The evolution of evil

Since leaving Congo I have been really excruciatingly tired. This exhaustion has made me question a lot about myself, my work and what happens next. Its very unnerving. So much happened in my work and personal context that made me feel like…what am I doing?

But today as I watched an episode of Law and Order SVU – (ahh the unemployed life, TV, couch, bagel thins), I felt my lip curl and my stomach turn at the phenomenon of rape, like it hasn’t, in some time. I get so used to discussing the facts, sharing about the damage and speaking on the cause that I sometimes forget – just how much of a disgrace rape is to our humanity, how unfair it is, how evil and how sick and demented it is. 

Not internalizing the horror too much is the only way to survive when you’re in the field for a long time. But it still is, and always will be, horrific.

Rape just shows how little we have really come from cave-man days, with all of our wealth and technology…evil has evolved at even more alarming rates.

The abuse of the little boy that goes unreported right up to the insertion of burning plastic into the middle aged woman’s vagina in Eastern Congo….evil is evil, wrong is wrong, sick is sick.

But does it really surprise us that we still allow rape to continue as a seemingly ‘secondary crime’, when we live blithely in the shadows of weapons capable of destroying all mankind – created by mankind and when we’ve begun trading commodities, based on the hope that in the near future…people will be starving and the owners of arable land will become unfathomably wealthy?

While we talk to our iPhones and think we’ve made it pretty far…evil has evolved much quicker than our responses to evil

 

All truth is actionable

I just finished watching the movie “The Whistleblower”. After my last post, I received a flood of feedback from friends and strangers alike – many of whom highly recommended that I see the film. 

My immediate reactions while watching the movie, were sadly, not ones of shock or disbelief. I believe it. I believe it wholesale. I’d get a tattoo of it. I believe it that much. In many a smoke-filled room I myself have seen UN officers shamelessly pick up prostitutes, harass local girls and get fall-flat-on-their-faces drunk. In many a swanky hotel I’ve seen per diems spent on shots of **insert cheap local rum here**, bottles of wine, escargot and illicit drugs. On many a dusty/muddy afternoon, I have literally had to dodge UN vehicles, whistling by me at incredible speeds, to go God knows where and do God knows what. I have envied the slick-tastic vehicles of the well-funded NGO’s ..everyday, while trudging on foot. And have ruminated many a night, on the great disparity between the comfort of my own home in Congo and the huts the people I serve, live in.

I remember all too vividly the asinine struggle that ensued when I decided to push forward my own complaint. Clandestine meetings, cigarettes passed around, meetings at local supermarkets, agonizing over the wording of my report, drunk Ukrainian commanders telling me *insert cheesy accent here* “Ah…we soldiers…we are boys. You must just forgive him. He did not rape you no? You can forgive him. I will keep an eye on him. He will not leave the house. Now…we drink. Vodka?“

There is a scene in the movie where one of the young trafficked girls is raped with an iron pipe – presumably anally. The film directors spare us the sight, using cinematographic drama and magic to get us to use our imaginations. Maybe I’ve been in the rape capital of the world for too long, but all I could think was — no. Don’t hide this from us. Don’t shield us. This is real. Don’t spare us. We don’t deserve it. Show the scene.

I can relate to the protagonist in the film, not so much in her uber-dramatic fight to gain justice through the UN’s walls, but in her saying “I know these girls. I promised. I can’t leave them. I can’t leave them here. What is wrong with you people?!“

My last day with the ladies in my program…as my colleague – Marie could attest to, I was almost physically ill with my tears. There was no stopping them. I got out two words of my good-bye spiel, before I was crumbled into a heap on my wooden chair. And if you know anything about Congolese women – “separation is like death” and they were soon all wailing and bawling too. Being in that room, surrounded by the realizations of my calling, all I could of think was…God. I made these promises to you and to myself. Why?! Why am I leaving? What’s wrong with the men who hurt these women? What’s wrong with people? What is wrong with me? I can’t leave. I can’t stop. I can’t walk away from them…because their faces, their songs, their hugs…will haunt me for forever and day.

This movie didn’t make me think about the UN and its lackey governments, and how much I despise this institution that has diminished the good nature of humanity into…an industry.

It made me think of commitment.

It made me think of my recently failed relationship and how betrayed I continue to feel by that. Its hard for me. Its hard for me to accept things that I cannot change. And it is even harder for me to accept that…people..will always hurt…other people. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I am about to lead an existence rife with disappointment and futility, because I refuse to accept that in my own life, and in the lives of others near and far.

It made me think of the commitment I made to the women of Congo and the people of Haiti. To share the stories, to serve them in everything, to help them, to give up all I had to be there. To not just be a donor. But to be a walk-along-the-side-of-er. A life-long commitment.

It made me think of a commitment I made to myself a long time ago – that I always seem to forget. To never be silent, silenced or a silencer. To never be content with a safe life. To answer God’s calls immediately, passionately and faithfully. To serve others with an open heart and hand. To be true. To be free.

I’m no whistle-blower. I’m nothing like the chick from the movie. Your feedback from the last post was awesome – I’m so glad you care. I’m SO ecstatic to realize that its not just me tearing up at the downfall of our humanity and the thousands of innocent lives being lost because we’re too lazy to care. 

Thank you readers for reminding me…that all truth is actionable.

I’ve been resting. But really…there’s no time for rest. There’s no time for me to feel sorry for myself, or for us to dilly dally. Because I can tell you for a fact – there’s a world of people in DESPERATE need out there, just waiting. I beg you right now…to act. I don’t know how you will choose to do it. I’ve got a few ideas and suggestions, but please just do it. There’s not a second to lose.

I will be THAT girl right now and quote the movie “We may be accused of thinking with our hearts and not our heads, but at least we will still have our humanity.”

Going to sleep tonight…thinking of those who are waiting for us to act on truth.

 

To do good is not enough

Its been almost ten months since this incident. I didn’t share it then, because I was of two minds about publicizing this, a little nervous about the PR and dealing with much bigger issues at the time. But I’ll share it today, because it warrants sharing…finally.

As a caveat – let it be said, that though I despise the UN, thanks to the people I’ve interacted with, while in Congo and Haiti, I would never make up lies to justify this disgust. Every bit of it, is well-deserved.

In September 2011 a UN military observer in Bukavu, DR Congo assaulted me. He grabbed my arm and twisted it around me till I was bent over in pain, because I dared to help a then – friend, that he was harassing. He stood over me while I was bent forward, unable to move, and this drunk member of the Russian UN force began whispering what I thank God I was unable to understand, in my ear, in his native tongue. I wrestled myself out of his grip and walked out of the restaurant/bar with what little dignity I could muster to go comfort my terrified companion.

A few days passed, during which I worked up the courage to hang this MILOB out to dry. I placed a complaint with the UN’s disciplinary agency in Congo and pushed it till the very end. They eventually asked me to choose among having him court marshaled, removed from his duty-post and/or a public apology. I chose his removal from his post.

I was fearful about the ramifications of my decision at the time. Would they place this obviously misogynistic and racist man with a gun, within arms length of a Congolese woman who would be less inclined to stand up for her rights the way that I had? Would my name forever go down in UN archives as a whistle-blower? Would I ever be respected at UN meetings again, if someone found out that I was pushing for the highest punishment for someone who twisted my arm? What was the right choice? Should I eat humble pie and accept his apology? Why did I even push this complaint, I wasn’t scared of him, what did I care?

But I did care. I cared because military observers in the worst place to be a woman should not come from racist and misogynistic cultures. They should not be there, wielding their weapons against a people they don’t care about and seem to hate. They should not be paid exorbitant salaries for cruising through town with their aviator sunglasses, spitting on the streets, scorning the people they’re meant to “protect”. They should not be out all night, partying with prostitutes and further destroying the people they are meant to “serve”. They should not only monitor expat-populated areas and they should not be allowed to go unscathed after approaching a woman – of any race or nationality – in a threatening manner.

This MILOB was later repatriated to his home country and court marshaled. After I requested his removal, he found himself in another fight, and this second complaint against him, resulted in his being sent home for his own country to deal with his lack of self control and anger issues.

I am proud of this decision to report this military observer. My complaint meant that the second time he got into an altercation, he was swiftly removed. He was scum and he is only part of the reason why I now throw up a little in my mouth each time someone mentions the ‘good-work’ of the UN. Such a noble concept – completely ruined by the egos and money-grubbing, violent attitudes of men.

I often mention that the real problem facing so many war-torn and developing nations is not the lack of aid, but rather too many ill-intentioned aid-workers.  No recruitment process is perfect, but the UN MUST work to ensure that the people they are sending into the field are not maniacal drunkards who hate women. Is it a joke that a Muslim nation – a culture that is notorious for mistreating the fairer sex, forms the majority of the UN mission in a country already plagued with a disrespect and hatred toward women? Is it funny that these UN observers spend their nights with prostitutes at local watering holes, trade sex for supplies and still tout themselves as “humanitarians” and “brave soldiers”? When in fact – I have real-life stories of women getting raped in front of UN bases, frightened people running away from their persecutors begging the friendly neighborhood UN observer for assistance, and my own personal experiences of almost being run over by sleek UN vehicles speeding down the street and being treated like dirt by UN soldiers because I am a black woman with no desire to kiss their combat boots or elsewhere? I wonder if I were just another Congolese woman, if my complaint against this UN MILOB would have gone further than a uniform’s desk? Doubtful.

My last few months in Congo, taught me a lot about the dark underbelly of the aid and development world – that I am privileged and troubled to share with you here. Mostly it just made me ponder – where are the good people?

To do good, is not to don a uniform. To do good, is not to brandish a weapon in the name of a questionable peace. To simply do good…is not enough unless one means good.

Good is not accidental.

I hope it won’t be boring?

In the past three weeks, I’ve watched another class of Wamu Women graduate, said good-bye and left Congo, been ridiculously ill, returned to Lynchburg and have successfully spent the last week ruminating on the interesting turn of events that have brought me back to this town at this time.

The graduation ceremony was a small, intimate…dance party. Women danced up to collect their certificates, there was a lot of praying and praising God, still more shouting and screaming and laughing, and even MORE dancing. It was amazing. Those ladies…they remain in my heart like nothing and noone else. The ceremony was just the best reminder of why we do what we do…not to write amazingly intelligent-sounding articles, give sound-bites to media outlets, or to eke out a career…but because real people are in real need…and they get REAL joy and fulfillment from the work that we put in. I love that. I love that after all the sweat, tears, shouting, mud, diarrhea, power-outages, overdrawn bank accounts and crackly phone meetings…it was worth it after all. I love that God showed up in the lives of these women, and in my own life in a very REAL way through this. I just love it.

My last few weeks in Congo were spent thinking on, what next, what can I do to stay, what can I do to successfully leave, is this the right decision, will this work, and how will I live. I was blessed beyond compare to have been mentored by Dr. Denis Mukwege, a man who has pursued his own dream to the ends of the earth, only to now be a three time Nobel Peace Prize nominee, chums with Ban Ki Moun and Bill Clinton, world-renowned and loved, the recipient of several awards and several death threats within his country. Quite possibly, one of the most amazing people I know. Before I left, we were able to chat about where my heart is, and the potential for a new project in remote Kilungtwe, the village I visited a few weeks back that was the site of a massacre, and today is home to illiterate children faced with unbelievably preventable health and life concerns.

I’m fairly excited about the potential of doing something to serve the people of Kilungtwe who suffer so needlessly and are in such desperate need for an advocate, but I also shake in fear at the thought of doing something so crazy and off the limb. There’s a lot to be considered when taking on a new venture. You guys remember, from my first few posts. The self-doubt, the financial carnival, the uncertainty and the unknown – they are killers. We’ll see. 

It’s Day 7 back in Lynchburg and I’m already beginning to scratch at the walls. I know I need to take the breather after the roller coaster, crazy-hard ride of the last year…and I know I deserve the rest, physically, mentally and emotionally. But rest shmest. There’s a world out there and I’m already in a love/hate relationship with this ridiculously comfortable American couch.

I suppose this also warrants mentioning, but as you’ve probably guessed, I have resigned from Women in War Zones. I am transitioning out right now, by helping this semester’s interns finish off strong and lay the groundwork for the program in the field to continue strong. I wish them the best in their endeavors, this group of passionate young people, eager to make a difference, I just truly believe that this was the right step for me to take at this point in time. It is terrifying to be out in the real world, jobless, broke, single, not in the field so nothing to write about, and kind of…confused…but it is refreshing to know that I FINALLY took a decision for myself, that there’s no end to the possibilities, and that God is rubbing my hands in excitement like…yeah…let’s do this…

So…yeah…let’s do this – unemployment/freelancing/starting a new project/wearing makeup because I’m in civilization/being able to shower whenever I want/speaking English/nothing exciting and foreign to write about…….thing. I promise…I mean…I hope…it won’t be boring.

Militarization and Disaster-ification

I spent the last few weeks working on presentations with Dr. Mukwege for his speaking engagements in Sweden and London. This experience has been stressful but also absolutely educational and has strengthened my belief that health is inextricably tied to a country’s success or failure in sustainable development, and why I should therefore study public health in the near future.

As part of one of these presentations, I had the amazing honor of reviewing Panzi’s entry statistics, details on women, their backgrounds and their rapists. What was clear to me, that I guess I already knew from reading and research, but was brought to life by the numbers I saw on these pages – was just how much the face of gender based violence has changed in this country and how many rapes are now being committed by civilians and intimate partners.

This is one of the greatest tragedies in any post-conflict or post-disaster setting, the militarization of civilians and the disaster-ification of the country (yes, I made that word up). Disaster-ification is what I want to talk about in this post, more so than militarization. Militarization smacks of civilians adopting soldier-like mannerisms but disaster-ification speaks more to the long-lasting effects that living in a state of emergency and uncertainty have on people and their daily lives.

I caught my first whiff of this in Port au Prince in March of 2010, when during my first experience of doing a tent-distribution, the tents were immediately stolen and I presume taken to the local market to be sold, leaving families, women and children with sheets as their only shelter. I had an inkling of what that was a larger sign of back then, but it is only now that I can express it into words.

Disasters, whether natural or man-made, whether earthquake, war or tsunami, force people to live thinking only of their primal needs. Even when the immediate state of emergency is over, this unwillingness to accept that there is no more danger and that life can carry on without scavenging, violence and bitterness is near impossible to break.

I see it here each day, because the needs of today far outweigh the needs of the next year and the future generations. Like I’ve said before, it is unbelievably difficult to get people to think in terms of what they will need five years from now, when they do not have food on the table today. That in itself is a pretty good argument for aid and development needing to work together instead of simply parallel with each other.
When I think of the way that war has damaged the Congolese people it makes me weep. When I think of the way living like animals in tents has near-destroyed so many Haitians, it burns my soul.
So quick to respond to emergency needs – the aid worker, the humanitarian, the donor, too often fail to recognize that even when there’s no more need for food rations, peace-keepers, tents and livelihoods programs – people are forever changed.
There’s very little that can wipe away memories of bullets, guns, the earth swallowing homes whole and oceans wiping away everything in sight.

I think of my own country – Trinidad and the long-term effects that living in a crime-induced state of emergency on my country-men – a lax attitude to violence and a nothing-to-lose way of living.

Yes indeed – it is not bullets through flags, homes crushed into sandwiches and criminals walking free that destroy nations – it is the disaster-ification that crushes hearts and souls, bends minds into acceptance and lashes people into submission and defeat that will destroy us.

Rape in Congo and the bandages that don’t fight bullies.

This is not the post you think it will be.

Since I slaved over a mini-thesis in Colonel Bowers’ introductory International Relations class on gender-based violence in conflict, most notably in the Democratic Republic of Congo I have been appalled and morbidly fascinated by the situation faced by women in this country. For a long time I have viewed Congo as nothing more than a cesspool of rape, pain, bullets and sorrows. Certainly nothing I saw in my research, in the news or in what people said told me otherwise.

But then I came out here for myself. I didn’t stay for a month or two to write a book, take photos or conduct interviews with the worst of the worst cases. I freed myself from that mzungu prison of thinking that because they spend a week or two in Congo a few times – they know this place.  I began to build a life for myself here. I began to work to serve women who have survived rape, buying whole-heartedly into the idea that rape is the most atrocious problem faced by the Congolese people – and the core of this country’s woes. What a silly tunnel-vision-ed girl I was.

You may re-read this blog and think…well this is directly contradicting so much of what you have said in the past Dominique. But please forgive me, I was in the throes of caring so much so that I forgot to check out my peripheral vision to get the view of the whole picture.

Congo’s problem is not just rape. (I can’t believe those words just escaped my lips). Congo’s problems go so much deeper than rape, if anything, this devastating sexual violence is a RESULT not the CAUSE of Congo’s difficulties, and it is definitely not the only result.

Care for just a starter list of problems and questions? Here goes, why do NGO’s PR stunts sometimes cost more than their actual programs? Why is it normal for the soldiers to go unpaid for months? No one thinks to stand up and say, hey maybe these rebels shouldn’t be going to bars with their grenade launchers and Kalashnikovs? Why are children being burnt alive after being accused of witchcraft? Why are cancer and AIDS so often passed off as ‘poisoning’? No one thinks it atrocious that the Mai Mai HAVE to hunt protected animals because they just have NOTHING else to eat? How about Hilary Clinton travelling here constantly and nothing concrete coming of it? People living on less than $1 day? What’s the line between a freedom fighter and a combatant? I think it pretty strange that grown women don’t know anything about their anatomy. I find it appalling that students have to trade money and sex for grades. I find it disgusting that people KNOW where the raping and pillaging rebels are and we haven’t announced a mass arresting yet? How about oil companies purchasing the right to dig wells in national parks? The border no longer accepting 6 month VISA’s from embassies? Rwanda has 3G cell service and I can’t get a call to go through when it’s windy or rainy? Oh I could go on and on and on and on about this country where there is no war…but still so very little peace.

Don’t get me wrong. Rape remains exceedingly important; it is the bane of a woman’s existence, the most difficult and sadly the most-anticipated event in our lives. Perhaps this is why I have attached myself so inextricably to this cause – it is too near and dear to my heart, a very real and very frightening issue that is the risk we are born with. It is ever-present in Congo, it has gripped this nation in its horrible claws and shows no signs of letting go, but it is just ONE display of the depravity and debasing of humanity that has taken place here. To focus only on this, and highlight only this, and champion this, no matter how much it deserves to be championed is to simplify the conflict and the current situation to the point where it loses so many of its dark and difficult layers.

Activists that shall go un-named will carry on and on and have the world believe though that rape is the biggest and the sole challenge to Congo’s peace and that your iPhone, you horrible human being is the reason for this rape.  But they conveniently ignore the fact that the main perpetrators of rape are no longer the FLDR or the FARDC, they are fathers, brothers, community leaders and men who walk the streets freely every day.  These activists will gloss over the silence of nations, churches and Christians that resulted in thousands of Tutsis massacred a little over a decade ago only a stone’s throw away, this same silence that characterizes the treatment of Congo today. They gloss over the complicity of governments and international NGO’s in the trading of sex for aid, the horribly defunct social infrastructure and the fact that somehow…we now have two men claiming to be the President of this one nation.

For me…I see Congo as being the sadly perfect example of a place where the value of a human life has only diminished over the years. This is why these men rape without concern for judgment, what are these women’s lives worth to them? What are their own lives worth? This is why soldiers fire their guns off into crowds for jokes…who cares? What is the value of this life they eke out? It’s a game of survival here. Why worry about development in 2020 when so many things can kill them today? Why govern this country with order and peace? The world surely hasn’t cared before…will they care now if massacres, executions and botched elections are quietly conducted?

Donors love the idea of saving women, providing for their needs, and in short, perpetuating what I like to call the ‘aid-addiction’. Very few donors think logically about the fact that perhaps ending violence against women goes much deeper than simply providing for their needs after they have been raped. It requires getting at bottom and top-levels of authorities, ending their corrupted reigns, demanding transparency and accountability and not accepting pathetic excuses for democracy and justice in return.

I love my work, I love the women in my program. I see the merit daily. I know it is creating so much good in the lives of women in so much need of good. I love the thought that I am helping them create their dreams, and training them to potentially live a much better life. But there is a sick feeling in my stomach that…the copybooks with the treasured notes on English and French…make for poor weapons against guns, machetes and the ‘stronger sex’.

There comes a point in every humanitarian’s life where she questions the worth and the efficacy of her work. I can honestly say at this juncture, that I don’t think rehabilitation in and of itself is going to solve the problem of violence against women in Congo or elsewhere anytime soon. This is not to say, that rehabilitation is worthless, it is definitely worthwhile. It’s extremely important to provide for the needs of these women after they have suffered so much physical and psychological damage…but rehabilitation relies on the event happening. It does little to prevent the violence in the first place. It is like the bandage you put on the bleeding bruise after the bully pushes you to the ground, though your bandage is really important, it doesn’t protect you from the bully. In fact he will probably push you harder tomorrow, bandage and all.

That being said, it is important to recognize that there seems to be no interest from the Western world in SOLVING the Congolese problem. Reasons for that, I shan’t get into in this post but it’s pretty obvious to me at least. This country on its knees is so much more convenient than it would be standing up on its own.  So hotels donate used bottles of shampoo, countries write off old bad-debts and count that as aid, laws and resolutions are passed; more and more funds go toward purchasing UN choppers so they can sit idly by, unable to fire their weapons at the perpetrators of massacres.

So we provide bandages and more bandages instead of pushing the bullies back, lest we actually beat them.

Victories

I’ve written so much about the horrors taking place in Congo, the aftermath of the earthquake in Haiti, the blissful ignorance of millions of people in the West that I’ve grown quite weary of it. I don’t know how people like Kristoff do it, how often can you come up with synonyms for destruction, rape, poverty and war. I for one have made ample use online synonym dictionaries and have sat for many a minute contemplating, how to describe horrible thing X without repeating the same words and calls to action that I’ve written in almost every other blog post.

As I was walking through downtown Bukavu today, checking out the atmosphere as we await the announcement of Congo’s new President and in search of canned Coke and mangoes for curried mango to go with my chapati, I had a thought. I haven’t toured through Africa so I don’t have much authority on this, but it struck me how easy it would be to forget that Bukavu is in fact a war-torn African city. It is so peaceful, beautiful and deceivingly lovely that I sometimes have to reassure myself about where I am.
I tried to look straight-ahead today as I walked, looking for signs of the battles and the bloodshed and craving some African-ness in my system.

I noticed the FARDC soldier, a sight seen so often I don’t even register it as abnormal to see soldiers clutching their AK-47s walk brazenly through the streets. I watched him with my typical but ghastly fearlessness that comes from growing up in the (slightly) developed world. He walked tiredly, barely holding on to his gun, eyes downcast and brow furrowed in the blazing Congo mid-day heat. He walked right past me – this remnant of war seemed just eager to reach a cool sitting place where he could sip a beer and get out of the sun.

As I continued down the dirt road, I came face to face with a woman of abundant girth and probably wealth, stepping gingerly, clutching her cloth wrapped around her waist with gaudy, yellow high-heels adorning her feet. A bit further on I noticed a man burning his rubbish at the side of the street, simultaneously coolly lighting his old-timey pipe in the flames that came from his rubbish. Urban Outfitters and other hipster-havens would kill for that kind of authenticity.

When I left the dirt road, and emerged onto the bustling Ave Lumumba, I was immediately confronted with local and UN police decked out in full riot gear but lazing around by the vehicles, “securing” the community during this tense time. Moto-taxis congregate at the corner, so my thought process was put on pause for a bit as I walked quickly through them denying offers of lifts to Carrefour, Essence or Chai.

I continued to walk through the crowds of people plying their goods, hailing taxis, chatting with each other, languidly smoking their Ambassade cigarettes and going about their everyday life. To my right, I could just barely catch a glimpse of the massive Lake Kivu gleaming enticingly like the teasing and deadly woman she is, and to my left I could see stores, markets, local bars, and way in the distance looming eerily over the town – the barracks that house the presumably integrated army.

I wanted to take you on this journey with me because as I walked through town today, I couldn’t help but think what a pity it is that the news on Congo focuses only on the wars, the corruption, the conflict minerals and it being the worst place to be a woman. Little to no news at all focuses on the admirable way in which the people here have sought to cling to some semblance of normalcy and the ever-elusive – peace.

Perhaps if Bukavu were more Gaza-strip-esque, it would be on the headlines every day, perhaps if people were still starving to death trapped in their homes in Port-au-Prince mainstream media would not have forgotten about the Haitian people since the excitement and the million-dollar aid shipments have ceased.

What I’ve found is this. In the worst places in the world, people continue to eke out a living. They wake up in the morning, they fetch their water, they go about their lives, because that’s what we as people do. We cling to normalcy, we cling to our routines and we cling to them even in the face of death, destruction, war, elections, and the end of the world even.

Perhaps this should be a part of the mainstream media’s depiction of these countries, perhaps that would normalize horrible things X,Y and even Z, and bring them closer to the heart of the average Jersey Shore viewer, knowing that even when there is madness in the streets, someone’s at home making dinner very quietly for their families. Even when the earth literally shook and cracked, someone woke up the next morning to prepare breakfast.

People ask me all these absurd but understandable questions about why I seem determined to travel to every place the US State Department says not to go, is it because I don’t give a rip about their website and travel warnings, partly yes. But it’s also because I know deep down inside that life goes on in these places in quietly victorious ways.

These are the victories we fail to acknowledge. The victory that some sort of dinner was served in some tent-homes in Port-au-Prince in 2010. The victory that a father consoled his hungry children until they fell asleep beneath their fabric roof, watching over them, as only a The victory that children continued playing football in cracked streets bordered by collapsed homes in Jacmel. The victory that people turn out in the Sunday-best to church, election, war, earthquake be damned. The victory that people wake up every morning no matter what, and…exist.

I find that exciting. And I think we should all think that that is pretty cool.

I know there’ve been mornings I’ve woken up praying to God all-mighty that the day before did not happen, or that I had dreamed the horrendous incident of the night before up. I can’t even bring myself to get out of bed and when I do, it’s to face the day with gloom and despair. But I make my coffee, I eat something, I go back to bed and try again the next day.

I don’t live my life in an incredibly victorious way. Its part and parcel of living in the (slightly) developed world. We don’t consider being able to break out the French press in the morning a victory – when oh…my…word – it is a victory beyond compare.

I wish the media and writers like myself (ha), would highlight these victories so much more. I can only read so many articles about civilian deaths, riots and rapes. Sometimes I want to read about the families that picked the pieces up after these events. Sometimes I want to read about the young girl in a refugee camp that dreams of going to school to become a nurse. Sometimes I want to see hope splashed across CNN and BBC.

The biggest victories are so often in the untold stories.