a few days ago a friend and i were remarking on the power of words. she’s a reseracher, a poet, and newly, a pr person. she was revealing how acutely she felt the power of her words now that so many people with different agendas were searching her writing to satisfy their own needs. all of a sudden one word instead of another takes on whole new and unintended subtleties.
but what of the power of silence?
people carry on about the freedom of speech…but equally people have the power not to speak. and despite its passive overtones, silence is as powerful a weapon as speech…sometimes more so.
some old saying warns “better to be thought a fool than open your mouth and prove it.” silence as tool to withold evidence as sorts. much like the right to remain silent…the right to plead the 5th.
all powerful silences. but beyond those there is the power of a different kind of silence. the sheer force of what is unsaid not because others don’t know but becuase to admit it out loud makes it too real.
that type of silence is the pink elephant in the room, the emperor with no clothes. and it isn’t that the masses don’t see, only that they choose to avert their eyes rather than point and jeer.
and what power does that speak to? less the silence itself, instead power of whatever it is that goes unsaid. the ability for one thing to alter a world, a memory, a relationship…the abilty for the obvious left ignored, the glaring but avoided, the real made imaginary…to disrupt without shouting or coarse language…without even the uttering of a single word. instead, all its magnitude emitting from what is not there…like black hole absent of light. the pink elephant in the middle of the room.
Tags: me-ness, transition
Australia is in the middle of a drought. I’m not talking no rain this year…I’m talking no rain for some years. I’m not sure of the exact number now – and I’m too lazy to look it up, but on the Today Show Australia they had a rather long segment complete with dust blowing behind tractors and two generations of the same farming family. The father lamented this harsh time but remembered fondly the wet years – back in the 80s I think. His son, not able to remember that far back, instead talked about the very real possibility of leaving farming all together.
Under normal circumstances I would have thought – sad – and moved on. But having read Guns, Germs and Steel recently I can’t help but consider that nothing has changed. One of the main themes of the book is that progression to farming happened in the places it did because of ideal circumstances…a culmination of available/useful seeds and animals, fertile land, water, and predictable seasons.
Australia has almost none of those – hence the reason there was no real farming until it was brought in by Europeans when they settled.
Fast-forward now…as the country is struggling with water shortages on both coasts, depleted ground water and more drought in sight. It got me thinking about New Orleans, a city 12 feet below sea level, surrounded by water, and in the middle of hurricane alley. It was a disaster waiting to happen before Katrina and is a disaster waiting to happen as it is slowly rebuilt.
Sometimes I think the human need to dominate, to prove we can, is counterproductive to our own wellbeing. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. Just because technology allows for a city to be pumped dry – eventually – doesn’t mean that a city nestled between a river, a lake and the Gulf of Mexico is the best place to rebuild. And just because technology makes irrigation possible doesn’t mean such a water poor place should do mass scale farming.
Historically people adapted to their surroundings. Desert people were nomads, followed their food sources, learned to find water where there was none. But with a push towards technology as save-all the idea of adaptation has reversed. Rather than me adapting to life as a roman because I’m in rome the expectation is for rome to change. And although rome – may accommodate for a little while, make no mistake, rome is still rome. Equally, deserts are still deserts and concave cities still prone to floods.
Tags: books, me-ness, neworleans, soapbox, tv
this weekend in the city is diwali, festival of lights. last year i missed this festival in sri lanka by a day and i was beyond bummed. yesterday, however, despite fasting, S and i wandered down to see the sights. there was music and stalls and people milling about. and as night fell and our hunger grew more urgent, we were drawn to the food.
waiting for 7:35 to come and the sun to set, we found ourselves investigating each stall with over anxious eyes. there was this fried delight and that strange one – all together in rows. and as soon as it was time we were off…me at one stall S at another. meeting up to share bites and decide on our next course.
it was a vegetarian’s dream – no meat to be seen. so we feasted on familiar things like pekoras and samosas and unfamiliar – behl. and S fell in love with mango lassi.
we enjoyed it so much that we took some away for the pre-dawn meal. true to form i was awake at 5 and pounced on the food we’d brought. thinking no thoughts i climbed back into bed and slept soundly until 10 am. here’s where the story is less funm.
my morning started slowly…me checking my empty email and then showering…and then being overcome with a feeling of nausea that, although not the worst i’ve ever expereinced, unpleasant enough to make me want to hunker down in bed.
i’ll spare details…just know that hours later and i’m still not myself. my stomach is still disgusted by the thought of food – indian food in particular…but truthfully, anything that has an expecataion of being chewed and swallowed.
i have final adjustments to make on my paper due tomorrow. i’m hoping i can negotiate a ceasfire before then. i swear to not eat any more food from THIS diwali festival if my stomach promises to let me sit upright for more than 3 minutes without wanting to projectile said food.
we’ll see how it goes.
You’d think by now I’d learn my lesson…cheekiness is next to idiocy. But still I persist on being smarmy and then having to apologize. They other day I was lamenting to S that I only have three months left. I forgot why…but there was some urgency to the conversation. He corrected me, “you only have two months left.” Silly man, I counted on my fingers, “September to October, October to November, November to December.” Three months, easy as 1, 3, 82…why? Because it is October already. This, of course, left me open to being counted on fingers in the reverse. A little gentle chiding never hurt anyone but oh how time flies.
So the reality hits me…I really only have two months left. And what makes it feel shorter is that I only have two actual classes left (one this week) and two assignments (one almost finished) and one final exam. Everything else is just the waning of time in daily activities and this art class I want to take.
Where does the time go? Even a few months ago when I was idling around Australia I still felt like I had a chunk of time under my belt. But I don’t. And with it comes thoughts for the future.
So I’m coming home. Anyone who cares should know I’ll be in Dallas initially and then off to Houston for Christmas. I’m not sure of the week or two between new years and New Orleans…still without any heads up on housing or classes, I can’t seem to quite think that far ahead.
In case anyone is wondering…I’m down for any gathering that involves Mexican food, Italian food, Mediterranean food, Vietnamese food, Fat Catz Louisiana kitchen, or a Texas T-bone steak…just in case you were wondering.
why is it that when there were “hypothetical” wmd in the middle east…we invaded with little provocation – but when the raging meglomaniac in north korea confirmed that he did in fact have wmds and that he doesn’t like us…and now that he has actually tested wmds and is planning follow-up tests, we have nothing to say except sanctions?
could it be a lack of oil for inspiration?
in the wake of how thin our military is currently spread, can we afford to spread it any thinner even in the shadow of real danger?
something to worry about?
- north korean bravado
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0
- real threat
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2
last year i read a book called, a bed for the night. at first it infuriated me and then it scared me in the best kind of way. it took a critical look at aid work and the consequences of the work being done. at first glance it seems as if he is raging on the people putting the most effort forward to affect change. but as i read further he explained that he wasn’t trying to bash…only to make people consider that good intentions aren’t always enough.
and they aren’t.
going into a country with little understanding of the culture, the conflict, the crisis, or a concept of removing yourself or the ngo when the “all clear” is sounded is potentially damaging. in my trip to sri lanka we looked at camps that were set up shottily and without being mnonitored (as they were supposed to be) so that survivors fo the tsunami were left living in horrible circumstances. there was talk of kids that were vaccinated over and over and over agan, and the only seven (yes seven) sri lankan psyichiatrists being carted away as translators instead of rendering aid.
it made me question my interest in public health…but when that doubt was quelled…it made me want to do a better job in the field…to be mindful of potential damage…to realize i can only know what i am willing to learn.
i thought of the book again because i’m writing a paper on MSF – doctors without borders to most americans. i had respect for them before i started my research…and even more now. not because they are perfect, but because they continually reflect on the work they do. they are kinetic…evaluating technique and execution of missions. expanding their scope as need and ability shifts.
i also appreciate the internal struggle that illustrates its 35 year history. not much older than me, i agonize over similar things…how to not get caught up in politics but still affect change. how to be vocal without causing such a din that nothing can be heard. how to be relavant in a world that is ever changing. how to balance the knowledge that waht i do is small but necessary in building a better world.
msf doesn’t have space for the likes of me as a public health worker…although as they expand their scope into water and sanitation and advocacy for affordable medication maybe they will…but reading about them reminds me that wanting to serve people in a particular way is ok…msf was formed by people who jumped ship from the red cross (icrc)- uninterested in the “keep quiet no matter what” philosophy that kept icrc quiet during the holocaust and the biafra war in nigeria.
i am only limited by myself…i can either seek out more comforatable waters of an organization i can identify with, or jump ship and swim for shore where i can create something new – something that fits my idea of change without the compromises that make people forget what they were trying to change to begin with.
i’m grumpy these days. i’m not really sure why…i could blame it on hormones or stress or the urge to break up my general routine but it all still settles into me being grumpy for some intangible reason.
and in the scheme of things…life is looking pretty good. i went down to tokaurua to conduct a focus group/group interview. and since this project is kind of my baby i took the lead – prepped the group on ethics, what we were gonna do, and the questioning. it was only half an hour but after so much theoretical work it felt nice to talk to people – to ask questions – to have more than hypothetical answers.
and where school is concerend, i only have 2 more classes – 2 more assignments – 1 final exam. of course that gets crowded out by me trying to figure out what my schedule should look like next semester. and trying to wrap my head around daily classes again. i’ve become quiet accustomed to having the month to myself. come january it will be back to the daily grind.
the grumpiness sometimes translates into a restlessness i can’t explain. sometimes a walk helps…but bed is such a comfy place and walking here puts you at risk for random and torrential downpours even when the skies look cloudlessly spotless.
mostly i think it is just a desire of my what next…and althogh to some degree i know…tulane awaits for at least one more semester…i still don’t know where i’ll live – or how (rents have skyrocketed from what i have read and been told). and a semester isn’t long…not in the scheme of life and life altering decisions. so i think part of my grumpiness is in wait…for what next…answers…and less abstract things.
I used to write poetry. I used to surround myself with people who did the same. In college I was a co-founder of the writers’ guild. We met weekly and shared new stuff, and eventually we put on shows. In peace corps I did haiku challenges over text message and scrawled in my journal regularly.
These days the urge…the passion…the compulsion to put pen to paper in that way is gone. And I miss it.
For so long my writing was a part of my identity – like my hair or talking fast. Anyone who knew me was likely to mention any of those things to describe me. S has never known me that way…big hair and big mouth yes…but never as a writer.
And it is sad to me – not because I was some new Pablo Neruda or Nikki Giovanni, but because it was a way for me to capture my life and retain not just the events that happen, but the feelings that go with them.
There are some poems that I’ve written over the years that evoke a wave of nostalgia, an ache of love, the searing of betrayal. And while not always pleasant, they take me back to an experience and help me to convey it to others.
I’d like to think my poetic pen is simply misplaced and that one day soon I’ll turn a corner or rearrange my life in such a way that it appears to me again, rolling out from the dust and ready to write.
It is amazing the things you can take for granted everybody knows and understands…peeling a banana from the stem instead of from the other end…
I don’t know if I should be joyful or I should weep. People ask me what I want to do when I graduate and my answer has been…work in a refugee or internal displacement camps. As I answer, I wonder to myself…sometimes audibly…do I have the disposition for such work. so harrowing…rape and murder and mutilation. That on top of starvation and disease.
During Katrina I wept…after a 12 or 14 hour day i was exhausted emotionally from stories of loss and anguish. What would I do in a place where 12-year-old boys were abducted and killed their parents?
Tonight I watched a special on sierra leone. Rape and amputations, lacking infrastructure and poverty…and I didn’t shed a tear. And though it bodes well for my future work…what does it say of my soul…in my desire to make a difference have I lost a part of me…was it necessary…is it worth it…
to celabrate nigerian independence S and i ventured into the uncertain auckland weather (which most certainly became a downpour!) to a program organized by the local nigerian council. lots of polictical speeches and dancing later…we caught a lift home to reflect on the day.
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