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.