Some Writing From the Last Months

Hey again,
I just thought I would share a few things I've written over the last few months. Anyone who reads my blog on Myspace may have already seen these. I just thought some of you might be interested. Feel free to skip. :) Peace and love. S.



17 Dec 2007
AFRICAN PEOPLE THEY ALWAYS FIGHT

Zanzibar Airport Rooftop

He told me
Don't feel bad to me
African people
They always fight
Don't cry
Because you cry
I cry
You understand?
I nodded and tried
To stuff the tears
Back into my eyeballs
Is it? Sure, sure, he murmured
Pulling me to him
Pulling my tall head
To his low slight shoulders
I cried into his dirty white
Button up shirt
One of two I've seen him wear
I touched his neck
His short dreadlocks
His face
I'll give him some shillings tomorrow
Khalidi will get by
Barefoot on the beach
Smoking ganja
Trying to make business
With the tourists
He'll get by another day
Even with out my shillings
But getting by the way
He gets by
Isn't good enough
For anyone
And now I love him

My heart breaks softly and slowly
Sweet and bloody
As I walk away and realize
That everything I've ever felt
For humanity
In that passionate but vague way
I feel for all people
Is now too personal and real
My heart swells and deflates and
Swells and deflates
And I know I am not finished with Zanzibar



31 December 2007
FROM THE BACKSEAT OF TUMELO'S CAR

The backseat of Tumelo's car
On the way back from Swaziland
Written on the back cover of 'On Writing' by Stephen King
Which was given to me for my 25th birthday by Graeme

You gotta stop sometimes and just let it all flow
Until your insides are caught up
With the outside
The globe is spinning fast
And you can be on any side you'd like
Tomorrow
But can you catch up?
Where is your heart
Hovering in the air maybe
A million miles from any place
Real

You can walk on red dirt or brown dirt or concrete
You can speak with words or just sounds, Zizi
(Your smile says a lot)
But are you caught up with yourself?

Catch up
Catch up fast
Catch a fire catch your breath
Catch your heart before you lose it for good
Or no good
And are stuck wandering
Longer and harder than is helpful.



25 January 2008
BIGGER THOUGHTS

I watched a lady walking in a field in Zanzibar, and I wondered if she liked the feeling of the bright cloth she wore over her head as it blew in the breeze. It looked lovely and I knew that if I was there, walking in the field, with my bright head cloth blowing in the breeze, I would be enjoying the feeling. And the sun on my forehead. But I bet she works harder than I do and is tired. I bet some days she is hungrier than is comfortable and that the baby on her back cries because he is too. And I wonder whether her husband comes home at the end of the day and asks her about hers, or about her thoughts and feelings on things. I want to think he does, but I am worried that he doesn't. Gender roles are different here than what I am accustomed to; than what I cannot help but believe is only right and fair.

I realized as I watched the lady and hypothesized about her life, that it was just that I wanted so desperately to relate to her. I wanted her to be able to enjoy the breeze and the sun, and her own beauty. I wanted her to have comfort and love; the simplest of pleasures, if nothing else.

Many times since I have been in Africa I have been reminded of a movie I watched shortly before I left Seattle. The movie is called 'Tsotsi' and actually takes place in Johannesburg and a township outside of the city. This isn't the reason I've been reminded of it, strangely enough. There is a scene in the movie that struck me hard and has stayed with me ever since.

The main character, who is a thug, is in an alleyway, harassing an old, mostly blind, crippled homeless man, who is in a wheelchair. After spilling the old man's tin of coins all over the alley and yelling at him and threatening him, the thug (Tsotsi) stops and asks the man, "Why do you go on living if you must crawl around like a lame dog? What could possibly make your pathetic life worthwhile?" The old man moves his foggy eyes to Tsotsi's face, and you can see that he has a real answer to the question. "Because I like to feel the sun on my face," he says.

To me the man's answer is pure and real and beautiful. Sometimes all a person is left is some of the very simplest pleasures. But if you are still able to enjoy anything, you are in fact still living and your life is in fact worthwhile. For me, this is a very clean and reassuring truth. It is a hopeful, bony thing that applies to every human being.

I have a real affinity for things that apply to every human being. Especially if they are simple and hopeful. Ever since I was a little kid I have had a strong sense of human connectivity. I remember riding around in our orange Volkswagon Vanigan with my mom and looking out the window at all the other people driving past in their cars. My little mind would marvel, at all those people, with all those stories! My mind would seriously be both blown and excited by the idea that every single person in every single car had a whole life that was just as detailed and important to them as mine was to me. That every one of those people woke up that morning. That every one of those people was once a newborn baby. I loved these thoughts because they made me feel like we were all the same in some basic, crucial way. Like we are together. 'Tuko pamoja' means 'we are together' in Swahili. I was taught this by my friend Khalid, when I asked him how to say 'peace and love'. "Tuko pamoja," he said, writing it down for me, "But literal translation is 'we are together.'" That made a lot of sense to me.

It is because of this sense I've always had that we are together, that I am so motivated to do what I can to help people who are suffering. When I see a person suffer I cannot help but suffer along with them. I think this is because I do feel like I could be anyone in the world, that I was only lucky enough to be born into a very privileged situation (my family was actually just above the American poverty line when I was growing up, but when you consider the world scale, I was born into a very privileged situation indeed). And because, I truly do feel together with people; all people. Once you get to know and care about people on a really personal level, you are no longer able to ignore their suffering. This is one of the main reasons I wanted to work with disadvantaged people. I cared a lot about the sufferings I would read about here and there, before I left Seattle. But I knew I did not care enough, and that I could care more, and that caring is the main motivation to action. And action is what is needed, because caring, feeling, even loving, is not enough.

There is one last very important thing I have been made to realize and contemplate as I have been in Africa. I have been continually amazed at the lightness I have stumbled unexpectedly upon when wandering through a place or a situation that seems very dark, or hopeless. When I first began working in the township, I was sadly awed by the poverty there. I saw tiny, haphazardly built tin shacks planted next to one another in the dust. And then I met the children—bright, beautiful, joyous children with more light shining from their eyes than I had ever seen. And I felt God. This has happened for me time and again as I've traveled and met people and seen things for myself. In the saddest situations God often seems the closest. And many would say that is because he is. The God I choose to think about is one who suffers with the suffering, one who is most present where he is most needed.

I watched a movie the other day called 'Shooting Dogs.' The movie is a based on the true story of a Catholic School in Rwanda, which became a refuge for the targets of the genocide in the 1990s.

There is this scene near the end of the movie when the UN is pulling out of the camp, abandoning the people-- basically to their deaths. The young English volunteer who has been living at the school and passionately helping the targeted group is finally leaving for safety. It is his last chance. He is struggling because he is breaking a promise to his young Rwandan friend who will most likely die along with everyone else who was seeking protection at the school. There is also a white priest who's life's work has been at the school and the church. When the young volunteer realizes the priest intends to stay, he asks him what he is thinking (it is basically suicide to stay and continue trying to protect the people). The priest says that he has never been so aware of God's presence as he is at this camp, with all of these desperate, destitute people. He says "God is here. I have never been so aware of his presence. And this is where I belong."

This really cut deep into my heart. What he said resonates with me. I haven't been in as sad or dark a place as this priest found himself. But in the saddest and darkest places I have been, I have found God. I believe that God really does suffer alongside every single member of humanity. That he is together with us. That he is most present with those who need him most.

Maybe God's presence is the light I see shining in my crèche kids' eyes. Maybe they are just wonderfully resilient creatures. Maybe it is that they still have their innocence, the untouched hope that often seems to dull with age. All I know for sure is that I have never been more certain of where I belong. I belong living and working alongside people who don't have much. I belong giving to them whatever it is I have to give.

I just thought this might explain some of what I feel and why I am so motivated to continue working with people in Africa. It's hard for me to tell all my friends and family at home that I want to stay longer—that I want to return to Zanzibar and give the children pencils just for starters, that I feel more at home half way across the world from the States than I ever have anywhere else.

I just think I have more to learn; more to gain and more to give. And then I will return home, more motivated and hopefully better equipped to make an effective difference.



1 February 2008
I LIKED YESTERDAY

I like sitting on the concrete floor of the crèche, surrounded by small children as we all eat our lunch. I like the open metal door that lets in the light and the heat of a South African summer. I like the red of the dirt in the garden and how Africa's sky has never failed to impress me, even on a typical day in the township. I like the bright green that one of the neighbors painted the tin portion of their home and the laundry hanging in the neighbors' yards that moves in the slight breeze. I like the food that Lorraine cooked. It is pap (maize meal) and cabbage stew. We eat with our hands, balling up a handful of pap like play-do and using it to scoop up some of the stew. It's messy, but basic and somehow makes the meal taste better. I like the quiet in the room while each child and adult contemplates their plate, balls up some pap, scoops some stew, chews and swallows. I like the men who sit on buckets in the yard next door, in their hats in the shade. They talk and they laze and there is something so comfortable about their pace. I like walking the reddish dirt roads to the tuck shop once the kids have gone to sleep. I like the big, heavy glass coke bottle we bring with us, which allows us to purchase a new one, filled with cold coke. I like the lady at the tuck shop, who is always wearing a bright head wrap. She grins at us and delivers the new, cold bottle of soda. We thank her and she says, 'sharp,' (cool). I like the word sharp. I like that when we ask if we can sit in the shade of the tuck shop, a man named Daniel calls to us to answer because our lovely friend in the bright head wrap doesn't understand us, 'Yeah Mama, you can sit here, ' he reassures us. I like that an old lady with a gap between her front teeth suddenly appears with three plastic chairs. 'Oh thank you,' we say, 'that's not necessary, but is so kind.' She grins and disappears. I like that next the bright head wrapped lady appears with three proper glasses for our coke. 'Oh thank you!' we say, 'so nice of you.' We all three sit back in the adult sized chairs (only kiddie chairs at the crèche), with a cold glass of coke in one hand. We sigh, enjoying the shade and the luxury. I like that I am entirely happy. I've spent my day with kids. We are teaching them, and they are learning! They are beautiful and lively. They don't have much, but they don't really know it yet, and their hopefulness is so encouraging. I've had a good meal, prepared by a good lady, which I ate in good company, with my hands, which I've learned I really enjoy. And now a coke in the shade. Uncalled for hospitality by people who have little, but insist on giving. I really like it.