I stop wanting what I am looking for, looking for it.
~Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943, translated from Spanish by W.S. Merwin
August 8, 2008 - January 18, 2009
The last six months of my life will always be earmarked as ‘the time of extremes.’ On the one end of the continuum lies paralyzing grief, on the other intense love. Inside is as astonishing adventure, predictable routines, quiet down time with friends and family, an exciting exploration of a new country, lazy days in my hammock, early morning strolls on the platte river, exhausting basketball practices in Voinjama, relaxing time spent in my brand new loft in a metropolitan city, exhausting time spent filing buckets for showers and washing clothes in the bush of Africa, going away parties, welcome back parties, yummy food, tummy parasites, and so much more….In six short months I watched myself get ripped to shreds and then felt the pieces get mended back together again by simple acts of kindness, goodness and love.
On August 8th I took my last stroll with Tuesday on the Platte and packed for my journey back to Liberia.
On August 14th, in a disturbing expression of an addict’s stupor, my mother and I watched nearly every moment of the Olympics for 10 straight days. From table tennis to water polo, the only thing we enjoyed more than the actual competition was the exciting back stories of these renowned athletes.
On August 24th I arrived back in Liberia and found a piece of my heart I had left behind.
From the 1st of September until November 5th I focused predominately on work, feeling passionate about the trauma recovery groups and equally as proud of my staff for accepting the challenge of a new training module. They were anxious and nervous and were forced to work hard and study hard and yet when it came time for their 25 page comprehensive examination, they excelled and clearly showed me they had learned much and grown tremendously. This success was accomplished in a country that, according to the Ministry of Planning and Economic Affairs, has an abysmally high illiteracy rate of 63%. Broken down by gender, 73% of women are illiterate, 50% of men and only 25% of rural dwellers can read or write. All of my staff got their high school diplomas in the refugee camps of Sierra Leone and Guinea and all of them would be considered rural dwellers. Their professional and scholastic accomplishments are clearly an exception to the norm.
On November 6th, I lost one of the most important people in my life and realized I would simply have to find a way to recover from it. For the next few weeks my father and brother and I spent time together, shared stories and turned to friends and family for support. One of the most touching expressions of support was given to me the day before I left Janesville. In a moment of gentle concern, a friend I have always called Fav, gave me a comforting hug and then handed me a small stack of cards. Each envelope denoted the day in which I should open the card while I am away. The day that was chosen was Tuesday. The contents were supportive remarks and one simple expression of support that Liberians say to those who have been bereaved, “Take Courage.” She had remembered the day I had told her how comforting this simple statement had been for me in the minutes and hours after I heard about my mother’s death and she had decided to borrow this tender expression to show her support for me. I still don’t know if it was the statement or the selection of the choice of Tuesday that moved me to tears each and every time I opened one of her weekly gifts but I will always remember what she did and how she did it.
On November 18th, I celebrated my 32nd birthday dressed in black with a heavy heart. Putting my grief aside for a brief second I felt intensely loved by three special men who have always been in my life. Together we toasted my life and the life of the woman who gave it to me.
On November 30th, I departed from what will always be my mother’s nest, her home, and thus by extension mine, and I started the long journey back to Africa. On the coast of this small African country someone very special waited patiently for my return. This person held my hand, wiped my tears, listened when necessary and took my mind off things when possible. Because of this, and so much more, he will always have a special place in my heart.
From December 2nd until January 18th I have been trying. Some days are better than others and yet I have finally reached a point where I know things will be ok. There will always be a void and some topics simply remain off limits but so is life and somewhere along the line I have stopped wanting what I was looking for, looking for it…..
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Saturday, August 4, 2007
bridesmaid for a day
the opposite of serving: a short tale of the humanitarian worker who took a break from the field to be a bridesmaid
When I reflect on my time in Liberia, all the things I have posted before and all the things that are likely to come after will probably represent the larger majority of the parts of my experience, but a true composition of my memories will include a memory that will make it uniquely mine. This memory is the night I was a bridesmaid wearing an African made dress surrounded by new, yet profoundly important, friends.
The events leading up to the big day suggested everything should have been a disaster; but, either because it was meant to be (or simply because of unqualified luck) the actual event went off without a hitch and moved me in a way everyone hopes to be moved each time they attend a wedding.
Because I was only a sub-character in a much larger drama, I don’t know exactly how to write about this event, so I won’t write about the real things exactly and I won’t write about the imaginarily things that typically fill my head when I find myself near so much love. I will simply write about the things I know and the things I thought about, because when it comes to feelings, specifically my own, I sometimes feel I don’t have words to capture anything adequately, so more often than not they go unmentioned.
catching the bouquet
Even though I don’t believe in the myth of what a tossed bouquet means and have historically had absolutely no desire to catch one of these bunches of dying flowers, it was a funny experience when it happened to me on this ever so slightly cool night on a beach in Liberia.
First you should know that by design there is nothing within my realm of consciousness that would cause me to feel anything when a wedding bouquet is tossed. I think that because I was feeling moved by the whole event, a desire to feel more began to grow within me and so when we paused to engage in this ceremonial tradition, I unconsciously struggled to uncover a new emotion. Then I saw her peek and I knew.
She made a big show of it and tossed it gingerly up into the air. Heading straight towards me, I let my arms fall to my sides thinking I would let it pass; but then, as I watched it floating down in front of me I cringed at the thought of it falling to the sand, and so I snatched it from the air gently and brought it tenderly to my chest.
My heart was in my throat and for one split second I felt charmed. This beautiful bouquet of flowers with magical powers was all mine: the flowers, the meaning behind it, the chance to to be the next to find love: mine. I can admit, I am not a woman of greatness, I get anxious too quickly, I cry too easily, I don’t’ have a head or a body for silence, intimacy overwhelms me, words often fail me, while others pray I only move my lips, and love usually eludes me, but in this moment the possibilities seemed endless.
the preparations
At the end of the day the actual ceremony is just one moment wrapped in other more vivid moments of preparations and celebrations. What I remember about the days, hours and minutes that preceded the ceremony I will forever remember as the good and the bad parts or should I say: the tragic and the amazing parts.
the tragic parts:
1) The fact that her friend failed her miserably: every promise, ever offer, every pledge was broken. These broken promises were not out of vengeance; however, but rather a result of this friend’s own demons, demons that get the best of her when she finds herself too close to other people’s love for each other. She had a hard time getting out of bed, difficult memories of her childhood collect around her like the half empty glasses around her bed and any additional stressor makes her spiral out of control. Only due to uncanny intelligence and a relentless drive to survive (even though she would deny this drive) is she even making it in this world today. The ripple effects of this friends decompensation was catastrophic and when the bride and groom found themselves without a house to sleep in, without supplies for the ceremony, without a cook for a number of promised dishes, and down 750 dollars in purchased beauty products for this friend from the States (causing serious financial pressures as this is a country without ATMs or the capacity to use credit cards), this couple drove around in a wounded vehicle and simply adapted. Even though they both cared deeply for this friend, they were forced to disconnect from this toxic energy, found a guest house to stay in and tried to not feel so injured by the feelings of disappointment and displacement.
2) The fact that the car broke down and every stop we made for three days prior to the wedding resulted in a catastrophe. Every break down called for a 3rd gear push off running jump start that equated to me pushing and grunting loud enough that eventually some nearby soul would feel bad for me and help out. After getting the car rolling and the engine jumped the bride to be would reach in her bag for the courtesy 20 liberties that was expected for the service. 20 liberties we couldn’t really spare.
3) The fact that the hairdresser refused the brides style requests for a day and a half prior to the ceremony claiming he knows best when it comes to weddings. Not only did he want to charge 300 dollars to come out to the beach to do our hair he simply wouldn’t do what she wanted. Living on 50 dollars between us for a week prior to the groom’s arrival, we couldn’t afford it so we needed to make frequent trips to Terreck salon for negotiations and hit the salon before leaving town to cut costs.
4) The fact that the dress designer, Sista Wonders, who lovingly labels her designs “JOA” (Jesus Our Advisor), had difficulty getting the adjustments completed because she had been awake for 2 full nights having a Revival. She was simply too tired to replace the zipper and exhausted at the idea of straightening a crooked seam.
5) The fact that we had to make frequent stops by the store to see our 15 year old baker, Ali, and remind him that - no we did not want a large plastic figurine of a bride and groom on our simple fruit cake and yes we were having the wedding on Saturday not Sunday.
6) The fact that we needed to stop by the Nigerian ECOWAS soldiers headquarters because they were immensely “worried about us” and calling chronically because they “just wanted to say hi” and make sure we weren’t still upset about the death threats we had received two weeks prior by ex-combatants distraught about the possibility that they might not get their monthly stipends.
7) The fact that the groom’s luggage was lost (with the wedding rings in it) and we needed to find replacement rings. While walking down Broad Street after meticulously finding the perfect pair of silver flip-flops for me, the bride bent down and reached into the grungy gutter. I noticed that she was reaching for a thick platinum spring likely broken off a motobike and I knew instantly what she was thinking. I started laughing at the insanity of it all and this gentleman passing us looked over and said “look at you ladies having a good time and laughing when your friend is picking trash off the ground.” She tried it on and it was perfect. Later on the groom took it to a mechanic and had him cut it in half and smooth off the rough parts. It should be noted, he was forced to do this with the car running in the street at moderately high risk of being car jacked because the bride and I were busy getting our hair done and he had no human hydraulics to get the car going if the car was turned off.
8) The fact that we spent an incredible amount of time hunting the markets for pineapples and side streets for flowers. It was hot and we had already had our hair done and nothing seemed easy.
the amazing parts:
1) The fact that the brides other friends were amazing. For example, Rosa, an absurdly busy Mozambican pal, who is heading a huge department within UNICEF and was dealing with auditors the week of the wedding, volunteered to make a dinner of crab cakes, seafood salad served in a crab shell, lobster dipped in butter, green salad, feta stuffed peppers, and seafood paella. She pulled it off with style and grace top chefs in NYC would covet.
2) The way every single one of the guests of the wedding showed up, dressed sharply and eloquently in white and instantly started helping out in the kitchen or in the dressing rooms. Like a ballroom dance the synergistic support that surrounded the couple was remarkable.
3) The fact that we were able to find pineapples after searching the streets for two days. At one point we endured a tragic miss because I spotted a pair of girls with some fruit balanced on their heads, but due to the fact I was on the phone and didn’t want to be rude, I didn’t say anything and instead started tapping my head furiously. Before the couple was able to understand what I was trying to tell them the girls had turned a corner and were lost. Now and forever, the new sign for pineapple will be two simple pats on the head.
4) The fact that it is rainy season but it didn’t rain. That however is putting it mildly – for 42 hours before and 29 hours after, it rained furiously. On the day and night of the wedding however, the weather was perfect. Circumstantially, it also happened to be Liberia’s Independence Day and for the first time in 17 years they had a fireworks display. So, standing on the beach, following the completion of an amazing dinner in small quaint palava huts with tea lights delicately set in sand, we all sipped a glass of wine and watched a display reminiscent of Independence celebrations in the West. (Note to the reader: these fireworks were made part by a 250,000 dollar donation by the Chinese Government. If anyone is thinking…but couldn’t that kind of money be better spent in a county living in abject poverty I would have to whisper a small silent amen).
5) The fact that 99.9% of the tragic parts mentioned above were someone miraculously resolved. The friend rallied and showed up for the ceremony. She was exhausted and wounded and fragile but she came and it said so much. The car held strong and even though it needed a little TLC every time it was started, it worked and carried the things it was asked to carry. Terrek, the hairdresser, relented and allowed the bride to decide and she looked amazing. A ravenous beauty her haired flowed eloquently throughout the night. I too was delighted with my doo and enjoyed the pampering by a stylist who informed me he had never been formally trained and had “been born” with the talent to style hair. Sista Wonders recovered and finished the dresses. They were lovely and even though a few safety pins were necessary to help with the busted zippers, no one was the wiser except the thoughtful friend who happened to carry a few safety pins with her to the beach. The cake was simple and delicious. The Nigerian soldiers were gentleman. The rings were shiny and perfect.
I returned to the bush full of joy. I was exhausted and slept.
When I reflect on my time in Liberia, all the things I have posted before and all the things that are likely to come after will probably represent the larger majority of the parts of my experience, but a true composition of my memories will include a memory that will make it uniquely mine. This memory is the night I was a bridesmaid wearing an African made dress surrounded by new, yet profoundly important, friends.
The events leading up to the big day suggested everything should have been a disaster; but, either because it was meant to be (or simply because of unqualified luck) the actual event went off without a hitch and moved me in a way everyone hopes to be moved each time they attend a wedding.
Because I was only a sub-character in a much larger drama, I don’t know exactly how to write about this event, so I won’t write about the real things exactly and I won’t write about the imaginarily things that typically fill my head when I find myself near so much love. I will simply write about the things I know and the things I thought about, because when it comes to feelings, specifically my own, I sometimes feel I don’t have words to capture anything adequately, so more often than not they go unmentioned.
catching the bouquet
Even though I don’t believe in the myth of what a tossed bouquet means and have historically had absolutely no desire to catch one of these bunches of dying flowers, it was a funny experience when it happened to me on this ever so slightly cool night on a beach in Liberia.
First you should know that by design there is nothing within my realm of consciousness that would cause me to feel anything when a wedding bouquet is tossed. I think that because I was feeling moved by the whole event, a desire to feel more began to grow within me and so when we paused to engage in this ceremonial tradition, I unconsciously struggled to uncover a new emotion. Then I saw her peek and I knew.
She made a big show of it and tossed it gingerly up into the air. Heading straight towards me, I let my arms fall to my sides thinking I would let it pass; but then, as I watched it floating down in front of me I cringed at the thought of it falling to the sand, and so I snatched it from the air gently and brought it tenderly to my chest.
My heart was in my throat and for one split second I felt charmed. This beautiful bouquet of flowers with magical powers was all mine: the flowers, the meaning behind it, the chance to to be the next to find love: mine. I can admit, I am not a woman of greatness, I get anxious too quickly, I cry too easily, I don’t’ have a head or a body for silence, intimacy overwhelms me, words often fail me, while others pray I only move my lips, and love usually eludes me, but in this moment the possibilities seemed endless.
the preparations
At the end of the day the actual ceremony is just one moment wrapped in other more vivid moments of preparations and celebrations. What I remember about the days, hours and minutes that preceded the ceremony I will forever remember as the good and the bad parts or should I say: the tragic and the amazing parts.
the tragic parts:
1) The fact that her friend failed her miserably: every promise, ever offer, every pledge was broken. These broken promises were not out of vengeance; however, but rather a result of this friend’s own demons, demons that get the best of her when she finds herself too close to other people’s love for each other. She had a hard time getting out of bed, difficult memories of her childhood collect around her like the half empty glasses around her bed and any additional stressor makes her spiral out of control. Only due to uncanny intelligence and a relentless drive to survive (even though she would deny this drive) is she even making it in this world today. The ripple effects of this friends decompensation was catastrophic and when the bride and groom found themselves without a house to sleep in, without supplies for the ceremony, without a cook for a number of promised dishes, and down 750 dollars in purchased beauty products for this friend from the States (causing serious financial pressures as this is a country without ATMs or the capacity to use credit cards), this couple drove around in a wounded vehicle and simply adapted. Even though they both cared deeply for this friend, they were forced to disconnect from this toxic energy, found a guest house to stay in and tried to not feel so injured by the feelings of disappointment and displacement.
2) The fact that the car broke down and every stop we made for three days prior to the wedding resulted in a catastrophe. Every break down called for a 3rd gear push off running jump start that equated to me pushing and grunting loud enough that eventually some nearby soul would feel bad for me and help out. After getting the car rolling and the engine jumped the bride to be would reach in her bag for the courtesy 20 liberties that was expected for the service. 20 liberties we couldn’t really spare.
3) The fact that the hairdresser refused the brides style requests for a day and a half prior to the ceremony claiming he knows best when it comes to weddings. Not only did he want to charge 300 dollars to come out to the beach to do our hair he simply wouldn’t do what she wanted. Living on 50 dollars between us for a week prior to the groom’s arrival, we couldn’t afford it so we needed to make frequent trips to Terreck salon for negotiations and hit the salon before leaving town to cut costs.
4) The fact that the dress designer, Sista Wonders, who lovingly labels her designs “JOA” (Jesus Our Advisor), had difficulty getting the adjustments completed because she had been awake for 2 full nights having a Revival. She was simply too tired to replace the zipper and exhausted at the idea of straightening a crooked seam.
5) The fact that we had to make frequent stops by the store to see our 15 year old baker, Ali, and remind him that - no we did not want a large plastic figurine of a bride and groom on our simple fruit cake and yes we were having the wedding on Saturday not Sunday.
6) The fact that we needed to stop by the Nigerian ECOWAS soldiers headquarters because they were immensely “worried about us” and calling chronically because they “just wanted to say hi” and make sure we weren’t still upset about the death threats we had received two weeks prior by ex-combatants distraught about the possibility that they might not get their monthly stipends.
7) The fact that the groom’s luggage was lost (with the wedding rings in it) and we needed to find replacement rings. While walking down Broad Street after meticulously finding the perfect pair of silver flip-flops for me, the bride bent down and reached into the grungy gutter. I noticed that she was reaching for a thick platinum spring likely broken off a motobike and I knew instantly what she was thinking. I started laughing at the insanity of it all and this gentleman passing us looked over and said “look at you ladies having a good time and laughing when your friend is picking trash off the ground.” She tried it on and it was perfect. Later on the groom took it to a mechanic and had him cut it in half and smooth off the rough parts. It should be noted, he was forced to do this with the car running in the street at moderately high risk of being car jacked because the bride and I were busy getting our hair done and he had no human hydraulics to get the car going if the car was turned off.
8) The fact that we spent an incredible amount of time hunting the markets for pineapples and side streets for flowers. It was hot and we had already had our hair done and nothing seemed easy.
the amazing parts:
1) The fact that the brides other friends were amazing. For example, Rosa, an absurdly busy Mozambican pal, who is heading a huge department within UNICEF and was dealing with auditors the week of the wedding, volunteered to make a dinner of crab cakes, seafood salad served in a crab shell, lobster dipped in butter, green salad, feta stuffed peppers, and seafood paella. She pulled it off with style and grace top chefs in NYC would covet.
2) The way every single one of the guests of the wedding showed up, dressed sharply and eloquently in white and instantly started helping out in the kitchen or in the dressing rooms. Like a ballroom dance the synergistic support that surrounded the couple was remarkable.
3) The fact that we were able to find pineapples after searching the streets for two days. At one point we endured a tragic miss because I spotted a pair of girls with some fruit balanced on their heads, but due to the fact I was on the phone and didn’t want to be rude, I didn’t say anything and instead started tapping my head furiously. Before the couple was able to understand what I was trying to tell them the girls had turned a corner and were lost. Now and forever, the new sign for pineapple will be two simple pats on the head.
4) The fact that it is rainy season but it didn’t rain. That however is putting it mildly – for 42 hours before and 29 hours after, it rained furiously. On the day and night of the wedding however, the weather was perfect. Circumstantially, it also happened to be Liberia’s Independence Day and for the first time in 17 years they had a fireworks display. So, standing on the beach, following the completion of an amazing dinner in small quaint palava huts with tea lights delicately set in sand, we all sipped a glass of wine and watched a display reminiscent of Independence celebrations in the West. (Note to the reader: these fireworks were made part by a 250,000 dollar donation by the Chinese Government. If anyone is thinking…but couldn’t that kind of money be better spent in a county living in abject poverty I would have to whisper a small silent amen).
5) The fact that 99.9% of the tragic parts mentioned above were someone miraculously resolved. The friend rallied and showed up for the ceremony. She was exhausted and wounded and fragile but she came and it said so much. The car held strong and even though it needed a little TLC every time it was started, it worked and carried the things it was asked to carry. Terrek, the hairdresser, relented and allowed the bride to decide and she looked amazing. A ravenous beauty her haired flowed eloquently throughout the night. I too was delighted with my doo and enjoyed the pampering by a stylist who informed me he had never been formally trained and had “been born” with the talent to style hair. Sista Wonders recovered and finished the dresses. They were lovely and even though a few safety pins were necessary to help with the busted zippers, no one was the wiser except the thoughtful friend who happened to carry a few safety pins with her to the beach. The cake was simple and delicious. The Nigerian soldiers were gentleman. The rings were shiny and perfect.
I returned to the bush full of joy. I was exhausted and slept.
Monday, June 4, 2007
loss of innocence
Peace is much deeper than the absence of war.
Wars without beginnings, wars with pauses, but wars without ends.
War is an appetite.
It is its own reason for being.
There are no adequate answers.
The residue stings.
With war comes the loss of innocence for all involved.
For children, for women, for men, for soldiers, for leaders, for humanitarians.
No one is left untouched.
The loss of innocence becomes an appetite to experience the loss again. For others, being suddenly stripped, the collapse of the façade of ones virtue brings with it a peculiar feeling of debt, and the maddening cryptic question of who pays for someone else’s loss of innocence.
Or consider a loss of sexual innocence, whether by force or choice. Remembered as a loss, it can contribute to a life of grief, a life of anger or numbness. What comes of the choice to no longer be innocent is different for every pilgrim but to choose is to risk a region of the soul.
The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) in Liberia is coming along miserably, if at all. For a forensic psychologist, the concepts of truth, justice and accountability lie at the heart of my training and my understanding of victims, perpetrators and forgiveness. The process of recovery and rehabilitation includes victim impact statements and consequences, period. But, what if the system of justice is corrupt? Or what if the system alleges consequences but in reality it is a dangerous façade.
In Liberia the process is simple. What one sees is a group of men. These men carry clipboards (which sometimes causes them to be mistakenly perceived as Jehovah Witnesses). These men travel from house to house righteously demanding memories. With no opportunity for informed consent, support when the memories are too intense or a guarantee of anonymity, people wait in fear of the men with clipboards. With Prince Johnson (an infamous rebel leader who briefly broke away from Taylor in the late 90s only to create his very own rule of law that included heinous acts torture and power driven by fear) recently “elected” as the Senator of Nimba County, and rumors that President Ellen Sheriff financed and participated in the some of the destruction as a “revolutionary”, begs the question, why testify? Why remember when the leaders remain in power and indifference is pandemic.
In a few short months I have learned a few things. For me the goal is no longer to ensure that the names of those who sent others to die or serve or brainwash young children are prosecuted, but to reach a place where the victims recall their names only with difficulty when if ever they want to recall them. We cannot undo the past, but we can have a presence that will diminish its size, see to it that our experience of darkness does not take up more room than it’s due. The goal in recovery, I think is to circle back less and less.
This stance is against everything I believed in 6 months ago when I was sitting in the comfort of my library in the West studying war, truama and recovery. Is it ideal? – no. Is it satisfactory? – no. Does it bring more anger? – yes……but maybe embracing the anger, embracing it and them working through it is a first genuine step we can take towards healing.
We humanitarian workers will struggle most with this concept of anger as progress because it is we who believe war and aggression, anger and revenge fantasies should never be discussed or expressed; that only peace and forgiveness and kindness should prevail. But, if something heinous has occurred, something that is worthy of raw and unadulterated anger – isn’t the most genuine response to express it. Otherwise we are stuck - stuck in a limbo of sorts with feelings being repressed or denied, feelings that fester from generation to generation, feelings that if worked though have the possibility of leading us towards something new something outside the box we currently exist in.
It seems the wages of trauma is anger. The resolution of anger, my text books inform me, breaks the grip of the traumatic event. But how do we truly resolve the anger? It’s not enough just to arrive at a place where no one, not even yourself is to blame. You have to go further….
That is anger, now… on to love
How do we love if we are angry?
For me, I will start small
I will start with a mango
I will love a mango, its summer juice running down my chin
Then I will be in love with memories
The sound of my fathers car as it pulls up the driveway on a spring night, ready to enter
The look on my brohters face as he waits for his favorite pizza, lovingly picking up his dog and placing her on his shoulder, ready to love
The words of my favorite stories, given as a gift from friends who know how much I appreciate the retell, the familiar diction and delivery of a tale I have already heard but crave nonetheless, ready to soothe
The feelings connected to a recent relationship
The surge of energy that occured when our fingers accidentally brushed against one anothers
All that was then, all that is now, the slow semi-conscious physical gestures, everything I remember but won’t or can’t articulate because the words are unsupported by reason.
These feelings, these memories these sensory events – they make me feel innocent again.
Others may have a different journey towards the reemergence of innocence but this is my new theory – We must reengage our innocence to resolve the anger, to love.
Anger, innocence and love may sound simple or idealistic but when I am in these camps, or burnt out villages or mass grave sites it is not the events themselves or even the suffering that takes a fierce hold of me. The thing that has outraged me is the indifference I encounter all around it. I grew up thinking hate is the opposite of love, but now I believe it is indifference that is the true opposite of love.
At mass grave sites no one had even a piece of paper to write down the names of the dead.
At accident sites no one took even a moment to cover the young blameless bodies
At home, acts of domestic violence go unnoticed. Up and down every block the sound of the switch or the screaming of a woman hovered in a corner while nearby faces are flat with indifference – faces untouched by the violence.
Common sounds as tragic background music in an invalidated nation of angry victims.
Of course you could say that some man or woman, a group or government body, was to blame; but ordinarily selfishness or simple-mindedness is not the evil
It seems to be the shape of the indifference, the failure to love is what is toxic. This absence will take anyone down after a while, in any corner of the world.
Maybe indifference began by accommodating the impulse to affix blame. Growing out of a need to separate oneself from the brutality one witnessed. A need developed for expediency’s sake to make the suffering an abstraction.
To be angry or to be in love- both are loaded with consequence.
And I know that, at times, love can feel like the greatest of all risks
But not to follow it out, not to take the risk, wouldn’t that leave us isolated from all connections? To fall short of this final loss of innocence, to never say to another human being, I give you my life, wouldn’t that be the most tragic of all tragedies.
Wars without beginnings, wars with pauses, but wars without ends.
War is an appetite.
It is its own reason for being.
There are no adequate answers.
The residue stings.
With war comes the loss of innocence for all involved.
For children, for women, for men, for soldiers, for leaders, for humanitarians.
No one is left untouched.
The loss of innocence becomes an appetite to experience the loss again. For others, being suddenly stripped, the collapse of the façade of ones virtue brings with it a peculiar feeling of debt, and the maddening cryptic question of who pays for someone else’s loss of innocence.
Or consider a loss of sexual innocence, whether by force or choice. Remembered as a loss, it can contribute to a life of grief, a life of anger or numbness. What comes of the choice to no longer be innocent is different for every pilgrim but to choose is to risk a region of the soul.
The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) in Liberia is coming along miserably, if at all. For a forensic psychologist, the concepts of truth, justice and accountability lie at the heart of my training and my understanding of victims, perpetrators and forgiveness. The process of recovery and rehabilitation includes victim impact statements and consequences, period. But, what if the system of justice is corrupt? Or what if the system alleges consequences but in reality it is a dangerous façade.
In Liberia the process is simple. What one sees is a group of men. These men carry clipboards (which sometimes causes them to be mistakenly perceived as Jehovah Witnesses). These men travel from house to house righteously demanding memories. With no opportunity for informed consent, support when the memories are too intense or a guarantee of anonymity, people wait in fear of the men with clipboards. With Prince Johnson (an infamous rebel leader who briefly broke away from Taylor in the late 90s only to create his very own rule of law that included heinous acts torture and power driven by fear) recently “elected” as the Senator of Nimba County, and rumors that President Ellen Sheriff financed and participated in the some of the destruction as a “revolutionary”, begs the question, why testify? Why remember when the leaders remain in power and indifference is pandemic.
In a few short months I have learned a few things. For me the goal is no longer to ensure that the names of those who sent others to die or serve or brainwash young children are prosecuted, but to reach a place where the victims recall their names only with difficulty when if ever they want to recall them. We cannot undo the past, but we can have a presence that will diminish its size, see to it that our experience of darkness does not take up more room than it’s due. The goal in recovery, I think is to circle back less and less.
This stance is against everything I believed in 6 months ago when I was sitting in the comfort of my library in the West studying war, truama and recovery. Is it ideal? – no. Is it satisfactory? – no. Does it bring more anger? – yes……but maybe embracing the anger, embracing it and them working through it is a first genuine step we can take towards healing.
We humanitarian workers will struggle most with this concept of anger as progress because it is we who believe war and aggression, anger and revenge fantasies should never be discussed or expressed; that only peace and forgiveness and kindness should prevail. But, if something heinous has occurred, something that is worthy of raw and unadulterated anger – isn’t the most genuine response to express it. Otherwise we are stuck - stuck in a limbo of sorts with feelings being repressed or denied, feelings that fester from generation to generation, feelings that if worked though have the possibility of leading us towards something new something outside the box we currently exist in.
It seems the wages of trauma is anger. The resolution of anger, my text books inform me, breaks the grip of the traumatic event. But how do we truly resolve the anger? It’s not enough just to arrive at a place where no one, not even yourself is to blame. You have to go further….
That is anger, now… on to love
How do we love if we are angry?
For me, I will start small
I will start with a mango
I will love a mango, its summer juice running down my chin
Then I will be in love with memories
The sound of my fathers car as it pulls up the driveway on a spring night, ready to enter
The look on my brohters face as he waits for his favorite pizza, lovingly picking up his dog and placing her on his shoulder, ready to love
The words of my favorite stories, given as a gift from friends who know how much I appreciate the retell, the familiar diction and delivery of a tale I have already heard but crave nonetheless, ready to soothe
The feelings connected to a recent relationship
The surge of energy that occured when our fingers accidentally brushed against one anothers
All that was then, all that is now, the slow semi-conscious physical gestures, everything I remember but won’t or can’t articulate because the words are unsupported by reason.
These feelings, these memories these sensory events – they make me feel innocent again.
Others may have a different journey towards the reemergence of innocence but this is my new theory – We must reengage our innocence to resolve the anger, to love.
Anger, innocence and love may sound simple or idealistic but when I am in these camps, or burnt out villages or mass grave sites it is not the events themselves or even the suffering that takes a fierce hold of me. The thing that has outraged me is the indifference I encounter all around it. I grew up thinking hate is the opposite of love, but now I believe it is indifference that is the true opposite of love.
At mass grave sites no one had even a piece of paper to write down the names of the dead.
At accident sites no one took even a moment to cover the young blameless bodies
At home, acts of domestic violence go unnoticed. Up and down every block the sound of the switch or the screaming of a woman hovered in a corner while nearby faces are flat with indifference – faces untouched by the violence.
Common sounds as tragic background music in an invalidated nation of angry victims.
Of course you could say that some man or woman, a group or government body, was to blame; but ordinarily selfishness or simple-mindedness is not the evil
It seems to be the shape of the indifference, the failure to love is what is toxic. This absence will take anyone down after a while, in any corner of the world.
Maybe indifference began by accommodating the impulse to affix blame. Growing out of a need to separate oneself from the brutality one witnessed. A need developed for expediency’s sake to make the suffering an abstraction.
To be angry or to be in love- both are loaded with consequence.
And I know that, at times, love can feel like the greatest of all risks
But not to follow it out, not to take the risk, wouldn’t that leave us isolated from all connections? To fall short of this final loss of innocence, to never say to another human being, I give you my life, wouldn’t that be the most tragic of all tragedies.
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