'bout time I told you about my job...

I suppose it's time to write about my work, actually. I've been introducing you to my community (although the lack of cell phone/Internet capabilities there makes my descriptions few and far between), but haven't explained anything about what I actually live there to do. As I'm leaving Internet land again tomorrow and I have a million things on my to-do list, I'm going to make you a list.

Basically, I work with a group called SembrandoPaz (Sowing Peace) that has been a peace and social justice resource for communities affected by the armed conflict on the Carribbean Coast. Most of the communities they work with are displaced- either in the process of return of to their former land or post-return and trying to rebuild their former security and stability. This basically adds up to a focus on human dignity: attempting to rebuild the fractured social fabric through processes focused on dignity. Here's a list of some large and small things that make up that wide vision.

Productive projects: these are agricultural projects that focus on supporting people to work the land again. Because of the Free Trade Agreement and climate change and a zillion other factors that make this region vulnerable, a lot of my current focus is on food security.

Example: The community is frequently left isolated by the rain, meaning that basic food/supplies can't get in. I'm working with several projects that intend to produce things normally imported. One job: I've been sitting around, laughing, teasing and planning a chicken raising project with four young women from the community. It'll incorporate both mass market chickens because they generate capital faster and local, strurdy Criollo chickens, with the hope to eventually phase toward the local chickens. They are about to sign the loan and get started!

Securing farming as a lifestyle: this is part of my job, no big deal. Seriously though, the world over small-scale farming is becoming more and more insecure (working on an article about the role of the FTA in all this, stay tuned). We're trying to support and validate small-scale efforts, attempting to make small-scale more viable as the temptation is to sell out, look for work in the city, or shift to cash crops instead of food production. One of the related strategies is funding/encouraging seed saving- to build up the ability of farmers to continue to produce food, year by year, without needing to use their few resources to purchase new seed. I've been hiking up and down steep hills of ñame plants (described in the last post), checking in on the farmers, making sure they are saving seed, encouraging them, etc. I love this part of my job, especially because it means that I know almost everyone in my community and can stop them in the street to ask about their crops. We have great early morning conversations about rain, market prices, and the quality of ñame.

Women's empowerment: I just wrote an article for the SEED publication about my community and it has a lot in it about gender roles- I'll post that soon, so I won't go into detail here. Suffice it to say that the community is very machista- women always have the second say, and have no choice or way to look for change in their work. It's their place to hand wash laundry, supposedly, and that's the way it'll stay. This is where I have to be the most clever. In a male-dominated community, if I start talking about liberation and mujerismo (womanism), I will likely alienate the men and make enemies fast, for both me and the women in the community. We have to look for ways to reinforce empowering ideas/skills/attitudes in culturally-appropriate spaces. As I work with the women on the chicken project, their husbands are also occasionally present. It's a small thing, but I always direct my attention, questions, and ideas to the women, never to the men. Chicken raising is a gender-appropriate job for women, but they have rarely been in control of the planning, finances, and organization. Having a women-only project is a way of giving them some decision-making power that they desperately need. Also, when I get back, I'm planning a bread-baking workshop for women in the community, as a space for us to get together and start building community outside of kids/husbands. We're going to make naan bread over wood fires.

Hanging out: Literally, hanging in my hammock or hanging around drinking cups of sweet coffee with the neighbors. One of the things that we're finding in our communities is that people are acting on such a level of necessity that there is little time or energy to reflect. Mouths need to be fed, which means early to the fields, hard days, lots of household labor: energy spent on the basics. It's a very reactive pattern- people are so occupied by basic necessities that there is little space to reflect and plan for long term action. I see a lot of my job as hanging out and talking with people, giving them the chance to reflect on their experiences and daily life and wonder about the future. I ask people how they feel about living close to their families, having children so young, not having gardens anymore, gender roles... I ask, paraphrase, process, reflect, encourage.

And the last part of my job- animando, or encouraging: Most of my friends/neighbors/community members are just tired out. They've endured the horrible trauma of displacement and return to empty land and the incredible task of rebuilding. Often, their attitude is a sort of an “it is what it is” feeling. Corruption, violence, individualism, rich robbing from the poor, flooding... these things happen, and there isn't very much you can do about it. So why try? I'll explain more as I explore this feeling in the community in the coming months. For now, one of my jobs is working with a group of young men (I call them The Dude Men in English because they are really into their fashion, hair styles, and being cool) to start a fish farming project. Most of them work a small amount of land or hire out for other farmers, but are frustrated at their dependence on the “old people,” as they call their parents, and lack of options. Our first meeting, I sat with them and asked them a few questions about what their goals were, then struggled to keep up as they threw out ideas, work plans, and started to organize their project. I cheer them on (and remind them of the importance of organization and follow-through).

These are my jobs! I'm working on a framework of values/principles so I can feel more centered in my work, but for now, this is what I understand. Of course, my job is so dependent on the community's goals, desires, styles, processes....that I often find myself in balance-and-adapt mode. We'll see how it changes in the coming months.

I have rain boot tan lines (late October post)

Rain has been my constant, frustrating companion and patient teacher these last four weeks. Yesterday we had the blessed break of a sunny afternoon, but most days have been the gray of thick clouds and the brown of muddy paths. Winter here means rain and lots of it, but I can't help but attribute some of the excessive downpours to the chaos of climate change. I think about all of the rich farming regions of the world and how they are bewilderingly trying to adapt to less or more rain, like this village of farmers who dig their living out of the mud. I have been both despairing of and thankful for the rain these days, but I have been constantly reminded how important and defining the rain is for this region. I'm going to share a few stories of the reality of life here, on the rainy days.

Yesterday, I accompanied six campesinos to, literally, dig their living out of the mud. We were pulling out ñame, a giant white root that is probably in the yam family and the most common food here. The organization with which I'm working, SembrandoPaz, started a seed-saving project last year, in which they give out a sack of seed in agreement that the farmer will demonstrate that they have saved at least the same amount of seed at the end of the season. My job is to check in on the farmers to make sure they are “capando,” or pulling out the root to eat or sell but leaving the vine to grow seed. Because ñame grows best at high altitudes, this collective of farmers (12 in total) pooled their seeds to plant high up in the mountains. In other words, we set out early for a two hour trek, crossing the river twice and walking through a stream for at least half the time. We all rode, some mules, some donkeys. This was the only day in the last two weeks that the journey was possible, because of the mud and the swollen river. After a dry day and night, the river had decreased some, but it was still hip-deep where we crossed. We had to dismount for the last mile or so of the trip, to let the animals struggle up and down steep, muddy hill faces. We finally arrived to do the same steep, sliding work on the ñame fields. They are almost vertical faces, planted with vines. The work is to find where the vines enter the ground, cut off the vine, and dig/lever/haul out the root (average size was 10 pounds) with a pointed stick. After four hours of standing on the steep banks bent over digging and hauling out roots, the men (with my small contribution) had accumulated about 16 50-kilo sacks of ñame, about 1900 pounds in total. The animals hauled out 12 of those sacks and we walked out in our rain boots. Imagine, a donkey fighting for purchase on a muddy, vertical path, loaded with an additional 240 pounds of ñame, with us following them, urging them on. The work is downright hard, made even harder by the constant rains.

The day before, I had enjoyed my morning coffee watching out the front window at the road. The week before had been vacations for the schools, so many of the teenagers studying in Sincelejo had come home to visit. Because of near constant rain for three days, the river was neck deep in places and running fast. No trucks had been able to cross it, so the only way to get in or out was walking or riding. That morning, I watched about a hundred donkeys and horses, laden with sacks of yucca or ripe avocadoes, walking out. The crops had been ready to ship out but sat slowly spoiling as they waited for the trucks. I also watched the teenagers, after missing two days of classes, riding out with their backpacks.

Shipping things in is equally difficult. When the trucks can't get in, the local stores, who depend on the same few trucks for everything, slowly run out- of meat first, then cheese and sugar, even rice. A few folks went on donkeys to fetch their orders, which had gotten stuck downriver, returning with wet sacks of cigarettes and limp vegetables.

School was out for an extra week as well, since the teachers have to cross the river three times to reach the school. We scheduled a community meeting, but the rain came exactly ten minutes before and stayed for two hours. No one came, logically, because the road had turned into a swamp. Today was election day, and solid rain for four hours in the morning must have been discouraging for the politicians. I watched several people going to vote, walking with towels or plastic bags on their heads, carrying their shoes. Most rode, but many stayed home. (The ironic part was that the road was so bad that the government had to helicopter the vote-collectors in. You think they would realize that the road condition really is dire.) The rain is also discouraging or encouraging for the crops, depending on what is growing. It's impossible to predict how much it will rain a given rainy season (last year, for example, it rained for 10 months straight), so most farmers guess for the best. Right now, those who planted rice are delighted, while others with corn, sesame and ñame are worried. The crops are drowning, they say.

It's a tricky game- guessing when the rain will or won't come. When to do laundry, when to travel, when to order more rice, when to pick avocadoes. The other game that comes hand in hand is guessing when the electricity will go out. Usually it goes along with the rain, although sometimes on a sunny day it will blink out surprisingly. Today, I woke to rain for the next four hours, and had a hankering to do some rainy-day things- finish writing this blog post, for example, and bake bread. Unfortunately, both require electricity-for the computer and my toaster oven. I wondered for the first few hours if the power would go out, playing with the idea of putting bread to rise (if the power went out, I couldn't have even put it in the fridge to wait, since the fridge also turns off). When it didn't, I went ahead. I'm still crossing my fingers as it rises.

As I've said, I'm learning a lot. I'm learning not to try to get something done even though it looks like rain, because you might get stuck across the river overnight. I'm learning to ask people if they think it will keep raining. To take advantage of electricity when I have it. To give thanks that I bought a gas-not electric- stove. To understand why people miss meetings. To consider learning to cook bread over an open fire. To appreciate when the power goes out and the neighbors can't crank their soundsystem. To sit around and simply talk as the rain pounds on the tin or palm roof. To slow down, a little, although I'm not sure I'll ever learn that quite like the folks here.   

Bienvenida a la comunidad!

Well. This is the town I'm going to live in for the next almost two years. I've been grappeling with this realization for the last week, which has been full of many strange and beautiful encounters with Caño Berruguita. I feel inept at presenting an in-depth view with my few observations, but I do think I can sketch some things out. I think I'll just make a list- bear with the disjointedness, please.

Most of you probably picked up on my frustration as my arrival here was delayed a week. There are a few obvious truths about this place- one is that the road is simply terrible. As it was raining everyday the week I tried to leave, I waited and waited but couldn't leave. I finally put my foot down and picked a date to leave. Although it didn't rain the day before, on the way up the trucks in front of us repeatedly got stuck and had to haul each other out of the river/mud/road ruts. My truck didn't get stuck, because my driver is awesome at lurching around on this track. Luckily, we arrived, although I couldn't move any of my things. I have been sleeping in a hammock, living out of a backpack, and eating at the neighbors' this last week. Rain willing, I will move the rest of my things (think kitchen, bed, fan, books) next week.

I live in a small, comfortable house with a tin roof and lizards crawling on the walls. I have a bathroom with running water that isn't connected yet, so I've been hauling water. Moving in has been a small view of how different time and schedules are here. People are excellent at saying that things have to be done (for those of you who speak Spanish, that means a lot of “hay que...” and “claro”), and less good at follow-through. For instance, people kept agreeing that we had to move out the stove, washing machine, bags of compost, and various other things stored in my house, but five days after coming, they were still there. I enlisted the various children around (who are my new and dear friends) to help me move stuff out, after which we threw buckets of soapy water around my house to clean it, using the mop handles as microphones to sing the bits we could remember of Costeñan (from the coast of Colombia) love songs. So many people stopped by and apologetically said that they had meant to do this for me, but ran out of time. I shrugged and made a mental note that it might be hard to get things done quickly here.

My house is built on the land of an excellent family- the matriarch is Dorca, son is Ivan, grandson is Merkin, and nephew is Tingito. What I should really say is that I live in the town of an excellent family- Dorca is one of 12 or so siblings and has 12 children herself, as do most of her siblings. One of her brothers has nineteen kids. As such, EVERYONE is related to Dorca. Most everyone addresses her as Aunt Dorca, which could be understood as a nickname, except that it's 99% true. Anyway, they and Anyi, an 11-year-old neighbor girl, have been my guides, family, conversation partners, and explainers of how things work here. Anyi hung her hammock in my house so I didn't have to sleep alone the first week, and loves to hear me read out loud in English. Merkin likes telling ghost stories and today fetched water on a donkey. Ivan eats more at dinner than I thought was humanly possible, but then again he spends all day pulling up ñame (more on this later) or sowing corn in the hot sun. Dorca is totally in control of the family (often this means the community, as before noted), and spends all day cooking, explaining how life works, and generally being a steady and stalwert lady. Tingito is also a most interesting character. He lost his left arm and part of his left foot about 6 years ago, but still continues to farm. Incidentally, the coast calls its own variation of Spanish Costeño, and it's generally much faster- and people don't pronouce many of the letters. Tingito is the hardest to understand of anyone I've met so far, and by the way, the person who has taken it upon himself to show me around the whole town! After a week of hanging out, I understand about 65% of what he says.

Another wonderful part of this week has been eating with the aforementioned family. Wonderful because I get to spend very comfortable, natural time with them. Tricky because they somehow think I should eat as much as Ivan, who, as I said before, works all day farming. I work all day visiting. I do not need to eat a mixing bowl of rice. Also, the most common foods are ñame, yuca, and plantains, all slightly different types of white starch- the first two are giant white roots. Breakfast is a plate of one of these things, usually with a chunk of cheese and some sweet, sweet coffee. Lunch is a plate of a different one, probably with meat. Dinner is rice with a salad of vegetables or more meat. It's been an overwhelming amount of the same thing, but now that I'm in Sincelejo cooking vegetarian with my fellow SEEDers, I actually miss my plates of boiled white roots.

As most of you are probably wondering why I'm fooling around having adventures and not working, I'll fill you in on that a bit too. My main work will be working with the Consejo Comunitario (community council) on projects that empower and reinforce community and help work to overcome the devastation of the desplacement. This will probably mean various agricultural projects related to accessing materials, technology, and knowledge and organizing growing cooperatives and collective projects like vegetable gardens. It may also mean things as wide-ranged as seed saving, a women's group, computer lessons, and documenting stories. For now, the critical work is getting to know the community. I can't work with them or advocate for them until I know them. This has meant chopping plantains, sowing sesame seeds, hiking through steep fields and talking about diseases that attack the avocado, swimming in the river, hearing stories about the displacement, calling two meetings of the Consejo, and taking care of babies. It's varied and exciting, but difficult also to wrap my head around the fact that my job is to accompany this community in the process of empowerment and resilience. What on earth will that look like for the next two years?

I'll leave you with that. Sorry this is so rushed, but I am trying to take advantage of the internet in myriad ways this weekend, so I still have a lot to do. For those of you who don't know, I have an internet device that works only with cell signal- and the only place in the community with signal is on top of a high hill behind the neighbor's house. It's beautiful but not exactly convenient, so I'm likely going to be out of contact for the next month. I hope to catch up with those of you I can for now, but also ask for patience as I sort this out. I am so grateful for the support from home in this crazy time of adjustment, and hope I can keep you all updated as much as possible.  

Contrastes

I'm writing this at 8 am, because I couldn't sleep anymore. It's hot already and the motos have been driving loudly past my open window since 6ish. Right now is also about the only time that it's comfortable to drink a cup of coffee also, seeing as it will be about 90 degrees by nine or ten. Ah, life on the coast has begun.

It's astounding how different the basics are here. I've been thinking a lot about contrasts recently. As much as I enjoyed the orientation time in Bogota- for the amount of information from incredible sources and the time exploring the city with my fellow Seeders- I found myself feeling frustrated and purposeless the weeks ticked on. Why we were sitting in an office and spending money in coffeeshops if our eventual purpose is living and working with communities, all of which live at a much lower standard of living than we were? Why were we listening to one lecture after another when the best lecturers will be our neighbors in our communities? How do I adjust personally from living in the largest city I've ever lived in- to living in the smallest town? I think the most pertinent question was- why can't I just get going, get to the community, and start doing what I prepared to do?

(Momentary break to run downstairs and buy bananas from the man pushing his cart of fruits and vegetables up the street. This place is fantastic.)

Of course, there is a logical counterweight to all of these frustrations, which was something I could articulate when I felt purposeful. It was indisputably important that we get the big picture of what is happening in Colombia and how our work as Seeders is all connected. I would also be floundering if I hadn't been supported in work and friendship by the rest of our team for those months, and I'm ceaselessly grateful for that. But overall, I think the clearest result of our time in Bogota was a vision of the contrasts that exist in Colombia, in lifestyle, in peace work, in ourselves... Living in Bogota, as frustrating as it was, was an enduring lesson in the importance of contrast.

One of them- Bogota has sections that look like the upscale section of any major city in the US. You can buy a full lunch (soup, rice, plantain, salad, meat, and juice) for 2-4 dollars, but there were whole sections that I, as an upper middle class US citizen, could never afford. The public transportation was like a metro in an large city, packed with young businesspeople in their black powersuits, heading to work at the multinational banks or businesses downtown. However, there are vast neighborhoods within and on the borders of the town where people don't have consistent electricity or running water. There are powerful contrasts within the city, for sure, but there are also slap-in-the-face contrasts with where we are now. 

Sincelejo, the capital of Sucre, a department on the coast, has no natural industry. There is no factory network and few large businesses, and one of the largest employers for young men (many displaced from farming communities in the region) is moto-taxi driving, where many are trapped paying rent for their motos that they can barely make up in a day of driving around the city. Most of the streets fade to dirt or are full of potholes. It's poor, in short, and there simply aren't options for work for young people- university? Think again. Taking a step further out- my community, Caño Berrugita (which is a community within Macayepo, a region) lies at the end of 2 hours of terrible road. When it rains, only massive trucks can get up the road because all of the ruts fill with water and churn into a muddy mess. There's electricity, but no cell phone service. No hospital, or clinic, or nurses. A fellow Seeder, Leonel, lives in a town unaccessible by more than boat or moto because the roads are also horrible. The government has promised electricity, but has been beyond slow in following through. An hour from Cartagena, the tourist base camp and recently much-publicized new face of Colombia, is Mampujan, where Anna will be living, a community of desplaced people than lives crammed into a tiny piece of land on the side of the main road. I could give example after example of the contrasts within Bogota and between Bogota and the coast, but I'll settle for just one more. There are no funky coffeeshops in Sincelejo, and there is only one store in Macayepo. How can Colombia be considering a newly booming economy if 47% of its population lives below the poverty line?  Contrast.

Another contrast we've been struck with over and over: It's gorgeous on the coast. We've tried a different fruit juice everyday, most I've never heard of, and most of which grow in my backyard in Macayepo, which incidentally produces almost all of the avocadoes eaten in Colombia (and exported). On Sunday, we went to an isolated strench of beach and swam in the Carribbean ocean, drank fresh coconut water and rested under stately palm trees. From the roof of the office, we can see the sun set in orange, purple and yellow splendor every evening, with thunderclouds in the distance turning red around the edges. Anywhere we drive, we see rolling green hills with stately trees and healthy cattle herds. The soil is so rich they say that you just have to throw a seed on the ground and it'll grow. We have to remember why we are here, though. 

Beauty means desirability. Just ten years ago, the region was devasted by a series of massacres in the rural communities, largely carried out by paramilitary groups. Why here? Beaches mean ports and the Carribbean means access to the powerful drug routes through Mexico to the consumers in the US. You can trace a line from massacre to massacre and see that the targeted communities lie right along a prime drug traffiking route through the mountains to the port. Many of the communities displaced, meaning that even as I watch the sunset over Sincelejo, I can see the neighborhoods on the margins- 30% of Sincelejo is made up of displaced people, which makes so many things difficult- unemployment, petty crime, available services. Rich soil also means perfect grazing land for many hugely wealthy landowning families who have snapped up the land left by displaced people for their massive plantations. In many cases, paramilitary groups were formed as private security groups for these families or used by large corporations and the local government to intentionally displace people to make way for palm oil or sugar cane plantations. Constrast: beauty doesn't only mean perfect Carribbean paradise, but it also holds hands with devastation.

The way I'm feeling about finally being on the coast is also quite a few contrasting emotions. There are four of us here working: Larisa, Will, Anna, and Leonel, and Jes, one of our leaders, who will be living in Sincelejo. We're all camping out at Jes' now and doing a second phase of orientation with our partner group, SembrandoPaz. We are living in communities fairly far from each other, but will reunite here once a month for team meetings and collaboration. Our orientation ends this Friday and I'll pack up my newly acquired kitchen supplies, mattress, and backpack and move (provided it doesn't rain) out to Macayepo. From the little time we've been here, I can say a few things for sure. Above all, I'm delighted to be out of the city and into the hot, green, growing, open coast. So many cloudy days in Bogota were disheartening for me, and I've been drinking in the changes here- from hammocks to enjoying cold showers to borojo/zapote/guayaba/corozo juice. Macayepo also reminds me (almost alarmingly) of Nimule, South Sudan, where I spent a summer a few years ago. At the least, the lifestyle is very similar, which means I'll be living with the necessary and working hard. I'm quite excited to try to live in that way again. I know no matter what I do, I am talking from a place of comparably infinite privilege, but I'm excited to cook over a wood fire, walk (or ride a donkey) miles to surrounding farms, wash my clothes in the river, and learn about growing yuca. 

The contrast- it's all scary and overwhelming. The town is small and so, so isolated. The living is hard, and the social fabric is fractured into many pieces. The community has resettled only its original land, but it's barely ten years after the massacre and displacement and so much was lost. I can get excited about living and being there, but I haven't the slightest clue how to step into community processes of seeking reparation, mediating disputes between churches/paramilitary allies and victims/leaders in the community/youth and their families, establishing land rights, or even pushing for a new road to get the avocadoes to market. It's a lot right now.

I suppose overall I'm hoping that I can remember how much contrast can teach us. It would be easy to say how excited I am to be here, or how beautiful the beach is, or how destroyed Colombia is by the drug trade, but it's much more real to talk about the contrasts: the wealth and lack of options, the beauty and destruction, and the excitement and fear. There is much more life in the middle space between the poles, and I just hope I can hold onto both ends, and the reality that reality, en la Costa, is quite complex.

Mama God

This morning, I decided to do church on my own.  I've had an interesting relationship with church over the last few years.  I have been blessed to find inspiration and support in various communities outside of church, especially at EMU.  Over and over, I found myself seeing and talking about God in conversations over dinner with my housemates, as we read poetry for our prayers, or in classes as we talked about love and vulnerability, or on the porches of our neighbors, as we shared healing stories of grace and the sacred feminine, in response to the terrible truths we also encounters together.  Church, then, has been an additional space, but far from the only space where I find God.  More often than not, I also feel like a spectator, rather than a contributor in churches.  I enjoy spectating, but when I take time to intentionally think about and interact with God on my own or with others outside of an organized space, I find myself much more moved and connected with God.  And so, this morning I took a break from spectating and thought.


A dear woman-friend shared this poem with a small group of women several months ago:


Bakerwoman God
Bakerwoman God,
I am your living bread.
Strong, brown, Bakerwoman God,
I am your low, soft and
being-shaped loaf.
I am your rising bread, well kneaded
by some divine
and knotty pair of knuckles,
by your warm, earth hands.
I am bread well kneaded.

Put me in your fire,
Bakerwoman God,
put me in your warm, bright fire.
I am warm, warm as you from fire.
I am white and gold,
soft and hard,
brown and round.
I am so warm from fire.

Break me, Bakerwoman God.
I am broken under your caring Word.
Bakerwoman God,
remake me.
- Alla Bozarth Campbell


This morning, I baked bread, and prayed to Bakerwoman God.  I've been thinking about women so much recently- about the impact that countless women have had on my life, and about both the suffering many quietly endure and the endless fountains of strength they find.  And yesterday, another dear woman-friend asked me how I had encountered Mama God's "untamed edgelessness" here in Colombia.  And so- here is a prayer, for women.


Mama God,
Thank you for the baker women in my life.
thank you for my mother, and grandmothers, and great-grandmothers, who have been baking bread for all of us.  thank you for making my mom's bread always turn out better than mine, because it reminds me that there is wisdom in her years of hard work.  thank you for my favorite childhood memory- warm oatmeal bread and homemade strawberry jam.  thank you for a home, and thank you that this year, you watered the grain my mom planted.  thank you for gardens.
thank you for my sister, and the constant reminder that we grow from difference, especially when we reach across and share.
thank you for Mama Carolina, Jua and Agnes, who knew that they could transform their gender-decided place in the kitchen into a powerful cooking pot of female strength.  thank you for the simple combination of yeast, flour, water, and salt.  thank you that kneading can be done in any language.  thank you that women pass wisdom through their strong shoulders that carry the water, and their palms that knead, and their rhythmic steps in the Sudanese dust.  thank you for blanketing us in the same stars.  thank you for crossing borders.
thank you for Arundati Roy, Anais Mitchell, and Andrea Gibson, who remind me to speak.
thank you for Marvat, and the radical hospitality she shows to the enemy.  thank you for the simple resistance of sharing warm pita together in an occupied land.
thank you for Maria, and her graceful stubborn belief in the power of children, dirt and plants, mixed well and watered.  thank you for Amanda, who heals us all with her gentleness and listening wisdom.  thank you for Meg, and the way she sees brokenness and wholeness at the same time.  thank you for Emma, and her sense of ecosystem and wild beauty. thank you for Hannah, who reminds me to love myself even from far away, by putting a painting of naked dancing women on her wall.  thank you for Jess and her boundless, encompassing, comforting joy.  thank you for Greta and her sense of self.  thank you for Chrissy and her honest, unflinching search for connection.   
thank you for the many, many women of EMU.  thank you for giving them the wisdom to challenge even the definition of woman.  thank you for the conversations behind the counter at the coffeeshop and the library.  thank you for the tattoos and the poems.  thank you for the fierce denial of other definitions.  thank you for spirit-chasing.
thank you for the baker women I have met here in Colombia.  thank you for the women who believe in bringing peace through determined solidarity and know that that often means just sitting together.  thank you for good food, and laughter over the table.
thank you for the Senora, who reminds me that bread is what Jesus chose to give us life, to prove the universal truth of abundance and enough.
thank you for incredible generosity, of giving your gifts to all humans, men and women.  thank you for not having eyes that define through gender, even though we are so determined with our boxes. thank you for men.
thank you for the wide arms of the ocean.
thank you for my body, my soul, and my heart.  thank you for waking me up every morning, and giving me the strength to carry on.
thank you, Shenandoah, river and mountains.  I know your reckless daughters make you proud.


and Mama God, I have so many questions.
why, Mama, have I heard so many stories of women, especially here in Colombia, being beaten by their husbands?  why here?  how do we stand up and say no?  why do we still blame women- for being unfaithful, for being provocative, for being anything less than virginal perfection? 
why, Mama, are women's bodies the battlefields for so many wars of power?  why is there a logic of rape?  when did it become a weapon?  when will we learn that our bodies are gifts, not property to be exploited by others?  
why is it that we watch each other through eyes of objectification?  why do we judge? why do we see ourselves as accessories for the men around us? why are we secondary?  helpers?  sacrificial?  where do our standards of beauty come from?  how do we find the intrinsic worthiness you have given each of us?
Mama, what is patriarchy?  how do we step back far enough to see it? how do we find the dances and poetry and fearless love to break through?  how do we find the words? how do we talk over boundaries of gender?
and another thing, Mama.  what is a better word than warrior, to talk about your power?  what does a powerful peace sound like?  how do we not become passive and sacrificial in our striving for peace?  how do we keep our fierce love?
this is too big, Mama.  help us see the world through different eyes.  help us find ourselves.  


thank you, Mama God.  thank you for bread, brokenness, and hope.

Opening the doors

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.

Gratitudes

I love looking at things from a slightly different angle, and one way of shedding new light on old habits is... translation!  I want to say first off that language is culture is language- I don't want to simplify the fact that every sentence/phrase/grammatical structure can illuminate something about the people that use them.  For example, there is a lovely structure of phrase in Spanish, "se me rompio," which literally means "the ___broke on me" and neatly places the blame on the object, not the actor.  In other words, you didn't break the glass/chair/window, it broke on you.  I'm not sure what this illuminates about cultures that speak Spanish, but it's certainly different than the English version of "I broke the glass."  

Anyway, to take a turn for the serious, where I've been noticing linguistic differences the most have been in when and where and how I talk about God.  I've never been one to feel particularly comfortable talking about God or Jesus- I can talk about theology til the cows come home, but I don't often refer to God in daily conversations.  It might have been because I didn't grow up doing it, or because I'm not actually that comfortable, or because I don't actually include God very often in my daily thoughts.  I think it's a combination of the three.

Here, I've been thinking about God's place in the language a lot more.  One of the most common phrases of the senora who is hosting Daniela and I is "que Dios le bendiga"- may God bless you.  Another very common one "gracias a Dios"- thanks to God- or "por la gracia de Dios"- by God's grace.  "Ojala" is actually derived from the Arabic "inshallah," which refers to a future event, something like- may God grant that ___ happens.  Prayers often include a lot more repetition of God's various names.  This might not been too different from our many, many different slang uses of God's name in English, but I'm inclined to think that it's more serious here.  

I've been thinking a lot about this shift in language and how this affects my conception of God in daily life.  In every church I've been to so far, there has been a time for sharing of testimonies, or giving thanks for God's presence in our lives.  Most of the time, I probably wouldn't have said what people share.  I've been amazed at several older women especially, who describe everything in their days as an act from God's hand- from getting up in the morning to the food on the table for lunch to a trip going smoothly to a visit from a friend to praying for another... As I type this, I realize that I have heard people give thanks for similar things in many other churches, but I want to emphasize that this sounds quite different to me.  

To me, a lot of what I've given thanks to God for, or prayed for, I've believed God was linked or related to.  I've given thanks so many time for the beautiful, complex, created world we live in, and the people that inhabit it, but I think I've been more likely to see it as a world with a separate God than to see it as God.  I think this might be the difference- I've mostly acknowledged God as a presence in the world, but here I keep hearing about God as an actor in the world.  It's almost as if I'm saying- thanks God, for giving us this beautiful world- and the older women are saying- God, without you, nothing would happen.  Thanks.

I know I'm making quite a few cultural leaps here, but I wonder what this could say about entitlement.  I'll bring this down to the interpersonal level to make more sense.  I have always had enough to eat.  Period.  My prayer- "thank you, God, for the food" acknowledges God, but it's not very serious.  The universe has always treated me well, and will continue to treat me well.  Thanks, in that sense, means that God plays a supporting role.  I don't really need her help.  The Senora (who is hosting me) has gone hungry many, many nights.  She has told me that often the worst pain wasn't her own hunger, it was watching someone else suffer and not being able to help.  Several times, the Senora has invited me for a cafecito (cup of milky coffee) and piece of bread- saying that no one should ever go to bed hungry.  When the Senora thanks God for her cafecito and bread, she means it, just as she means it when she prays for her son's safe journey, or for our work in Colombia, or for her daughter's work situation.  God is directly involved- without God's presence, none of these things would happen well.  The Senora, and every Colombian I have met so far, have lived through enough insecurity that I'm beginning to hear this- we have to be grateful.  It's not guaranteed- and God is within it, around it, behind it, creating it.  God is the goodness.  God is what sustains us, our everyday.

By the grace of God, today:  yucca for dinner, warmth, a view of the mountains, ridiculous teasing between friends, safe arrivals, long distance communication technology wonders, people that work for peace, a world where everyone knows everyone, a capable body, good shoes, early morning coffee, the ability to get around, green leaves....

When you think about it, the list goes on and on.  Thanks, God, for your creating, sustaining presence in our lives.