Monthly Update November

Here is an article I wrote for out monthly update aboput the mid-November combat:

http://forusa.org/blogs/for-colombia/even-those-who-chose-peace-suffer-war-zone/11456

always back to the rain...

 In the beginning of October, I left the war zone for Bogota (again) and the team retreat where talked of the future. It was a week of r and r from the intense sun of Uraba and a week to get my body back in order after the hard fall. Liza says maybe the back and forth will get easier the more I do it. She read poetry from The Sun Magazine. In Bogota I ate a breakfast bagel and nurtured a wandering mind. I dreamt at night and had visions of Ireland and of small town somewhere. I thought about paradigm shifts in my personal life and in the world.  I spent a lot of time with the team. We talked of the different stages of resistance and of survival and of grief and action. We talked about our nation of medication that doesn’t feel the indignation of what is happening in the world. The nation that is numbed to what our lifestyle creates for others and ourselves. A nation on medication that doesn’t think about renovation, doesn’t have time for contemplation. Individuals with no rage for the wars and violence and injustice around the world. Individuals that back the war in Colombia so that the USA can maintain a culture pumped full of panic medication when really, sometimes you gotta think anyone that is not panicking about the state of our world has no pulse. We talked of trauma survivor workshops and community building. We talked about how dreams are our reality and how from our fear comes our power. And we worked. A lot. And then I came home.

She was washing clothes and I was holding her baby as the rain came across the canyon. It was pouring when the lightening came crashing, 500 yards away and stuck a tree, blowing it up in crackling flames. We both dove to the ground as the cows came running across the plain. I thought it was combat at first. After the moment calmed she laughed and said, “your lucky I didn’t end up on your shoulders.” It was so loud, that crashing lightening. And a few days later that tall old tree died and fell to the ground.

Searching through my email one day in Apartado, I accidently found an old document from when I applied to my study abroad program. The last question was: why do you want to do this program? I responded: Because every moment is as substantial as it is fleeting. I was 20. When I read it I could picture where I was when I wrote it. Now I am 30 and I wonder what I write now that I will reflect on again when I am 40.

October in the war zone was walking along the riverbed as it rose and fell in the oncoming raining season… at first the rains come lightly. It was visions of Apartado on my way through several times, of boys rolling each other in tires and women sauntering with decorative umbrellas in the mid-day heat. It was children throwing rocks at the liquor trucks as they dropped off beer in poor neighborhoods and yelling, “bad bad bad!”at the men unloading it.  October was planting pumpkins and forgetting about Halloween, but laughing to myself that nobody here will know jack-o-lanterns are out of season when we carve them in January. October was a wasted dead bug in a web from which the spider had already moved on. My neighbor telling me that if I promise to stay forever she will help me build a house and donate a cow to me. October was combats and power outages and the potent smell of manderine trees in the jungle. It was the cotton tips of sugarcane ready to be cut. It was cutting and carrying sugarcane to be made into honey. It was the rain storm that damaged the water tubing and had us bathing in the ever rising river. It was baking cakes and a hummingbird that flew through my window and fluttered in my face for a moment before flying away, and then the pit that its absence left in my stomach. It was pouring runny honey into molding blocks in the fuscia sunset and borrowing a machete to cut the grass. It was Charlotte trying to lift my bag before we walked home and saying, “well, that’s a challenge.” October was citrus canker sores. It was late night working meetings with Charlotte and eating a manderine alone in the mid-night darkness and seeing nothing, hearing no one.

One morning in October I was half dreaming in the early morning hours when a neighbor came to tap on my window. And then I was not dreaming at all as a bomb exploded and I realized that the neighbor tapping on my window in my dream was actually the sound of machine gun fire on the far side of the hill. I backflipped outta bed and into the street where my neighbors were already gathered listening to the combat. We talked about where it was as I came to and my neighbor laughed at me and said, “pretty good alarm clock, eh?”and then my other neighbor said, “as long as I’m up I may as well go see if Jesusa made arepas for breakfast.” The combat didn’t last long, but it was quite loud. After the combat the helicopters flew low all day long and they were even louder, circling overhead.  Later a neighbor told me that her three-year-old daughter was scared. She said she understood why, with all that noise but that she told her daughter not to let those noises scare her, since those are the noises of the war and they live in a war zone. I was caught thinking about my dream- in every other place I have other lived it would have been reversed- I would have been dreaming of machine gun fire to awake to the gentle reality that a neighbor had come to visit. Here I dream of someone taping at my window to wake up to the reality of war.

A conversation with a two year old:

Did your dad die?

No.

Did your mom die?

No.

Well then, where are they?

They live very far away.

In Medellin?

Even further.

Further than Medellin? Like… on the moon?

Just about.

I slice myself on barbed wire and think about the last time I had a tetanus shot. It was such a clean cut that didn’t feel anything until the blood started dripping. Then it spent the entire month of November not healing in the tropical climate.

November brought the arrival of my new co-worker, Alejandro from Mexico. He arrives to a large poisonous scorpion in his shower. He arrives to rainy season’s coral sunrises and fuscia sunsets.

At the fifth grade graduation (the highest grade in our village) the professor talks about how the kids should keep studying. The kids put on their gowns and walk across the stage and receive their diplomas. I try not to tear up. It will be the end of formal education for many of them. 

When the rumors start circulating that a young man left to join the FARC, one of his friends comes to me and says, “if this is true, we will be having another funeral in a matter of weeks. There will be another mother crying and another headstone in the cemetery." When the young man in question returned after several days away, I could not have been more happy to see anyone.

November was removing beans from their shells, and eating snap peas from the garden. There was a clear night sky in the middle of a rainy week and a sliver moon emerged with the full outline behind it’s penumbra.  November was building houses and planting seeds, it was moonless darkness on rainy nights and the coral onset of the sunrise. November was Red velvet cake on a homemade oven, then chocolate almond cake on a homemade oven and then banana cake on a homemade oven… all practicing my open flame culinary skills for my 30th birthday. November was the arrival of a package from Lee with all sorts of goodies and an unforeseen disaster in the garden when I accidently weighed too much and caused one of the arms of the papaya tree to come crashing down on the tomato and pepper plants. It was the rainy season in full force- with rushing rivers and wet water filled boots from the crossings we make on our way down to town. November was hanging off of the back of jeeps and walking home through swarms of butterflies. It was the one year anniversary of Ottoniel's death and planting flowers at his gravesite as the sun set. November brought the election of Obama, but my absentee ballot arrived a day too late to be sent back. November is passion fruit juice and cockroaches in the computer. It is me walking in Apartado as the Christmas decorations come out and feeling a pang of nostalgia and sadness in knowing I won’t be going home for the holidays. The week of my birthday brings a crisp moon in the western sky that night after night outdoes the beauty of the tropical sunset on the other horizon. People say the full moon makes Soila even crazier. Sapa is so pregnant she can barely fit through the bars on my window and is hungry 100% of the time. She chews my pen when I try to write and sits on the magazine if I try to read. She needs attention, apparently. November is heavy downpours and knee deep mud. It is hot and humid air before the rains and wispy clouds in the blue sky after. It is the reflection of golden sunsets in the small puddles all the way down the street.

The local municipality celebrates “farmer’s day” and floods San Jose with people who actually live in poor neighborhoods of Apartado. They tape the military handing out rice and oil to the “farmers” and they bring in at least ten times the amount of people that actually live in the war ravened town by the bus loads. It is eerie and strange as I walk through town on my way to a meeting. A neighbor says to me, “how embarrassing that people in other parts of the country watch this on TV and buy that propaganda. How embarrassing to think farmer’s aren’t capable of cultivating rice… how sad for Colombia that there are people poor enough in Apartado to be bought by a publicity stint for a kilo of rice and some oil…”

A nearby combat between paramilitary and the FARC causes all kinds of chaos mid-month. It is long and severe and many young men die. On a quiet night with no light, a casket is built in the central kiosk. Women and children come to my house and we drink hot chocolate in candlelight and wait for the men to come back with the body for burial. We drink hot chocolate to the sounds of saws and hammers and nails. Later a neighbor says she saw one of the wounded before he died, as they were trying to get him to the hospital. He was already near the end and she looked down at him crying and said, “I never thought I would see this boy like this…”and she related how he silently had tears rolling out of his closed eyes at hearing her voice.

Ivan Marquez is on the cover of the local Semana magazine and an old man here tells me how he met the FARC commander twice about twenty years ago- once in San Jose and once in La Esperanza. This month the FARC are seen around in larger numbers, and they go on the heavy offensive. November 20^th brought the swelling of peace negotiations between the government and the FARC and a unilateral ceasefire, but it’s hard to believe the fighting will cease in Uraba.

I turned thirty on a sunny morning and went walking in the jungle to find wood to cook rice milk over an open flame. I turned thirty on a rainy afternoon spent decorating four cakes that I baked with home made pink frosting. I turned 30 on a humid evening and I walked house to house through the mud reminding people of their utterly important responsibility to come dance with me (rain or shine). I turned thirty on  a starry night; people dressed up despite the mud and came to the center of town and ate rice milk and cake and danced with me. I danced vallenato until midnight, in rubber boots, with my neighbors who get up at 5am for work. I turned 30 in a rural peace community village in the middle of the war zone and there was nothing else to do but dance.

September in the War Zone

Here is a FOR post for our Latin American Monthly Update that I wrote about being back in the Peace Community for the third time this month:

http://forusa.org/blogs/for-colombia/life-war-go/11140

URGENT ACTION FOR PEACE COMMUNITY!

please take the time to do this important action to support the peace community. pretty please.
xoxo
g

https://salsa.democracyinaction.org/o/2507/p/dia/action/public/?action_KEY=11353

July's Days of Independence

David, the new recruit, arrives the first week of July… just in time to sponge roll my hair to the tune of Prince for PRIDE. (Welcome to the team, David! We take your training very seriously! Here, put on this dress and march with us!) Sparkly nails and face paint and glitter and rainbow tights and sweater shorts and marching/skipping/dancing down the street. Drag queens and rainbow vests. Banners and floats and songs and chants. A military “tank” made of rainbow balloons and love. Kings and queens and calendar girls. QUEERDO stickers handed out like candy, silver fake eyelashes sparkling in the sun in front of my eyes and visions of Isaac squealing with glee as he tossed glitter at passersby.

A couple days later, the new recruit reminds me of the U.S. holiday at hand and I feel more expat than ever. Also on the 4th of July, the home of a family we accompany was burnt to the ground by paramilitaries in the war zone. Fireworks.

July was lavender sprouts growing in our urban garden and anarchist literature sprawled across my bed. July was peaceful resistance to militant oppression misrepresented by the press in Cauca. July was emails from Erin about the white nights of Russia and Bill running the Olympic torch in London. It was my joy at catching a glimpse of backstroke through a tienda window and seeing the U.S. take a gold. July brought time alone in the office during which I sang famous vallenatos, replacing my name wherever I found appropriate. It was Bringing It All Back Home showing up on ITunes shuffle and then pumping through my veins and reminding me of all times. It was light from the full moon pouring into my room. A tango show at an outdoor amphitheater, Bogota’s skyline rising behind the band shell. July brought dates with Hemingway and then Krauss, and parasites sometime dormant that suddenly sprang to life in my tummy. July was trips to clinics and medication. It was my mind’s rapid fire while simultaneously translating a panel on US military bases in Colombia. July was hiking Monseratte with Em and talking about home. It was Maracuyá juice and popsicles. The sound of traffic in the rain. Laying on a bench in the sun on Saturday, the surrounding office buildings and plaza abandon for the weekend. A rain so light, that in the streetlamp it looked like snow. The moon shining between high-rises. July was human rights documentaries and dinner parties and an impromptu viewing of Mary Poppins with Emily. The voice of the tamale vendor outside the window and our homeless neighbor smoking crack in his bunny slippers in front of a wall colorful with graffiti. It was Em and my combined disappointment when the building across the street changed owners and they painted that graffiti white. July brought a seven-day trip to the La Union.

Most of the time in the community was spent training David, but some other things happened too, in that place where time slows down: the negra came down with dengue and my parasites were put in their place. at comunitario every mosquito in uraba bit me, i saw a snake, i sat in cacao trees and listened to the rhythmic whacking of the machetes underneath me, and i stared at the cut muscles flexing in the arms of the men that swung those machetes. rosalba gave me beans. gelita gave me hugs. arelis and i laughed and planned danielito's first birthday party for when i get back. lina kept buscando teta in my shirt, leading her grandmother to say i really must be her daughter. amparo and i talked shit about everything beautiful. and planted flowers- flowers that we stole from la gorda in arenas altas last year as sprigs, then amparo grew to shrubs, and finally were big enough to be transplanted in the FOR garden/jungle. nuri and i had a date swinging in hammocks in the highest kiosk and laughing and talking about the sunset. i tried out the new tireswing on the filo that flies out over the sugarcane field. i danced with leani in jesusa's kitchen while her and mari made morning arepas. i talked with men about jailtime and houses burned to the ground. about death and threats and dying. i saw eduar's grave. and ottoniel's. and i saw a dead horse in the stream at the second crossing, being eaten by buzzards. i couldn't stop watching as the water flowed by. children swam downstream. later in the week its eyes and lips had been picked away. as the river flowed by. and children saw downstream. the electricity went out in a storm, so i played cards with fanny and cristian and moni and arelis by candlelight. i ate sugarcane with javier. i ate one of the last avocados from our garden tree (first harvest!) and one of the first zapotes from the community cacaotera. i climbed mango trees and got a couple of the last mangas from the groves outside the cementary. i listened as people told the stories of the months i had missed. the stories of the bellies growing and the babies growing and the gardens growing and the harvests growing and the war growing. on the 20th colombia’s independence came and went, in much the same (no-fanfare) fashion as the U.S. one earlier in the month. i got muddy and dirty and sunkissed and happy. and then i left.

I ate breakfast in the community on Saturday morning at first light and was back in Bogota in time for dinner. That transition is always a shock to my system. I don't even know what that place does to me... but it does. Em was out of town when I got home and thus I went from intense social interaction for 7 days to a day of full and complete silence. I started reading the history of love. I cried. I went on a cooking binge. I made velvety black beans and lemon-thyme wheat bread. I made brownies and lentil stuffed cucumber peppers. I made quinoa salad and banana bread. I reveled in leftovers and the smells coming from the kitchen. I baked a red velvet cake for Isaac’s going away party.

I started smoking again. And then I quit, again.

Last weekend I played Teho for the first time. Teho is an ingenious little game: picture a mound of mud. Insert a metal ring just under a layer of that mud. Set little packets of gunpowder around that ring. Walk twenty paces away. Turn around and throw shot-put style metal discs at your mound and try to make the packets explode. Indeed. Emily and I spent the better part of a year avoiding gunpowder in Uraba, just to come play with it in the capital. The more beer I drank, the less I jumped at the explosions. By the end of the game, I was getting pretty good. Oh, Colombia.

On my Sunday ciclovia run, I crossed paths with the Bogota marathoners. I ran with them for awhile. Then I clapped for them for awhile.

Also last weekend, I started to feel a blister on my big toe, just under the nail. (Curious place for a blis… (my own thought cut myself off)… this is not a blister…) I looked closer and realized the nasty truth- it was a nigua. One week in the campo and I come back with a nigua. Gross. Sitting under a lamp in the capital, every now and again gazing out over the city skyline, I punctured a hole and then, first searching and then grabbing with tweezers, I pulled out a burrowing worm and its nest of eggs from underneath my skin. As if the juxtaposition of  La Union and Bogota were not visceral enough before… ay ay ay. In the office I told Claudia the story and she laughed at the idea that I couldn’t find a boyfriend in Uraba, but I managed to bring back both parasites and worms to the capital.

I am kicking off August with a weekend away in Pereira. And then I will be bringing it all back home. Summer in the north country! Life as an ever-expanding thing of beauty. A forever collection of love. My brother has been saying ‘A.T. 2012’ a lot lately. Come, speak of the future.

Bloggin' About June

Lila Downs came to a historical downtown theatre. Lila danced cumbia, merengue, ranchera and flamenco steps to her own voice. She was a vision in purple, complimenting her flowing dresses and tightly bodiced top with shawls and hats and huipiles, depending on the style of the song she sang- some quincinera, gypsy, lizard, trojan princess. Liza, Mika and I sat in the balcony; we leaned in. Lila’s Mexican accent and modismos has me missing Central America. Her song interlude chitchats about violence and indigenous languages were, in and of themselves, a complimentary combination package of pecados and milagros. Walking downtown in the blistering wind on the way home from her concert, I felt so alive and reminded of all the things that happen in a city every single night.

Lately I have been thinking a lot about living 100% in accordance with one’s beliefs. And the honesty that takes. And how many levels there are to that idea. And both theoretically and in practice (ahem)… what would that even look like? I have been thinking about concrete actions like shopping according to ones ethics to not blindly benefit a capitalistic system and working according to ones’ beliefs to ensure that individual income is not at the expense of ideals. I have been thinking about making personal decisions to benefit the whole. I have also had lots of conversations about the whole mess of an idea of living according to one’s beliefs. In my case, how it is that I will continue to grow and not sacrifice my idealism (as so many have told me I would eventually) or “grow up” to be a “functioning member of society”, but rather to cradle that idealism and continuously challenge the injustices of society. To not blame yearning for a safer, gentler society in retrospect on innocence and young age, but rather embrace that yearning and nourish it all through life- giving it fuel with more experience. To be able to be realistic and idealistic- to see all of the harsh realities of the world and be willing to put all the energy it takes to make them better. I have been thinking a lot about all of this. I have come to very few conclusions… rather more ideas. I suppose that is ok. The journal my grandma gave me last year has an Emerson quote on the inside: Thoughts are the seeds of actions.

June has many Monday holidays making for several long weekends. Of course, as the Bogota FOR team, one of us always has to be on call. Emily went out of town for a weekend and I found myself suddenly on call and sola. I simultaneously enjoyed time alone and had separation anxiety from Emily. I baked potpies and ran the ciclovia. I danced salsa and went to a concert of Liza and Mika’s. I wrote a lot. I read a lot. I bought my first new pair of ballet shoes in ten years. I worked.

The first week of June had the whole team in Bogota for our mental health day. Those are nice. Particularly because our work-load and rate has been in high-gear all month. Here are some highlights:

On June 14^th FOR, along with 7 other international protective accompaniment organizations, hosted a forum and cocktail to celebrate FOR’s 10 years in Colombia and demonstrate why our work is still necessary in the current context of the Santos government. Picture amazing speeches by individuals from the Colombian state, human rights sector, diplomatic corps and communities in resistance depicting the importance of international accompaniment and their hope for peace to a full conference room. Picture photos on the wall representing all eight accompaniment organizations and the work they do in various regions country. (Diplomatic rep: “you guys are really out there!”) Picture Gina, in formal wear, drinking wine and talking with state officials about why massacres are bad. Life as performance art?

The third week of June our second issue of the popular education series, “Demilitarizing Life and Land,” went to press. It was all about the War on Drugs and has taken up a lot of my time over the last months. I am excited to see it all pretty and printed.

Two representatives from the Peace Community came to Bogota for a string of meetings and political work. Emily and I met up with them and ate mangoes and talked about travel and life and Uraba. It was good to hug them. Sometimes Uraba feels so very far away.

There was a sentencing on the 2005 massacre against the CdP. Susana’s article here:

http://forusa.org/blogs/for-colombia/limited-ruling-paves-way-for-international-criminal-court/10657

Eduar Lancheros, a key advisor to the Peace Community, died of cancer this week. The team in the Peace Community is currently participating in his vigil and funeral. He will permanently rest in the Peace Community vereda of LH. Spanish speakers can read about his life in the lovely obituary from Justicia y Paz here:

http://justiciaypazcolombia.com/Eduar-Lancheros

My co-worker Elisabeth is from Austria. She writes in German. This month she wrote for our monthly update in English and now I want her to go ahead and translate every blog she has ever written. As an additional tidbit about her co-existence with animals, the cat gave birth in her bed this week:

http://forusa.org/blogs/for-colombia/giraffes-dragons/10653

Mid-month, swimming against the undertow in a sea of work, I decided I seriously needed a break. I needed to leave Bogota. I needed to leave the emergency phone behind and not deal with anything work for at least one weekend. I was beginning to freak out about this. As if to reaffirm the truth that the universe does indeed conspire for the dreamer, a farm boy appeared in my urban life and invited me out to the campo for the weekend. And as if to remind myself that people are good, I took the invitation from this near stranger and headed out to his farm house seven hours west of Bogota. I spent the weekend looking at cows and moving horses from one pasture to the next. I watched this family in their process of building a house out of bamboo (by hand) and was reminded of my Aunt Mary Lu in Big Sur. I saw men chop wood with machetes, framed by rolling green hills and the blue ridge of the mountains. I spent lazy mornings staring out at vast views stretching toward Cauca and el Choco while drinking hot chocolate. In the evening, I heard rolling thunder and Manuel told me sometimes you can hear the combats all the way from el Choco.  I sorted avocados and picked guavas from trees. I sat in the sun, at the river’s edge and smelled the forest. I decided Pereira smells like summer. An old man who lives on the finca told us stories at dusk of ghosts and gnomes and apparitions. He told us of a panther that killed cows and men when it roamed these hills and jungle thirty years ago. I slept under a mosquito net and sweat on a long walk through rolling green pastures with sweeping mountain views. I listened to frogs and chickens and stared wide-eyed at the stars. It was lovely and just what a Gina needed.

Liza turned 35. As the birthday girl, she hosted Birthday Bingo. (She also won the first round (rigged, obviously) and with it, a Rubik’s cube.) Everyone brought a gift for birthday bingo prizes and they were cool and eclectic, just like the people who brought them. Mika made the most awesome of deserts. I was thrilled to celebrate with them in their beautiful home, with their wonderful friends.

Emily turned 31. We talked about our ability to remember “a year ago today” so clearly on our birthday. How we can remember, on this specific day, where we were and what we did every single year of our lives. And how hard this is to do for any other day. We talked about how far we have come from a year ago today- celebrating her 30^th birthday in the Peace Community over empanadas and a large contingency of children under the age of seven. This year we walked the city and had lunch on a half sleety, half sunny day. We strolled through the Parque Nacional and enjoyed a few Bogota Beers. It was a great day. We decided she should go ahead and have a birthday everyday.

June was dancing salsa. Dancing salsa in a studio, ripping up my feet before I bought some shoes. It was dancing salsa in an underground club on a deserted sketchy street where we were pleasantly surprised with badass salsa dancers wearing keds. It was dancing salsa in a famous, sweaty salsa club on a Thursday night in formal wear, celebrating the success of our event. June was strolling on Saturdays and stopping into a vivero near my house to be among plants in my treeless neighborhood; to smell jungle life. It was browsing through bookstores and smiling at English titles. June was the smell of Emily’s (urban garden grown!) rosemary and onion bread baking in our oven, and her black bean chocolate brownies (an new favorite). June was reconnecting with friends in the capital and abroad, both celebrating and sending birthday wishes. June was David’s arrival to the team with English literature in tow, lavendar sprigs in my urban garden, running the ciclovia, getting outta town and celebrating work well done. June was the loss of light when we didn’t pay our energy bill- cold showers and no stove which reminded us of campo living conditions. June brought the longest game of cut-throat I have ever played. We headed to a pool hall after work and, as players pool, we scratched so many times that we had three rounds in one. June was the first month of summer, which we tend to forget while living abroad, but with every flip of the calendar I am closer to my August trip home.

This coming long weekend brings July. It also brings Rock al Parque (biggest rock fest in Latin America, right here in Bogota) and PRIDE. Picture me in fake eyelashes and rainbow tights, covered in glitter, grand jete-ing down the street in a fabulous parade. Picture me busting a move in a crowd of manic concert goers. All of my visions for this weekend have me cracking a smile, in overt conspiracy with the future.

Oh Me, Oh MAY!

May was my first full month in Bogota, and it sure was eventful…

May Day, a public holiday in Colombia (in association with International Workers Day, not the Celtic calendar holiday complete with may pole dances and baskets), traditionally sees the most violent protests in Bogota. Riot police abound. Colombia is still the most dangerous country in the world to be a trade unionist, and this is the day of the year they take to the streets in mass. I woke up that day and chose to take a long peaceful run towards the north, leaving the rest of my co-workers to participate in the protests downtown.

All sorts of groups outside of unions march in the May Day protest. One that certainly deserves mention this year is the Marcha Patriotica, which is the new emerging leftist party in Colombia. The Marcha Patriotica draws connotation to the Union Patriotica, (Fastest Colombian history lesson ever: UP was the FARC-backed communist political party during the last peace negotiations. After the negotiations, with the UP as the official political party, the government systematically killed UP members, leaders and elected officials. Peace failed. FARC returned to current military tactic.) And while rumors of peace negotiations abound in the Colombian media, there are several media reactions to this new emerging party.  1.) Why would we (the left) set ourselves up for another repetition of what happened with the UP? 2.) Is the FARC actually backing the MP (clearly in political ideology that would make sense, but as compared to the UP which was created by the FARC, the MP is a separate political party). Those on the right tend to equate the two, clearly dangerous for non-FARC members who are participating in legal leftist politics (already dangerous in Colombia, obvious by the need for our accompaniment). 3.) How will this party be different from other parties on the left?

A few things are clear: this new party mobilizes groups from outside of the capital. In their march last month, it is estimated that 80,000 participated, the grand majority travelling in from other regions and rural parts of the country. According to a conference I attended yesterday, regional leaders and organizers of the party have been killed since that march (their first mass public demonstration). For good or danger, they have certainly grabbed the nation’s attention.

Day and Tippy come to town with a full extra suitcase of North Country contraband. I am still eating fine cheese daily and thrilled about it. We bummed around the historical downtown and hit the national museum. We hiked Monseratte and went shopping. We fined dined and market shopped, caught up on the life and times and chillaxed. It was lovely.

On May 15^th, the Colombian- USA Free Trade Agreement went into effect with a mid-night shipment of flowers out of Colombia’s port in Cartagena. The port, at midnight, was full of flag-waving Colombian children. As the BBC reported, “The accord, signed during President George W Bush's administration, was opposed by US labor groups, who feared job losses. Many Democratic members of Congress argued that it should not be approved until they were satisfied Colombia had done enough to stop violence against union organizers. There was also opposition from Colombian trade unions, who expressed concern about whether the country was developed enough to compete. Urging Congress to ratify the deal, the Obama administration warned that further delay would cost the US jobs and the chance to boost exports.” Needless to say, after living in Guatemala straight through CAFTA implementation, my heart sank a little bit on the morning of May 15^th.

And then, also on the morning of May 15^th, my heart jumped. A bomb exploded about 10 blocks from our apartment, shaking northern Bogota. While questions about who was behind the bomb still go unanswered, there is no doubt that the day chosen was symbolic. As an organizer who shares our office space lamented to me a couple weeks later over lunch: “we had a whole press conference about the negative consequences of the FTA and with that bomb, it was just decided that the news wouldn’t cover the FTA at all”.

This was the first bomb attack Bogota has seen in 10 years, and perhaps challenged the recent cover of Time magazine granted to President Santos. It certainly reminded the inhabitants of the capital (if not the world over) that there is still a very real and very dirty war going on in this country. Additionally, it made all of our team question our security analysis. While we are constantly aware of bombs and combats in the war zone, the hard truth of the matter is that this particular bomb exploded closer to our home than any of the ones we heard or saw in Uraba. Eek.

In an even MORE symbolic relevance to the bomb: May 15^th is International Conscientious Objectors day. With such rampant violence in this war torn country, I was thankful to have a string of meetings with the Conscientious Objector group who we accompany here in the capital. The peace movement is really the only way, says I.

We read a lot of news. A friend at Witness for Peace drew my attention to an extremely disturbing Trident gum advertisement in Colombia’s weekly political magazine, Semana. This ad has me currently writing my first personal consumer complaint letter to a corporation in years. The basic concept is that Trident gum produces healthy smiles, which, in turn, provoke other smiles. The image is two individuals hugging and smiling over trident gum. Sounds fine, until you take a closer look and see that the individuals are 1.) a US Border Patrol agent and 2.) a Latino (presumably illegal) immigrant. Apparently Trident hasn’t considered the implications of making light of the current US-Mexican border situation, but I am taking it upon myself to make them consider said implications. I read this particular issue of Semana the same week I received No More Deaths (NGO documenting Border Patrol abuses of migrants at the AZ-Mexico border) newsletter. And BAM!: Complaint letter content filled.

I have now officially and deliberately stopped reading my crisis alerts from parts of the world outside of the Americas. I feel a threshold. Guatemalan news alone breaks my heart everyday and Colombian news is a required part of my job. And that is only the tip of the Americas iceberg. Sometimes it all seems so overwhelming, even though peace seems so obvious. And then a friend sends me this uncited quote with the caption ‘why do we do the work we do?’:

“It’s impossible,” says pride.

“It’s risky,” says experience.

“It’s pointless,” says reason.

“Give it a try,” whispers the heart.

Lee comes to town! While she works for the IRC and much of our conversation ends up being political and work-related, we also got up to a good amount of shenanigans around the capital. We even took an impromptu day-trip to the  Zipaquira salt mines outside of Bogota. These salt mines have ben turned into the stations of the cross underground and are lit in psychedelic colors, making the whole scene seem like something straight out of Jesus Christ Superstar. Lee and I reveled.

Lee left a basil plant, and paired with the sprouting lavender seeds Monica sent me in her package last month, the urban garden is on the grow. In other happy capital lifestyle related news: Emily and I have been cooking from scratch. We have been dancing lots of salsa. We have been running the ciclovia, a highlight of my every week.

At work, May was full full full! There was a conference on the ongoing (and government ignored) issue of violent forced displacement, and our team’s final push to publish our Drug War Pop-Ed booklet (second in the series on “Demilitarizing Life and Land”). There were embassy meetings and accompanier’s protests and  reports to be written and urgent actions to be taken.

What a month! Protests and resistance and oppression and violence! (Not to mention research on protests and resistance and oppression and violence!) It’s not easy, sometimes, and Baker London’s album release also brought a good reminder to me this month: “when the soul needs reviving, though shall reach out for some help”. And thus I continue to reconnect with dear friends and family in far corners of the globe. It feels good and I am so thankful for my support system sending me love from afar.

The sounds of the city pump my everyday life with rhythmic noises. The traffic and horns of cars on busy streets. A man sings operetta outside of a music store, seemingly directly addressing the guitars inside the window.  Peddlers yell, vending everything from orange juice to tamales outside our windows and on my walk to work. Our (new!) pressure cooker whistles over black beans. Bikes shift gears on the Sunday ciclovia.  Blenders mix delicious passion fruit juice for my constant consumption. The sunny Bogota mornings make me wake thankful for every day and sometimes, walking home from the salsa studio late at night, I catch a glimpse of the moon over the buildings. It draws my attention and I just can’t look away. It reminds me of my close connection to nature in Uraba. I revel in patches of trees when walking cross-town and deep breathe on the top of Monseratte. The smell of grass at the Usaquen market reminds me of summer. I miss the clean air and outside lifestyle of La Union, while simultaneously feeling so much more whole now that I am in frequent communication with dear friends. And I think again about just how adaptable we are.

June has a lot in store. Next week both the Montreal jazz ballet and Lila Downs come to town (tough personal budget decisions!). By the end of next month we will have a new team member, David. With a trip home on the horizon in August, paired with the sensation that I just arrived in Bogota, I can’t help but feel like time will fly this summer.  

I have renewed my contract with FOR through March of 2013 and honestly feel there is no work I would rather be doing; there is nowhere else I would rather be.