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.

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.

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.

Little Scrumblings

Their skinny legs are covered in dust. Their skin is dry, their lips chapped and their eyes glistening. Their smiles are crooked; their toys are made of discards, their clothes ragged, and their love…unconditional.

For a number of untold reasons God has made me into a Pied Piper for kids.  Each time I walked into the CCEH compound in Delmas, they would run to greet me, clutching my hands, each one of them scrambling to touch some part of me. I would struggle to walk with kids on each limb and still more swatting at each other to hold my hand. Each time I sat outside, a little crowd would form, little girls playing with my hair, touching my nose ring, whispering about my tattoo and my weird looks and hugging onto my neck and chest. It was the best part of the summer actually.

I had written a blog-post – before my unfortunate computer crash – on the differences between children in Haiti and children in the States. Children who have practically nothing, and the ones who have so much.  The different games they play, the difference in the way they look, the different ways they show love and appreciation, the differences in their prayers. And I posed the question of which child do we feel pity for? The one who is parented by Toys R Us and Disney Channel, or the one who is loved and his only toy is a bucket cover and attached stick?

I was privileged enough to participate in the kids summer camp, my last day in Haiti. I looked on as they played simple games, laughed, sang, fought and had a BLAST with only candy a roll of string and glasses of water for materials. They raced each other to get lollipops, had a dance-off, sang, played a VICIOUS game of musical chairs and all danced with each other. Nothing could compare to this.

I find myself…dreaming about one child in particular: Amos. Abandoned by his mother, he is a tiny scrumbling of a little boy (yes – scrumbling is my own word). When I first met him in 2010 he was tiny, short and a little chubby. This summer he had stretched out a little, was skinny and had a fever for much of the time I was there. Amos is quiet, a fireball with his friends and fellow orphans but shy and loving in my arms. There’s something about him that makes me want to bundle him up and take him with me.  I just want to HUG HIM AND NEVER LET GO!

Amos is a good example of the children that CCEH – Centre Chretien de l’Enfant Haitien serves. He has been abandoned. He is loving. He sings or rather, shouts his praise at the top of his lungs during church services. He goes to school at the center. He seems to only have two t-shirts to wear. He is a precious, loving child of God who makes my brows furrow with holding back tears, even as I write this. And he will likely live at the orphanage till he is old enough to strike out on his own.

What his life will become after the orphanage, without the help of supporters and sponsors to maybe send him to school – I don’t know. It breaks my heart to think that this world is so FULL of opportunity for the chosen few – but others have to scrape and struggle for every bit of good that comes to them. It breaks my heart to wonder what will become of these little scrumblings – what kinds of lives will they lead – will they fulfill every bit of God’s glorious plan for them? Or will poverty and unfulfilled dreams be all they have to look forward to? I refuse to believe that their dreams are any different to the dreams of a child in California. Little girls all around the world want to be princesses and little boys all around the world dream of firetrucks, cars and superheros. Only difference is…some girls and boys have the chance to fulfill their dreams.

Some things…a lot of things…are not fair.

For more info on how to make a contribution to the CCEH orphanage in Haiti please contact CCEHcampaigns@gmail.com. We desperately need help to continue providing for these loving and SO special kids.

Rebuilding

When I arrived to the Mais Gate International Airport in Port au Prince, I was tired, filthy and a little smelly from my overnight layover in Panama City sans travel-sized beauty supplies. The first thing that struck me was the unbearable heat, I’ve grown up in the Caribbean, lived through snowstorms and worked in the Congolese rainy season – I’m pretty weather-adaptable I think, but jeez – the heat in Haiti wiped me out.  Actually, to track back, the first thing that struck me was that my ride was not there. Needless to say, the person who was supposed to come pick me up, but decided he couldn’t be bothered, and I, did not become bosom buddies during the course of my trip. I mean…really, who leaves an English-speaker stranded at the airport in a Creole-speaking country, because you just couldn’t be bothered? Ugh…that guy.

Anyway, being the tough cookie that I am, I found myself a taxi, an albeit extremely expensive one, and I made my way to the guesthouse. I’ll skim over the details of us getting, lost, my card not working in the ATM, my taxi driver yelling me, and the subsequent inconsiderate laughter and ridicule from my Haitian team-mates.

Haiti is different now. When I was there last year, not too long after the earthquake, my heart was broken by the sense of desperation that permeated every breath of air in Port au Prince. All around me was unbelievable suffering, aid-workers struggling and an all-out crisis. This time around, I was not so spiritually oppressed, not so overwhelmed by sorrow, there is an air of…I don’t know, hope maybe, in Haiti now. This country that has lost thousands to an unforeseeable natural disaster, has begun the long, hard road to rebuilding. Not just rebuilding its infrastructure and its houses, but rebuilding their souls, reclaiming their lives.

Houses are still horribly destroyed and precariously perched at unthinkable angles in Port au Prince. The roads are still destroyed, rubble is piled up on street corners, and blue tents dot hillsides and plains…by the thousands. I once again marveled at the damage that was caused in mere seconds, thinking of families whose lives were lost and destroyed, thinking of the panic that they must have felt at the shaking of the earth.

My first few days in Haiti are a blur…lots of driving, working out details, taking notes, lots of evenings sweating in the blistering heat, as the day’s sun displayed its last bit of strength before slipping into a quiet, cool dusk.

I kid you not when I say…something is totally different about Haiti now, compared to the early months after the earthquake in 2010. There is less sorrow, less of a choking feeling of desperation, less tears and even less garbage on the streets it looks like. This is not to say though, that things are vastly better, in fact…I feel like they should be much better than they are by now. Tent cities still abound, cholera has stolen the lives of hundreds, people are still struggling to survive and there are still sons, daughters, husbands and wives to mourn.

I’m excited to see how Haiti continues to grow and change on a macro-level in the coming years. I’m excited  to see this nation become a great success story for future generations of Caribbean children to read about in their History books – how Haiti rebuilt itself.