April Showers Bring May Flowers

April was a difficult first month. I was happy to flip the calendar to May.

The heat here in La Union this month can only be described as oppressive. Sweaty, humid, scorching and oppressive.

Jon: Where is Sean?

Emily: He went to get the ice cubes.

Jon: (With a ridiculous amount of hope) Ice cubes?

Gina: Yes, for the Slip ‘n’ Slide.

Emily: And to throw at one another.

(Sad Side Note with an optimistic ending: There is no ice here. Or fridge. One of the best parts of getting down to town and/or travelling is that we can eat and drink cold things.)

There is a bag hanging in the office. It is labeled “when shit hits the fan” (side comment lamentation: If only we had a fan!). In the event of an emergency we are to throw all the sensitive material in it and bail according to our emergency exit plan. Emergency exit plans are important for any family.  Our house is pretty easy to get out of, but for the sake of making it interesting, we constructed one. In the case of a house fire (our totally relevant example), I would slide through the hole in the wall separating Emily´s and my bedrooms (we are actually room-mates)  and then we would both exit through her window via the fire-escape ladder (approximately two feet long to cover the distance from window-ledge to weeds). House fire the least of your worries in the war zone? Try this conundrum on for size:

Q. How should we deal with aggressive armed actors?

A. Raise your arms high above your head to make yourself as large as possible, then slowly back away silently, averting your eyes from the armed actor in question.

I have travelled so much this month I sometimes forget where I am. We have travelled as close as La Hollandita (1.5 hours walking), as far as Bogota (24 hours of walking, jeeping, flying, bussing) and all sorts of distances in between. My dreams are blurred between hammocks and river crossings, bustling urban centers and hawks flying over abandoned canyons. I wake and my life feels a little the same. Like I am a ball bouncing around inside the pinball machine of the Colombian war zone.

Of all our destinations, we have spent the most time in Apartadó. It is our bustling local town hub with a larger than vereda life population of 200,000. There are things there that most people would associate with city life: people, pavement, transport, restaurants, hotels, schools, hospitals, cold things. We get a nice whirlwind of a reminder about how life goes on in the cities, even while war goes on in the countryside. We go to Apartadó to have meetings with other international NGOs, local NGOs as well as the military. We go there anytime we travel anywhere else. We also go there to find food. And with the internet difficulties this month, we have gone there to send e-mails. Apartadó has become like a second home. 

Emily, Jon and I found ourselves in Apartadó one fine weekend eve and decided to go out on the town. Jon took us to the tango mistress’ hole in the wall bar (it also serves as a great place to buy most household items, sort of like how you can buy ice-cream at the photocopy place or buy goldfish at the motorcycle shop- so convenient!) where we drank heavily while listening to crescendoing tango music. The tango mistress tends her bar in high heeled shoes that are too small for her feet. She probably can’t feel the pain since she takes nearly as many shots as her customers. She is badass. Jon said he wanted her to take him under her wing. Our neighbor at the next table (aka, two inches away) was a 50 year old travelling orthodontist (don’t they have teeth where you are from?). He tried to keep us entertained with his frat-boy-esque drinking tricks and, in doing so, broke several shot glasses throughout the night. He also invited us to his BBQ the next day. In Medellin. (7-14 hours away by bus). Silliness pumped with tango. I was happy.

One time in Apartadó we went to the spa for a massage. The woman literally had to brush dirt off of my body before she began. We can only imagine what they said about us afterward… how did they get bites there?!?

The tents on the outskirts of town came up over night. Hundreds of tarps on sticks, mapping out new homesteads for displaced people. An invasion of land. A reclaiming of land. On our way down to town these new neighbors were milling about, numbering tents, and hanging signs declaring their new peaceful presence. On our way up from town the tarps were all burning on piles of sticks. 20 bonfires, being stoked by riot police. Hundreds of people gathered in groups on the road, looking over what would have been their new homes. Colombia has one of the highest populations of internal refugees in the world. The displaced are the survivors. Where are the survivors to go?

During Semana Santa we walked the stations of the cross. Each stop was along the road to the community in the exact spot where a community member had been killed. First the priest talked of the biblical station, and then he talked about the assassination of the community member. Community members carried crosses with the names of the fallen, and each one was nailed to a tree with flowers around the bottom. A procession for peace. The stations took us walking seven hours in the sun, but this is nothing for a community whose cross to bear is the repeated murders of its members. After the stations of the cross a young girl came and tugged at the priest:

-“Father, is there mass tonight?”

-“We had mass for seven hours today. Don’t you remember? I think we better rest tonight.”

Every month we get three days off. This month Emily and I took our three days together and headed to the Caribbean town of Sapzurro. On our way out of town, we passed a military checkpoint where everyone was drinking and dancing about with automatic weapons. I couldn’t help but think, “that’s the war zone I’m talking about!” The journey was a two hour hike, one hour on a jeep, .5 hours in a car and 4 hours on a boat. It was worth it. We boated through bluegreen Caribbean waters past small islands, and then smaller ones, and then past one with only one palm tree. We saw young boys fishing with string and waves crashing against black rock. We hiked over a hill and across a border. We sunbathed in a sleepy honey cove in Panama where there was nobody to be found but one sleepy military man. We slept in a jungle cabin and saw monkeys and frogs and butterflies and sand crabs. We composed yet another family band song called, Ode to the Coconut, which goes (over and over): “crack it open, crack it open, crack it open, crack it open.” We cracked open coconuts and collected shells. We slept, we rested, we rejuvenated, and we somehow resisted the urge to join the travelling hippies on their boat toward Central America. Then, we came back to work.

A neighbor with a radio came over to ask Emily and Jon what our President’s name was…

-“Obama.”

-“Yes. He is dead.”

-“WHAT!”

-“They have killed him. It is on the radio.”

We’ll have to give it to him. The radio doesn’t exactly have clear reception. They were talking about America. They probably mentioned the President. We were happy to find out he had not actually been assassinated.

Five minutes into an evening meeting with community members, the rain started coming down hard. We talked about the recent deaths and threats and combats and upcoming issues. Even when the conversation diverged, it still stayed on the topic of justice. We talked about the recent land invasions. We talked about the potential Free Trade Agreement and the effect it would have on the second “development” phase of the Urra multinational dam. (Note: If the death, destruction and misery caused by multinationals is in our country’s “best interest,” I would definitely suggest we re-prioritize.) The rain was comically loud, causing both Sean and I to nearly sit on the laps of the community members as they screamed into our ears. Here are some thoughts I liked from our shouting match:

            -How is it that multinationals can displace so many people and displaced Colombian farmers can’t even find a parcel of land big enough to hang a plastic tarp for shelter? How are either of those situations legal?

            -In war, you see, people become dispensable.

            -If we don’t change capitalism, the world will drown in blood. So much misery and injustice and suffering. Eventually, you know, that very misery will trump all.

            -Why did your countrymen cheer and celebrate when Osama was killed? Why do you cheer at the death of a man? What message does that send to the children of your country about death and destruction and murder and war? I think it is a reflection of a very sick society.

We talked for 6 hours. The conversation ebbed and flowed from current events in the community to world wide war. We talked about the weight of the world while it felt like it was literally falling upon us in the form of a thunderstorm on a tin roof.

Guapa (according to Spanish dictionary): Pretty, handsome, good-looking.

Lies. Guapa does not mean good-looking. It means hard-working. This is why I am only “guapa” when sweating like a pig and throwing a broken hoe in the garden. I am only guapa when trying to grow produce that “doesn’t grow here.” (While looking at the photo on the packaging of Emily´s imported watermelon seeds a neighbor said, “Ah, yes. This is what people eat in Bogota.” Not a good sign.) I am also guapa when sweating and sweeping the floor. Or sweating and taking out the trash. I am not guapa while just sweating, which is what I am doing most of the time.

Our garden is coming along nicely. We have had many donations from neighbors: flowers, trees, tomatoes, tobacco, and labor. We are hoping for the best. Now I just need the carpenter to make me a reclining chair for sunbathing.

Just as we are an interesting experiment for the medical workers at the tropical illness clinic (Fresh blood! No resistance!), the CdP would be an intensely interesting case study for a very brave psychologist.  How do people keep on keeping on? How do people not break, even when they are broken? So many things that are so disturbing going on all the time. From where do they pull their strength? With so much death and trauma and displacement, it is hard to believe there is so much life and joy and stability here. Sometimes there will be a glimpse into the weight of the grief, or the sadness or the fear that is collectively felt here. And when those glimpses are given, I can’t help but reflect on them. Picture living on the same street where you saw your brother massacred. Your mother. Your husband. Your children. All of the above.

A widow glides from house to house, silently, without being noticed. She is so very quiet in her suffering. An old woman tells me she is “so tired she can barely get out of bed.” Her sadness is so heavy. Her sadness is beyond familiar.

An animal dies under the house and a child comes by and says:

“Someone is dead. It smells like when my uncle was decomposing.”

But the child doesn’t find this statement disturbing. The child just says it because that is the memory associated with that smell.

Feeling like conversation had been really heavy for way too many hours, during a break I asked a member of the internal council to tell me a happy story from his childhood. He looked up at me as though he had already failed and said, “my life is not very full of happy stories.”

People say things that are so loaded with meaning and history and social identity and psychological weight and little by little their actions and their conversations paint the canvass of their past. Little by little they let you know just how real the war is.

The crazy woman talks to herself at me, and for some reason has become attached to my room. She throws rocks out of the second story of her house, which is completely open to the elements, because she herself has teared it down over the years. She steals all of my pens. She steals our precious milk. She carries around a machete and periodically hacks at the ground. She likes to dance when there is music; she bobs about while swinging her machete and looking down. The community as a whole feeds her. They keep her alive and don’t send her away. (Is she better off here?) She didn’t displace with the community and nobody is sure what happened to her while they were away. The only time I have ever seen her calm is one sunny day when she sat and watched Emily and I in the garden. She had a look of peace on her face. She stopped mumbling for a few moments and just watched. They say she is lucid sometimes, like when she kept her granddaughter from falling off of a ledge. Or when she confronted armed actors and prevented a kidnapping. She is a story in and of herself. She haunts me in my dreams.

The clouds part and I see a starry sky for the first time in La Union. It is pitch black. They are so brightly glitterly beautiful. I stand next to a neighbor who says he knew it was me coming, because he can recognize people in the dark.

There are lush flowers and vines growing over an abandon building in San Jose where the community used to have their co-op (before displacing (again)). I went inside because I like abandon things. I think it was the first abandon building I’d ever been in and known the history of. It is so newly abandoned. It is so beautiful. And it is so haunting.Habitat for Humanity would have a heyday with the homes in the community. I can’t help but look around and think about the home improvements that would improve health. It’s hard to not think about ways to aid the community. I drive myself crazy thinking about how many “development” projects come before human rights in the world, when it should be the other way around. I drive myself crazy thinking about how development workers allow that to happen.

Jon left us for the Bogota team. We made arroz con leche. We made arroz con coco. We made him a book of colored pictures and letters from the community. We had a dance. We miss Jon. The dance was in the community hall and the music was vallenato, volume maximum. The crazy woman waved her machete at me (or was she chicken dancing?) and I couldn´t help but tango to the other side of the room with Jon. The kids were there. They danced around like lunatics and they danced around in proper vallenato style. The deaf girl impressively keeps the beat by watching those around her. She was the most enthusiastic of us all. My favorite boy asked me to dance and when we were bored of vallenato, we waltzed to the same rhythm.

Niguas are fun burrowing bugs. The children remove their own. Sean had four removed from one foot the other week. I had one and allowed several people to dig into my toe with clippers, needles and pluckers before it was decided that it wasn’t a nigua after all but rather a false alarm. You can imagine how impressed I was post  “removal.” Now there is a hole in my toe, so they should have better luck getting in this time around.

Sapa is pregnant. She did not listen when we told her to make good choices. She is also the inspiration for another family band song entitled: Sapa, get your ass off the table.

There was a pretty little tree frog on the wall in the kitchen. I looked at it closely and decided we should be pals. When he jumped to the next wall, he fell to the ground. In the spilt second between hitting the floor and taking off, Sapa pounced on him. She then ate him. All of him. I no longer make friends with frogs. Sapa continues to be a badass hunter, although as her stomach grows she is getting more and more awkward. She nearly rolled off of Sean’s stomach the other day by accident.

A young mother about to give birth walks down to town to have her baby in the hospital. I can not even begin to imagine doing that walk nine months pregnant.

We had climbed all the way to the gates of La Union before we heard the water. How was the river rushing so hard now when we just crossed it so effortlessly down in the valley? Where is the waterfall that is that close? It took us a second to realize we were hearing the rain. It was pouring across the canyon, and headed right for us. We could see it coming, we could hear it coming. It was so unreal. We ended up running, soaking wet, singing at the top of our lungs and barely hearing or seeing anything over the rain itself. We sang about home.

An old man returning from the community adult education classes tells me it is difficult for him to remember all of the letters.

I left Guatemala one year ago this month. That anniversary gave me closure somehow.

My life in La Union is so sensory; I can’t begin to share it all.

My life here is a pastel sunset after a rainless day

a young hawk awkwardly learning to hunt in the canyon

a teenager schooling me in warzone weaponry (model, make, country of origin) from the sounds behind the hill or photos in a magazine

the screams of a pig being castrated

a jumping red and yellow lizard in the garden

little girls making crowns of flowers on the sidelines of a soccer match

a young mother and her newborn baby carried home from town in a hammock

falling down in a rushing river, flashfloods and walking up waterfalls

Emily crocheting new pot-holders from old volunteer FOR shirts

smokey wood stoked stoves over breakfast coffee

            a neighbor strumming his guitar and smoking a cigarette

hummingbirds in the house

moonlight cradling me like a hammock in the kitchen doorway

a horse shaking the house by scratching itself against it

tobacco dipped in panela

a boy so high up in a lime tree he looks like a squirrel

bombs exploding and helicopters hovering

the sun scorching my skin

            abandon buildings and flourishing gardens

babies being born and men being beheaded

            chomping on sugarcane

a jeep struggling to get through the mud without falling off of the crumbling road

looking at home from across the canyon under a thatch roofed kiosk and catching myself in the        thought: it looks so peaceful

It’s hard to adjust to living in a combat zone. So much death. So much defeat. So much misery. So much grief. So much pain. So much suffering. Even on the ground I think... will there ever be change? Will I ever raise my head and open my eyes to a world that is just? 

And then I see that there is so much beauty. Beauty growing around and out of that death, grief, misery, pain and suffering. 

And then I see that there is so much fear. Fear growing around and out of every living being. 

I am looking for the grace to conquer that fear.

First Impressions

It’s not even been three weeks, but already my life of dinner parties and salsa dancing in Bogota seems a lifetime ago. Even our first FOR training and retreat, where we went over the work plan and had a chance to hear a bit of the oral historical memory from former volunteers, seems a blurry dream of the past. Images of Isaac painting watercolors, the bustling city streets of Medellin, and all of us dancing in the kitchen after long work days full of computers and meetings are so far removed from my current reality it is hard to believe they could possibly have taken place so recently. 

The greater place referred to as the Peace Community of San Jose de Apartado is not easily defined geographically. It is defined by its some 800 members and it exists wherever they exist. They live spread out, within the greater region of Uraba, between several individual peace community clusters in small villages. We live in one such village. It is called La Union. It is nestled up in a tropical place where clouds hang on the horizon over the green hills and the sun shines as strong as the rain falls. There are two streets: Main Street and Second Street, which are lined by some twenty or so homes.

And it takes a bit of travel to arrive here.

The travel starts with a jeep ride, which starts at the terminal in the town of Apartado. While winding through the paved and side-walked city streets there our first day, carrying all of our lives in bags on our backs and fronts and sides, Jon began to advise Emily and I about communication restraint in the city and particularly around the terminal:

Do not tell anyone where you live.

Do not tell anyone where you are going.

Don’t talk to strangers.

This information would be further debriefed at a later time, but was essential to get us home and thus we were learning about it as we sweated our way to our first public transport hub in Uraba. The jeep was about to leave, but we still hadn’t purchased food, something we thought would come in handy. We quickly ditched our bags and ran through the terminal market, Jon leading the way, as we purchased this and that. Then a man tapped me on the back, “You are the girl going to San Jose, right?” I stood there, debriefed not five minutes before on NOT conversing with strangers, and stared blankly. “You three live in San Jose, right?” He repeated his question louder and I shrugged my shoulders. He sighed and said, “Well, IF you are going to San Jose, the jeep already left and you should meet it, now, at the corner over there.” I felt like an idiot. It was the jeep driver’s assistant. We went running and caught our jeep on its’ way out of town.

Thus we started our bumpy hour ride in the back of the jeep with children on our laps and men hanging off the back and as more and more people were picked up, more and more of them climbed on top of the jeep until it looked like it might cave in on top of us. We drove out of town and up an even bumpier road, along a river, past military checkpoints, climbing further into the hills and further disappearing into the lush green of the jungle. When nearly everyone had been dropped off, the driver stopped the car and turned back to Emily and I. “Do you want to get down?” (Jon was on top of the car.) “Maybe,” I said, “I don’t know.” “You do,” he said, “you live here. Get down.” While we were being kicked out of the jeep by an exasperated driver (who thought we were maybe the dumbest people alive by this point), Jon’s legs flopped over the top of the jeep. We had arrived in San Josecito, the first peace village outside of Apartado, and where, apparently, our time of riding in transport ended.

San Josecito is a community of almost all peace community members. It was created by them and for them, after numerous displacements. It is located just down the road from the highly militarized end-of-the-drivable-road town of San Jose. The village is accompanied by an Italian accompaniment organization, and we met some of our first colleagues outside of FOR. The village has a library and a community dining hall and is nestled in a valley, surrounded by mountains and is the second to last jeep stop before the road ends and gives way to footpaths through the mountains. We met a woman who acts as a historical memory artist for the community.  She paints. She paints the painful history and the happy history and all important events that happen in and to the community. Her home is full of these paintings. We were pressed for time (something I have since taken to be a given in all of our activities) to hike to La Union and so we booted up (my boots were too big) and found out who was going to take our lives off of our backs and put them on a mule to get us up the hill. We and another accompaniment organization headed to our village that day and between all of us had too many bags for the horse and mule we were given. While the man began to work out this conundrum, I helped by packing and repacking satchels at his behest to make the weight even out. Every once in a while he would hold up a bag and say, “Can you carry this?” and every once in a while I would say, “Yes.” Then it dawned on me that I should probably clarify that I could only carry one of the bags I had said I could carry, and not all of them at once. When I did so he looked up with a look that said, “Well that isn’t very helpful, then, is it?”

Our first walk up was on a sunny day. The jungle is beautiful and looks like a really fun playground for Ginas. It looks like a perfect place to make rope swings over a river. It looks like a nice place to explore and find colorful things growing against layering greens. We, however, are on strict orders not to leave the path. Land mines are a real risk in this war zone, and often planted just off a path where someone would go to the bathroom or sit to smoke a cigarette or rest a moment. If we have to poo, then we poo on the path. If we want a better look at the waterfall, then we buy a camera with a zoom feature. We criss-crossed over a river, which apparently swells so high that we get stuck in La Union on occasion. We walked through mud and over rocks, and met various campesinos walking down to town. We were briefed on multiple names that belong to places on the path and various events that have happened on it so that later, if we have to reference where we were, we have the vocabulary to do so. We walked (I stumbled and was stuck in the mud in my clown shoes) passed fields and scattered country houses, in the general direction of up, for two hours.  And then Jon said, “Welcome to the peace community.”

We walked up Main Street, passing the kiosk and school and a few houses and then collapsed on the front porch of our wooden house. We had arrived on a day that the community had designated to celebrate the children, and thus kiddies had come from various other peace villages to participate in the festivities. While some of our neighbors came over to introduce themselves, we could hear the kids yelling from the central kiosk:

Teacher: Do we talk to armed actors?

Kids: “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

(Side note: In this war zone there are various “armed actors”: multiple illegal groups as well as the Colombian state’s police and military. The Peace Community is committed to being neutral and refuses to aid, directly (ex: taking up arms or providing food/housing) or indirectly (ex: passing intelligence about one to the other), any of these armed actors.)

Teacher: What is solidarity?

Kids: Sharing!

Teacher: Do we work together in this community?

Kids: SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!”

While overhearing this, one of our new neighbors commented on the importance of this alternative education and expressed how proud of the community he was that they were able to organize this day for the kids.

The four of us (Sean/Martin, Jon, Emily and I) live in the FOR house. Truth be told, it is two separate structures. Emily, Jon and I have rooms in the wooden one, which also houses the laundry area (wash by hand), the bathroom (flush by bucket), the shower (cold), the back porch (where we have meetings), the office (room for one) and the garden (we win). The other house has Sean’s room (he must snore) and the kitchen (fruit fly heaven). I share my room with several spiders, but my mosquito net has no holes and doubles as a spider net during the day to keep them out of my bed. Emily and I unpacked and decorated our rooms and during the unpacking explosion, the twin neighbor girls (2yo) made there way from hiding behind a rock watching us (totally invisible, obviously), to digging through my stuff while I was sweeping out the room. I came out to find them dressed up in my clothes. They particularly liked my pink slippers, hats and plastic glasses.

We have a cat named Sapa (“informant”) who kills rats and sits on our laps and generally acts as the punching bag on which we take out affection. She is probably the friendliest cat on the planet.  I wish she hunted spiders. One of our neighbors told me that such a nice cat should not have such an ugly name. I had to agree, although facetious is funny and funny is key to keeping us sane. We didn’t actually claim our dog, but the community says he is ours anyway. His name is Nueve Bolas (“Nine Balls”) due to the fact that he has some illness that caused him to grow nine tumors where his two balls should be (we did not give him that name). I call him, affectionately, Nueve. He sits outside our house looking sickly, and I think our indifference to him is the nicest he can expect to be treated (animals aren’t really treated like house pets here, if that wasn’t obvious from the previous description of bags on the horse). Somehow this indifference makes him “ours” as far as everyone else is concerned.

As people came up, we were introduced to them by Jon and Sean. We soon found out that everyone has a few names: their given names (generally compounded, ex: “Maria Cristina Rosario”), their general nicknames (something to do with their looks, ex: Maria “the white one”), their name’s nicknames (ex: “Mari” instead of Maria or the white one), their community nicknames (something to do with how they act or what they do ex: Maria “the egg lady” instead of Maria, the white one or Mari, and our code names for them (more on that below). While Jon may introduce us to “Marco,” he then responds that his actual name is “William” and that people call him “Chatty”. By the end of the afternoon I had no idea what anyone’s name was, much less what they preferred to be called, where they lived or what they did.

I awoke my first day in La Union and crossed the street to the kitchen through a cluster of kids playing war. They had guns fashioned out of their fingers and ran about yelling pow and bang, chasing one another from house to tree to fence. Over coffee we talked about playing war in a war zone. Is it any different than kids playing fighting games in the USA? Cowboys and Indians? Sword fighting? Don’t all of these “games” come out of a real war sometime in history? Is their understanding of their game different?  How is such violence changed into children’s play games? Should this disturb me? Barely had we finished this conversation when another neighbor arrived with a petition. There had been a combat near another peace village two hours away by foot and the residents were scared. They wanted us to go there for the night to observe what was going on and show international solidarity. From child’s play to real life in seconds: a reality check that we lived in the war zone.

We generally receive “petitions” from the community to accompany with a previously agreed upon amount of time for us to do our security analysis, talk to sources, make political calls and come to a consensus as to whether we are going to accept them. However, since the war doesn’t wait around for protocol, sometimes we get emergency petitions, which we analyze in a shorter period with the ability to respond as accompaniers in a time of crisis for the community. We began our security analysis with a 6-hour time frame, if we were to go for the night and leave in time to make it there before dark.

Analysis is exhausting. This was our first day, and would be a bit of a snowballing precedent. We were to receive 6 petitions in our first four days. We sat on our back porch and debriefed. Due to phones being tapped and general communication safety (because you never know who is listening in) we don’t use real names for people and places. Imagine Emily and my confusion when the 6 hours of security analysis kicked off with some semblance of (fake names changed to protect nonexistent people): “The Pink Panther heard from Dracula that Lucky Charm would meet Cornhusk on Neptune at dawn.”

While we talked in code and decided our fate for the evening, little boys climbed trees to get coconuts and pigs rolled in the mud. We analyzed to the beat of our neighbors cutting wood and babies crying and free-range cows stampeding through town. When the military helicopters started circling around above (close enough for us to see the people inside), our neighbors started to gather on our porch. We watched helicopters circle and ran a safe house of sorts and continued to decide what to do. 6 hours later it was decided, at the last minute before we had to leave (our boots were on and we were ready to go) that we would not go, but rather stay where we were for the night. We made dinner and tried to relax.

Just as we sighed and sat down to pat ourselves on the back in the darkness out on the back porch and reflect about how awesome we were and what amazing analysis we had done, another neighbor arrived with a new petition. A petition that had nothing to do with the one we just spent 6 hours analyzing. I almost started crying at the thought of repeating the process. He explained the situation. We repeated the process. This one we did take, and within 24 hours we were headed off on our first accompaniment outside the village we live in. In some nth hour of coffeed-up middle of the night delirium, before we broke for dreaming, these things were said and we laughed:  

Jon: “Oh my gosh! Look at this! A nice little frog in the office… (and then quieter)… that might be poisonous.”

******************************

Emily: “Can I take a second break?”

Jon: “When was your first break?”

Emily: “When I mentally checked out.”

It is avocado season. This deserves its own happy paragraph.

Our accompaniment brought us first to San Josecito, where we spent the night. We collapsed after dinner, too tired to even read our books. Had we had more energy, we discovered that I would have read, The Jungle Book and Jon would have read, The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe. It appeared we needed a bit of an escape. “I can almost feel the closet door opening as I am holding this book,” he said.  I said I was really looking forward to the RikkiTikkiTavi chapter.

In the morning, while waiting for the jeep to pass, a little girl about 6 years old exited the community and crossed the street to grab a free-range horse. “I’m going to get a horse,” she said. She climbed up the hill, passing the stallion and several other horses clad in her hot patterned light blue rubber boots (they only come in black for adults, unfortunately) and disappeared into the woods. A few minutes later she emerged from the woods a few hundred yards up the road, pulling a horse behind her. She pushed it up against the fence, then climbed the fence from the other side and mounted it. She rode down passed us and laughed. Just like that she became my hero, obviously.

Our accompaniment took us, by several busses, us up and around Uraba. In a city center I bought flip-flops, which are bouncy and I call my moon shoes. They are also the inspiration for our first family band hit entitled, “Moon Shoes.” The first verse starts something like: “Walking round the town in my moon shoes…” (Someday we will have time to learn to play instruments and start a family band.) I also found the right sized boots (very helpful on the hike). We road-tripped some 10 hours. We arrived at the Urra damn. It looks beautiful from afar, almost like a natural lake. But it isn’t a natural lake. It’s a large multinational project of a dam. And it flooded the community that used to exist where it now sits. The surviving people have all displaced to higher ground. Their views are now comprised of a dam that drowned the villages of their past. The man who sold us our breakfast on the “lake shore” told us of when the waters of the current dam rose so high that their kitchen was flooded to the height of the upper part of the door frame. In another city we saw a march for peace. The whole town came out dressed in white. The kids carried balloons with peace written across them in black markers. The adults rode on motorbikes. People carried banners with slogans asking for peace and posters with photos of civilian war victims. From the busses that took us through countryside and city, across rivers and through jungles, I saw schools and tiendas and community centers, a large portion of which had the word “peace” incorporated into their titles. War as a way of life is scary.

I am heat-rashed and sunburned and bug-bitten. The other day Jon pulled a burrowing bug from my arm and this morning a neighbor pulled a different kind of burrowing bug from Sean’s foot. Eeww.

It is mango season. This deserves its own happy paragraph.

Jon and I returned first from our 72-hour accompaniment ahead of the other two, who drew the long straws to continue. In San Josecito on our way back, we heard there had been a murder while we were away. A man had been macheted to death 500 meters from the peace community entrance. We walked up to La Union, passing the scene of the crime not 24 hours later, in the heat of the day with thirty pound backpacks and arrived too tired to think. Our heads were already filled with pending work we had to do: write up reports, respond to the man killed 500 meters from San Josecito, a recent comment to us that “the war doesn’t ever put itself on hold” (which we took as a gentle pre-warning of a pending and upcoming petition), not to mention all of the things we were going to do before the first petition ever came in. But we were too tired for all of this…

Instead of starting anything, we laughed at ourselves for being too wrapped up in work to remember to brush our teeth all day long. We made hot chocolate with cinnamon and sat on the back porch to watch the storm come in. When it arrived, we fell asleep to the sound of rain on the roof.

The community has suffered over 180 deaths of its members. It is a Peace Community in a war zone and death is everywhere all the time. Jon was commenting on the difference between violence in the zone and violence against the community (or the threat of it) to which we have to respond. The difference in reaction is subtle to an observer, but felt very strongly from within.

Everyone wanted to know the dead man’s name. Maybe they thought they knew him, or maybe they just didn’t want him to be referred to as “the dead man” who was murdered near the community.

Petitions continue to pour in and we continue to assess them.

Every day or so we get a mental health call from a coworker in Bogotá. Even though we talk to them 395,427,549,837,650,780 times a day in these crazy times, they still call. They call to ask us each how we feel. It is the best “work conversation” of any given day.

Colombian Spanish is difficult. It’s frustrating to go from a place where I could hold my own at rapid-fire conversation speed and understand all the slang and tell jokes to a place where I barely understand the syllables people speak to me. When did the noun “mercado” become the verb “mercar”? And when did “averiguar” become a fully functioning verb? And what exactly does “amanar” mean? And why does every farm animal have six names? Everyone says I’ll be fine in a month. I wonder where they get this timeframe and if they have noticed that I am ten days in and still have no idea what people are saying to me. Soon I’m going to just talk to talk, or follow our security protocol when we don’t want to divulge something (respond with something else). I can imagine the conversation already:

Them: What do you think about the pig over there?

Me: I love dancing salsa!

Them: Have you seen the flowering purple bush at your neighbor’s house?

Me: Eggs are my favorite breakfast food.

The last 48 hours have been relatively tranquil. I have had time to write this blog, for example.

We have juggled a few times, me spinning poi and Emily tossing pins. Kids gather around to watch us. We hope we can teach them and have a fully functioning circus soon.

We are also hoping that someday our grand plan of having endless carefree country days to suntan and watch baby animals and garden and be silly becomes a reality.

Emily has started planting her seeds and spends a few minutes every couple hours staring at them and trying to get them to grow from her love.

We have started to de-weed/de-snake the backyard. This is particularly difficult with the tools we have at hand. It’s nice to take out the stress of work on the decrepit garden tools. After I swung a hoe for a few hours yesterday, I walked through town and everyone commented on how I was “finally working.” I think they think we are on permanent vacation.

Our next-door neighbor laughed at us our first day back. Emily was chasing baby ducks (another of her past times), I was juggling and Jon was fully gloved and washing poor half-dead Nueve. We looked over and realized that we are taking the crazy gringo thing to a whole new level for our neighbors. Jon said, “Yeah, well at least Nueve will die clean.” And he did. A day later. We buried him in the back yard behind the garden, overlooking the river.

  

I have yet to sleep through the night due to every free-range animal making noises. I am still trying to get used to the mosquito net and the bed and everything. In the middle of the night, I look up and see all of the lightening bugs flying around in my pitch black room.

A Letter to Friends and Family, February 2011- Information about the job I was recently offered with FOR and why I have chosen to accept it.

Dear Friends and Family,

I hope this letter finds you smiling. Here I am, taking on 2011 with a renewed energy and passion for my work in Latin America. I am writing to you because I have reached another critical junction in my life, both personally and professionally. I have moved to Colombia and accepted a position with the USA branch of the Fellowship of Reconciliation. This e-mail is coming to you while I myself am still in the process of digesting a lot of information about what changes in my life are about to take place. Here are some quotes about FOR from people you may have heard of. ;)

“Your goal is, in my opinion, the only reasonable one and to make it prevail is of vital importance.”

Albert Einstein, in a letter to FOR

 “I joined FOR because of the people who represented the Fellowship. They were really for nonviolent action and were penetrated deeply with the sense of humanism with which Buddhists are familiar. What makes FOR meaningful to me is the presence of open-minded, deeply humanistic, and creative people.”

Thich Nhat Hanh, Vietnamese Buddhist monk, author, poet

“The Fellowship of Reconciliation, with its message of peace and active nonviolence, grounded in faith and tested over many years, is uniquely equipped to speak to the present age and the universal longing for peace and justice.” Richard Deats, writer and activist

So, I am about to start a position with the U.S. chapter of the Fellowship of Reconciliation (FOR), working on the ground in their Colombia human rights accompaniment program. What does that mean? More than any other job I have ever had, I would like to explain a bit more about the organization, the work and the reality of working for human rights in Colombia. There are so many things on my mind, but foremost are 1.) the building of a network of support for me as I enter this chapter of my life and 2.) how to create solidarity between you- my friends and family (and your friends and family and everyone they know)- all over the world and the communities of peaceful resistance with whom I will be working here in Colombia. Before I get ahead of myself, a bit of background…   FOR has been working in peaceful resolution to conflict for nearly 100 years. Here are some highlights. This information and additional information on everything I am about to talk about can be found on IFOR and FOR USA’s websites, which I provide below.

The International Fellowship of Reconciliation (IFOR):

In 1914, a conference was held in Switzerland by Christians seeking to prevent the outbreak of war in Europe. Before the conference ended, however, World War I had started and those present had to return to their respective countries. At a railroad station in Germany, two of the participants, Henry Hodgkin, an English Quaker, and Friedrich Sigmund-Schultze, a German Lutheran, pledged to find a way of working for peace even though their countries were at war. Out of this pledge Christians gathered in Cambridge, England in December 1914 to found the Fellowship of Reconciliation. The FOR-USA was founded one year later, in 1915.

Today IFOR has 85 branches, groups, and affiliates in 51 countries on all continents. Although organized on a national and regional basis, IFOR seeks to overcome the division of nation states which are often the source of conflict and violence. Its membership includes adherents of all the major spiritual traditions as well as those who have other spiritual sources for their commitment to nonviolence.

Peace Prize Laureates
IFOR also has six Nobel Peace Prize Laureates among its former and present members. Jane Addams (1931), Emily Green Balch (1946), Chief Albert Luthuli (1960), Dr. Martin Luther King (1964), Mairead Corrigan-Maguire (1976), Adolfo Perez Esquivel (1980) have all been or are actively contributing to dissemination of the teaching of non-violence.

The power of Nonviolence
IFOR members share a vision of a world where conflicts are resolved through nonviolent means, where systems that foster fear and hatred are dismantled, and where justice is sought as a basis for peace. While coming from diverse religious backgrounds, we have a common belief in the transforming power of nonviolence and reconciliation.

IFOR members
IFOR members carry out public education efforts, organize training programs, and coordinate campaigns. We provide encouragement and support to people throughout the world who are promoting nonviolence in their home communities and nations. IFOR members work together primarily through their local branches and groups. Representatives from these organizations meet every four years at an IFOR Council, to decide on policies and develop international programs. An elected International Committee meets regularly between Councils

FOR USA History: Some Highlights

• 1916-1917: Helps organize the National Civil Liberties Bureau, now the ACLU. Supports World War I conscientious objectors (CO) and contributes to legal recognition of CO rights.
• 1920s: Helps organize the National Conference of Christians and Jews (now the National Conference on Community and Justice). Sends a peace delegation to meet Sandino in Nicaragua.
• 1930s: Works to strengthen the labor movement in its drive to secure better working conditions. Sponsors Ambassadors of Reconciliation to visit world leaders.
• 1940s: Encourages nonviolent resistance to World War II. Leads the struggle against internment of Japanese Americans. European FOR members rescue Jews and other political refugees fleeing Nazism. Sponsors an interracial team on the first “freedom ride” to test court decision outlawing discrimination in interstate travel. Organizes extensive campaign to prevent the Pentagon from extending wartime conscription into universal military training.
• 1950s: Helps organize the American Committee on Africa (now part of Africa Action) to support the movements for African independence. Conducts six-year Food for China program in response to Chinese famines. FOR staff work with Martin Luther King, Jr. during the Montgomery bus boycott, and hold workshops in nonviolence throughout the South. Produces a full-color comic book, Martin Luther King and the Montgomery Story, that sells over 250,000 copies. OJO! This recently surfaced in Egypt, translated and distributed to peaceful protesters there leading up to the resignation.
• 1960s: Launches Shelters for the Shelterless, building real shelters for homeless people, in response to increasing public demand for fallout shelters. Makes contact with Vietnamese Buddhist pacifist movement and sponsors world tour by Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh. Forms International Committee of Conscience on Vietnam with 10,000 clergy in 40 countries. Raises money for medical aid for both sides in Vietnam.
• 1970s: Founds Dai Dong, a transnational project linking war, environmental problems, poverty and other social issues, involving thousands of scientists around the world. Seeks to reverse the Cold War and the arms race with campaigns, marches, educational projects and civil disobedience. Opposes death penalty in concerted campaign with ACLU.
• 1980s: Takes the lead in initiating the Nuclear Freeze Campaign in cooperation with other groups. Initiates U.S.-U.S.S.R. reconciliation program, including people-to-people exchanges, artistic and educational resources, teach-ins and conferences. Leads nonviolence training seminars in the Philippines prior to the nonviolent overthrow of the Marcos dictatorship.
• 1990s: Sends delegations of religious leaders and peace activists to Iraq to try to prevent war and later, to see the massive devastation caused by the economic sanctions imposed upon Iraq. Starts the Campaign to Save a Generation, an ongoing project centered on saving Iraqi children from the horrors of the sanctions, and American children from the poverty rampant in the United States. Launches “Stop the Killing, Start the Healing” campaign in response to escalating levels of gun violence in the United States. Initiates Bosnian Student Project, bringing students from the former Yugoslavia out of war zones and into U.S. homes and schools, and later starts the International Reconciliation Work Camp Project. Works to bring an end to the suffering of the Serbs and Kosovars during and after the war in former Yugoslavia. Works to ensure the U.S. military’s withdrawal from Panama.

ACCOMPANIMENT, I know, brings to mind many things for friends and loved ones. Some things I have heard over the past few weeks as I have been considering this opportunity are: “What about Rachel Corrie?”, “Are you prepared to die for this?”, “How can you presume to make a difference in a community with such a long history of suffering from violence on behalf of the state?”, “How can you put so much faith in the Colombian military and government, US military and government, FARC, and paramilitaries not to physically harm you?” These are BIG questions. And legitimate concerns. And I don’t want to feel like I am convincing my friends and loved ones that I will be safe. (Sorry.) I do, however, feel confident in the history of foreign accompaniment in Latin America, in the personal experiences of those of you I know who have done this work  (albeit in other countries in the region) ahead of me, and in the integrity of FOR to be concerned for the safety of its’ members. I also believe that the better educated everyone is on what accompaniment is, in the theory, philosophy and action, the calmer we will collectively remain about my soon-to-be real life situation. For those of you who are interested in following my work in Uraba and Bogota over the next while, I am recommending the following resources right off the bat. I know many of you are already familiar, but here we go, step one:

Read this:

Unarmed Bodyguards:  International Accompaniment for the Protection of Human Rights

By Liam Mahony and Luis Enrique Eguren, Kumarian Press, 1997, 289 pages, $21.95. This is essential reading for understanding international human rights accompaniment.

Click about on these websites:

IFOR: http://www.ifor.org/ 

FOR USA: http://forusa.org/

Witness for Peace: http://www.witnessforpeace.org/

Peace Brigades International: http://www.peacebrigades.org/

Watch this video about a Peace Brigades International accompanier in Colombia. This individual is based in Bogota, but the work will essentially be the same for me in the community of San Jose and it provides a bit of insight with English subtitles:

Life of a volunteer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0Pz5o1Ssck&NR=1

COLOMBIA PROGRAM

So, where will I be and with whom will I be working?  I will begin my good time-fun time-human rights accompanier time in San Jose and then will likely move to work with the team in Bogota. There are three internationals on the ground in San Jose. So far I know I will be headed there with Emily, a lovely gal from Milwaukee who has an amazing amount in common with me. We will be sharing a nice blue hut with another guy whom I have yet to meet. That makes three of us in Uraba and then another team of two will be supporting us from Bogota, in addition, one staff member (Liza) is based in Bogota and two Colombia program staff will be supporting us from the US (John in Oakland and Susanna in Austin).  Here is some additional information about the peace community where I will begin working and the work of FOR in Bogota and other parts of Colombia:

San Jose de Apartadó is a small town in the northwest of Colombia, near the gulf of Uraba. Farmers settled there in the 1960s and 70s and since then the community has participated in cooperative agricultural and communal living. In March of 1997, the Community responded to the escalating violence and extrajudicial killings of community leaders by declaring themselves a Peace Community, with the support of the region’s Catholic Bishop, and committing to:

·         Farm in cooperative work groups

·         Denounce the injustice and impunity of war crimes

·         Not participate in the war in direct or indirect form, nor carry weapons

·         Not manipulate or give information to any of the parties involved in armed conflict

The Peace Community has a special role among the diverse communities throughout Colombia that nonviolently resist political and physical violence. More than others, the community has staked its survival on the conscience of the international community by being visible and seeking expressions of conscience when threats or attacks occur. Since its founding, the community has suffered over 160 deaths.

On February 21, 2005, a community founder and 7 other San Jose peace community members were brutally massacred, according to witnesses from the community, by army soldiers. Since that time, the presence of both military and paramilitary in the area has risen and the need for international support and attention has become increasingly critical.

Slowly, small Colombian human rights and solidarity organizations have been joined by a growing number of national and international peace and justice groups. For the first seven months of 2005, more than $70 million of military aid for Colombia was put on hold, as the State Department was, due to the February massacre, not prepared to certify that Colombia met the law’s human rights conditions. While the aid was eventually released days before Colombia’s president met with President Bush, this delay represented growing concern by the State Department and human rights groups regarding cases reportedly involving direct violations by the Colombian Army. This growing attention coupled with Inter-American Court measures passed in the year 2000 and requiring the Colombian government to take whatever steps necessary to protect the lives and personal integrity of the Peace Community members, contributes to the strength and continued existence of San José de Apartadó.

In January of 2005 the Colombia Peace Presence Team opened an office in Bogotá to support the accompaniment work in San José de Apartadó and also to support other nonviolent peace initiatives through periodic accompaniment, translation, publicity, and more. The CPP currently has two partner organizations: 1.) The Medellin Youth Network is a youth organization that operates explicitly on principles of nonviolence. Started in 1990 by young people who had lost loved ones to the armed conflict, the group trains youth in nonviolence and cooperative play, supports young men who refuse to serve with the police, military or illegal armed groups, and promotes respect for human rights and youth’s ideas in Colombian society. A core group of about 30 young people work out of the group’s office and gathering space, a large house not far from the city center. Another 150 youth organized into neighborhood and issue groups are regularly involved in their activities. 2.) Asociación Campesina de Antioquia (Peasant Farmers Association of Antioquia — ACA) The ACA works with displaced farmers and their families in Antioquia, many of whom have been forced to live in makeshift houses on the outskirts of Medellin where they have no access to basic services and where theres is no decent land for them to work. Many are forced to beg in the street to provide for their families. The ACA also works to put the problem of Antioquia in a national perspective: a team of filmmakers travels across Colombia making documentaries about rural, afro-Colombian and indigenous communities who find themselves caught in the middle of Colombia’s war.

WHY have I chosen to do this work? You all know I like lists, so here is a pretty lil top ten (in no particular order of importance):

1. I believe pacifism should be active. People always say to me that “war is as old as humanity.” Well, here I will say, “So is peaceful resistance to that war.” The pacifists must be active and heard, so that someday people will say, “peace is as old as humanity.” As an individual I am prepared to personally stand up for the injustices of war in Colombia.

2. I believe my random birthplace and subsequent citizenship of the USA provides me the responsibility to use my given rights of questioning my government, freedom of speech, the right to protest etc. to bring injustice in the US and abroad on behalf of the US to light. Especially in the case of Colombia, due to the intricate relationship with the US government, I believe my solidarity with the peaceful communities affected by war is both a political and personal responsibility.

3. Colombians die, are threatened and displaced in this conflict every day. My effectiveness in this role is directly due to my international citizenship, making me qualified to do this work where many others who are willing to do it, or who are directly affected by this war, are not. (Reread point #2).

4. This is a natural progression in my understanding of the world and my place in it. As Kimya Dawson says, “we all become important when we realize our goal should be to figure out our role within the context of the whole.” Or as Bob Dylan asks, “who am I helping, what am I breaking, what am I giving, what am I taking?”

5. I want to be both an inspiration and reference for those who work in human rights after me. I hope to leave the next generation a personal legacy I am proud of, as opposed to leaving them all the responsibility to fix what they have inherited.

6. I believe empathy, compassion, love, justice and peace should be lived in practice and not just in theory, on bumpers stickers, or in household decor.

7. I believe people have choices and I believe society affects the individual. I believe the more people that stand for peace publically, the more the public will stand for peace. (Yes, feel free to read that again and laugh at my logic.)

8. I believe as you grow and change your ability to verbalize your reality grows and changes with you. However, I believe my empathy for those suffering and my commitment to justice and peace come from within. I am driven to do this work from somewhere deep inside me that beats regardless of external circumstance. It is just something I have to do.  The more I learn about the world the more this is reinforced, but it comes from something that pre-dates conflict-specific education.

9. Yesterday I took my roommate in Bogota to the ER thanks to a pole falling on her face from her window drapery hanger dealio.  I believe personal harm (even death(!)) can come to me just as easily in any city or place anywhere in the world. I do not believe I am putting myself in harm’s way any more than I was when I boarded a plan to Bogota or when I drive across the US in a snow storm a few years back or when I jaywalked in Guatemala (actually that last example is probably not as sound in logic, but you get what I am saying).

10. The love I have received in my life from family, friends, lovers, nature, literature, poetry, music and dance propels me to want to create a world where all people are safe to experience and seek out such loves of their own.

THE NEED FOR HUMOR

In the FOR headquarters, where I participated in training, there is a book by Richard Deats that highlights the importance of keeping a sense of humor when working in human rights issues. While working in Guatemala, my friends and I would often say, “laugh… so you don’t cry.” It’s good advice. During our training, one of the facilitators read us a fake publicity announcement that she and some co-workers had created one day while working for FOR. Here is a loose interpretation of what I remember from hers combined with a similar one written by myself and some co-workers in Guatemala:

Do you get a rush from hiking through waste deep mud in a war zone?

Would you rather shimmy through thorn-bushed brush behind a campesino with a machete than walk a groomed path?

Do you hate sex and look forward to spending a year in isolation without it?

Do stomach parasites and subsequent poo-tests really turn you on?

Does a salaried position give you the eebigeebies causing you to want to volunteer for stipend positions for the rest of your professional career?

Are you looking forward to proving to your friends that Scarlet Fever was not actually left behind in the Middle Ages?

Have you been waiting for the opportunity to live in a dry, sober community living under conditions of extreme stress with no chance of drowning their sorrow?

If you answered yes to one or more of these questions, boy! do we have an opportunity for you! All while making less than the Colombian minimum wage you, too, can join us and make your personal dreams a reality!

All joking aside, this was a LONG letter. I thank those of you who have taken the time to take this first step with me. I hope to hear from each and every one of you soon.

So much love from Bogota,

Gina