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.

Port au Prince January 12, 2011

This morning was characteristically fresh in Port au Prince. December and January are crisp, cool months, and there tends to be an energy of hope in this Caribbean nation after the holidays.

I awoke to the sound of singing, chanting prayer. Already at 6:45 am, the air was music.

It is hard to delineate the mood here. Since my arrival yesterday, I have tapped into somber, sad, joyful, hopeful, tragic, ecstatic, and more. As I drove through Port au Prince, en route to a commemoration ceremony with my dear friends from The Psycho Trauma Program, I see some people working, as if its any other day. I see others singing and wringing their hands, skyward. I see people praying. I see others just sitting.

The ceremony is lovely. We light 3 candles: For those we lost, for Haiti, and for hope—for the “biggest” future possibilities we can imagine. We let a hundred or so white balloons fly into the universe, free. With these balloons, we liberate hope.

I still believe the world has let Haiti down. Clearly, there are many points of suffering in the world today, and there is much---too much—to do. Haiti was not the only tragedy of 2010. However, promises were made—promises of funds from wealthy nations that never appeared. Promises to do more than just show up, once, and make promises.

While I deeply believe that Haiti’s healing must be guided by her own hands and hearts, this process will take nurturing from places and people who have not lost infrastructure and resources and so very many lives. And who have economic infrastructure and a few resources to share. The nurturing has only appeared in small batches, in a few of us who are willing to show up again and again, without our own agenda. And, from a few significant funding sources—like the Clinton Bush initiative---who seem to quietly keep their promises.

The night is quiet. Still, even. Cicadas and crickets, a few other croaking or chirping creatures, are night song. Remembrance for souls who departed rapidly, violently, crushed by the weight of poverty induced shoddy construction and lack of ------everything. Crushed by the reality of living in and with poverty. No escape route.

Dear souls, fly. After one year of bardo, of limbo, of dancing in that at once chaotic and wide open liminal space----fly. The place you left, home, is gone. Forever gone. There is not the same place to come back to. Perhaps your wings can help Haiti lift out of the debris and the disappointment and begin to "rise herself up" again.

Palestine Day 6

I was told that it would be easy to get through the check point to return to Jerusalem, for a day of touring, and then Tel Aviv, to fly home.

It wasn't.

My amazing taxi driver, Ez, arrived promptly at 9 am on Friday to get me. He said we'd be back in Jerusalem in 15 minutes. When we arrived at the checkpoint, a young, wiry, agitated looking soldier with very dark circles under his eyes aggressively demanded Ez's documentation, and after clearing him, came for my passport. After I handed it to him he began to yell and wave both his gun and my passport around, and threw it back at me. He then told Ez something in Hebrew that clearly upset him.

He sent us to another check point, and Ez kept saying "He's crazy. This is not right. This is the right checkpoint for foreigners...this is where you cross."

We had no choice. We drove to the other checkpoint, which was a walking bridge. I had to leave all my bags in the car and he said "I'll get you in 5 minutes, on the other side." When I began to walk, feeling vulnerable, I encountered a line that was so long I couldn't see the other end, and other taxi drivers said "its 1-2 hours. This line is not for you." The line was full of Moslem pilgrims headed to the Holiest Mosque in Israel for Friday prayers. I didn't mind walking, nor waiting in line, but it was pretty clear to me that I might do that and be turned back, because it was a "humanitarian" line for locals. It was also clear to me the soldier had ordered Ez to take me here after seeing my baggage---clearly to much to haul across a footbridge.

I called Ez and said "It will take 1-2 hours" and he said "come back."

We then wound our way for 20 tense minutes through the mountains to an outpost checkpoint that clearly made Ex nervous to cross. It was not a usual place for either a Jerusalem-based Palestinian, nor a foreigner, to cross back into Israel.

As we approached he said "Don't say anything. If they push you, tell them you have to make a flight." I became very nervous, knowing that my ticket showed a next day departure and that if I got caught in a lie, I might not get across here, either.

A beautiful young woman was guarding this check point, and with her colleague, a friendly looking young man, we were given passage after barely a glimpse at my passport. I began to cry, realizing only then how tense I was. Ez grabbed my hand and said "Good. Good team!" He was clearly, deeply, relieved.

There is a part of me that wanted to go back to that unreasonable, mean-spirited soldier and say FUCK YOU. Fuck you for making me drive around looking for a way back to Israel. Fuck you for sending me to a line that you knew was very, very long (as it always is on Fridays) after seeing all my bags. Fuck you for not allowing us the passage I, and my driver, have absolutely the correct papers for.

Poor Ez had never had a hard time with a foreigner (and especially, he said, an American). It isn't good for him to have these run ins and risk losing his permit for Jerusalem--and his livelihood.

I am still trying to find the kind of compassion I have heard Tibetan friends and clients of mine, tortured at the hands of the Chinese, express for their torturers "because they must suffer so much to inflict this much pain on another human being." I keep thinking of that soldier, how agitated and mean and frankly scarily crazy his facial expression and demeanor was, and how crummy, perhaps, his obligatory service is, manning a checkpoint in such a tense and disputed area.

I am conflicted at the anger I feel because this incident was just wrong, and it might put Ez at risk for more trouble at the border area. I feel sad, deeply, deeply sad, that this ancient holy land, just minutes from where someone as significant (Jesus Christ) to the 3 major religions represented here (Christianity, Judaism and Islam) was born, and died, is the site of so much fear, hatred, misunderstanding and inhumanity. I have been to Rwanda, Darfur, Haiti many times after terrible catastrophic events, Indonesia after the fighting and the tsunami, even New York after 9/11...and I have never been so affected by the plight of a people. Perhaps it is because there have been refugees from Palestine since 1948--an endless life of flight and limbo. Perhaps because Palestinians are, in many ways, a people without a name, and certainly a people without a voice, because their claim to a homeland is not recognized, and there are peoples and places that do not acknowledge Palestine as a country. They have tremendous resiliency, hope and pride--and are beaten down daily, by the lack of access to a sacred and historically meaningful site like Jerusalem, to the ocean, to travel into the greater world. This slow strangle is unbearable to breathe in and out--and yet, I only did so for 4 days. My single incident check point struggle is a daily reality for all of them.

As I begin my journey home, I pray that Ez never has another difficult encounter like that again, and I pray that the young man whose story I heard someday gets to the sea, and that the lovely, inspiring students I taught can travel to the places they dream of--be it Jerusalem, or be it Canada to take university courses---with the same relative safety many of us take for granted.

As Christmas approaches, more and more Pilgrims travel to Bethlehem. Tourism is increasing there, as the area settles down and the Palestinians work hard to make it an attractive, safe and desirable place to visit. I wish that anyone who has dreamed of going there will make the journey, because by doing so, by standing on this land, we recognize the existence of this people and this place, who have really been there longer than many of our societies and cultures. Our visit can support them to belong.

Bethlehem Day 5

Its very difficult to write the reality here.

Last evening, after class, I was invited by some of the participants, all Moslem, to visit the Nativity Church and the manger. Because I was with them, I got access to areas of the Church I did not see on Friday--and they graciously shared their understanding of the significance and power of Jesus life, and the holiness and historic magnificence of this place. As one enters the Church, there is a large sign stating that the roof repairs, taking place now, are being funded by the President of Palestine. Apparently, personally.

As we stood in a small cave under the current Church, I blurted out--without thinking--"Jesus was a Palestinian". My friends laughed, and say "You didn't know he was born in Bethlehem?". I replied that I did--but never had anyone in all my readings, studying, conversations about Jesus' life---ever acknowledged that Jesus is Palestinian. He was born in Bethlehem when the land was called Palestine (I think--or something like that), and Bethlehem is now in Palestine.

So, he might be considered a Palestinian--to the extent that these boundaries have any relevance to his life.

I continue to be not surprised and deeply disturbed by what I am learning about the day to day realities of people's lives here. I heard a story today about a young man from one of the camps that has been home to Palestinians since 1948, who was injured by fighting some years ago, and was treated by a therapist for the trauma. In doing depth work with him, she learned that he--like many Palestinians--has a long history of trauma, and layers of exposure to terrible experiences. And the most significant trauma in his life? WHen he was 6, he and a group of his peers were given permission to go to the beach. Most Palestinian children here today have never seen the ocean--they have no access. Delighted to finally see the sea, they ran into the water, and within 5 minutes, were dragged out by Israeli soldiers who told them "you are not allowed in this ocean. It is for us."

That was the most significant trauma of his life. To have been--and to still be--kept away from the sea.

Palestine, Day 3

I arrived Tel Aviv after a long-way-around journey from Khartoum, via Frankfurt, on Saturday afternoon. I had to travel on 2 tickets, and 2 passports, due to the non-relationship diplomacy between Sudan and Israel. When I arrived, the wild sand and dust storm that has blanketed areas in Palestine and Lebanon and Syria with snow, created dust and sand "fog" so thick I could only see a few feet ahead of me. I tried to walk around Bethlehem, where I am teaching--but the wind was a shrieking cold cyclone that made anything other than staying safe and warm inside impossible. I did manage to get a taxi to Manger square, and visited The Church of the Nativity and the manger. Who knows if this is really the precise place where Jesus was born--but it feels, deeply, like a holy place.

This is a distressing time to be in Palestine. Each evening, I walk around the city, and no matter which way I look, one can see settlements. I may be looking at the same one or two, but it doesn't matter-they are visible, facing sharply into Bethlehem. They appear to be built to be very noticeable. I feel as if cold eyes are piercing through me.

Each evening, we eat dinner together, and I am not surprised, but saddened, by what I hear. One lovely young woman who is devoted to her studies (a Masters in Psychology) asked if she could borrow my group therapy books for the night, to help with her research. Its hard to get something as basic as a text book here. She is unable to get to Tel Aviv to buy books because she cannot (despite repeated attempts) get a permit. She---like many other young Palestinians I've spent time with here--hardly travel, despite their longing to see other places in the world. Because they cannot get through the check points to Tel Aviv, they must cross the bridge to Amman--which takes at least 1 day, each way, and means waiting in long lines for hours, being strip searched, and being asked intrusive questions. Simply put "We don't travel. Its too tiring and its too hard."

Today, when I asked if there were any questions about the activity we had just completed, one of the men in the training asked "How do I apply these methods to my clients, who just called because their houses are being demolished?"

Indeed, how?

A group or women I spoke with over dinner spoke of the sadness their children feel, because they may never see Jerusalem--a place they all have precious childhood memories of. They wonder if they will ever see this beautiful city, with historic and spiritual significance for their people, again.

When we finished eating, they asked me what my expectations were, from Palestine? I said "its exactly what I imagined--friendly, warm, generous people, and its a beautiful place, full of terrible tragedies and injustice; a place that is being strangled and suffocated." They asked what my hopes were, and I said "That all of you-- and your children-- might see Jerusalem again."

Departing Khartoum

The week flew by here, and I am already checked in and preparing to depart this ancient city.

There is a magic here--in the light, the dust, the fluid movement of sand and robes and breezes--that is seldom talked about where I come from. There isn't a whole lot to do here, if one expects the kind of busy-ness we are accustomed to in many parts of the west. But I never tired of watching the sun rise and set here, because the colors that day fades in and out of are not colors I see elsewhere--they are softer, more muted, more gentle.

Today a friend, Sue, who worked with my husband 20 years ago in Uganda, took my colleague and I to the old souks--we visited the bead markets and the place where many old baskets and carvings are available under piles of more touristy-oriented knick knacks. Some of the beads are plastic and tacky, but if one practices the same patience that observing the sunrise and set offers, one can find some true treasures. We found old coral and clay beads, and baskets woven in Darfur 40 years ago. 40 years isn't so, so old...but these are baskets from a time when Darfur was not threatened by the tragic war that it is today; when the weavers likely lived a peaceful, simple, nomadic existence. I bought one of the old baskets, grateful to have a little piece of evidence of the heart of Darfur. One of my dear friends from Santa Fe, Alicia, sent bundles of prayer flags for me to place in Darfur (we were originally to work there) and so they have traveled there with some of the participants from our training. When I introduced the prayer flags, and shared their tradition and intention, many of the trainees were surprised, and touched, to know that there are some in the USA who still tend to older traditions. Their impression had been otherwise.

We hope to return in February to work in Darfur. There is a lot going on in Sudan these days, so our ability to do that is uncertain. Inshallah.

Sudan Day 3-4

I am in Khartoum, Sudan now. This was a really long and not an easy trip. Too many long layovers—which must, I’ve decided, make a significant contribution to jetlag, as I normally don’t get jetlagged, and its been a tough adjustment.

It might also be this land--- Sudan feels, to me, like stepping into the arms of the ancient mother. I was here three years ago, in Khartoum and Darfur, and I was especially captivated by the sand in Darfur (which is here, also, but less visible due to development). The sand is the color of dawn and runs like silk through my hands. In these ancient places, it almost seems as if the sand has absorbed the memories of many millions of years of sunrises and sunsets, of stars in the sky, of footsteps and camel-steps and the advance and receding of older oceans. I have asked a friend currently based in Darfur, but headed back here tomorrow, to bring me some sand, so I can touch all those memories.

The people here are magnificent. Walking through a market (souk) here is like seeing all of humanity in a few faces---skin tone and color, features, ethnicities, all strikingly different face to face, and yet the elements of the many tribes and races and religions and ethnicities that have belonged here can sometimes be seen in one face. I find the Sudanese people unusually warm and generous.

We are here (my friend and colleague John Fawcett and I) to teach a 4 day training on staff care. To hopefully bring some energy to the idea that not only beneficiaries--- but also staff -–living and working in complex emergencies/humanitarian responses must also be cared for, supported, and tended to. The group we are working with brings amazing history and resource to the workshop. Many work in Darfur; several have survived abductions. One of the women is someone I worked with (briefly) 3 years ago in Darfur---we recognized each other, but didn't quite recognize that we recognized each other, until she gave her introduction. She was able to answer my questions about the whereabouts and safety of the people I knew while there, who I have remained concerned about since leaving---and have been really concerned about since many NGO's were expelled from the area, leaving so many Darfurians without aid, work, support, witness. She agreed to carry letters back for me.

We talked about aspects of Sudanese culture that serve as protective factors from the harm that can be caused by exposure to stress, and one particularly moving example was of the practice of seeking counsel from a wise person. It was his description of this practice, delivered with reverence about a practice he described only having heard about, that was moving. Many of the traditions and practices have been lost or sacrificed to politically induced, cultural changes. A focus of our afternoon discussion was on how to “grow” the seed, the kernel, of these practices so that at least the core or essence of them is preserved. This seems a good inquiry for all of us.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 12, Trip 6

Last day in Haiti, and the final trip of this piece of work (developing staff support) that began very soon after the earthquake.

Yesterday was "meant" to be a quiet last day spent with friends, in closure, taking care of things that needed tending to.

Instead, chaos. Traffic--which feels terminally congested beyond any normal measure of congestion, since the onslaught of International Aid, was incomprehensibly immobilized. ANPIL ANPIL BLOKIS. Everything took 1-2 hours more than usual. And I had three stops, throughout the day, to close this work.

When a friend promising transportation didn't come through, when those who came through with rides were caught in the nightmarish "BLOKIS", I was late for everything. And then, at the end of the day, my only way home was a ride in an insufficiently "upkept" car, with no defrost, barely functioning windshield wipers, driven by a lovely many who did not know the area I needed to get to at all.

A torrential downpour, horizontal and vertical lightning, immense thunderbooms resulted in flooded roads. Flooded roads that were swarming with vehicles trying to get home at the end of the day. We sat, for 30 minutes at a time, to budge a few feet.

The driver, unfamiliar with an automatic (especially an old, worn out automatic) vehicle, could barely see due to a fogged up and unyieldingly wet windshield, glare, and his increasingly "tet chaje" (literally, charged head). After the first hour, the car broke down, and as just as they were a collective relief when traffic began to move, we were blocking the road.

What transpired after (for three hours after) was sometimes stressful, sometimes amusing, sometimes fascinating, and sometimes very uncomfortable. People yelled, honked, screamed. Driver of large vehicles sat on their horns--some barely missed us if they were moving and didn't see us to to the downpour, the lightning, the dark I called friends, at times calm, at times on the verge of tears, at times angry. All I wanted to do was be home with my dear friends and family here, and watch the sky turn evening colors from the same porch that has given me solace for many years---especially since January 12th. Its the place where I sat every evening when I first came here, and stayed on this safe and comfortable home, alone. Its where the 350+ stories and 25+ group histories moved through me as tears, rage, incomprehension, weariness, inspiration, hope, human connection.

We finally made it after multiple arguments (within and outside of our car) and I am still waiting to hear that the driver and a friend made it back down ok.

I arrived very late. Dinner was ready. A cold prestige. Conversation. Tears. And my finally realizing that, despite my almost agreeing to remain a week longer and coming a phone call close to changing my ticket, its time to come home. Yes, Haiti is home, and--I have been here more than my home in Santa Fe since January, and I am as tired as I am inspired by this place I cherish. I am also forever changed.

Kunyala, m bezwen tann pou refleji. Now its time to reflect, write, rest.

I will be back, sooner than later, as projects and contracts keep emerging. My heart has grown 100 times in its capacity to listen and to love every time it breaks here---and it is still breaking, and still growing. When I packed late last night, I found all my notes, from the first "PFA" session, til now. All the sessions (group and individual), all the workshops and trainings, all the meetings, all the reports and recommendations and journaling. Two legal pads full of words, names, people's emotions, needs, and contact information, ideas, concerns, things I want to remember, symbols I doodle.

I reverently reviewed each page, then burned them. Ale. Like the Spirits we aid to fly when they cross over, I pray for each story, each tear, each breath that breathed in dust, death, decay while waiting to be rescued or trying to rescue others, to fly. I cannot carry them home.

Ayiti Cheri, map la chak jou. Kembe. Map torne anko, demen, si bondye vle.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 10, Trip 6

Just came from Hotel Oluffson where RAM was warming up for their weekly Thursday night fet. Its very, very hopeful to hear that very familiar music again--music that carries Haiti's root rhythms---in the very same place, same day, same time, as has happened for years.

The NGO Staff Support Working Group that has been meeting monthly since January had requested that this months meeting be a self-care (practical) training. Today we spent a day at Management Sciences for Health, in a brand new, cool and comfortable conference room, where I provided this training. It was amazing--another splash of hope. We worked together (particularly MSH's lovely HR Director, Joelle Larco) to make this workshop happen for as many psychologists, medical professionals, HR folks and others (who are over-extended, tired, and generally spent) as possible.

I think it would be a boring read for me to review the workshop; its sufficient to say we covered some good and succinct information about stress, trauma, secondary trauma, and somatic therapies, and--played and practiced a variety of self care (body and arts based) practices to calm, relax, balance, energize, center, ground and restore. It was my intention that the day be a "mini-retreat" for all the participants. It succeeded----and while it certainly wasn't a magic wand to erase the ongoing intensity and challenge of their work, and the never-ending suffering of so many Haitians--it was a day of communion, laughter, and healing.

I will share two particularly hopeful moments:

One of the participants, after a review of types of trauma, said "Bon--we are experiencing all of these in Haiti now----it just makes me wonder how we are still here, still standing?"

So I asked the group to answer that question--to ask it of themselves, present moment, and here is our list:

Po ki sa n'ap rete kampe (Why are we still standing?)

or

What makes us resilient?

Faith of God

Hope

Prayer

Close relationships with others

Contact with others

Open to other cultures

Music and Dance

Laughter and Humor

Generosity

Wanting to give back

Feeling Lucky

Counting blessings

Reason-to-live (Raison d'etre)

Our Resiliency

Our Haitian Culture

Soccer and The World Cup

"Seize the moment"

Profite la vie

Mete Tet ansam--SOLIDARITY

At the end of the workshop, I facilitated a group activity where we identified shared strengths or resources (in small groups) and shared them with the larger group, in a very creative fashion.

Each of the 3 group created a song----and the songs were brilliant. I was very sad not to have had a video camera with me as I have never seen such brilliance, heart, and inspiration ever--anywhere--with this particular activity. I would have loved to record them to share with the group--as a reminder of their resiliency--and as a teaching tool for others interested in resiliency.

The songs (crafted in only 10 minutes) were beautifully rhythmic and harmonized, creative, silly, poignant and simple. The words did everything from integrate the song and dance "Amba Decom" (Under the Rubble) that Haitians created to acknowledge the experience of being under the rubble with both blatant clarity and tremendous humor; to invite a call-and-response movement and singing choir where we shaped the rising sun while we sang "We have the sun, we have the light" (for anyone whose never been to Haiti--the light here rivals the magical light that many artists seek in New Mexico).

I wished my friend and colleague Melissa had been here to see this, as this was the hope she reminded us was essential to traversing this 6 month marker where hopelessness tends to overtake survivors. This 5 minutes of song was a sound bath of joy, heart and hope----and hope is not a word I use easily. Especially here, where there are still so many trauma, hardship, change and loss reminders. Body parts, long removed from their human form, still found daily; over 75,000 Haitians missing. Rubble neatly piled by the road, and suddenly in the road when these seasonal rains become a torrential downpour. People shaking their insufficient tarps out after one of these rains, in an attempt to make their sleeping space a wee bit drier.

Amidst all of this, and despite the tragic sloth-like response of those leaders with the power (and money) to change these inhumane conditions and experiences:

"No problem, no problem, no problem

We don't have a problem--

We have each other.

We have the sun, we have the light.

We have the trees, we have God.

No problem, no problem, no problem

We don't have a problem (we can't fix):

We have each other.

I

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 7, Trip 6

Have been in Cap Haitien to connect with my Lakou (community) and take a friend to Plan du Nord for the annual pilgrimage to honor Ogou. Plan du Nord is the site of mud baths in a river whose origin is in the mountains above Cap Haitien---I have heard the origin of the river is near the dwelling place of Ogou. This dwelling place sits below the Citdaelle, Haiti's majestic fortress that was built between 1805 and 1820 to protect the newly liberated nation.

I have visited Plan du Nord (google this for more information) each year since 2005, sometimes at a time other than the fet (festival) which takes place during the time of Ogou (St. Jacques) July 23-25 every year. It is always packed.

This year, sadly, there were not nearly enough people as is usual, except at the actual baths--where it seemed more crowded and more difficult to navigate. My friends told me that the high number of deaths and the economic impact of the earthquake has impacted this important spiritual and cultural event this year. Entering the area was sad, and vendors and practitioners seemed to vie for business and attention more so than usual.

The baths, however, were packed--and while I asked why, no-one knew. We speculated that perhaps the devastation and never-ending distress caused by this event has caused more people to seek healing--or, as in the case of Plan du Nord, rebirth.

The baths are intense. I imagine years ago they were healing and purifying as mud is--now, they are filthy. Despite my deep respect for this tradition, which occurs very near my own Lakou Jissou, the public health professional in me squirms at the idea of entering this dirty muddy water. I observe, offering my prayers and lighting my candles for Ogou Feray, espwi ki danse tet'm.

The following day we held our own Fet Ogou. After ManChoun's death 2 years ago, our Lakou is naturally figuring out how to operate (for lack of a better word) with the three designated successors (myself, Mawiyah and Lolo) being quite part time. Family members, previously uninvolved, have necessarily stepped up to offer logistical support--and, at times, there are misunderstandings between their understanding of our tradition, and ours---ours being what ManChoun taught us.

ManChoun may have been the last of the true Mambos. She was the embodiment of benevolence, and taught is the tradition with one hand----which means, kindness only. The practice is based in love and universality, which she carried in her heart, spirit and actions at all times. We had some hiccups preparing for the ceremony, and, it was a beautiful and varied gathering.

We surprised the community with our arrival, because so much has been uncertain and chaotic here since January 12th. They were sad that Fet Ogou might not take place. Despite some of the tensions we experience in planning with others who don't know or practice, the ceremony was lovely and a clear indication that ManChoun was guiding us. Its hard to describe ceremony in words---there is so much energy, there is vitality, color, pleasant and unpleasant smells, death, blood, pure white bright flowing skirts, play, provocation, dirt, incessant rhythm, sweat, joy. We danced until Spirit entered the space and made visual the tensions and misunderstandings we are working through. This is what Spirit does---in your face opportunities to find clarity, to divine, to come clean, to change and transform, to act, to reflect. The laughter and joy that emerged through the convergence of so much energy and so many people was a relief and a healing. The tension and provocation and challenging that took place was a raw and direct reminder of where we are.

Vodou is spirit---the practice of connecting to essence, and ancestry, of knowing how to act and how actions are not single events locked into time and space dimension but energies that continue to play out through kyros time and through the spaces in between---the crossroads, the intersection between life and death, spirit and humanity, past and present, present and future, tragedy and joy, the potent space Buddhists might call nothingness and Vodouists might call timelessness and others might experience as everything, all at once---Ever present, we all encounter, breath by breath and life by life.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 4, Trip 6

Today we finished a three day "Psychological First Aid" (PFA) training with the Uramel Psychotrauma center. We is myself and Dr. Melissa Brymer of UCLA/NCTSN, a colleague and friend, who is one of the those who originally operationalized Psychological First Aid, a concept that originated in the forties (or fifties?). Melissa was one of the very first people to reach out to me after January 12th, and her support has been invaluable for my work here, and for my own heart.

I began promoting the idea of this training shortly after the earthquake, to both Melissa and to my beloved colleagues at The Uramel Psychotrauma Center. Having first trained with Melissa, through NCTSN, many years ago, I knew the value of this work in the immediacy of a disaster. In the first three months after the earthquake, I provided over 350 individual PFA sessions and 20 something group sessions. It became clearer and clearer to me that this model would benefit Haiti not only in the immediate post disaster phase, but also long term, if local professionals and paraprofessionals are trained to do this work --and train others to do this work -- in anticipation of (likely) future disasters and troubles.

The training was a wonderful experience, and much of this is due to Melissa's amazing skills as a trainer/facilitator, and her intimacy with this work. The first day was challenging--as first days often are. Melissa had "warned" me about the possibility of the sense of a loss of hope, quite common worldwide at this 6 month moment, and while this made sense intellectually, I was quite stunned when myself, along with my Haitian colleagues, friends and family, "dropped in" to the reality of how much hopelessness is emerging in Haiti, now.

After three days, however, there has been a shift--and I find it impossible to describe in the limited realm of words what shifted, and how. I told Melissa that I believe PFA itself instills hope--seeing the energy and engagement of the participants on day 2 and 3 when the material began to "take form"; when their practice sessions revealed amazing sensitivity, skill and enthusiasm; and when conversations about the many ways PFA can "shapeshift" its supportiveness while still adhering to a clear and comprehensive model (which my Haitian colleagues deeply value) -- all this contributed to a sense of hope, energy, vitality and life in the room.

There is something bigger that happened, also--but again, no words. I do think PFA can describe itself as a model that increases and enhances hope--whatever that means. Perhaps its the simplicity and universality of the work, embedded in a rich and complex model, that enables this.

As I write, my dance and drum community (The Railyard Community in Santa Fe, under the leadership of Elise and Eric Gent) is fundraising for Trauma Resources International. Many of my dear dance class-mates are performing, as are dancers, drummers musicians and others from New York, West Africa and elsewhere. The proceeds of this fundraiser will enable TRI to continue to support trainings for the Uramel Psychotrauma center (we are currently working on a three year plan for community-based mental health) as well as continue to support the therapeutic program for children in Carrefour, very near the epicenter; and contribute to the work we are doing in partnership with Atletik Payi Ayiti ("ADH") in Cite Soleil.

The convergence of hope---the "tet ansam" (all of us together) spirit of our PFA training; the dance; the drums; the ceremonies we are preparing for this weekend---tout bagay li fe espwa. Nou pa ka pede espwa paske "espwa li bagay final tout nou pede."

port au Prince, Haiti Day 8, Trip 5

As I write this blog I am also preparing to board my plane for the first leg of a three flight journey home. I have not written this trip, both because it was short, and also because internet was down most of the time. But there is another reason—the nature of this trip was quite different from others.

I did not do much individual work with local people. When I returned to Haiti this time, there was a shift—a “quieting” is the only way I can describe it---amongst those I usually work with.

Most of my work this time was programmatic; however, I arrived to find that while many Haitians were certainly still dealing with stress, trauma, loss and grief, they were quite busy in the remaking of their lives. The expatriate community, on the other hand—humanitarian workers, many of whom have been there since January—was unraveling. After a requested group session for several humanitarian workers, it was as if the flood gates were opened. I was consistently busy providing session for people who were experiencing burn out, secondary trauma, PTSD and depression.

We have been hearing that the magnitude of this disaster has trumped all others in terms of human horror and loss, levels of destruction, and complexity. If that is true, the evidence is in the distressed state of many of the humanitarian workers—especially those who were deployed early on—who work hard and courageously to assist the Haitian people.

There are many reasons for these levels of distress—some I have already addressed in previous blogs. Simply put for today—the lack of leadership and of a cohesive, Haitian informed response is contributing to a widening gap between the international and national community. Buddha taught us that separation creates suffering. This is painfully visible in Haiti. One expat described her experience as her face pressed hard against the pane of a glass window, waving to her Haitian counterparts and colleagues and would-be-friends, frantically gesturing to demonstrate how much she wanted to interact, to know, to touch Haiti. All the while, jobs demand we adhere to policies, procedures, and external agendas that may not reflect the long term and deeper needs of the Haitian people who want their lives, their capital city, their country to become country---to restore kay nou, our home—and to share it with the many visitors there today.

There are no illusions that Haiti will ever be what she was, but there is an understandable desire that a proud history and a commitment to place will be foundational to however Haiti’s future is built.

What does it mean that the hearts of so many who deployed to assist are breaking? What is it like to live in fear of the place and people you are helping, because a primary concern of employing organizations is liability, and fulfilling donors agendas so that numbers on paper are emphasized over human relationship?

I suspect the rein of the NGO’s will soon be over. I suspect this disaster will demonstrate that this is not a viable system. I originally left this professional world over 20 years ago because I was criticized and ostracized for believing, and promoting, the idea that any humanitarian worker should strive to work him/herself out of a job in 10-20 years, depending on the context. I suspect that the private sector will become the future of development of places, people, even in humanitarian emergencies.

I had this dream my last night in Haiti: I was showing my Father some of the places and people and things I love in Haiti. In one very green area, I was showing him beautiful black lilies on a strange, rustic, makeshift bookshelf sitting out in the open. These flowers were unique to this area of Haiti. Suddenly, two of them moved--crawled. They were actually gigantic tarantulas.

We stepped back, quickly, as I heard myself telling my Father "Watch Out!" They are going to jump! They bite"

Sure enough, they jumped for us--but we backed away fast enough and they missed us.

When I awoke, this phrase was in my early morning mind:

The dark soul of pain is where the longest light lives.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 2, Trip 5

The night I arrived, I dreamed the earth was moving--I kept waking up from a dream that felt like I was trapped in a square space that could not stop shaking.

The night before I arrived I dreamed of many women dressed in white, wearing white moshwa, preparing for ceremony.

Haiti feels different. I'll write bluntly: there are way too many foreigners here. Once again, Haiti is being parceled out to various interests---some for profit; some not for profit, and I feel the trampling of sacred ground by 1000's of hooves. Greedy hooves.

Local friends are losing jobs to foreigners--"experts", arriving to Haiti for the first time.

Doctors closing practices and leaving the country because there is too much free medical care here. Reports that things are not improving, and the inevitable "WHY--there is so much money pouring in here?"

Why? Because many of the people here weren't invited, have no previous relationship to Haiti, have their own agenda or mission or protocol and no time to gather input from local people. I wish someone would stand at the airport with a sign that says: "IF YOU ARE NOT INVITED GO HOME". And really make people go home. No new NGO's, no Missionaries on a quest to convert Haitians, no more self proclaimed experts.

The fault is not all in the arriving masses--there is, as I have written before, simply no governance, no body in control of screening, planning short or long term, and balancing the needs, ideas, and activities of people, government, NGO's, private sector, etc. So the earth trembles under the thundering hooves, scrambling to get their piece.

And, there is a lot of fear.

A recent return to kidnapping for ransom has terrified some members of the international community. The consequences of kidnaping are horrible, and, doesn't anyone see the irony in the legendary amounts of money "pouring in" (where?), the massive influx of foreigners driving nice cars and driving prices sky-high, and the lack of visible, meaningful change? Why are so many people still camping under torn pieces of tarp when we have been raising the concern about the rains since January 13th?

I say, if you're that scared, go home. Fear produces fear. We don't need any more fear here.

A friend of mine has started a brilliant project. For $10.00 a truckload, he buys rubble, dumps and spreads it over his formerly flood-prone land, and large tractors flatten, "squoosh" and distribute it. When they find bodies or body parts, they give them a proper burial. The land is already flat and the smell recedes with time. The flooding risk is almost entirely eliminated now, and they are beginning to move tents to this higher, drier ground. Eventually, they will build houses here.

I cannot ignore the obvious and perhaps cliche image of the Phoenix, rising from the ashes. Homes --eventually a community--built on debris, death, destruction: this is transformation.

port au Prince, Haiti Day 12, Trip 4

I have just returned home and went to my favorite yoga class today. Our luminous teacher shared some words she woke up with, following a night of rich dreams:

HOPE IS A HERO

She went on to describe how all the tulips planted at her mesa-top home had survived a long day and night of fierce winds. Perhaps, she speculated, the petals gather in and relax--versus cling---and that is how they hold on.

The image reminds me of Haiti -- of her people. Of the communities still gathered to support one another to live outside, to live through the rains, to cook, sleep, protect their children. Kampe--stand up---Kenbe---hang on. Hang on with strength and grace.

I remembered three more stories I'll share in closing this trips blog.

One of the woman I counseled on Wednesday described herself as having accepted the situation. After a month or so of fear, sadness, distress, she chose to accept and to go on with her life. Kenbe. Her house and family intact, she recognizes that this is easier for her than for others. And others are the source of her distress now:

"I cannot bear to look around me when I walk or drive anywhere. Everytime I see how people are suffering, how they are living, I feel despair. I want to help everyone, and then I feel overwhelmed. "

We talked for a moment about sensitivity, about prioritizing what we can and cannot do, about the sense of connectedness that is core to Haitian values.

Then she switched to her concerns for her 5 year old daughter. "Everytime we go out, she covers her eyes, as if she cannot bear to look. I ask her why she does this. She says "I don't want to see all this Mommy." She asks me: "Is that ok? Is she ok?"

My reply: "I think your daughter has found a really good coping strategy. Maybe she is trying to teach you. What would happen if you do this together? We all have limits to what we can bear witness to. She knows that, and has figured out how to practice that."

She loved the simple idea of sharing this practice with her daughter, even though she still acknowledged that she felt bad at not being able to do more, and at having the privilege to close her eyes to others suffering. She was deeply grateful for the "permission" to give herself breaks--moments of rest-from the overwhelming stimulus around her.

I met with a young man, in his early twenties, who began the session with a long, "spiraly" description of how he had changed. His summary: "I don't trust anyone, anymore." I tried several probes to see if we could locate a root, in the earthquake experience, for this sentiment--which is common after interpersonal traumas and human rights abuses. The intensity of his conviction seemed unusual following a natural disaster---though the magnitude of this ongoing disaster and tragedy is certainly capable of destroying trust. There is so little to anchor into, in Haiti. So little clear direction towards the future, no leadership, not enough housing in the rainy season, not enough food and clean water. No progress, or, very minute progress.

We talked for awhile, and he shared very openly, and with humility. I told him I was impressed with his ability to reveal so much in a time when he could not trust. He paused, thinking. He smiled warmly at me, nodded his head.

Two names lit up in my head, like a traffic light. "Sartre" and "Camus." I asked if he had read, or heard of, these philosophers. He had not, and, had wanted to. He lit up with curiosity and enthusiasm.

I spoke a little about my perception that he might be describing what some would call an existential crisis. I spoke about my sense of his losing his center--and he resonated immediately with this idea. He seemed relieved to have this named.

Along with referrals for two local psychologists with training in existential psychology, I "assigned" him to read the works of these two authors, and added Samuel Beckett to the list.

We agreed he could write me with thoughts and questions; though I suggested if he chooses to pursue therapy, he might request these works be a part of his therapeutic process. He left with what he described as "a little hope that he had something interesting to do, and gratitude that he had experienced a small moment of trust in his sharing."

On the way to the airport the following morning, I had to pee really badly. Since the earthquake, there is no bathroom available prior to the gate and boarding area. The lines to get into the airport can result in a 1-2 hour wait.

It was 6:45 m. The driver stopped at a service station /shop that appeared to not be open, but had people roaming around. When he asked if there was a toilet, there was a somewhat frantic exchange, and I was ushered to the back of the partially damaged building.

A man in a service station uniform lead me by the bathroom. Locked. We kept going. When we made it to the back, there was the typical rocky, chaotic pathway through a brief concrete alley into the back of the building. Puddles, mud, rocks, everywhere. Dismal.

Living quarters. A young law enforcement officer was dressing, putting on his swat uniform. He greeted me and apologetically moved aside so I could enter his shabby, concrete, drenched with rain, partially broken living quarters. A tiny dark, dank room with a simple cot. Across from it, a changing room that looked more like a small cell. The toilet--modern flush, and clean, sat in its own tiny dark room with barely a door.

I apologized for interrupting, joking that I should not have had coffee before the long drive to the airport, and bemoaning the lack of toilets at the makeshift airport.

"No, its my fault,: he said. I have the key to the bathroom here but cannot find it. Please..." and he pointed to the tiny toilet room.

When I entered the door would not shut, so he offered "I will hold it shut." He did, leaning against it with his weight.

I left, thanked him and apologized again for interrupting his morning routine. "Its o." he said, kindly, generously, smiling, and extending his hand. "Have a good trip."

I left this brief exchange with these two questions:

1. What is to become of a country where a member of the law enforcement swat team--with all the responsibility of that profession-- must dress each morning in such dismal, broken, unlivable conditions?

2. How does someone living in such difficult conditions offer such gracious, kind assistance to a complete stranger who essentially barges into their home at 6:45 am?