Campesinos y Campesinas

Here I am in Berruguita, loving it more day by day.

Yesterday, I woke up at 5:30 to cut rice.  I am tired of living in a farming community and getting blisters because my hands are “computer soft,” as a friend from Jubilee Partners told me one time, when I visited after going back to college.  I’m going to work. 

 

We got to the field at 6:30ish, and cut stalk after stalk until 1:30, pausing to wipe sweat from our faces and drink from a shaded spring nearby.  My friends sang vallenato and Mexican rancheros as they worked, and they railed me with questions about Madonna (recently gave a concert in Colombia) and what giraffes were really like (after they found out I’d seen one alive) and if you could cross breed giraffes and donkeys (like true farmers).  We laughed at how red my face got and they complemented by rice-cutting speed. 

I jumped in the river afterward to cool down and visited with my neighbor friend, who was sitting in the water, washing cooking pots, and then headed up town to sit with some friends for the cool-afternoon-chat-time.  On the way there, I passed twenty or so young men walk-running down the road, some carrying a hammock on their shoulders, others waiting for their turn.  A pale older woman lay in the hammock, her son running beside her, stroking her hand.  They were carrying her out until they reached a car that could take her to the hospital.  Later, I ran into a friend who commented that his trip to the city had reached no conclusions, as his child’s health insurance was still not sorted out.  His son was born with heart and intestinal problems and has had two operations and needs another, but bureaucracy has kept his insurance tied up.  They are waiting.

As the sun set, I sat with some dear friends, talking about rice cutting techniques and natural remedies for stomach sickness (the señora prides herself in having had cured about everyone in the community at one time or another).  They recommended that I blend some green bananas, peel and all, when I have an upset stomach.  At one point, the señora turned to me and said, “How great is God.  Look at our lime tree.  Everyone picks from it, and there are still dozens of limes ripe and ready, all year round.  And right next to the kitchen.  God takes good care of us.”  As I left, they showed me the sacks of rice that they’ll store to eat this year.  The sunset was beautiful.

How blessed I am to get the chance to live here and experience how life smells, feels, hurts, and thrives in this village.  I’m reading the book about Paul Farmer, Mountains Beyond Mountains, right now.  I had resisted picking it up for several years, not knowing what I would think about his outlook on the answer to the problem of unequal distribution of wealth, resources, and especially medicine between the rich and poor.  His answer is Robin Hood- take what you can, when you can, and always prefer the poor.  He is bold and angry.

I don’t know how I would stand up in a conversation with Farmer.  I feel boldly angry, but in my work I often find myself following MCC’s cautious approach, pushing for accompaniment and sustainability.  I’m not creating a pilot project out of nothing, run on my persistence and will, but trying to help create a healthy community that responds to its own needs.  Sometimes it feels almost futile.

Farmer hates the “they are poor but they are happy” thought, seeing it as an excuse for writing off the deep and intentional inequalities in the world and excusing inaction.  After yesterday, I find myself agreeing.  My heart hurts to see my sharp, honest, joyful friends manually picking rice for extremely low prices, with few other options for work.  I was brought to tears as my friend called out to me as he ran past, waiting for his turn to carry the hammock, with joy to be helping someone, but such bitterness that the road is so bad that shoulders are the only way to get sick people out.  I lament with my friends as they reminisce about the houses full of rice they used to have, before the displacement and before people left and didn’t come back. 

My community finds joy in their days.  But it is joy in spite of, not because.  It is joy in spite of years of trampling and being pushed down.  It is the love that emerges for each other, for the land, and for good work, in spite of the grinding reality of poverty.  There is no “poor but happy” excuse to not fight for better roads, a doctor in the health clinic, better wages.  I want so badly for some relief in the struggle that people live here.  There will always be difficulties, but I want there to be fewer.  I want them to enjoy their lime trees and be proud of their rice, not in spite of, but because.  Because farming is good work, because they love each other, because they are skilled and intelligent and proud and deserving.  I want the world to see them with dignity, not as poor people who are stuck in the mountains, but as the fabric that holds us all together.

Vistas de la gente

Washing on the wire.

There is a place where the road tracks through an valley opening, with flat land, empty of houses, making a change from dense tree cover and river crossings. Fifty or so cows bellowed through one of the pastures, threading through shrubs and mudholes to a gap in the fence. A mustached man atop a gray horse reined it in and ceased his herding for a moment. He dropped the reins and stood in his stirrups to bend the thick branch of a guava tree and snatch a ripe yellow guava. In between bites, he bellowed the cows to the road, chasing the white calves behind their huge-eyed, solemn mothers.

The skinny boy who stays home unless his mother sends his long legs up the road to buy rice appeared at the neighbor's one day. Within minutes, he was smiling shyly at Abuela, conversing fluidly about ant-killing pesticide. Within more minutes, he had walked his bare feet up the nearest palm tree and was kicking down coconuts, but only the dry brown ones. Within a few more, he had dusted himself off and passed me walking up the road, not even quietly saying hello.

Family photo (Neguith and 5 sons: Neiver, Gleider, Gleiner, Leiver, Eider).

She's ten, but there's no way to know that from the palms of her hands. She is wiry, perhaps because sometimes there is only clean yucca for lunch, that is to say, yucca with nothing. She crouches in the dirt and scratches first a knife, then rubs handfuls of sand back and forth over the soot-encrusted pot. The pots are decades old, but there's no way to know that from the way they shine when she finishes.

Afternoon futbol practice (Juancho, Anyi, Indris, Yeiris, Merkin)

They holler a greeting, the same every Monday, as their animals wallow through the mud to the next village, where they collect payment for the fresh, bright clothes they sold the last Monday. The tall sister, crowned with comb-defying black hair, rides by on her tall, thin palomino mount. The short sister, with smoother hair and wider hips, perches on her squat, sturdy donkey. The donkey scrambles less for footing as they round the curve and disappear, hello shouts washing back on the breeze.

Watching futbol (Cesar, Mañe, Moyses, 2 from the next town).

New rice (Luis)

Husking corn for seed (Jorge)

Woman

You are worth dying my hands black.

Just as I dug my heels into the sand as the creek rushed by,

willing myself not to be swept away and to listen with every gram of my being

-to feel the word feathers-

I will dig my light fingers into your black hair,

tinting it deeper, to match your height and bearing on horseback.

You laugh and ask if I want to be black- because it would be a step down-

and I laugh and say why not- because at least I wouldn't feel like an alien.

I am spectating pain.

The girls strip to their shorts and lay in the water to listen.

I gingerly step into the sand.

(I have just started to bathe in the river)

You sit, with your huge breasts tipping down toward the washing board

as you pour water of ashes over the ripped clothes,

scrubbing and beating and rinsing and bleaching

until they are cleaner than mine will ever be

(I have just started to wash in the river)

You tell me of the day when your brother was taken

Pulled from his wife's hands in front of his two small children

And found with a bullet wound that split his skull in two

Your sister speaks up

they were never the same.

We saw him, but kept the coffin closed.

No one is ever the same.

You tell me of the day that you heard he had returned,

rode out proclaiming,

and came back to hear that he was dead.

That when his father lifted his broken body,

his head fell to the dirt.

His father works to the bone now.

You came back to see his wife's house taken apart

and stacked at the side of the road,

as your people lost the light in their eyes and began to leave their land.

I remember that my jaw dropped when I heard your womb had never held a child.

You are a mother.

I know from your seven daughters who look nothing like each other,

and I know from your long arms and Sabbath greetings

and I know because you told me that you've never been able to stop cooking huge meals

just in case.

And I know, because you smoothed my back

and grated onion with sugar, and tied the poultice on,

and with your strident prayer, you took the hands and voice

that have been shaped by great pain,

and used them to heal a small pain,

but pain nonetheless.

Fragility

This weekend, I was reminded of the scary fragility of my body, and of being far away from the people I love. Before I say anything more, I want to say that I'm shaken up but ok, and taking time to heal. The story seems so extreme, and although I really am recovering well, I got really close to not being here at all. I was swimming with friends (Emma and Jess) on vacation, a little out from a beach that is just for swimmers, and was hit by a motorboat (it's all right if you need to laugh, I've laughed a lot about how absurd it is). It swept over me and hit my lower back/ tailbone, which bounced me down away from the propeller. I came up kicking and yelling for help, and within seconds, several people had heard me and were heading to help. I sustained an impact to the lower back and a short cut on my elbow. After an afternoon in various hospitals, we got results that I am not fractured, but need lots of rest to heal.

Accidents are terrifying. There is no warning, no chance to plan ahead, and they can go both ways, toward a miracle or toward so much pain. The same night, I called my Mom and realized that it was the anniversary of my grandpa Joe Shenk's death, which came on the heels of my uncle Reuben's death. Joe was hit by a truck while running in Nyabange, Tanzania, and died several days later from complications that went undiagnosed and unoperated, in some ways because of the unavailability of medical care that might have saved him. On Saturday, we explained that MCC will pay our bills. We called an ambulance, and although it was poor quality and unequipped for real emergencies, it still got us quickly and safely to the clinic. In the first clinic, they wheeled us past lines of waiting Colombians, many of whom were thinking about their bills, how and when and who was going to pay them. The security guard looked at me as we were heading out and said something like- “look at how well they treat the blond girl.” We went to a second clinic, a private clinic, and paid for another consult, saw a specialist, were attended relatively quickly, and paid the bills.

I am not skimping on my care. MCC is good about saying that we need to take care of ourselves, whatever it takes, because a sick worker can't do nearly as much as a well one. We must heal ourselves. Guilt is powerful though. Accidents are equalizers- everyone hurts, and everyone deserves what they need. I went to the emergency room in the US with a friend a year ago and was horrified. In other wings of the hospital, you hear mostly English. In the ER, I heard many languages- there were so many immigrants, undocumented or documented, without health insurance, with many more hoops to jump through.

Through talking about priviledge with the other Seeders, I think we've come to think about things in terms of basic rights. If I have access to clean water, it's not smart to give that up to be in solidarity with those that don't have clean water. I should fight all the harder for everyone to have clean water. I had potentially life-threatening injury and I needed urgent care. I want that to be true for everyone. It isn't, and that breaks my heart, but it should be.

The other week, I had a long conversation with Ann and Jim Hershberger, who turned out to be the MCC reps in Nicaragua who had received the body of my mother's cousin, Dan Wenger, who was an MCC worker there in the late 80s. He died in a car accident during his term. As we talked about Dan, and now, as I reflect on my accident and that of my grandpa, I'm shaken. I never want to live scared. I believe in what I do, and I want to continue to travel, to work in service, even though the roads might be worse, the water might be contaminated, and the levels of crime or urban violence might be higher. Accidents happen everywhere, and we have to be smart and safe. The hardest thing is that an accident far from home is more traumatic. My family can't see me or know that I'm well. I feel so far from them right now, and am all the more aware of what could happen. I'm not leaving though, far from it.

A day later, my sister's best friend was killed in a car accident. She was sixteen, blooming, growing, full of light. It is such an enormous loss, and so arbitrary. I am healing, she is not. We both were in accidents. Horrible things happen all the time to people who never deserve them, and we are left with no way of dealing with them. There is no motive, no justification. How does my sister lose her friend? How do we say goodbye when we can't prepare or reason? When I ask people in my community about their losses in the massacre of 2000, they all tell me that there is no why. They were left with no way of understanding why their family members were targeted, for what motive they were taken away. How do you heal that?

The only thing I can think of right now is presence. I am so profoundly grateful that I haven't been alone in this. Emma and Jess made sure that the nurses stopped fiddling with my elbow and let me lay down to ease my back pain. They fed me sardine and mustard crackers in the clinic and cracked jokes about the ridiculousness of the succesive injuries in the Seed group (and how I have now one-upped everyone). The other Seeders and MCCers have been calling everyday. My family lovingly posted alarming messages on my facebook wall. My mom, who is confronted by several tragedies at once, is strong enough to keep calling, to keep talking about all of it. We were talking about what to do about my sister's friend, and she said that Thandi's mother had just asked her to sit down with her and eat food- there was so much food, and nothing else to do. I remember that during the horrible weeks of my uncle and grandpa's death and funeral, my aunt Rose had so much food to eat, and through the fog of dealing with unimaginable loss, we sat and ate. These things are terrible, but Anna and I will sit in Sincelejo and make chocolate cake and eat vegetables. Gilly and Mom with go to Thandi's house and eat with her family. I will keep sitting with people in my community, telling stories and cooking and taking one step forward at a time.

Fourth of July, a few days later

Once more, living outside of the U.S. has meant that the fourth of July has snuck up on me, unheralded by department-store sales and recipes for red, white, and blue desserts. In my small town, there will be no fireworks. All the men will go to work in the morning, hiking into the hills to check on the corn, and will come back sweaty and hungry to their wives, who will have worked all morning to clean the house and put sancocho (the Costeño stew) on the table.

My brother was just here visiting from the same U.S.A. for a few days, and besides the early morning cow-butchering and horseback trek to visit someone's fields, we spent a lot of time chewing on the stark differences between our current lives. I think, for my part, this translates into me venting about various aspects of my job. Perhaps venting isn't quite right, but I remember that I would repeatedly have a conversation with a community member about some aspect of our work, then as I translated to Dylan, I would explain why this part of my work was frustrating. The word I use most often is “try,” as in, “we're trying to involve the younger men in our projects” or “we're trying to promote democratic participation” or “we're trying to creates channels of communication between leaders.” Once more, I feel like the beautiful conflict analysis diagrams and development project plans from EMU are bare guidelines, and the real work is just years of slugging away, piece by piece building process.

I asked Dylan once if he thought I was being overly negative about my work, and his reply put to voice something I'd been thinking for a while. He said no- rather the context was wrapped in negativity. The people here are extraordinarily brave and loving, but they wrestle constantly with a host of things that try to cut them down. I think living here is most importantly an experience of structural violence in almost every form, and I'm not exaggerating. This is a community of poor peasant-farmers, living on rich land, but without the tools to profit from it. They are recovering from a massacre and mass displacement, which caused unimaginable material losses, tears in family structure, fear and distrust in others from the community, and on and on. The government is unresponsive to their pleas for better roads and schools, and folks here are too busy, without resources, and underprepared to organize well. The worst part is that most of the influences around appear to be working against them. The Colombian and international vision of development doesn't have a place in it for the preservation of the small-scale farmer. Reparations and aid for displaced people tend to be monetary hand-outs, which negatively affects the pride and resilience of independent farmers, now reduced to spending days filling out paperwork in Colombia's bureaucratic behemoth. Even the weather seems to be conspiring against them. An unscientific understanding sees climate change warping the rainy season patterns, meaning that every year, many of the farmers simply bet wrong. As we speak, there is rice turning yellow in most of my friends' fields, thanks to the lack of rain all June.

Over and over, I get this feeling that this village is at the algae end of the food chain. A rural agrarian community in a country hell-bent on reinventing itself as an economic power... globally, it is not a promising story. Another village of campesinos is expendible, especially if there is something valuable under the soil. The passion that people have for their yuca crops, the knowledge of exactly which tree has the best mangoes, the lengthy arguments over the price of cows, and the fierce bonds of family and community... these things are not worth developing or preserving from the standpoint of progress. I should say, from the disassociated plans for progress. If we educate, if we rethink, if we rehumanize, if we listen to the campesinos themselves, these things can be understood for their true values. How strange, that something can be worthless from one angle and priceless from another.

And so we keep on trying. I keep on trying to express to my community my vast appreciation and wonder at this way of life, and we keep thinking of ways to strengthen it.

As we approach July fourth, I find myself in a different place than last year. Last year, I thought long and hard about the things I loved about the U.S.- especially the brilliant, vibrant people who resist the push for global dominance, by living and loving each other in their own communities. This year, I'm trying to understand a helpless fury drected at the top of the food chain. I could qualify this fury for pages- I know that the American Dream isn't true for so many within the U.S., and I know that it isn't the only factor that plays in Colombia's (or many other developing nations') path to economic and political success- and it isn't helpful to flatly blame anyone, especially not a nation as huge and diverse as the U.S. I do know that something is deeply wrong, and I think it's perhaps the myth of the American Dream. Maybe it's still the blessed myth of the bootstraps that stalks us, as we desperately try to believe that the problems in a Colombian village are centered around lack of organization, not the demoralization of centuries of having everything held just out of their reach. Maybe it's the fact that people in my village ask me over and over about the U.S. as if it's the promised land, not the land that has stolen that promise at some point from every country in Latin America.

I don't know where to direct my anger. I don't know how to understand the incredible gap of opportunity and possibility for myself and the average 23-year-old in my town. I don't know how we can start to value community, sustainable planning for the future, resilient economic systems, and transformative relationships. I don't know how not to feel guilty about everything (although I cope, and I ignore, and I don't). I don't know how to talk about development- what is essential? What is a right?

The only thing I can think recently is that we have to learn that not everyone has bootstraps, and maybe a better model is talking about hands. Maybe we need to reach out our hands more often, and help pull each other up.  

Things are happening..

For the last two months, if you've noticed, I've been mostly absent from the interwebs. Unlike every month since I moved to Berruguita (nine months ago!) except October, I spent April and May almost completely in my community. This is the plan, but the other months have been patterns of 2-3 weeks in the community, then a workshop, meeting, or trip that pulls me out for a while. Constancy has a very different rhythm than changing spaces.

For one, it's meant dealing with a huge lack of communication with the outside world. Also, the power has been going out almost daily, for a number of hours each time. It's started raining, so sometimes we are “mudded in” (like snowed in, only not as charming). The hardest part has been getting up every morning to the same old process. Movement feels like action, and staying still can feel like floundering. Traveling is an easy way of working, and hanging out in the community often feels like waiting for something to happen.

Nevertheless, these two months have given me the chance to watch some things unfold before me, instead of bouncing in and out of the action. Community building (the current words that feel like they apply to my job) is slow, and made up of hundreds of details that over time create a strong and flexible network of connection. Living here lets me participate in some of those details.

I hesitate to say that these things mean progress. After reading James Loewen's Lies my Teacher Told Me, I hesitate to use the word progress at all. He describes the U.S.ian myth that we are climbing a constant upward slope to perfection, and every change is positive and leads us out of the darkness of the past. I believe in working for just social change, true, but I don't believe that we are moving in a straight line toward perfect equality, reconciliation, peace, justice or anything. I believe that these things have existed in the past and continue to exist, and we must work to bring them into the light. We can work at change and transformation by reinforcing relationships and actions that help us to act in just and peaceful ways. So progress... hm. I prefer to say hopeful things that are happening.

Here are a few of those details that bring hope to my work:

In September, we started the long process of organizing a chicken project with some young women. Now, they've had both their first and second “sacrifices” (as they call them here), and I hear people all over the community exclaiming how healthy and delicious the chickens are. We've agreed that although we would rather people not eat chicken-house chicken, if they will anyway we want them to eat this, because it is raised here with good air and water, is fed no antibiotics, is kept clean and uncrowded, and eats only the processed feed, with no additional chemicals.

THERE ARE FINALLY FISH IN THE FISH POND. I will leave it at that because this process has been unbelievably slow and difficult, and that is enough of an accomplishment to be a huge triumph.

Our fifth community meeting since my arrival was the most well-attended yet, and many young men who had steered clear before came, mainly because of their interest in the collective land process we are working on. In Colombia, an Afro-descendent community has the affirmative right to organize into a Community Council (we have) and to own collective land. This is a small way the government has thought of to help compensate for centuries of abuse and discrimination. The community is finally becoming conscious of the enormous possibility of this right, and while older married couples have traditionally been those most involved in our work in this community, many young men are starting to pay attention, mainly because this could provide them work off rented or inherited or shared land.
Ricardo, the director of SembrandoPaz, successfully facilitated a negotiation about a piece of disputed land in a nearby community. In a situation where there could have easily been violent actions from both sides, people met, talked, and came out as neighbors with an agreement to split the land. This is a big deal, and is made up of a few treks into the mountains, a chance encounter at a car repair shop, many conversations as we waited for the trucks to pick up the avocadoes, plenty of battery-dying in the middle of important phone calls, and one nerve-racking 4 hour meeting.

As a result, I have had many more complex conversations about possible reconciliation or negotiation meetings with other people in seemingly-hopeless tangles over land. None is for certain, but the community is aware and excited about the possibility to talk in person and perhaps avoid years of legal battling.

In the aforementioned community meeting (which had been going so well), one of the community leaders accused another of intentionally cutting the power cables so that he, the only one with a generator, could steal the party from the rest of the town. This led to a fight, many people left the meeting in disgust, and the next day there were threats and accusations of all sorts being thrown around. Just to be clear, this was not positive, but the response of the same Commuity Council was, simply, awesome. Two days later, I sat amazed, listening as other community leaders worked their way through a reconciliation meeting with their two fellow leaders. Many have mediation training but had never put it into action before, and it was inspiring to watch them successfully mediate a situation that was on its way to the municipal police station. It would be a lie to say that I hadn't been instrumental in getting people to the table, but once there I honestly did nothing, just sat back and listened to the wise words shared. It was heartwarming and also a bit silly to watch the two community leaders apologize and give each other a “brotherly hug.”

With four different farmers, I've donned my boots to hike up into the hills to visit their fields and to check out the possibility of giving them a small loan to improve or make possible a certain planting. Many farmers have available land (often even seeds) but not quite enough capital to make a big investment. We look carefully at their ideas for a loan, visit the fields, eat mangoes with them, talk about percentages and payments, and eventually help plant as well. This is one of my favorite parts of my job. People light up when I make the time to visit their work, and talking about possibilities is so refreshing after over and over discussing, feeling, and living the obstacles.

And finally, the last two details that are signs of hope...

My fridge was fixed. (Although, after six months of room temperature water, I just can't drink it cold.)

And I got a puppy. Her name is Sacha and she loves to bite my toes, hard. And she is ridiculously cute, especially when she fights with my chickens.

Free Food!

I think I'm the cheapest MCCer on the Colombia budget this year. If we're only talking about the food budget, I'm sure. Last week I think I spent three to four dollars on food, and part of that was because I had visitors and I had to buy real things to eat. If it's up to me, more often than not I just eat an entire avocado and that's that. (It's avocado season, and there are thousands, literally, on trees and kitchen tables and the ground, in sacks and trucks and everywhere. The average size is four times the puny black ones you find in the States.)

The reason I spend no money, according to some of my male fellow seeders, is because I eat unfathomably small meals. The real reason, according to me, is the incredible generosity of my community members. I know that most folks who live with host families overseas have stories about the ridiculous amounts of food that are placed in front of them, and the moral dilemma of appreciating the gift but really not wanting to explode and/or gain absurd amounts of weight. I have enough of these stories, from Spain (paella!), Palestine (pita and labneh!), Sudan (posho!), and now, Colombia. One of my friends never, never fails to feed me lunch, no matter if I visit at 11am or 3pm. If there is food nearly ready, ready, or on the stove, I'll be handed a plate. Many evenings, I'll be cooking in my house and open the door to find the small neighbor boy with a Tupperware and a cup of juice. I hate it sometimes, because of my ruthless independent streak and need for control, but I love it too. If I don't eat all the rice, after all, I can just feed it to the chickens and eat the eggs later- win win! The best part is that this is not just true for me, as an outsider (although it might be a bit excessive), but is true in every house, for everyone. If food is served, it is served to everyone who is there, the second-cousins, the neighbor kids, the truck drivers, even if everyone knows that they are on their way to another meal in their own house. Two of my older women friends are used to cooking for a ton of kids and have just kept on cooking large pots of food, just in case someone shows up. I just love that.

This weekend I helped facilitate the first MCC delegation visit of my time here in the community, and once again, I helped coordinate the food. The cooks and I decided that we wanted to cook almost completely with food grown here, so the day before, I went looking for fresh yucca, ripe avocadoes, milk and eggs. A friend had already brought ñame the day before, and the garden is producing all the vegetables necessary except tomatoes, so we were doing well. I had some money and receipts in my bag. Two hours later, I staggered home with 15 pounds of yucca, ten platanos, about 15 almost-ripe avocadoes, a bag of fresh-picked cherries for juice, and all the money I'd left with. I just popped my head in doors, asking after ripe avocadoes, and people loaded me up. When I indirectly mentioned money, they brushed me off. Of course not.

That evening, four more avocadoes showed up. The next morning, people brought 10 more. I was so proud to tell the folks on the delegation that almost all the food they were eating was gifted, and even prouder to see friends of mine, two days after the delegation, walking home from church with a bunch of platanos. It's normal- everyday, with everyone- to gift food. We live in that abundance, and it's beautiful.

I think a lot about the strange nature of community here. As those of you who've been following my few-and-far-between blog posts know already, most of my job is fighting tooth and nail to get people to come to meetings, to work together, to put effort into a group initiative, and to swallow their pride for a minute and collaborate, admit that someone else may have a point, and try to reach agreement. I wonder if I just have the wrong framework in my brain for community- maybe meeting attendance actually doesn't matter, but we can measure community through something else...

What I see is that people here are magnificent. Powerful, surviving, proud, industrious, intelligent, and individualistic. Surviving in the past necessitated people like this- when the farms were miles apart and the market was farther, so families had to settle difficult land, grow all their own food, and haul their goods to market, all alone. And they thrived. They knew and know the land and are damn proud of it, and understand their wealth in terms of land and the food they grow. They survived, and they enjoyed the abundance together, but they managed and manage their lives fiercely and independently. This is what I feel when Dorka hands me a bowl of rice, chicken, and green beans- one of the million meals she's cooked with her feet squarely planted on this ground.

But I am still left with questions- today, we are seeing that the forces of change are too great for the good people to be islands. Today there are mining companies, highway construction, erosion, armed conflict, poor schools, free trade agreements, global warming.. We have to look for solutions together; we have to lock arms and hold each other up. Stubborn independence is lonely when everyone else has to sell out because the prices are dropping. How can we learn from the beautiful way that people share the abundance of food to build the abundance of community? How can we strengthen what is already here, and stand on it to face the future?