wars going at home, and that hurt people we care about. We sometimes also export our ideas, opinions, expertise to other peoples homes, imposing our ways of living and being in places that have their own practices for healing, restoration, community and  creation. I am not suggesting that everything we share is wrong—after large scale natural or human-made disasters,  showing up to help is necessary. Its also necessary to show up and practice deep listening, with awareness of our own agendas and worldviews, so that we contribute meaningfully to local needs and people. My dear teacher Anngwyn St. Just calls this the ability to SHOW  UP, SHUT UP AND GET WHATS GOING ON.  That pretty much sums it up. 

I have been thinking a lot about violence lately. About how violence isn't just the blatant physical assault of another person or people; about how we may engage in acts of violence also by perpetuating, proselytizing, imposing, judging, and perhaps the most harmful violence of all, ignoring, and ignorance. Another former teacher once asked a class I was in to consider all the ways we commit violence to ourselves, and it was mind-opening to consider that being in so much of a hurry that we forget to eat--to nourish our own bodies--is considered by some to be part of a continuum of violence. 


How many ways do we commit acts of violence in our own lives? Maybe thats a good place for all of us to begin.

Georgia, September-October 2011

Georgia is not a place I ever thought about visiting. I knew very, very little about it, before my current trip here.

Georgia is stunning. Its ancient. It has an air of mystery despite the warmth and openness to share of the people. Often thought of as a "former Soviet state"--it is actually a country with one of the oldest languages on earth (remnants of it only found here, and in Palestine) , some of the finest cuisine and wines, and gorgeous landscapes. In a space the size of Switzerland, Georgia's terrain encompasses strong snowy mountains, river filled green valleys, ancient virgin forested slopes for hiking and skiing, lovely wine country with rolling hills and long views of yellow, gold and green impressionistic landscapes, remnants of ancient cave communities with intricate temple artwork (and whole icon-covered cathedrals carved into mountain sides, so ancient people could cleverly live in safety), and the wide open eery darkness of the black sea. Georgian art is underrepresented in this world. Gold and silver smithing, with unique forms of inlay (ceramic and stone) represent a lost art that many modern artists are studying in order to re-create it.

I was pleasantly surprised at how enjoyable and beautiful Georgia is.

The people arrived from long histories as Persians, Europeans, Turks, and Roman. There isn't a typical Georgian (at least, to my eyes). Bordering Azerbaijan, Armenia, Turkey and Russia, peoples faces, body types, movement and style are truly very diverse. The dance reminds me of ancient Persian temple dance--its energetic, and fluid. The costuming reminds of Gurdjieff. The art has many flavors. I am not knowledgeable about art, but can recognize basic types. One artists display includes abstract, impressionism, realist. There is depth in everything here.

There is also a dark underbelly. We were in several border towns, and the shadow was apparent. There is something palpable in communities that bare the truth of human rights abuses, drug trafficking, crimes. They feel stifling. People glare at outsiders. It feels dirty. There is no projection in my interpretation of this place--it was pretty obvious. I have a colleague who has been in Georgian prisons, and describes them as some of the most horrific places on earth. There is a a significant amount of torture that occurs here. This darkness was palpable, under the surface of beauty and tradition. The darkness is part of the depth.

One of the endearing things about Georgia is the people. I knew so little about their tragic, occupation-laden, proudly resistant history and culture. During the Bolshevik Revolution, most of the aristocracy, artists, and intellects were massacred. Georgian people have survived numerous attempts to destroy all traces of their rich, colorful, brilliant history. I wonder how many generations it takes to recover from such massive social losses? I have a very difficult time accepting this cruelty, a cruelty that wills to destroy an entire society. Of course, this has happened many times in human history. It doesn't surprise me. But it always stuns me. And amazes me when it reveals the strength of the spirit to not only survive--but also to shine.

Australia, Red Earth, 2011

I love Australia. Its hard to be precise in my description of why I am so enamored of this far away place; a specific example might illuminate.

When I landed in Melbourne after the l-o-n-g flight, I had to go through customs/quarantine because I had revealed I was carrying food (sports bars, for the outback). This was no big deal, and I have found its always best to claim these things because they are usually ok, and not claiming them can be expensive. As I put all my bags through the X-ray machine, I asked if I should remove my coat, to send through. The response "Heck, no mate--I haven't known you long enough." Cheeky humor is one of the reasons I love Australia (and, Australians).

I came to Australia to participate in ceremony with the women of the Pitjantjatjara group of Aborigines. As we are asked not to photograph, journal, or in any way, document and share what we witnessed, I won’t.

What I will do in this blog is share my impressions of being on the red earth of Australia for 5 days with these beautiful women.

The preparation for my time with them was chock full of surprises. The morning I was to be picked up for the journey into the red center, I took a few minutes to jump in the deliciously cold pool at the Outback Pioneer Lodge and Campground. As I was drying off poolside, I saw the chubbiest, fluffiest steely blue-gray chicken-like bird I have ever seen. I have no idea what kind of bird it was, and no-one I've described it too does, either.

As I watched the bird strut around a low to the ground sprinkler system that was misting the grass, I could have sworn the bird was checking myself and another woman sitting near me out. S/he kept looking around as if to make sure 'the coast was clear."

Then, the bird did the funniest thing I have ever seen a wild animal do. It strolled nonchalantly up to the sprinkler, and raised its right wing, as if to spritz its pits. Then it took a walk around, shimmied a little, and did the same on the left side.

The woman and I looked at each other at the same time. She said "Did you see that"? She was Australian and had no idea what kind of bird it was. A very clever one, I think (its very hot in the center).

As I was waiting to be picked up, I was staring into the parking lot for the lodge, and suddenly, out of the scanty bush, appeared two birds embroiled in a mating ritual. The male was dancing around the female with a wide display of glorious bold blue feather, spread like a majestic card deck. The woman kept him on his feet, hopping and strutting to initiate an even finer display. Pretty amazing stuff to see in a parking lot!

Then, the red earth. The Aborigines have for years honored and heard this earth; danced her with their feet and sung her with their voices.

40,000 or 10,000 or 5,000 years old—the tradition is not written and is meant to be remembered in our bones. My fear is that enough young people won’t show up to learn and know and preserve this ancient tradition. This is happening in many indigenous cultures. For this reason I will return again and again, to serve as witness.

The heat during the day and the cold at night were intense. My love of, fascination for, and fear of, Australia’s many lethally venomous snakes, was a challenge to “sit with” while standing, sitting, sleeping in the open, under the stars, on the land.

I was told they were not a concern—it was too cold for them to be out at night. And then, I was told it is not unknown that a snake will slither into a sleeping bag, tucked against a warm body, at night (or during the day). Instructions: If you are in your sleeping bag with a snake, don’t move. Wait, wait, and wait as long as it takes for it to leave on its own. Now that’s a practice.

There are more stars than sky. They are everywhere. A double thick blanket of light, especially the milky way, which I have hardly seen since I was a child. And I have never seen it this boldly expressed. Every other second, it seems, a shooting star --the remnant of something born millions of years ago, long gone, its light only now reaching the earth. The Aborigines know these stars intimately.

Voices. Wind. Snake trail in the red sand. How old is this earth?

Questions as I yield into her for 5 days:

Do we humans leave imprints? A brief flash-bulb memory, seen by a few sets of eyes, many many years later, like the stars?

Will the earth remember our footsteps?

Do bone and earth communicate; creating a dialogue that might become a permanent part of the history in the places we touch, lay on, walk on or squat on?

How do we become part of the earth’s story here? What holds the memory of us, individually and collectively?

Port au Prince, Haiti, March 8-15, 2011

Haiti

I’ve returned to provide training in somatic and creative arts approaches to my beloved friends/colleagues at Haiti’s Psycho Trauma Center. We have talked about, and dreamed about, this for years. Finally, some funds raised through my non-profit enable us doing this.

Post-earthquake Haiti hasn’t changed much—still. Yes, there’s a little more rubble removed and evidence of new construction here and there. But really, not much change. Not as much as one would hope for—and would surely find elsewhere (i.e if the same were to occur in Hollywood or Dallas or Fairfield Country CT). Even I realized after 3 days that I was no longer seeing the rubble. Shortly after the earthquake that’s all I saw. Now, it seemed to take a much more conscious effort to really see the piles of rubble that still remain (and many do) and to realize how far Haiti has to go.

Why is it so easy to forget Haiti? This is a place, after all, that defeated a significant and formidable colonial force in the early eighteen hundreds and that subsequently forbid whites from owning land or from taking control. I believe Haiti has long been perceived as a frightening place by the US and European nations who engaged (and engage, still) in colonial domination over this Caribbean nation. So we at once neglect and ignore, but still manage to control, Haiti. Perhaps it’s the neglect that controls. I don’t know. I find politics tedious, and prefer to put my energy into people. But I do know that the resilience I have always loved in the Haitian people, may be beginning to erode. In some, in those still living in makeshift camps with barely passable tent like structures, resilience is beginning to harden—to look like pure survival. Which somehow seems to have less humanity in it.

I am not saying there is no resilience, none of that gracious heart that many of us who love Haiti associate with her. In fact, during this training—which emphasized strengths and resources in the therapeutic a process (basic in many trainings and educations—not as widely talked about in the more traditional, old fashioned, theory heavy and practice deficit psychology training available at the local university) I witnessed some amazing breakthroughs or illuminations in my colleagues. These breakthroughs had to do with the moment someone realized how rich Haitian culture is—and hot that richness offers so much for healing, restorative processes, pride, forward movement and development. I may have blogged last year about how sad it makes me every time I hear (and I hear this a lot): “You know more than I/we do about Vodou. About our dancing. Our drumming. Our history from a cultural/spiritual perspective.” I have begun asking how many members of a training have ever been to Bwa Cayman. Always , the hands up = 0-3, maximum. Some don’t know what that place is.

Once when training the national police they asked me if Vodou could be a resource, and why was it kept so invisible to so many Haitians? I have been asked that by street children, by those who care for street children, by psychologists, by HR mangers. Always, the trainings I facilitate somehow end up including a lively discussion of culture and spirit in Haiti---not limited to Vodou, but that does seem to be an “elephant in the room”. I am not sure it’s my place to answer these questions, yet always—someone asks. What do you think? What do you know? What’s does this mean? How does this relate to what we are doing here?

I made a comment in this training: If I were to run for president of Haiti I know of 2 important platforms I would endorse:

1. All education would be free, and it would include a strong curriculum of history, culture and spirit—one that teaches at least the principles of Haitian mythology, dance, arts, drum, and that is intended to install pride in all Haitian people. That this does not occur now is, for me, part of that blatant yet subversive colonial neglect that still permeates Haiti. Who doesn’t’ want the core of resilience in this island to be known, not just for Haiti—but for the world? We could all learn from this.

2. Kreyol and English would be the national languages (in that order). French is a lovely and historically valuable language and could still be learned. But Haitians would have much more employment potential if they learned to speak English. Usually I don’t endorse everyone learning English—that has its own colonial heritage and message. But here, so close to our shores and so controlled by—played, used by and neglected by -- the US, Haitians should speak English, after Kreyol. Kreyol is beautiful and is a vestige of the rich history and culture I have already written about. English affords the people here possibilities that would really, truly foster development—Haiti centric development.

Several of my students thanked me for the “revolutions” they had in their thinking about their work with survivors of trauma (and these are clinicians I deeply respect, who are also my teachers and heroes). The revolutions: The use of cultural resources in therapeutic process, or restorative process, or healing—however its called. The place of Haiti’s history and cultural/spiritual depth in this resourcing. The power of utilizing the very Haiti centric rhythms and movements that in the words of one student “the missionaries taught us to fear”, are the core of their resilience—personal resilience, corporeal resilience, psychological resilience, collective resilience, spiritual resilience.

I know I wrote that the world can learn resilience from Haiti. That they should be granted the honor of masters of resilience after what they taught us following the 1/12/2010 earthquake. As Japans horror unfolds, I heard many of my Haitian colleagues wish aloud that they could go and help. I hope they can, and my next mission is to try and find a connection for them to do this. The context, the geography, the language, the history and culture are different— and are formulated and expressed very distinctly. The heart of healing is in the blood and spirit-level resilience that is integral to both.

As one of my most respected and beloved teachers always use to say (and what I would say to the world, if I had a moment to do so): Show up, shut up, and get what’s going on.

N'Djamena, Chad, February 2011

CHAD

The airport in Chad is trees. Much of the rest of the country is desert---but landing and leaving, there are trees. A few minute after landing, and getting off the bus that transports us from the plane to the airport, one smells jasmine—on of the most divine smells there is. One jasmine tree graces the door that is both entrance to and departure from the airport.

The only way to describe my first, sensory and visceral impressions of Chad is:: Heat. Weight. Breeze. Feels like Chad. I had no idea what to expect, and, like many people who I talk to, knew very little about Chad. There’s a lot of surprise.

I expected a hot dry place. It was hot, and hotter each day (98 F when we arrived; 110F a week later). Its dry, but the hotel room was humid. If the door to the balcony remains open for more than a few minutes, many, many bugs infest the room. All sorts of bugs, large and small, huge and tiny, winged, colorful, stingy…..its quite awesome.

As is the fluidity of movement and life there—much like Sudan. Long white robes, immaculately shaped turbans atop elegant faces, brightly colored dresses, open sandy earth, trees that arc in shape, and when the wind blows. I didn’t see any camels, but one can see how perfect they fit there.

One of my first questions after arrival was “What’s across the river?” Our hotel sits on the banks of a lovely river—the river Chari, I later learned. Turns out its Cameroon on the other side. I didn’t believe my colleague when he told me this, at first. “Cameroon—that’s West Africa!” But Chad is the heart of Africa, and so it touches North Africa, West Africa, Central Africa, and East Africa—or at east it touches countries from, or right at, those regions.

Our workshop (same project that took me to Sudan in December) went well. Similar glitches and bumps to start—logistical challenges—but after 4 days, an amazing process with mostly national and a few expatriate humanitarian workers who spend time in some of the world’s most difficult places—Darfur, the border of Niger, N’Djamena itself—long known to be a hardship post.

Despite all this, the elegance of the people and their hearts dominates my impression of this crossroads of Africa—the true center, the heart. Watching the movement of the river, many dugout type boats cross daily. I wanted to cross, too, but was told that, despite the sleepy appearance of the village across the river—there were border guards, and they would deport me if I didn’t have a visa. The bird and animal life is rich---colorful lizards of all sizes; herons, storks, tiny song birds---its very peaceful to lay by the hotel pool and watch the river, the village, the magnificent birds fly overhead.

There is a contrast---we were not allowed to leave the hotel (lockdown, essentially) w/o escort. The streets seem dead. On the one day we went to a market (close by but we were not permitted to walk) there were people on the street. But very few, for a capital city. This might perhaps be a consequence of the war in February 2008 that was fought right here (and that resulted in the President cutting down ancient trees so that there was less camouflage for invaders). At night, there is no-one—NO-ONE—on the streets. It’s eerily dead. I never got a concrete answer to my inquiries as to why. I did, once, ask (in response to the events in Egypt and Libya, and also Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Yemen and Jordan which were breaking news the whole time I was there) if it might happen here, in Chad. The response: It would be squashed, immediately. Perhaps that is why the streets are empty.

I came to Chad knowing little and left knowing more—but still, very little. There is a quiet and a peace here, which is in stark contrast to some underlying layers of tension, or repression, or oppression—or maybe all of it. When we left, we were actually threatened with being detained at the hotel (which means law enforcement, and being detained from actually leaving the country) because our employing organization had not fully paid the bill (which we were not able to do) and had not sent the reference number for the funds supposedly transferred and in route. This was no joke---the hotel staff went from friendly and open, to stern to an extent that was creepy. Phone calls were made. We called our local support, who settled the situation and who whisked us out of there quickly, with barely any time to pack, and escorted us to the airport (not originally planned) to make sure we could leave.

At the time, it seemed stressful. For days afterward, I was unsettled and fretful. Couldn’t sleep for a few days. Realized in a visceral way how delicate our safety and security is when we are deployed in any capacity, really. I’ve worked in the front lines of the field, and in the consultancies that take place at nice hotels (like this one). There are clear risks associated with front lines work, and, there are always risks. I think sometimes we (perhaps I am referencing Westerners, or more specifically Americans, abroad—perhaps the whole of humanitarian workers)—operate in an illusion of impunity from harm. Even when I was in Darfur I didn’t feel unsafe, except during one specific event (an ambush that occurred very nearby). I was working in one of the most insecure environments that exists—but I didn’t feel unsafe. And that’s good—feeling safe is essential to do our work. Its also important to remember that safety is a fragile and mutable thing.

Port au Prince Day 6, January 2011

Just as I was beginning to write a final blog for this visit, a friend called who I hadn’t seen since the earthquake, and asked me to meet. So I hastily prepared to go out. As he was pulling in the driveway the news broke that “Baby Doc” had just returned to Haiti. This was no rumor—my friends and I got it directly from the Haitian National Police—and within moments, the city seemed to urge with energy, excitement, fear, uncertainty, speculation and “surreality”.

I don’t now what this means. No-one does, right now. His press conference was supposedly taking place as we taxied down the runway. I’m sure I’ll hear something later.

My gut? Preval, who openly rejected the OAS and international Community decision that the elections were fraudulent and that he must step down and abide by the Constitution, is giving the finger to the International Community. The response in Haiti was mixed---some people were actually elated, believing that if “Baby Doc” is there to stay, order might return. It’s probably true—but at what cost? The question has to be asked.

There are also rumors (and, I think, not rumors---probably fact) that Aristide has also had his passport renewed and will return soon. Surely the Lavalas will be in the streets demanding this, soon.

One good friend asked me what this means for the country, and for the people. Again—I don’t know—but I don’t think its good.

I don’t think its good because the level of complete surprise my friends and colleagues expressed (and many of them are well connected and networked) created a level of shock that was only beginning to be realized this morning. How much shock can any community withstand?

Not good, because it seems to be another example of how absolute power can corrupt, absolutely. Not good, because Haitians disagree so deeply on what this means, whether its right or wrong, that I –as we were driving through some of the worst traffic I have ever seen to get to the airport this morning—listening to a local news station talk about how Haiti could only “avanse” (advance) if all Haitians sat down, together---realized that this coming together, at least now, is frankly impossible.

It won’thappen.

It won’t happen because too many Haitians are too uneducated and impoverished to make their needs and wants known to those educated, wealthy, or even just middle class Haitians (not to mention those governing the country) in a way that they’ll hear–and those who have the luxury of education and money and some things that are really basic human needs and rights----can afford not to listen. When people are at risk, our natural response is to protect ourselves, to find safety —its human nature. So the rift between poor and rich, educated and uneducated, powerful and powerless, increases when the risk is greater for everyone.

There is no judgment, on my part, in what I am writing. When I realized this, this morning, it was a moment of absolute crystal clarity. Not good or bad, right or wrong—just clear. Its simply impossible now for Haitians to come together, be together, and create their unified national future.

This does make me sad. I was one of those who perhaps naively believed that the potential silver lining of the earthquake was a new Haiti. When things all fall down, it can sometimes be easier to rebuild, wholly anew.

Instead, the layers of deception, corruption, “surreality”, confusion, chaos, and frankly filthy, tragic reality deepen and complexify. No-one should live like the majority of the Haitians are living. Its inexcusable. I am tired of hearing that the money cannot be released due to the political situation—people are hungry, thirsty, sick, dying. There has to be a way to at least provide the most basic human needs, and create some semblance of a structure that supports humanity, while the machinations of the powerful play themselves out (or, play themselves in).

Haiti is tired. Her resiliency is being stretched beyond reasonable capacity. I love Haiti, deeply, and I was really relieved to depart today. Usually, I am sad; I want to stay. I am too tired after 2010 to go through too much more heartbreak and horror and chaotic uncertainty in Haiti. And I was only scratched at surface level, compared to those who actually survived the earthquake (and the years of violence, flooding, storms etc.) and continue to try and live amidst massive piles of rubble, still filled with death; cholera; lack of the most basic things; unbearable traffic jams due to an excess of people, still congested roads that haven’t been fixed, overflowing port-a-podies at most camps, and misery. Haiti is a place that is filled with misery.