I'm in a field of work. That's a strange thing to say. While I would argue that peacebuilding is something that everyone can do everyday, everywhere, I think there's still a very different angle to actually having the job-title of peacebuilder. A lot of the mental work that I've been doing this last month is trying to wrap my head around what this actually looks like or feels like for me, and trying to integrate so much from my experiences and study- philosophy, tools, theology, memories of conflict, interpersonal relationships, theories of why conflict happens, traumas- into a lived, daily practice of peacebuilding here. I can't quite put my finger on the difference between studying in the States and working here, but it's something along the lines of involvement- perhaps a shift from mostly taking in to giving my energy out. Anyway, I want to reflect a little on something one of our presenters said last week about academics and presence.
We were working over some analysis tools with a presenter- the nested model, for example, which breaks the conflict down into four different levels (situation, relationship, sub-system, and system) and different time periods to help strategically understand the stages of conflict. I made a comment about horizontal networking- essentially, building relationships with other academics/peace workers all over the world, in order to share information with them. It's a key part of acknowledging globalization's benefits in fighting globalization's harm: building a web of folks that can collaborate against the huge world systems that inhibit alternative and resistance movements. The presenter responded with a powerful cautionary tale that I really, really needed to hear. She spoke against our analysis tools, our academic understanding, and our mid-level collaboration. Or rather, she didn't condemn them, but challenged us to keep them to ourselves. She shared about working with Colombian women who had suffered severe, specific sexual violence, and her horror at her instinctual response to their stories. She began to analytically compare them to women that she had worked with elsewhere- this degree of pain, that specific experience, this similar memory, this benefit, that detriment. Her analysis was her distance.
One thing that has been consistently irking me as we learn more and more about Colombia is the ease with which I am analyzing the conflict. Hearing about the armed conflict is always exciting- terrible, but exciting. It's another piece of the puzzle- what was the motivation of that paramilitary group in that massacre? How did the displaced person tell their story in that setting? What does that reveal about their needs? How does the US money influence the governing political elite? International corporations? Let's take notes, draw a diagram, have another conversation where we compare and contrast our experiences with agribusiness, arms trafficking, cultural epidemics of fear, chosen trauma, protests... it can get really unemotional. Callous. It can get really scientific, diagnostic, strategic. I worry myself.
I worry myself because I feel like we peacebuilders/workers can tend to respond to conflict in the same style as military officials. We strategize, and it feels good. It is a kind of triumph to map it all out, to have long, well-informed conversations about the state of the world. To track the connections between evil corporations and governments and the education system and poverty and the military and terrorism... and to feel like we are doing a good service by figuring it all out, then strategically analyzing where our peace work can fit it. And then I wonder what the hell I'm doing. I'm standing over a map, moving troops in tactical formation. Where is the grace, the love, the beauty? Where is the artistic force, the hugs and hymns, the helplessness, the ranting and the middle of the night sleeplessness? Where are the emotions of our lucha (fight)?
I'm scared. I'm scared that we are closing our eyes just as much as we say the other side is. I'm worried about my callousness. I've been trying to work against this, intentionally, and I'm thinking that trying to open up my heart and remember what I'm fighting for (and against) is the most important work that I've done here so far. Recognizing that if we stop at understanding and analyzing, we lose our reasons why. I forget that the reason I'm here is because sometimes the truth of the world breaks me inside. Because my family is full of unspoken stories of trauma. Because Mama Carolina from Sudan escaped from a refugee camp as a child and walked dozens of miles to find her mother, and because she cried with me as she told the story. Because I feel a little jolt of triumph when I see a new plant sending out leaves. Because yesterday I was talking in English on my cell phone and a man who was picking through the trash for recycling to sell asked me for a few pesos, and I didn't give him any. Because I shared a meal with displaced folks on Wednesday, and talked about the joy and necessity of having God in your life. Because I've seen so many people cry about their loneliness. Because baking bread always feels like an act of resistance, and a reason to dance. Because yesterday, someone laughed because they listened to me laugh. Because I pass so many homeless men when I go running in the morning. Because someone I know is going off to war. Because there are so, so many stories of shame and pain and loss here and everywhere, and also because each one is precious and worth listening to.
These are some of the stories, some of the emotions, some of the pictures that lie underneath our diagrams and maps and strategies. We need to remember the little pieces, beyond our cynicism and analysis. So much of my work is and will be trying to keep the doors open and letting the reality in, in its unique and painful ugliness and truth. I'm trying, and praying for help.
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